Chapter Text
Sunday Morning, March 28, 2010
"Mmm, John," Sarah sighed into the kiss. "We just finished."
John smiled. "How about another round, then?"
Sarah laughed lightly and grabbed her silk robe. "Well it's ten o'clock in the morning and I'm going to have some breakfast. Care to join me?"
They sat together rather domestically on the sofa. In front of them on the coffee table was a simple breakfast of toast and juice. Sarah had her legs tucked underneath her on the couch as she ate and flipped unceremoniously through the channels on the telly. John took one or two bites of his toast and ignored the rest of his meal, content to read weekend edition of his favorite newspaper.
There had nothing more about the serial suicides since that morning in January. John had read the papers religiously to see more on the case but turned up nothing. There weren't even obituaries for a Sherlock (and honestly, how many Sherlocks were there?) or Jefferson Hope. It seemed like some sort of cover-up. Either that or the Met was hushing up the victim's families, biding their time, and collecting more evidence in order to catch the killer. But John doubted that.
Instead the papers were running stories like British 'Hurt Locker' soldier wins top bravery award, Council cost-cutting 'risked lives' after flats fire and Brook Party Gaining Rise.
"Ooh," Sarah let out in surprise and smacked his arm roughly. "John! Look at the telly! There's been an explosion at Baker Street!"
John looked up from the paper. She was right. 'BREAKING NEWS' blared from the top corner of the screen. The reporter was in front of a block of flats, thick dark billing smoke behind her. There were fire trucks, police and ambulances all around, too many to count at a glance. She was screaming into her mic above all the commotion.
"I'm standing here in front of 221 Baker Street," the reporter's voice was unfailingly pleasant, her teeth were practically glowing from all the bleach, and her smile never faded. How appropriate of her, John thought with sarcasm. Where an explosion, a gas leak I am told, happened just over fifteen minutes ago."
John crinkled his nose. 221 Baker Street. That sounded awfully familiar. He felt his stomach drop. Did one of his patients or colleagues live there?
The studio anchor tried to look interested. "Were there any residents at home, Diana? Any causalities or injuries?"
The reporter waited for the delayed feedback before she answered the question. "Well, Tom we've learned that 221 B and C were empty at the time of the accident. 221 A may have been occupied at the time of the explosion."
For a moment Diana seemed to be distracted, darting her head back and forth off screen from the camera's view and back to the camera. Suddenly, she darted off the screen, her perfect hair becoming undone while the cameraman following her, the movement jumpy. "Detective Inspector! she cried as she ran to a man with silver hair. Detective Inspector Lestrade! BBC News!"
John stiffened when the Detective Inspector turned around to face the flushed reporter. This Lestrade was the same man from the serial suicides case, the same man who'd seemed to be the only one affected by the death of Sherlock at Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He seemed to be popping up everywhere, didn't he?
Detective Inspector, can you confirm any casualties in the gas leak at this time?"
Lestrade scratched the back of his head. He kept his eyes low, speaking into her microphone and avoiding the camera like most. His voice was gruff with exhaustion. "At this time we can confirm the death of Marie Hudson of 221 A Baker Street—"
Sarah and John gasped at the same time. John grasped her hand.
"It can't be true, John," Sarah began to sob. "Not that sweet old woman."
John didn't answer as he clutched Sarah's hand tighter. That's why 221 Baker Street had sounded so familiar.
Mrs. Hudson was a patient at the clinic. She had a bad hip; John had prescribed her medication himself. He'd just seen her yesterday for a check-up. She'd been so sweet and brought biscuits for all the doctors and nurses. Sometimes she'd even stay late if she was John's last patient and they'd have a cuppa and chat over mundane things like the weather or who they thought was going to go home next on a reality show. Mrs. Hudson had even given him advice on his sister. Apparently her husband had been an alcoholic. He 'did bad things, dearie' was all she said. He'd been sent to prison years ago an act that she was very grateful for.
Please God, not her. John prayed. Please God.
Mrs. Hudson's picture flashed on the screen and John sank down beside Sarah. He held her as she wept into his shoulder, trying to put on a brave face as he was breaking inside.