Chapter Thirteen
A Goodbye to his Landlady
-.-
Sherlock wants to continue the session straight away, but the hour is up and he is told firmly that he will have to wait until next week. Now, he sits at home, in his flat, talking to the skull occasionally, feeling miserable. There is no one to talk to. Not that John Watson person. Not Mycroft, who is still sulking. Not Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson. Her name makes him flinch and he closes his eyes. He has not been able to forgive himself over what happened. It was partly his fault, after all. How he hadn't realised the real plans the assassin had. How he hadn't apprehended him in time. How, the last time he had spoken to Mrs Hudson, he had insulted her.
"You're not my mother!"
He had swept out without looking back. But he can picture how upset she would have been. She was an innocent, caught up in the dangerous game through no fault of her own. She had loved Sherlock.
And what had he done in return? He had taken her for granted, raided her kitchen, been incredibly ungrateful, bluntly told her about her husband the first time they had met, not been bothered to ever ask her what her first name was.
"No." He says loudly. "I'm not entirely to blame. I'm not being logical. I wasn't the one who killed her. Despite my best efforts I wasn't able to save her. But she's gone and I have to move on. I have to divorce myself from emotions!"
"Sherlock…?"
He opens his eyes at once and finds that he is sitting in his chair, legs drawn up. Molly Hooper is seated opposite him, looking worried.
"Molly. When did you come in?"
"A-About twenty minutes ago. You were, um, looking busy so I thought I'd wait."
"Why are you here?"
She squirms uncomfortably. "It's in two hours."
"What is?"
"Her funeral." He notices the mascara running down her cheeks. She has cried, recently. Two of her friends have died within weeks of one another. First John. Now Mrs Hudson. The month has been hellish and they can only wonder who will be next in line. "Mrs Hudson's funeral. It's today."
-.-
He stands silently, behind the bulk of the crowd. Many people have turned up. He recognises a handful. Most are crying. Mycroft is standing at a distance, umbrella tapping against the ground, watching. D I Lestrade stands next to him, unable to hinder his besotted glances. When did that happen? Sherlock listens to the drone of friends and family half-heartedly as they go on and on about how 'sweet' she was and what a 'good mother and grandmother' –
What?!
He straightens and sees a husband and inconsolable wife with three young boys, the oldest of which can be no more than seven, assemble solemnly next to the coffin as it is brought over and placed in the ground.
Grandchildren! She had three grandchildren and I didn't even know that?! I knew her for… eleven years and I still didn't observe the obvious?
Sherlock waits until the mass of people have all gone. Hours later, he kneels, alone, by Mrs Hudson's gravestone. Mud stains his sleek black trousers, but that hardly matters. It begins to rain lightly. He doesn't talk. Not at first. He simply sits there, unsure what he is meant to do.
"You were a mother." He says at last. His voice shakes. "I never bothered to observe it –" Putting a pale hand on the new tombstone, his fingers hold onto a corner tightly. He swallows hard, unable to get rid of the lump in his throat. "But I didn't mean what I said. Back then. Before… Well. I… always knew… Because you were a mother to me as well." He bows his head as his voice breaks. "What do I do?"
And then he falls silent and stays kneeling as the rain continues to fall.