John 's phone fell out of his hand. He could hear Lestrade saying something else over the line, but he didn't register any of it. Mrs. Hudson was...dead? This couldn't be real. This wasn't happening. He'd go to 221B Baker Street and this would turn out to all have been a dream – some horrible nightmare.
He realised someone was talking to him, shaking him to try and rouse him.
"John. John, what's wrong?" It was Mary. She was looking into his eyes, her brow knitted in concern. "John, are you okay. Talk to me. What's happened?"
He tried to get the words out, but something was stopping him. It was like a clamp had been fitted onto his mouth which prevented him from talking. He felt his heart pumping. He was shaking, now. He became aware that several people in the restaurant had turned to look at them.
Enough. He needed to get away from them, from that sea of eyes gazing at him. He jumped up from his chair and bolted to the men's room, without looking at Mary.
Once inside, he splashed his face with cold water and looked in the mirror. His hands went to his mouth. He felt sick. He raced to one of the cubicles and hung his head over the toilet bowl. After a few minutes, he sank down onto the floor, realising he was shaking. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth and sat there panting.
Breathing in and out slowly – that was the technique he used on patients when they were having a panic attack. He used it now. Gradually, the shaking stopped and he was able to gather his thoughts.
Mrs. Hudson was dead. He didn't want to believe that; he wasn't sure it was true. But that was what he'd been told, so he needed to find out more.
Standing shakily, he unlocked the cubicle and staggered to the door. A mix of sympathetic and puzzled expressions greeted him. He found his way over to Mary. She was looking around wildly, trying to find him. When she saw him her face flooded with relief, then changed when she saw the state he was in.
"Ma...Mary," he mumbled feebly. She sat him down and the table and rubbed his back soothingly.
"It's okay, John. Take your time." She stroked his back and let himself relax against her touch. After a pause of what seemed to him to be only thirty seconds, she spoke.
"For God's sake, John! Tell me what's wrong."
"It's...they've found Mrs Hudson." The world around him started to blur, and he realised he was crying. Tears started falling and sobs racked his body. "She...she's gone, Mary. She..." He was blubbering now, and anything he said was just unintelligible.
"Let's get outside, John."
Mary led him to the door wordlessly, and they stepped out into the frosty night. Turning to face him, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. She spoke to him calmly. "John, tell me what's happened."
Somehow he managed to speak. "They...they've found her...She's dead."
Mary turned white. "God..." she said. "How...What happened?"
John swallowed. "I don't know." Frost was biting at his ears – they were beginning to hurt. He hadn't reckoned on it being this cold.
"John, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say." She bit her lip and put her arm around his shoulder.
He sank down onto the steps just outside the restaurant and she followed him. "I guess I'm still in shock." He was surprised at how clinical he sounded.
"That's to be expected."
"Mary, I need to go and find out what's happened. I need to see him. Why would Lestrade tell me that?"
"It was Lestrade that told you?"
"Yes," said John numbly. He barely noticed how cold the stone step was, but he noticed enough to take his mind off things for a few precious seconds. He felt the warmth of Mary's hand covering his own. She gave it a squeeze.
"I need to go to Baker Street," said John suddenly.
Mary nodded. "We can get a taxi," she said.
She pulled him up from the step, and they descended the stairs together. There were already a few waiting taxis stationed outside.
"This one," she said, indicating one of them. They climbed in. Mary gave the driver the instructions; John was too muddled to comprehend them.
On the journey, John did nothing but think. What had happened? How had whatever had happened happened? And what would Sherlock think? Sherlock. Did he even know what had happened. Thoughts jumbled round in his head – wild random theories – but none of them made any sense.
The taxi ride seemed to take forever, but they arrived. When John saw 221B, he almost screamed.
A whole section of the street had been cordoned off, with barricade tape. He'd seen it all a million times before but, seeing it now, it felt utterly alien and out of place.
He ran up the street, Mary clutching his hand, but was stopped by a police officer.
"Excuse me, sir," he said holding out a restraining arm. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to pass. This is the scene of a crime."
The scene of a crime. "Oh God..."
