Don't You Want To Share The Guilt? Chapter 5: Her Beautiful Boy, a sherlock fanfic

So... I wasn't planning on doing a Mrs. Hudson chapter, but this popped into my head and I couldn't let it go. So, nice and angsty chapter for your New Year's Eve pleasure! I hope you are still enjoying these! I assume you are if you clicked on this again. Or maybe you are just a glutton for punishment.

One more internet hug to the Sherlock fandom family! Our wait ends tomorrow! I have enjoyed waiting out the hiatus in a fandom fully of crazy, wonderful, creative people! Brace yourself for the incoming feels!

PLEASE REVIEW PEOPLE! I genuinely want to become a better writer, and I value every word of input I get, positive or critical.

I do not own Sherlock... YET! Just kidding.

Martha Hudson's baby boy was born with a sprinkling of jet black curls. She had almost carried him to term. He would have survived, if she hadn't fallen down the stairs. At least, she told the A&E nurse she had fallen; she did not mention she had help. It was a familiar lie told in many an A&E. Her baby was still born, she never even got to feel his heartbeat. The baby that had been so active is her womb was lifeless outside of it. She had held him in her arms and ran her fingers through the dark fuzz of hair on his head before the doctors took him away.

The doctors said that her boy died of a fractured skull. The injuries sustained in the fall were incompatible with life. We are sorry for your loss ma'am. The loss of her beautiful boy with the jet black curls.

The doctors asked but she did not want to give him a name him when he was not alive to hear it. They called him "Baby John Hudson" for record-keeping purposes. Martha decided that she quite liked the name and often referred to her baby as John when she thought about the brief moment she held him. She returned home with James and things returned to normal, like they had never had a baby. Rather, after she was severely reprimanded for losing his son things went back to normal.

Years passed, and fewer people called her Martha, and almost everyone around her called her Mrs. Hudson. All her friends became mums, but she took her birth control religiously. She could not bear the thought of losing another child, despite her dreams of being a mother. She would not let James near another child, not so long as she lived. She looked longingly at her friends' children and would occasionally walk to the park to watch them play. A glimpse of a boy with curly black hair never failed to make her breath hitch and a bittersweet smile to appear. She wondered sometimes if she would have had the courage to leave him for the sake of her son, if he had lived. She liked to think she would have.

James took a job that often called him away on business to Florida. She suspected there was a woman on the side, but she did not care, whatever it took to get him away. When he was home, he would continue the cycle of drinking, abusing, and apologizing, but she could get up to two weeks of respite at a time, not to mention the days when he was always at work. She even thought he might be becoming gentler. He did not drink so much if he was busy making money, and that meant less hitting and booze-fueled kisses. Still, she hated him even more with every childless year that passed. The murderer.

Sixteen years passed this way, until James was transferred to Tampa for a permanent position. Of course, he demanded his wife accompany him. She no longer got the respite she wanted, but James at least went away some nights to see his other woman. Again, she did not care, liked it, actually. She only hoped he did not hit her too. No one called her Martha here, only Mrs. Hudson.

When the police came to knock on her door, she knew it had finally happened. He had hit his other woman too hard. He would not get away with murder this time. The police crowded her porch, and the blue police lights cast their faces in shadow, and there in the back of the crowd was her little boy all grown up. Not her baby boy, but he looked so much like she imagined he could have. She could not take her eyes off of him.

"Mrs. Hudson?" the officer asked, and she nodded, "I am Officer Peterson, is your husband James Hudson home?"

"No, sir," she answered, "I suspected he was going to meet his other woman tonight."

"Uh… you knew your husband was having an affair?" the officer asked, casting a loaded glance to his partner.

"Oh for goodness sakes!" the dark-haired boy cried, "She did not kill her husband's mistress! Look at the state of her wrists! Idiots!" He spoke with a perfectly posh English accent. Martha nearly cried. "Can't you see he is abusing her just like he did his other woman?"

"Ma'am, this is a bit… unorthodox… but would you mind speaking with our… um…"

"Consultant," the boy with the jet black curls interrupted.

"Consultant," the officer agreed, "He is helping us with your husband's case."

And that was the beginning of her acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. He had ensured his husband paid for the death of their baby and his mistress, as well as the pain he caused her for much of their marriage. He was sentenced to death, and she and Sherlock returned to London before the sentence was carried out. She felt such a weight leave her heart when she walked through the gate at Heathrow with the strange young man with curly black hair.

For the next ten years, she had kept him under her wing as much as she could, anyway. He was an independent soul. He let out one of her flats off and on for years. The dear did have some bad habits, but she did her very best to help him out of his slumps. Her boy was a lonely soul, just because no one could appreciate his cleverness. For the last two years, he was joined by John, who became his best friend. She liked that he was called John. It seemed fitting in a way. She was so proud of her boys, both of them now, and proud of Sherlock especially for letting the world see some small measure of the heart of gold she knew he had. He had once thrown someone out of the window and onto her bins just because he had hit her once! Despite her claims of, "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she secretly liked taking care of her boys.

She never doubted him, but never got to tell him. It all happened so fast. Maybe if she had told him more often how extraordinary he was she would have stayed for her? Probably not, she was only one person, but he would not have died feeling alone. She cried like she had not cried since she lost her little boy, John. She called the hospital, because she just had to know.

Please review to tell me what you think! :) Happy New Year fellow Sherlockians!