Work Text:
Crackles and hisses from the fireplace permeated through the cosy living room, its light illuminating the space within. There was a sound clattering in the kitchen as tea was being made. In the fair distant, an opera sung by a man that belted out notes beautifully and its voice accompanied by an orchestra playing behind him could be heard from the radio.
The place was far too quiet for her liking.
There was no gunshots could be heard, no explosions from experiments-gone-awry, no shout of banters between her tenants, no more Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson…
She stopped; her hands in mid-air in preparing her afternoon tea. Her chest felt tight and suddenly the air was too thick and it was hard to breathe. Her eyes stung as she struggled to swallow, trying to snap herself from the trance. She took a deep breath, letting out slowly. She had lost her loved ones in the past. This shouldn’t be hard. And yet.
As she retreated to the living room, her eyes caught sight of the skull that nobody knew of its origin sans Sherlock and probably Mycroft. And once again, grief hit her hard. A single tear tracked down her wrinkled skin, and she let it. Soon, there was another, and another. Her voice hoarse as she said:
“My boys.”