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The wind howls past a very worried Mrs. Hudson as she stands on the front step of 221B and examines the dusky London night. Perhaps she is worried because of the foul weather as it triumphs yet again over the power grid and the lights above her flicker out again. Perhaps she is worried that criminals might take advantage of the power failures and wreak their misdeeds on vulnerable residents. More likely, and indeed, most likely, she is simply worried because it has been too long since she was able to properly care for her small garden and the likelihood of the—quite literal—fruits of her labor surviving the winter is not good. Indeed, little in the world can worry Mrs. Hudson beyond the simple daily worries of her life, because there is simply nothing else to worry about.
As she withdraws into the warmth and relative safety of the candle-lit hallway and closes the door against another flurry of snow that threatens to encroach beyond it, she draws a smile across her expression. There’s simply nothing else to worry about.
Upstairs, in the small dusty flat, more dimly lit now than usual, reside two men who have taken well to the stormy weather. Even without power, 221B is hardly cold. With soft blankets and warm bodies, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson have found much more than a funny story amidst the monotony of the day. In fact, they’ve found something much more special.
Somewhere amidst his belongings, Sherlock Holmes found a ring. Perhaps he had purchased it the first time his companion killed a man to save his life. Perhaps he had only just purchased it, the bubbling energy of the Christmas season pressing warm thoughts into his stoic mind. More likely, and indeed, most likely, he had purchased it the day he realized his life would not be complete without John Watson by his side. Whether anyone could really know what day that had been is unlikely, but in the end, doesn’t really matter. A gold ring adorns John’s finger and there is simply nothing else to worry about.