The soothing smell of coffee permeated the air, enveloping 221A Baker Street, as if it were a blanket-comforting and warm, not unlike the last time Sherlock Holmes was there.

It wasn't Sherlock Holmes himself that Mrs. Hudson likened to the smell of coffee. Rather, it was his violin-playing - soft and melodious and always beautiful. Each and every time Sherlock Holmes did something wrong that involved Mrs. Hudson, he would stand by the door of his room and play a tune of his own composition. And Sherlock would never stop until Mrs. Hudson came to 221B with a cup of coffee, smiling that knowing smile of hers, and more often than not, adding a comment of 'This is going on your rent!' or 'I'm not your housekeeper!'. And then Sherlock would smile, and she would smile back, even though she knew that the same thing would happen next week.

That's how Sherlock apologized, and how Mrs. Hudson accepted it. At least, it was the one that they were both most fond of.

These thoughts made her smile then. And they still do. But somehow, deep in her heart, she could hear Sherlock playing his violin, and she couldn't bring herself to go to him with a cup of coffee, and smile knowingly. Because he wasn't there anymore.

John had taken the gentlest steps in breaking the news to her. When she was told, she didn't react like most other women would- defiance and disbelief- instead, she sobbed immediately, openly, horribly, into John's arms. That was the time that John was strong for her. But she knew that in the next days, months… years, she would have to be strong for him, too.

And she did become strong. She tried not to think about Sherlock, and then she frequently took John out. She invited him to dances, to brunch, to book club. And then she set him up on dates. She took happiness in these things, because truly, she just needed to stop thinking about why Sherlock killed himself.

In her heart, the violin began to play louder.

The record came in the mail three days after Sherlock's death. There were no labels, or a return address. It was just the record, in a simple cerise envelope. Mrs. Hudson put the record on, and then- she was thrown into violent hysterics and John dropped his teacup, shattering it on the floor.

Sherlock. That was their shared, singular, terrifying thought.

John walked out of the room, shaking and horrified.

A single song played, again and again- it was the song that Sherlock made just for Mrs. Hudson, when he needed to ask for apology. It was the song that Mrs. Hudson heard in her heart.

The landlady sat in her chair and wept. The violin playing in her heart ceased to play, because now it was overpowered by the record. And now it all felt so real.

Three years. The record still rests on Mrs. Hudson's player, and it was evident how much it had been played over the past few years, or that it had never been removed since Mrs. Hudson played it for the first time.

Every now and then John would come and they would listen to it together, and smile knowingly, sadly, longingly.

Through the years that have passed, through countless brunches and blind dates and visits to Sherlock's grave- the regret in their hearts began to fade. Slowly, they began to miss Sherlock, they began to think of him more frequently, not hating because he killed himself, but rather, thinking of all the wonderful things he'd done. Thinking how Sherlock Holmes had never been a fake.

He was so real, painfully real. And they would always believe that, because they saw it with their very eyes.

And just like that, the music would permeate the air, as if it were a blanket—comfortably and warmly wrapped around John and Mrs. Hudson.

"Are you still mad at him?" She asked John one day, as the record was playing.

"Yes. All this time," he replied, looking away.

"But have you forgiven him?" She asked, knowing that John knew the difference of this question from her first.

"Yes. All this time." John smiled softly at Mrs. Hudson, knowing that Mrs. Hudson knew the difference of this answer from his first.

"Me, too." Mrs. Hudson stared at her teacup.

"Then maybe we should stop playing the record."

Mrs. Hudson just smiled at John as he wrapped her hands in his. "Yes, we should."

It was unspoken knowledge in 221B that if Sherlock was playing near the door of his room, he was playing for Mrs. Hudson.

The landlady and her sole tenant stood inside Sherlock's bedroom near the door. The room still looked the same- but it lacked its most important ingredient- Sherlock. With that, the room was just full of oddities and books- they didn't feel like they were Sherlock's.

But Mrs. Hudson and John didn't come here because they regretted that fact. They came here to accept that fact, and forgive Sherlock.

In 221A, the record player was empty, for the first time in 3 years. Mrs. Hudson held the record close to her chest, and she smiled knowingly.

"I'm not your housekeeper, you know," she whispered. "I'm glad you're keeping your room clean," she said, with a tinkling laugh.

And then John laughed too.

The violin-playing had stopped.

Somewhere in the world, a tall man with curly hair packed his violin away and hailed a cab to the airport.

3:25 am. The melodious notes of a violin began to permeate the air, rousing John Watson from sleep. He stumbled his way to 221A and wondered why Mrs. Hudson would play the record at such an hour.

But Mrs. Hudson wasn't in 221A- she was in John's sitting room, just about to go up the stairs and ask John about the playing.

"It's 3:25, Mrs. H."

"I know. Why did you put it on? We've forgiven him, haven't we?"

The color from John's face drained. "I didn't put it on."

Mrs. Hudson stared at him in confusion. Then her eyes widened in realization- and simultaneously they turned their faces towards Sherlock's door.

John walked towards the door and pushed it warily. And then, not unlike the time they heard the record for the first time, Mrs. Hudson was thrown into violent hysterics, and John walked out of the room, into the next where a tall man with curly hair stood smiling at them. And then, unceremoniously, John punched Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson stood there, laughing and crying at the same time, as John punched Sherlock on the floor. As Sherlock tried to evade them. As John began to scream.

As she and John were enveloped in the blanket of Sherlock's arms.

And for once, silence permeated the air, casting its blanket around Mrs. Hudson and her two tenants. And it was infinitely more warm and comforting than the smell of coffee, or the melodious notes of a violin.