Mary tried to explain. "Officer, this is John Watson. He knows – "
She was cut off by Lestrade's familiar voice. "It's alright, Fleming. I know him. You can let him through."
The police nodded, with an apology for his mistake that John didn't wait to hear.
Mary gave his hand another squeeze before he ran up and lifted the barricade tape. Lestrade regarded him with a sympathetic look.
"I'm afraid it ain't pretty," he said.
"I can take it," said John. Somehow he felt calmer knowing the truth.
Lestrade led him wordlessly up the stairs. Once at the top, they entered the living room, where Sherlock was leaning over a body – presumably Mrs Hudson's. He was doing his usual examination and all that that involved: sniffing, lifting clothes, looking through a magnifying glass. He was very intent on these activities and clearly hadn't noticed that John had come in.
John couldn't believe what he was seeing. How could Sherlock bear it? How could he bear to look at her so closely, examine her, knowing she was dead, knowing that only a few hours ago he'd seen her alive.
After several minutes spent in his meticulous endeavours, Sherlock rose from his work and looked up. He spotted John instantly. His mouth had opened to speak, but not words came out. He shut it.
Without Sherlock obscuring the view, John was able to see Mrs. Hudson for the first time.
She lay on her stomach, near the window. As a doctor, he was used to blood, but the sight of her made him feel sick. She was dressed in a beige coat, one he'd seen her in countless times. The back of it was covered in blood. Presumably, that was where she'd been stabbed or shot.
"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" said Lestrade. John was amazed. This seemed like some alternate universe. How could everyone just be going on as normal.
"You don't have anything to go on." Lestrade continued.
"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock was narrowing his eyes contemptuously.
John glanced around the room. Donovan and Anderson were, he decided, looking remarkably awkward. He tried to lock eyes with Sherlock, but he avoided John's gaze.
"So what have you found?" Lestrade asked.
"Notice how one arm on her coat is significantly dryer than the other. She didn't have an umbrella. It isn't a coincidence. That means she was walking arm in arm with someone. Their arm protected hers from getting wet.
She doesn't show any signs of resistance, so she wasn't taken by surprise. That rules out the possibility of it being a stranger or someone hiding in the house. No, it was someone she knew and trusted, the person she was walking with on the street. They came in with her and they killed her before she realised what was happening.
Judging by the area of her body covered, it was a man of considerable height. Could be a woman but, statistically, it's more probable that it's a man. It's probable they were intimate, considering the close proximity from which she was stabbed. It suggests a close embrace, which would explain how he concealed the weapon."
This was all said remarkably fast, and Sherlock barely paused for breath throughout. Lestrade carefully noted everything he said.
"Now of course the real question is, what man would she trust in that way?"
"Who?" said Lestrade dumbly.
"Good. You're asking the right questions now."
John caught his eye for a second, but Sherlock quickly looked away.
That was the straw that broke that camel's back. John snapped. "HAS EVERYONE HERE GONE BLOODY INSANE?" he shouted. "MRS. HUDSON IS DEAD AND ALL YOU CAN TALK ABOUT ARE BLOODY MURDER THEORIES!"
The silence was deafening. Donovan, Anderson looked as though they wanted the ground to swallow them up. Lestrade looked a little sheepish. Sherlock...well, he just looked like Sherlock – the same as always really.
"Are you all total machines?" said John. He wasn't shouting anymore. In fact, it was closer to a whisper.
"No, John," said Lestrade gently. "We've just got a job to do."
"No, I understand you lot. But Sherlock..." He trailed off.
Sherlock simply looked at him blankly.
"Sherlock, can I speak to you?" said John curtly.
All eyes were on Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows, then nodded at John and followed him out of the flat.
"Sherlock," said John slowly. "I'm not going to get angry with you. I just need to know what the HELL you're doing. Mrs. Hudson is lying there dead and all you can think about...God, Sherlock are you some kind of robot?"
