It was her first Christmas back in her home country.
When she had left Florida, she had barely paid attention to the time of the year. Now, three months later, she was living in Baker Street and surrounded by Christmas cheer.
They hadn't celebrated the holidays in years. Frank had been busy running a drug cartel, and she had had to type so much, they hadn't noticed most of the time that it was Christmas to begin with. And then, it was supposed to be a time one spent with the people one loved.
Her and Frank had soon fallen out of love after their marriage, in fact, it was difficult to say if they had ever loved each other. The sex had been great, but other than that... She and Frank hadn't really fit together.
There was no point in thinking about times gone by, however, so she would enjoy the first proper Christmas in a long time. Her sister would come up to London to celebrate with her – after years of silence, they had finally started talking again when she contacted her during the trial.
And she finally had a house to decorate that wasn't full of security cameras. They had always been awful to dust.
As she put up her decorations – even when they had celebrated, Frank had complained that her taste was "excessive" and that "a few lights had to be enough", so she enjoyed putting up as much as she pleased – she couldn't help but think of the boy who had helped her.
Sherlock Holmes, the strange young man who had shown up seemingly out of nowhere and had ensured Frank's execution.
She had been shocked when he had been arrested, but she would freely admit that she had been relieved, too. She was tired of the high life, tired of the continual looking over their shoulders, tired of covering their tracks.
She didn't have much to do with Frank's business if she didn't count the typing, and yet she saw a police car follow her more than once when she went shopping. That was no way of living.
And then, of course, there were the girls.
Despite their differences, she had never cheated on her husband. She would never have been able to do that. Her marriage vows had been a promise. She would have been happy if they had simply lived their own lives while still respecting these promises. But he never had. She had lost count of the times he had smelled of strange perfume, stayed out the whole night, ignored her questions.
The police men who came to question her after his arrest were very polite and tried to make her admit that Frank had treated her even worse. He had never laid a hand on her, no matter what they thought. He had never been as bad as that.
By that time, she had met Sherlock, and he had never asked her questions like that. He claimed that he knew everything, and she believed him.
He ran into her on the street one day. She was carrying groceries home, Frank was out doing God knew what, and suddenly a young man propelled into her. She managed to hold on to her bags, but only just.
As soon as she turned around and saw the poor boy lying in front of her, though, she forgot all about them.
He looked like he hadn't eaten properly for days, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was staring at her, surprised.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly, and he jumped up and dusted non-existent dirt of the suit that clung to his lithe frame.
"I am. I apologize; I didn't see you".
She was later to find out that he had misjudged her speed as he had been trailing her and had hastened to follow her around a corner.
He wanted to retreat, but she stopped him.
"You look like you could use a meal. Why don't you keep my company? My husband isn't at home at the moment".
He had told her this morning that he was going "out"; either he had business to attend to or he would see one of his girls.
She wished that she could regret that she didn't care, but she couldn't change how she felt about it.
He stared at her, and she wondered if he had understood her, when he nodded, obviously confused.
He followed her home, not offering to take any of her bags, but since she had decided after taking one look at him that he was rather peculiar, she wasn't surprised.
He looked around the house, frowning, and she'd thought then that he didn't like the furniture when she now knew that he had been deducing it.
Looking for evidence.
When she asked him what he had been doing in this part of town – it was June, after all, and no one else had been running around in a suit – he didn't answer. He kept frowning at her.
It took him the whole meal she forced on him to come to a decision. He cleared his throat as he pushed the empty plate away.
"You are – different than your reputation suggests, Mrs. Hudson".
She hadn't told him her name, and she was immediately on her guard. Living with Frank had taught her to be cautious.
"What do you mean?" she asked calmly.
"A woman who types her husband's threats and proceeds to send them to his enemies normally doesn't offer meals to strange men".
She had moved closer to the drawer Frank made her keep a gun in. She hated those things, but she needed some means of protecting herself in the house.
"That won't be necessary" he said immediately, and she suddenly realized that she hadn't even asked his name.
He looked older now than he had in the street.
"I am in the habit of typing my husband's business letters for him" she finally answered.
"The business letters of a drug lord" he said, raising an eyebrow.
How could she explain to him that it had simply – happened? She had never wanted to be the wife of a criminal. She hadn't even chosen to be so, not really. Frank had committed a few petty crimes before they married, but he had promised her that it was over, that it was all over. And then they moved.
