Mrs. Hudson is just preparing herself a cup of tea when she hears a knock at her kitchen door.
She turns toward it just in time to see it swing open, and to see the tall, gangly mess of Sherlock Holmes to come sweeping into her flat. He looks more worse for wear than she's seen him in a very long time, worse than she remembers when 'The Woman' was around.
"Sherlock, dear, what's wrong?" she asks as he drops himself into one of her chairs, the noise of the legs grinding against her lino making her jump slightly.
"Everything," he murmurs into his hand, elbow propped up on her table. "Everything."
"Oh, dear," she whispers, and immediately makes him a cup of tea.
He's silent, statuesque in fact, while she busies around him. Finally, when she sets down their cups and takes her own seat, Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets down his hand. "Do you think I'm capable of love, Mrs. Hudson?" he asks immediately.
She sips at her tea delicately, and sets her cup down. "Oh, Sherlock. Of course you are."
He closes his eyes and says quietly, "But it's different with me, right? I don't process emotions the same way as everyone else."
Mrs. Hudson chooses her words carefully. "That may be the case, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean you're any less capable of it. It just means…"
He looks up, eyes pleading for something.
"You may not show it as often, or in a way that others understand, but that doesn't mean you feel it any less than the rest of us."
He fusses with the cup but never lifts it from the table. "But what does it matter if I can't show him?" he murmurs.
Mrs. Hudson takes a deep breath. She reaches out and places her hand over Sherlock's. While she expects to some degree he'll pull away, she knows he won't. "My dear, clueless Sherlock," she says, smiling softly. "Have you tried telling him?"
"I don't know how, Mrs. Hudson," he says, sitting up and gesticulating violently. "That's my problem, that I don't even know what I'm feeling, let alone how to articulate it in a way that John'll understand…" He trails off, slowly quieting and dropping his hands into his lap. "We slept together," he whispers. "Not anything, you know, like that, but we slept in the same bed and now my head is spinning and I don't know what is happening."
"Did it make you happy?" she asks, calm and steady as ever.
"Did sleeping with John make me…happy?" he repeats. "I—I don't know."
"Well, how did you feel?"
He closes his eyes, thinking. "I don't, uh—comfortable, I guess. And, uh, safe? Safe. Content. Not necessarily happy, but, you know, content."
"Content how?"
He curls up his elbow on the table and drops his face into it. "Like I could stay there forever," he mumbles.
"Then there's your answer," Mrs. Hudson declares.
He looks up, chin still tucked into the crook of his arm but his alarmingly blue eyes intent on her.
"That's all there is?" he asks.
"Isn't that enough?" she responds.
A second passes, and a smile slowly spreads over his cheeks. "Thank you," he says.
A/N: Originally part of my e.e. cummings/Johnlock fics, but half-way through I decided it didn't fit what I was trying to do. But I still liked it, so I'm keeping it. Mrs. Hudson is our Johnlock Shipper Queen in my opinion, but more in secret than anything. R+R?