Sherlock blinked a couple of times. He was silent for a few moments. "Lestrade wanted my help. He's lost yet again. Without forensic evidence, it seems, the police are hopeless. I am offering him my services despite being on another case and – "
"What the hell, Sherlock?" John cut in. "I don't care about all that crap. I want to know why you don't seem to give a flying fuck that Mrs Hudson is lying dead in your flat."
Sherlock obviously hadn't been expecting that. He looked surprised. "Of course I care. I'm extremely interested. Haven't I just been talking to you about it?"
"I'm not talking about that kind of caring. I'm talking about the – oh, I don't know – the human kind of caring. You know, the one where you're actually BOTHERED when your landlady is FOUND DEAD!" He banged his fist on the stair banister.
"Is that all, John?" said Sherlock coldly. "Because I'm busy." His hands were held behind his back. He looked...composed. He didn't even have a hair out of place.
"Is that all?" John repeated. "You're busy? How can you say things like?" He balled his hand into a fist. Something in him really wanted to punch Sherlock right now.
Sherlock actually took a couple of steps back, as though he were expecting some kind of confrontation. "I'll take that as a yes," he said and, turning on his heel, he walked back into the flat.
Knowing he couldn't bear another second in there, John went outside and found Mary, waiting nearby. She looked so worried. After Sherlock's alien coldness , it was refreshing to see someone react so humanly. It assured him that he wasn't the crazy one.
"Hey," she said comfortingly, taking him by the arm. "I've phoned Lucy and told her about what's happened. She's said she can take Beth for the night, if that makes things easier."
"Tell her thanks."
Mary's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, John."
Without another word, he pulled her into a tight embrace. They stood like that for a while, just wordlessly comforting each other. Then, they got in the taxi and went home.
xxx
Sleep didn't come to John that night. The heavy patter of rain on the roof didn't help. He'd been lying there for hours, just listening to it – trying to find some comfort in its rhythm, trying to forget the events of that night.
When morning light gradually streamed through the window, brighter and brighter, John had been awake for hours. Restlessly, he rose and padded to the kitchen to make some coffee.
As the kettle boiled, Mary came into the kitchen. She was yawning, and she looked as though she were still pretty tired. "Lucy's going to come round with Beth around eleven," she said wearily.
"Good. Tell her thanks for everything," he said. "Coffee?" he added, and she nodded gratefully.
For a while, they just sat at the table drinking coffee, saying nothing. John reached for her hand, and she slipped it into his.
John broke the silence. "I'll need to find out what the funeral arrangements will be." He was surprised how calm he felt.
"Yes, of course." Mary nodded. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. She swallowed. "John, I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"Don't apologise."
"Okay. I won't."
They sat and finished their coffee in silence. Then John got up and said, "Right, I'm getting a shower." He gave Mary and kiss and went to get ready.
Somehow the hot water – really hot, he'd made sure – pouring over him cleared his head a little. It focused him, and with that focus came anger.
He wasn't angry that Mrs. Hudson was dead. He wasn't angry that he hadn't had a chance to say a proper goodbye. He wasn't even angry that some scumbag had killed. No, he was angry with Sherlock. He was angry that Sherlock didn't seem to care that she'd died. Because how could anyone – even Sherlock – be such a robot?
He got dressed in a rush, his mind not really paying any attention to what he was picking. Pulling on a shirt and trousers, he ran a comb through his hair at lightning speed. He shrugged on his jacket and was ready.
He came back into the dining room, where Mary was tapping her empty cup of coffee with her fingers. "Mary, I've got to go out."
"Okay. Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"
"No, Mary...I think I should do this on my own...I..." He stopped, struggling to explain.
Mary nodded understandingly. "Okay. Just call me if you need me." She reached and took his hand in hers for a second, then let go. "Bye," she said.
He took a walk (en route to the park nearby), trying to decide what to do. He could call Lestrade and find out what was happening, or he could try and talk to Sherlock. There was a slim chance of getting any reply, but John felt like he should speak to him – try and straighten a few things out.
The fresh air cleared his head, and he began to realise that he shouldn't have said some of the things he'd said last night. After all, Sherlock had to be grieving too. Right? Though it certainly hadn't seemed that way.