And he was her husband, and she was alone in a strange country, and she could type.
She tried not to think too much about the cartel, about what they did. She lost herself in her routine, in caring for their house, their garden.
He stared at her as if she was an interesting specimen, but he didn't say anything.
The silence lasted for minutes. Finally, he stood up, let his eyes roam up and down her body once more, and left the room. She thought he was gone, but then she realized he was walking up the stairs.
She didn't stop him.
She started washing their plates and heard him moving around. She knew from years of living in this house in which room he was; knew that now, he was looking at her room; now at Frank's; now the bathroom.
It was strange how apathetic she felt about a stranger walking around in her home. Maybe because...
Maybe because it hadn't been a home in a long time. Not a real home like the one she had lived in with her parents and sister.
At the beginning, when Frank hadn't yet decided to build up the cartel, when they had been young and optimistic and happy, yes.
Now – now it was her place, her reason to exist. She didn't love Frank, but she had to love something, so why not the house? At least it would never cheat on her.
He came back down.
"You don't know anything" he stated. "Neither about the cartel nor about the murders".
The plate she had been rinsing fell in the sink, shattering. She turned around.
She was ready to believe much, but she couldn't believe that. Frank wouldn't kill someone. He wasn't that bad a person.
"He shot two men working for another cartel" he informed her. "I assume with the pistol in your drawer".
She opened it without another word. He put on gloves and took it out.
"What is going to happen now?" she inquired.
"Your husband will be put on trial. Executed, most likely" he answered, and she was grateful for the honest answer.
"What about me?" she added. Frank had given her the pistol a long time ago, but she had touched it then; there might still be fingerprints on it, and she didn't want to die for a murder she hadn't committed.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. You didn't do anything".
She couldn't tell if there was condescension in his words or not.
As he turned around to leave, she remembered something.
"What is your name?" she called after him.
He didn't turn around as he answered "Sherlock Holmes".
Then he was gone.
It wasn't the end. It surprised both of them, but Sherlock kept visiting her, even after Frank had been arrested, even after he had been convicted.
They didn't talk much; mostly she made dinner and they ate in silence.
She liked the companionship he provided, and she wondered where the loneliness in his eyes came from. She expressed none of these thoughts.
She looked out of her window at Baker Street. She believed he had looked sad when she had told him she was moving.
She hoped he wouldn't be alone on Christmas.
There was a knock on her door and she went to open it, surprised. She had already got her mail and Mrs. Turner was visiting her niece in Cornwall.
She didn't expect to find Sherlock Holmes on her doorstep.
Before he could say anything, she had ushered him in.
She was happy to see him. Her boy was back.
She didn't pause to consider when "the boy" had become "her boy" in her mind. It wasn't important.
She made tea, bustling around in her kitchen that was thankfully gun-free. Sherlock was studying her, and for the first time she wondered why she had been so little bothered by the police; after all she was the wife of a murderer.
Sherlock must have done something, she was sure of it. She knew he worked for the police in some way.
She had never asked.
As she filled the kettle, she wondered why. Finally she felt something of the woman she had been before years of living as the wife of a drug lord wore her down returning.
"Do you have a case here?" she asked when she handed him his cup.
"There are always cases" he answered. He hesitated. "In fact – "
He spent the next hour elaborating on the murder that had brought him here, and that he was thinking about settling down in London once more – she felt that there was a story behind the "once more", but knew that it wasn't the time to ask – when he had solved it.
His face lit up when he talked about his work. It was nice to look at.
She didn't flinch when he described the crime scene in detail. She had never been squeamish.
When he finally told her that he was frustrated with his lack of progress, she patted his hand and told him that he'd soon catch a break.
He smiled, he first real smile she had seen on his face. She decided she liked it.
Impulsively, she said, "You should drop by during the holidays. My sister is coming to visit me, and there will be more than enough cake and biscuits".
He stared.
"I – are you – "
She had never heard him stutter before, and secretly thought it was adorable.
Finally, he stopped talking and nodded.
"Thank you".
She smiled happily and made more tea.
For the first time in years, she wouldn't feel alone at Christmas.
Author's note: That turned out darker than I expected. Oh well, hope you enjoyed it.