A Strange Sense of Loss:

 Mrs. Hudson sat at her kitchen table like she always did at 4 pm. She brewed her cup of tea and laid out her biscuits. She poured the tea and added her cream and sugar, stirring the liquid. She sipped the hot tea and sighed. Everything was the same. Except for the tears; the hot salty tears dripped into the teacup that was held by her shaky hands. Sherlock was gone. Dead. They had buried him this morning and she had not stopped crying since then. She shook her head. All she wanted was her boy back.

She let out a surprised gasp when she heard her door open. She gazed hopefully, foolishly, at the door to see who entered her flat. Dr Watson entered the room, his face as pale as though he'd seen a ghost. But in this case if he really had, he'd probably have the most unnaturally gleeful expression. Mrs. Hudson looked up to him and straightened. She attempted to wipe her tears. “Oh John, I'm sorry.” she mumbled as she hid her tears stained face from him.

John sat down, his expression vacant. He placed the violin on the table. Reminiscing about the times when Sherlock would play the instrument. He'd said it helped him think.  Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened at the sight of the instrument. Fresh tears sprung from her eyes as she recalled all the times that she would complain about the noise.

“I think I want to learn the violin…” his words were barely above a whisper.

She looked up to John. “I think you should.”

“Maybe you would like to join me, Mrs. Hudson. It could be our way of...” but the words died on his lips before he could say them. He couldn't bring himself to come to grips with the fact that the man who had driven him stark mad yet helped him in so many ways was gone.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and brought John closer to her. She held him to her chest and rubbed his back gently as if her were a two-year-old. She mumbled words of comfort. She didn't understand why it happened but 'sadness' could not begin to cover her emotions. She held onto him tightly.

“He's a bloody bastard, he is!” John Watson said with the ferocity of a jungle cat, his sudden rage took him by surprise too, but nevertheless he was now angry at it all. The unfairness of the situation, of the world. “He left us.” He said, cussing more fervently. At a certain subconscious level he knew he was using the most primitive form of dealing with loss of a loved one but he'd be damned if he cared about that.

Mrs. Hudson held tighter to him. She kissed his head and stroked his back. “Language.” she reminded half-heartedly. She felt like cursing as well. Sherlock had left them. Selfishly and without warning. She wanted to hate him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Minutes went by then John started up suddenly, Mrs. Hudson jumped at his movement and looked up to him. “You know, Mrs. Hudson...” he paused, as if thinking his sentence over, “On the field back in Afghanistan, I would wake up to a day only to watch so many people...” he paused, the thoughts and emotions mixing into a painful cocktail. “Dying around me. I woke up in the morning, convinced that, that the day would be my last...” he paused again, eyebrows furrowed intensely. “It feels somewhat similar...like, losing a comrade in arms.”

“Yes, I suppose that's true. You two were grand friends weren't you?”

“Colleagues.” Watson corrected her out of habit, a nostalgic yet sick at heart, quasi-smile on his lips.

Mrs. Hudson smiled a bit at the correction. Probably the last time she would hear that. She looked down to her hands. “I...still can't believe it.” She said softly.

“Neither can I, Mrs. Hudson, neither can I. I don't know what to say on my blog.” he stood up, pacing now, trying to distract Mrs. Hudson from more tears that were probably on the way. “I'm sorry, I cannot tell you the further Adventures of Mr. Know-it-all Holmes as he has currently changed location and left the few he knew with Grief, Sorrow and a bag full of shit.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Do you really need to tell people?” She shook her head. Somehow if it was out on that blog, it made it real. If the Sherlock-ians didn't know, she could pretend it didn't happen. Like it wasn't real.

“It would be an insult to his...” Watson couldn't say the word, 'memory'. It sounded all wrong. For as long as he'd known Sherlock, the man he seemed to have been on a pedestal, untouchable by and invincible to the world. This morning's burial was the worst earth-shaker he'd witnessed by far and he was an army doctor. That was saying something. He settled with the words, “To him.”

Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “I suppose you're right.” She looked down to her tea, which had gotten cold. “But, John, telling those people makes it so...real.” she murmured softly to the liquid.

“For heaven's sake Mrs. Hudson, the man was infamous; the media mostly knows already and is probably chucking mud all over the place!”

Mrs Hudson flinched at his tone of voice. She could never take loud noises though she had grown somewhat accustomed to it during Sherlock's short stay at 221B Baker Street. She nodded. “You're right, being silly I am.”

“Those dogs can't keep their sniffers out of his business.” he sat down again, not knowing quite what to do with himself. “Those dastardly paps will be having a field day with it already.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I know. Parasites.” She almost sneered. She hated that his memory would be used like that.

Mrs. Hudson looked up to him. “What are you thinking John?”

“Sherlock will never be forgotten for the good that he did. I'll make sure of it.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “What are you going to say on the blog?”

“You will see, Mrs. Hudson... Just you wait.” Watson stood up, and much like his late friend, stormed out excitedly much to the likes of a whirlwind.

Mrs. Hudson looked him strangely. She shook her head as she often did at the boys. She rose to change out of her funeral clothes, when she noticed something in the corner of her eye.

She turned fully to face the figure in her sitting room. She gasped as tears sprung from her eyes. “It can't be.” she whispered.

“Mrs. Hudson! Lovely to see you! Pretending to be dead is so awfully boring.” The tall, looming, figure stood there as though he hadn't been declared dead and buried just the few hours ago. “Do you know where John is?” he said, moving from his entrance, the window, and taking a place on his seat.

Mrs. Hudson stood in shock at the man before her. “I've gone mad.” she mused aloud. She slowly walked toward him and placed a shaky hand on his arm. She gasped as she made contact and jumped back. Then she scowled tearfully, fire in her eyes. “How dare you! How dare you, Sherlock Holmes? How dare you do that to me and John? Upset doesn't even being to cover....how could you....we thought...” she trailed off as hot tears flowed down her cheek.

“There, there, Mrs. Hudson, stop snivelling. It's all over, nothing to worry about. Now, have you seen John?”

Mrs. Hudson rose, shaking. “John? John!” she yelled to the doctor.

There were footsteps on the stairs as the man who once had a psychosomatic limp rushed up them. “What happened?” he called back, worry laced in his voice, held in his hand, and poised as a weapon was a black, perfectly ordinary umbrella.

Mrs. Hudson stood silent, letting him look at Sherlock with his own eyes. Silently she asked, do you see him too, or am I a lunatic now?

Watson froze at the door, his expression stricken.

Mrs Hudson sighed with relief, she wasn't going mad. She turned to Sherlock. “What do you have to say for yourself then?”

“Ah, yes John!” Sherlock turn the full intensity of his gaze on his friend and comrade-in-arms. “Could I have your phone?”

Dr John Watson had never hit anyone with his fist unless absolutely necessary, but we all would agree that that sock across Sherlock's firm cheek bone was very, very much provoked.