He took out his phone, scrolled his way down until he found Sherlock. Should he call him? It was worth a shot, he decided.
No one answered for what felt like ages. Finally, though someone, presumably Sherlock, picked up.
"Hello," said John a little tentatively.
"Hello." It was Sherlock sure enough.
"Err...could we maybe...Look, Sherlock, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about last night. It was the shock. I shouldn't have taken it out on you." He waited.
There was no response for what felt like ages. Finally, Sherlock spoke. "What are you apologising for, John?" His voice was distinctly cold.
"For being rude to you. For shouting at you. It was unnecessary and I'm sorry. I just wanted to know if we could talk."
"About what?" said Sherlock.
"About what's happened. This is a time we should be pulling together. Mrs. Hudson..." His voice cracked. He'd been going to say that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have wanted them to fight. Somehow he just couldn't finish that sentence. Who was he to say what she wouldn't or wouldn't have wanted anyway?
"John, I'm busy. What is it that you want?" said Sherlock curtly. His voice was as cold and emotionless as ever. If he'd noticed the crack in John's voice he wasn't showing it.
John decided to try another angle. "Sherlock, are you working on this case?"
"Yes."
"Well, you know how you were saying we didn't have a case to work on? Well, we do now." John hoped that didn't sound as callous as he felt saying it.
"I said I didn't have a case," Sherlock corrected sharply.
"Yeah, alright. Sorry," said John. "But I could help out, couldn't I?"
"If you like." There was no enthusiasm in his voice.
"Okay, Sherlock. Why don't I come and see you now? Where are you?"
"I'm staying next door at Mrs. Turner's."
John wondered if that were entirely healthy, staying right next to where it had all happened. He thought better of commenting on it, though. "Is that where you stayed last night?"
"Obviously."
"Right. I'm going to be there in..." John checked his watch. "About twenty minutes."
Sherlock didn't reply, and the line went dead. That didn't exactly make him feel welcome, but he made his way there anyway. He didn't get a taxi. It would have taken too long, and he needed the fresh air.
Arriving in Baker Street, he saw the familiar barricade tape still in place, and he made his way up to Mrs. Turner's. One knock on the door, and she opened. When she saw him, her face crumpled.
"Hello, John," she said. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was clutching a tissue.
"Hello, Mrs. Turner."
He reached out and patted her on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort. She sniffed gratefully.
"I'm here to see Sherlock," he said.
"Oh." She pointed him upstairs. "It's a terrible thing," she added. "To see her taken from us so soon and in such an awful way. I hope they catch the scoundrel that did it." She looked like she might be in danger of crying again and, without waiting for a reply, she scuttled away quickly.
Sighing, John made his way upstairs and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so he knocked again. There was no reply this time either, so he decided to just barge in.
He found Sherlock sitting at a laptop, tying very rapidly, a confused expression gracing his features. He bit his lip in concentration.
"Didn't hear me then," John commented. He shifted on his feet, feeling more than a little awkward.
Sherlock said nothing.
"This how it's going to be then? Us not talking to each other?" He crossed over to the sofa and sat down. Opened out on it were several newspapers. They were all turned to the same story: reports on Mrs. Hudson's apparent murder. Clearly, Sherlock had been busy.
Studying him, he noticed that there were shadows under his eyes and he looked pale from lack of sleep. He'd probably been up all night working on it. Perhaps that was his way of coping with things.
John picked up one of the newspapers casually, having no intention of actually reading it. He didn't the gruesome way it was being reported – in horrid, gratuitous detail.
"Sherlock, why are you not talking to me? I know you're busy, but could you just say something?"
Sherlock looked up from his work. "You want to know about the case?" The case. That was a cold.
"Yeah." John abandoned any pretence of even looking at the newspaper and put it back down on the coffee table.
"Well, initially it hardly seemed to be worth my time, as though even the imbeciles at Scotland Yard could solve it without my intervention."
John was amazed at how coldly Sherlock seemed to be able to talk about it.
"But this morning something of interest came to my attention," he continued.
What's that?"
"Well," said Sherlock. "It would appear our killer is a ghost."