John made his way through the streets. Even at this late hour, London was never truly quiet; there always someone wandering through the smog. There always some pub with its lights still blazing, welcoming all who would rather spend their money on alcohol than a bed for the night; and the more nefarious types hiding in the shadows waiting for those drunk on beer or gin to come staggering out, in hopes of stealing whatever pennies the inebriated might still have left. The doctor just glad that (Y/n) had been able to make it to his home, with only cut feet; not wanting to contemplate how much worse it could have been.

Fortunately, his and Mary's new home was not a million miles away from Baker Street; for, despite himself, despite everything he had ever said to and about Sherlock when he was alive, he had hated the notion of being too far from the place that he had shared for so long with his best friend. Mary thankfully understanding; John sure that she knew that when he would say he was going out for a walk, his feet would always take him to Baker Street. The doctor stopping and looking up at the windows of the second floor; expecting any moment for the door to be thrown open and the consulting detective to appear in one silly disguise or another, before grabbing hold of him as he passed, and pulling him into another one of his crazy cases. John never admitting at the time how much he had enjoyed those moments, but he had. A little part of him jealous when (Y/n) had come along and that role was increasingly taken by her. Yet as it became more evident that Sherlock not only respected her input on cases, but was in fact, in love with her; John was happy to take a back seat and watch as his friend fell further and further, until the point that the younger Holmes had actually admitted his feelings for the beautiful (Y/n). He not truly realising that she had felt the same for Sherlock, until that fateful night at the summit. The doctor sure that if he had not been there to stop her, (Y/n) would have followed the detective and Moriarty, over the falls.

Finally, his feet came to a stop; John looking up to see the all too familiar black door of Baker Street. The doctor gripping at his cane a little tighter, before making his way up to it. His hand reaching out to knock, but to his concern, he found that the ingress was slightly ajar. John taking a deep breath, before slowly pushing it open; the home appearing perfectly quiet, as it should be for that hour of the night, yet something still didn't feel right. The veteran of the Second Afghan War, knowing that Misses Hudson would never not lock up at night; and even if (Y/n) had made a quick exit, he was sure that his former landlady would not have left the door open. John making his way to the door of Misses Hudson's rooms, knocking carefully on the ingress; his brows furrowing as he heard the sound of a man's voice call out for him to come in. The doctor's eyes widening as he pushed open the door and saw the scene in front of him.

"Ah, Watson......perfect timing.......I have a patient for you..........." Sherlock said, as a rather pale and bewildered Misses Hudson looked between the two men.

                                                        >>--------------------------------------<<

"How do you feel...........?" Mary asked, as she pulled the blanket back up over (Y/n)'s shoulders. The doctor's wife taking a seat next to her.

"Apart from believing that I have lost my mind; completely and utterly lost my senses.............I don't know.........I don't know how to feel, Mary. I was sure that I was ready......or as ready as I would ever be, to go back. But after tonight........after tonight, I am not so sure. Being back at Baker Street just brought back so many more memories; his ragged old dressing gown that he refused to throw away. That damn violin he would spend hours just plucking at the strings, and his pipe that would fill the room with smoke. Maybe that is why I saw him.......all those memories........they created this vision. But something must have been real.......I did hit someone............" (Y/n) replied as she looked down at her hand; the knuckles still sore. A heavy sigh leaving her lips, as Mary placed her hand atop hers.

"You haven't lost your mind, (Y/n). Grief does strange things to us. When I lost the man that I was betrothed to before John, I was sure that I could still hear his voice for months after his death. So, thinking you saw Sherlock is not so strange. And as to who or what you hit.......well, John has gone to Baker Street to check on that and Misses Hudson.........."

"Misses Hudson..........!" (Y/n) exclaimed as she jumped to her feet. The blanket falling from her shoulders and the cup from her hand. She had quite forgotten about the poor older woman. The notion of leaving her alone with whatever had haunted her..........(Y/n) moving to make her way to the door; letting out a yelp, as a sharp shot up through her legs, from her bandaged feet. Mary quickly by her side, wiping away the tears that had come to (Y/n)'s eyes, as she leant against the wall.

"You have to stay still, you cut up your feet quite badly. John will take care of everything, and I am sure that Misses Hudson will be fine. She has always struck me as quite a formidable woman." Mary assured, before helping her friend slowly back to the chair. Sitting (Y/n) down and placing the blanket back around her shoulders. The former governess looking up at the clock on the mantel, hoping that it wouldn't be much longer before her husband returned home, and he would be able to ease both of their minds.