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They hadn’t been married. They hadn’t exchanged vows. But after Sherlock’s best man speech at John’s wedding to Mary, John had never had to hear another declaration from the detective.
They had been each others’ emergency contacts and thanks to Mycroft, they had visitation rights and also been each others’ health care proxy.
John and Sherlock loved each other and everyone could see it. Getting married would have simply been a matter of paper work.
John’s funeral was less than a month after Sherlock’s, the grass just starting to cover the detective’s grave.
He had poisoned himself with chemicals he took from Sherlock’s experiment, which had still been on the kitchen table. Molly assured them that it was a relatively quick and painless death. For what it was worth.
Mycroft was quiet throughout the funeral. He had known this was coming. And while he had promised Sherlock on his death bed to take care of John Watson, some things were simply not in his power to control.
Lestrade was shocked. Over the last few years John had grown to be his best friend. And after losing Sherlock only shortly before, it was too much to wrap his head around. He understood why it happened, though. He knew how inseparable John and Sherlock had been and not even death could stop them from being together.
Molly cried the whole time, going through three packs of paper tissues, holding onto Mrs Hudson’s hand for dear life.
Mrs Hudson herself had to be medicated before the service. When Mycroft picked her up from Baker Street, she started hyperventilating and wouldn’t calm down. She had almost passed out when Mycroft had one of his assistants tend to her.
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It had been a year. A year without explosions in the upstairs kitchen, banging doors after a stupid fight over experiments on the kitchen table, make out sessions in the hall.
It had been quiet.
It had been hateful.
Mrs Hudson missed her boys. She missed it all.
Mycroft had arranged for Mrs Hudson to receive regular money transfers so she would be taken care of. Renting out the upstairs apartment wasn’t something she would ever be able to face. After having ‘both her boys’ back in the house it would never be someone else’s place.
The Detective Inspector still stopped by every now and then but they didn’t have much to talk about, and reminiscing about John and Sherlock was still painful for both of them.
Sometimes Mycroft came to Baker Street and brought her tea or treats from countries he had recently visited.
One time he arrived just as the Detective Inspector was leaving. Mrs Hudson had learned enough from Sherlock about observation to notice the looks between the two men. Oh, Sherlock would have been impossible, had he seen it, too. But secretly pleased, she was sure.
Every other Sunday, Mrs Hudson made the way to the cemetery. Sometimes she would take Mycroft’s offer to drive her, but most of the time she went there alone. She preferred it that way.
Just her and her boys. Just like it used to be.