Mrs. Hudson balanced the tray on her hip as she carefully made her way up the creaky stairs.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

It reminded her too much of those years when she thought he was dead. During that time that she would have given anything to have all the noise and commotion coming from the upstairs flat back.

Now he was back, but so too was the silence.

It hadn't always been that way. When he returned, it was as if life had picked up right where it left off. There were always clients coming and going. After an initial argument, John Watson too became a frequent visitor accompanied often by Mary. The normalcy continued until Sherlock was shot. After several quiet weeks when he was recovering at the hospital, he had returned somewhat diminished in form, but as feisty in spirit as ever letting her know that everything would be okay. Then he got himself into a mess with the law, which he'd gotten out of by taking out Lord Moran, the man who had been behind the Moriarty scare.

And then a very curious thing happened, a thing which would not have been curious if it was anyone but Sherlock. A woman started spending more time at Baker Street. That woman was Molly Hooper.

At first, it didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Molly had stopped by occasionally before, usually to drop off mysterious packages that contained things Mrs. Hudson would prefer not to know about. She usually found out later when going through Sherlock's refrigerator and discovered things that no person should have along side their milk and eggs.

But the visits started becoming more routine and lasting longer. Sherlock also spent more time away from the flat, sometimes not returning until morning. When questioned he would give vague answers, but Mrs. Hudson knew he was spending time with Molly. She could tell by the glow on his face when he thought no one was looking.

They were a couple. Whether or not Sherlock would ever admit it, it was obvious by the way they looked at each other. Once she caught them kissing in doorway. When they turned at the sound of her step, their flushed faces and the faraway look in their eyes confirmed her suspicions. It was love.

It lasted for several months until one day she heard the sound of raised voices coming from upstairs. It was impossible to make out the words, but they were arguing about something. Molly stormed out of the flat with fire in her eyes. She spied Mrs. Hudson as she paused to shove her arms into her coat sleeves.

"I'm finished with him, Mrs. Hudson. He's holding back…he won't…" she sighed wearily.

"I'm sure you'll both work it out, dear, whatever it is."

Molly shook her head and looked at her square in the eyes. "I'm done." With that she threw open the door and stormed out into the rainy London night.

That had been two weeks ago.

At first, Sherlock had been noisier than ever, slamming doors, playing the loudest musical pieces he could find on his violin, shouting for her to bring him things. He would leave the flat for cases, only to return in an even worse temper. Lestrade had shown up one day and asked her what was the matter with him. Sherlock was obviously distracted and had been useless on cases.

But after an anger filled week, his mood had cooled off. The noise stopped. When she wandered into his flat, she usually found him sitting in his chair, staring off into space.

The anger had left his eyes and had been replaced with a look of pain. She tried to get him to open up about it but he refused.

"If you don't let out your feelings sometime, young man, they'll tear you up inside until there's nothing left."

She knocked softly on the door, before letting herself in.

Today, Sherlock was lying on the couch in his second best dressing gown facing the wall.

"I brought you some tea and some of your favorite biscuits." She tried to keep her voice light, but the pathetic sight of him broke her heart.

He didn't acknowledge her presence so she set down the tray and perched herself on the end of the coffee table.

"Sometimes we say things we don't mean, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean it has to be over." She reached over to brush away a few stray curls from his face. For once he didn't pull away from her touch and instead he sighed deeply.

"She'll never forgive me."

"You won't know until you ask her."

"I've been an arse."

"Dear, you were an arse before and she liked you then."

She couldn't see his expression, but the corners of his mouth ticked up slightly before he sighed again.

"Why does it hurt? Where does this…this feeling come from?"

She smiled and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "It's called love, dear. It hurts because it's real."

Sherlock sat up with a start and looked at her quizzically. "Love?"

Mrs. Hudson handed him a teacup. "I know you think you're immune, but it's been proven otherwise. I've seen you two. It's written all over your faces. You wouldn't be feeling this way if it wasn't."

Sherlock sipped his tea and pondered for a long while over her words.

"What do I do?" he asked at last.

"You go to her, you apologize, you tell her what a miserable arse you are, you tell her that you love her and that you need her in your life…you tell her everything you're feeling."

He blinked and it was as if something had clicked in his brain. He slammed down the teacup spilling half its contents and began pacing excitedly around the room. It was the most energized she'd seen him in days.

"Don't overthink it. Just go to her and speak from your heart…though you probably shouldn't do it in your pyjamas and a shave wouldn't hurt either."

Sherlock looked down suddenly aware of his appearance and ran a hand along his scruffy jawline. Mrs. Hudson chuckled and patted his cheek.

"Don't be afraid, Sherlock. Love is worth everything. It's worth all the pain and heartbreak when you find the real thing, and you've found the real thing."

He paused to consider he words before dashing toward the bedroom. She cleaned up the spilled tea and heard the sound of running water. He emerged minutes later, clean-shaved and impeccably dressed as ever.

"Good luck, dear."

"I don't need luck, Mrs. Hudson, but-" he swallowed nervously, "-but thank you for your advice."

He kissed her on the cheek and swept out of the room.

She heard nothing for hours and anxiously waited for his return. When she was about to give up listening for the door and go to bed, her phone rang.

It was John.

"The oddest thing just happened. Sherlock just phoned me to tell you he wouldn't be returning to the flat tonight," John paused. "And he sounded…well he sounded happy, strangely happy. Giddy almost. And I swear I heard a woman's laugh in the background. When I asked who he was with he wouldn't say, he just told me to tell you not to wait up. Now why on earth would he do a thing like that?"

Mrs. Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks for calling, John, and don't worry about Sherlock. He's fine. Goodnight."

"Yes, but why-" she hung up the phone before he could ask any more questions and get any information out of her. It was not her place to tell. John would find out soon enough.

It was Sherlock's way of letting her know everything was all right. Her advice had worked. With a smile, she headed off to bed.

The flat was quiet again, but this time it wasn't a deafening silence. It was a peaceful stillness that lulled her off to sleep.

Inspired by a rewatch of The Hobbit-BotFA:

Why does it hurt so much?

Because it was real.

Needed a happier ending of course.