Chapter Text
Mrs. Hudson was a lonely old woman. Sure, she played bingo and visited her sisters often enough but she was never quite a content as when she was looking after someone. Sherlock was like the son she never had. He acted like a child well enough for her to consider herself his second mother. And he loved her dearly, even if he never said so. Sherlock made Mrs. Hudson feel youthful again; he gave her a second wind of life. When she heard that he had committed suicide it broke the poor woman’s heart. Thoughts swirled in her head, could I have done something? Oh my poor Sherlock.
What was worse, was that she not only lost Sherlock, but she had lost John too. The only person she’d ever known who could stand the man, was left just as alone as she was. He moved out soon after the incident. He couldn’t bear to be surrounded by Sherlock’s things. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t blame him of course. She was just as heartbroken. Sherlock had saved her from her previous monster of a husband. He loved her in a way he didn’t know how to express, and though he didn’t, she always knew.
She didn’t go out as much anymore. The world seemed like a much more evil place without Sherlock to catch the monsters in the dark. She still visited friends and played bingo, but she never had as much fun as she used to. She still shopped on Wednesday’s; went to the same store with the same list. The same routine, every day for 3 years. Sherlock and John had both been long gone, but the silence as she entered her flat still scared her. She half expected Sherlock’s violin to start playing, or shots to be thrown in the wall in the form of a smiley face.
It came as a bitter surprise when one Wednesday, she came home to just that. From 221B came the soft, melodic sounds of a violin, each note bringing a new tone of sadness and despair to the compilation, until the last note, poured the musician's heart out on a single string. She had dropped her bags and was walking up the stairs, hoping she was dreaming, and praying that she wasn’t. She opened the door to see a tall figure facing the window; shoes held together by tape and laces, worn and patched jeans, a thin-filthy white tshirt, dark-curly hair that was almost shoulder length, caked in mud and blood.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes, and pooled on her lower lids, threatening to spill over. The figure turned to look at her and what she saw next made her gasp. The handsome man she called a son was heavily bruised purple in the face. Lip split open, eyes black and blue, cheek a nasty red. But what shocked her most were the eyes. The grey-blue eyes looking back at her had threats against their owner as well. Those eyes poured pain into the atmosphere around them. Those eyes said what his words could not.
It wasn’t enough. For all the pain she saw there, all she could think was How could he do this to me? He was like a son to me; this could have killed me! And with that, she set off. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hanging a towel on the rack for him. Leaving the bathroom, she motioned for him to shower and set down to her own flat, collecting her groceries on the way. Putting together a tray of biscuits, sandwiches’, and cake, she went back upstairs. She set them on the coffee table, and started making tea; the way she knows he likes it. She set the cooling mug down on the coffee table, just as Sherlock stepped from his room. He was dressed in his usual attire, but it was baggy on his even-smaller than normal frame. His face looked better, and less likely to get infected. His hair was shabby but at least it was now clean. His eyes still apologizing, she walked back to her own flat. Stopping to pick up her purse, she went out and caught a cab.