I don't own anything. Not the characters, not 221b, not the explosion, not the explosives, not the wreckage—nothing. Please don't sue me.

Of course she wished he hadn't painted a smiley face on her wall and then proceeded to riddle it with bullet holes, but, well, Sherlock would be Sherlock.

After loudly telling him that this would be going on his rent, she started marching downstairs to get all the groceries in their proper place. But she was only halfway down before the world crumbled around her. She let out a little yelp and her bag hit the stairs and she gripped the rail next to her tightly, dangerously close to toppling over and landing on her head.

Of course, the world was still intact, but the building had shaken, and she'd heard a loud boom and crashing and she would have said it was an explosion.

And of course, the next word that came to her mind was Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" she called, turning around and hurrying up the stairs as fast as she could, which, regrettably, was simply not fast enough. She came back into the room that she had left less than a minute later, and it was a mess, but she didn't pay attention to any of that. Her eyes fell on Sherlock.

He was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, facedown, completely still. She let out a half-sob, half-shout, and rushed over to him with utter disregard for the pain in her hip. "Sherlock!" she cried frantically, placing her hands on his shoulder and shaking it. When that failed to elicit a response, she carefully rolled him over.

Pale, yes, he was always pale, but now he looked white as death, and that might have been because a bright red stream was running down the side of his face. It had created a large smudge near its source, since he'd had his face in the rug, but now it was following a sinuous path to his chin. She placed his head in her lap and laid her hand on the side of his face. "Sherlock," she cried, but he didn't answer.

She pushed back his dark curls, searching for the injury, and there it was, just at his hairline. A large area was swelled up, with a short but deep cut across it.

It looked bad. He needed a doctor. Where to find a doctor? John had left only minutes before, if only, if only he had stayed. Where had he gone? Well, she didn't know, so no sense in trying to find him.

She needed to get to a phone. Sherlock's sat on his coffee table, within reach. She leaned forward and picked it up but only stared hopelessly at it. There was some sort of code required to use it, wasn't there? Her landline, then. Only option.

"I'll be right back, Sherlock," she told him. He remained unresponsive, but she ignored that, as well as the tears prickling in her eyes. After climbing to her feet, she headed downstairs.

"999, what is your emergency?"

She was already starting back up the steps, thanking heaven that the telephone didn't have a cord. "There's, there's been an explosion, I need an ambulance, a young man, he's hurt—"

There seemed to be some kind of shuffling in the background. Mrs. Hudson suddenly realized they might already know about the explosion. If they hadn't, well, they did now. "Please remain calm, ma'am. What is your address?"

"Baker Street, it's 221b Baker Street." She drew the phone away from her mouth for a moment and stopped in her tracks as a sob escaped her lips. After taking a deep breath she brought the phone back to her ear and said, "Please, please help him."

"We will, ma'am. How is he hurt?"

She picked up the pace. "He's got a bump on his head, it's, there's blood but I don't think it was really bleeding all that much—he's so pale, he's not waking up."

"Have you checked for a pulse?"

"He—He's breathing."

"Good. Was he knocked over?"

She nodded, and caught herself after a second. "Yes."

A very brief pause. "Is that the worst of it?"

She sniffled. "I, I think so."

"How old is he?"

"34, he's 34." There he was. She knelt down next to him.

There was a brief silence at the other end, so she took the opportunity to place the phone on the floor briefly so her hands would be available, and moved his head back into her lap. She picked up the phone again, and barely caught the end of the operator's sentence. "Sorry?"

"Just stay with him and wait for the doctors to arrive. We will be there in about six minutes. Stay with him, and I'll stay with you. Okay?"

"Okay," she said softly.

"Just let me know if he changes at all."

She looked back down at his face, and noticed something on the floor immediately next to him that she hadn't seen before. Traces of red. Horrified, she reached her hand down and placed it on his back, then withdrew it. There was blood on her fingers.

"His back is bleeding too!"

"Please try to remain calm, ma'am. Tell me how bad it is."

She set the phone down again and gingerly turned Sherlock over, taking off his light blue robe. The back of his shirt was peppered in red flecks. She retrieved the phone and told the operator, "There are little spots of blood all over his shirt."

"It's shrapnel then. From what I've heard, in all likelihood he sustained the head injury when he hit the floor, because he was pushed over by the force of the explosion. How is his breathing?"

She checked carefully. "It's… it's regular, but, but sort of shallow…" After a pause she put the phone right up to Sherlock's mouth so the operator could listen. She watched Sherlock's face as she did, and took in every detail. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. So still. So still.

She found herself dropping the phone and clasping his head between her hands, leaning over him and crying for all she was worth. She lost track of how many times she said his name.

There was movement behind her, and suddenly the room was swarming with about half a dozen people, maybe more, but she wasn't really counting, all her attention was still fixed on Sherlock. And they were taking him from her, and pulling her gently to her feet, telling her it would be all right. She couldn't stop crying.

He was going to be fine.

He was mildly concussed but that would have no long-term effects. They were able to quickly remove all shrapnel from his back, and even said that if there was any scarring, it would be light, barely noticeable, and fade over time. She had never been more relieved in her life than she was when she walked into his hospital room after hearing the news and saw him sitting up in the bed, looking just a little bleary. He smiled at her, and said, "Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh my dear," she heard herself say, and rushed to his side, putting her hands on the sides of his face as she had in the flat, and covering his face with kisses. She threw her arms around him and he hugged her back. She didn't want to let go, having the silly feeling that maybe, if she just held on, she could keep him safe.

When she finally pulled away, she let out a relieved laugh and said, "You have taken a good five years off my life, young man."

"Doubtful. You're the only one who seems to be able to handle me."

She didn't just "handle" him. For all his faults, his body parts with the groceries and his violin playing at three in the morning, his mess, his doodling on the wall and then shooting his creations, she loved her crazy boy, and she wouldn't know what to do with herself without him.

Side note: It's my personal headcanon that the reason that Sherlock had that moment of inaccuracy with the lilo/sofa deduction a bit later in the episode was because his head was still a bit foggy after his injury.

Let me know how my characterization was!