Mrs. Hudson had quite enjoyed watching Tellie with Sherlock. Never had they done anything together since John moved out. She would be there for Sherlock - as she thought of him as if he were her own son (though she never had any) - , helping him whenever he was in need of anything or if ever he needed comfort. On some occasional nights she would often hear Sherlock crying in his sleep; whenever she did hear him though, she would always make her way up to the flat and sit by Sherlock’s side till his cries were no more.
As she was just about to pour herself some tea, a loud cry of pain could be heard coming from upstairs. Her eyes shot up to the ceiling above, her face became twisted with a look of worry and fright. She quickly set down the kettle that was being held in her hands before rushing up the stairs and quickly as she could to the flat above. “Sherlock? Is everything alright up there?” She called as she entered the messy flat.
Once seeing that he was not in the living room at all, Mrs. Hudson slowly made her way to the bathroom next - as it was the next room closest - and she gave out a horrendous cry at seeing the sight and state Sherlock was in: he laid on the floor unconscious; a pool of dark, crimson blood spread out across the tile floor, staining the man’s clothes and soaking the dark curls atop his head; his body lied still and unmoving; it was obvious he wasn’t breathing well.
The landlady’s hands shook as she rummaged through the pockets sewn into her dress before pulling out a brand new flip phone that Mycroft had given to her for emergencies in case she needed to reach either him, Lestrade, Molly, or even John. She fumbled with the device between her fingers before finally pushing the dial button on Lestrade’s contact. Her breath was unevening as she was terribly worried for Sherlock, hoping he would survive the deep cut that was made into his arm.
“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking,” came the sound of Greg Lestrade’s voice after the third ring.
With a small sigh of relief for Lestrade picking up his phone, she replied, “Oh, Greg! Please come quick to Baker Street with an ambulance. It’s Sherlock!” She slightly raised her voice in a bit of a panic and alarm, her body beginning to lightly shake with anxious anticipation.
The Detective Inspector gasped on the other line and the sound of his breath had soon quickened - at this point he was jogging. “I’m on my way, Mrs. Hudson! Can you tell me what happened? Or at least tell me what’s the matter?” He asked her questions in a sort of calm and comforting tone of voice.
Mrs. Hudson shook her head, tears brimming at her eyes as she began to pace back and forth outside the bathroom. “I-I can’t…” she trailed off, her voice wavering slightly as she tried to stay as calm as possible; slowly she was failing.
“I’ll be there in ten.”Lestrade reassured her. “Stay as calm as possible till I get there.” She only nodded - she knew Lestrade couldn’t see it, but she was not able to muster any words. And with that the call ended and Mrs. Hudson was left almost helpless.
Finally did she decide to rush into the kitchen area and look through the drawers before pulling out a rag - she decided she might as well help while Lestrade was still on his way. She practically ran back to where Sherlock laid and - not caring if she got blood on herself - knelt down and took Sherlock’s exposed arm into her free hand and with the other, she pressed the towel to the deep cut to try and slow down the bleeding.
About thirteen minutes had passed: sirens of the ambulance could finally be heard coming closer and closer each passing second. The door downstairs was heard downstairs being forcefully opened, footsteps could then be heard pounding up the stairs. Lestrade entered the flat along with three others: one being a police officer and the other two being paramedics; they carried a gurney with them. The four of them hurried to where Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were in the bathroom. Lestrade backed up a bit from at the sight and to make way for the paramedics to lift Sherlock onto the gurney and strap him in. The inspector looked away from the sight and mumbled an “Oh, god…”, not liking the sight in front of him as his face was ridden with fear and he cringed at seeing the amount of spilled blood.
As they took Sherlock away on the gurney and out to the ambulance, Mrs. Hudson broke down into tears and Lestrade helped her to her feet. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the flat, taking her downstairs and out the door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, for coming here a few minutes later than I expected. There’s a bit of trouble on the way here; traffic and all.” He spoke gently and rubbed the landlady’s shoulder. “Do you want to come to the hospital or would you rather me stay here with you to keep you company?” He offered. Outside were at least two police cars - not including Letrade’s car. The paramedics - once putting Sherlock quickly inside the back of the vehicle - climbed in as well and shut the doors, not long were they off in a hurry back to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
With a sniffle Mrs. Hudson shook her head in reply. “There’s no need for you to stay behind,” she said, “you go and watch after Sherlock for me, will you? I’ll come in tomorrow to visit; I’m fine.” She patted Lestrade’s shoulder and offered him a small smile.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
Lestrade nodded his own head to her and returned her smile by softly smiling back. He lifted his arm off her shoulders before briskly making his way to his car. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and before then he was driving off and following the ambulance to the hospital.
Mrs. Hudson stood outside of 221B for a few minutes longer, looking in the direction of where Lestrade, along with the ambulance and other police cars, had left. After those few minutes she made her way back inside and gently closed the door behind her. She desperately hoped that Sherlock would heal.
She chose to forget about the blood upstairs in the bathroom for the rest of the night to keep herself as calm as possible, walking away to her room to dress in nighttime attire. She knew that the bathroom would most likely end up stained, but she did not choose to dwell on the thought for the rest of the night.
I do hope Sherlock is alright, she thought for the one hundredth time, pushing back her duvet on her bed as she was about ready to head to bed. What would John say…? Thought Mrs. Hudson when suddenly an idea - or more so a realization - clicked in her mind. Letting out a soft gasp, she made her way to her bedside table and pulled out her emergency flip phone. Flipping it open she went straight to John’s contact.
She was hesitant in pressing the ‘CALL’ button as she wondered if John would pick up or not. She frowned as she then sat down on the edge of her bed, deep in thought.
With a shake of her head - thinking it was silly for her to start thinking in the first place - she went ahead in calling John, putting the device up to her ear. It continued to ring on the other end for a while. After it had then it had gone to voicemail: “You have reached the number of John Watson. Currently I am out on errands and will get back to you as I can, if possible.”
The landlady let out an exasperated sigh and gave a small glare towards the small phone; she wasn’t giving up that easily. She re-pressed the ‘CALL’ button and put the phone back up to her ear. This time it had barely been one ring when it immediately went to voicemail. Once again did she remove the phone from her ear and glare back down at it once more. She could obviously tell that John was getting these calls, but he was choosing not to answer. You want to play at that game now, do you? thought Mrs. Hudson then redialed, letting it go to voicemail.
“You listen here, John Hamish Watson,” she began a little harshly. “I know you are getting these phone calls. I also understand that it’s ten at night, but if you do not listen to me, young man, then I shall come over to your house and grab you by the ear.” She said threateningly. “Now listen closely: Sherlock is in the hospital right now and you better come tomorrow morning to Bart’s, you hear?” And with that she ended her voicemail and let out an annoyed huff. She set the emergency flip phone on her bedside table and climbed into her bed.
A few minutes later had passed - Mrs. Hudson not being able to fall asleep just yet - there was a ringing coming from the phone on her bedside table. She looked over her shoulder at hearing the phone ring and she sat up, taking the phone in her hands and answering it.
“Hey, Mrs. Hudson,” whispered John’s voice on the other line.
YOU ARE READING
Human
FanfictionTRIGGER WARNING: This story includes mentions of depression, self-harm, use of drugs, eating disorders, and some violence. After the death of John Watson's wife, Mary, Sherlock has fallen into a deep chasm of severe guilt for his best friend's loss...