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There it was, the dark blue door of 221B Baker Street that had been eluding his grasp. Knocker rusted, not used for a time. A few months, at best. Not many visitors. The reporters must have finally backed off. For the past year, he had longed for the familiar comfort of his own flat. It was shabby at best, but it was something that was completely and utterly his own.
Traversing Europe to take down Moriarty’s web wasn’t easy, even worse without the comforts of home. He knew it would be a long time before he could return, due to the nature of his task. He missed his skull and playing his violin. Even the small things that had seemed so insignificant before, the dull wallpaper, the creaky floorboards. Mildly, of course, for he wasn’t a man of material possessions. But what he missed most of all was who was inside. He sighed, closing his eyes in thought. He cared. He hated it sometimes, but he could not deny that truth.
It hadn’t taken long, but they had become a sort of family. Dysfunctional, strange, and warped, but a family by its very definition. His mind was filled with memories of them, one of the few things he could never bring himself to erase. When he had decided it was finally safe to come home, he knew that Mrs. Hudson would be the first to know. It all began with her, providing him with a place of residence and space to conduct his experiments. Well, she wasn’t exactly thrilled with the latter aspect, but she allowed it. She had a fondness for him, and he knew that. She was one of the only people he would give his life for, and in a way, he already had.
He opened his eyes again, and they shone with a new determination. He took one last look around at the people walking the streets. Sitting on the sidewalk, one of the homeless, not a part of his network. Track marks up his arms, crack addict. A man in a suit jumping into the nearest cab. White collar, worked at a bank. Overcompensating a bit with his outfit, he couldn’t be more than a trainee. Late, by the looks of his anxiety and the perspiration on his next. No doubt his job depended on it. So very typical. No one hiding out in the windows of the surrounding buildings, no suspicious characters roaming about. Everything was so dull, so surprisingly normal. For once, Sherlock welcomed it.
Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his fist to the door. He had made sure that all of Jim’s men had been eliminated, but still he wavered. Would they accept him? Would they allow him to explain what he had done and why? It was necessary; there was no other choice, he had to keep them safe. He understood, but would they? They weren’t exactly in the same mindset as he was.
He tapped his knuckles rapidly on the door, just once. Maximum pressure under the half second. He amused himself at the irony. Client. There was a scuffling of tiny feet, the rattle of the doorknob, and there stood his old landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Purple dress, black shawl, a touch of make-up. She was dressed up for a guess, but definitely not expecting one from the grave.
She looked up at him for what seemed like minutes, maybe even hours. His perception of time was distorted as he deduced the look on her face. It was like a cave collapsing in on itself, her emotions ranging from confusion, anger, and finally, to pure joy.
“Oh, Sherlock!”
Like a little girl, she practically jumped into his arms. He wasn’t sure what to do at first, but instinct eventually took over as his arms wrapped around her tiny back and pulled her closer to him. She shook just a bit with gentle sobs, and the woman had an iron grip around his neck.
“Sherlock Holmes, I could kill you myself! What the devil have you been doing?”
For once, the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. He then realized, it didn’t matter whether they hated him or not. In this tiny embrace, this little insignificant gesture, he felt more love then he had felt in a lifetime. His own mum had never hugged him this way, and Mycroft was simply out of the question. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. A genuine smile broke across his face, and he could hear her mumble against his shoulder.
“I knew it. I couldn’t tell poor John in case I was wrong, but I knew..”
He pulled away slightly, looking into her eyes that were still overflowing with tears. “How could you possibly..?”
She grinned up at him, that sweet, motherly smile he had grown quite accustomed to. “A woman always knows, my dear. You’re not the only smartie pants around here! Now come along, I’ll make you a cuppa and you can relax. We have things to discuss,” her eyes widened, clearly remembering something important. “Oh, I almost forgot! There’s a visitor inside,” She was uneasy, shuffling a bit in the doorway. It was like she wasn’t sure whether to finish her sentence or not. “He’s been waiting ages to see you.”
His heart skipped a beat, his breath caught in his throat. One year. Everything flooded back. Endless nightmares. Nights alone. Life draining from a body lying beneath him. Reminiscing over a cigarette. Then, even further back than that. Late night cases, tea he’d long since forgotten about gone cold at his side, the tapping of keys on a laptop. You see, he didn’t need to ask Mrs. Hudson who was inside. He already knew.
“Oh!” The door had swung open wide behind her, and there he stood. Wool jumper, brown trousers, worn shoes. He’d walked here, so this wasn’t home anymore. His mouth hung open as he stared, and Mrs. Hudson moved out of his way.
“My boys, finally reunited. Go on, then! Kiss and make up!” She giggled.
Same old Mrs. Hudson.