Title: Two Knocks

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: Mrs. Hudson always knew that it would end with Lestrade at her door. Two knocks, two visits: first Lestrade, then Mycroft.

Warnings: Character death

Notes: I honestly don't know where this piece came from. I woke up with it and couldn't shake the characters' voices and actions until I finally wrote it down. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.

She always knew it would be Lestrade.

"Mrs. Hudson," he nodded, tucking his front door key into a trouser pocket, snow dripping from silver hair to seep into the dark wool of his coat-covered shoulders.

And she knew.

God help her, from the moment she answered that knock, she knew. But while she may have known with the self-assured, quick insight of Sherlock Holmes, she gestured Lestrade into the warmth of her flat with the ingrained manners of John Watson.

Lestrade followed her into the kitchen; stood silently in the doorway as she put the kettle on and walked to the table, fingers ghosting along a pulled-back chair, ready for support but still standing: the strong-willed landlady who had hidden evidence from CIA agents holding guns to her head.

Lestrade cleared his throat, graveled voice rough as the wintry wind rattling the windows. "Mrs. Hudson, I -"

"They're dead," she said it for him, shifting weight off her bad hip.

If Lestrade was surprised, he didn't show it. "Yes."

A sob welled in Mrs. Hudson's throat with the gentle confirmation; the final blow to every adult's protective denial: that tiny whisper that said maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. But it had been hopeless from the very first. Because she had opened her door, not to Greg Lestrade, the wearily relaxed, fondly exasperated friend of John and Sherlock, but to Detective Inspector Lestrade – straight-backed, yet never looming, face schooled to official neutrality around empathetic eyes. A proper officer of the law.

And that could only mean one thing.

"Both of them." It was more statement than question, to the point where Mrs. Hudson wasn't even sure why she had said it in the first place. Shock, John would probably say. Her hand flew to her mouth as reality's harsh new truth made the first of many upcoming corrections.

Would have said.

"Yes," Lestrade glanced down, swallowing thickly.

She nodded. Lestrade wouldn't have been standing in her kitchen like a police officer who had spent years delivering bad news if John and Sherlock had just been injured. And if it had only been one of her boys, the other would be here with her now. Even numb with grief and shock, John had been the one to tell her about Sherlock's – blessedly faked, in the end – suicide. And it was a dripping wet Sherlock, teeth chattering and fingernails encrusted with a dead man's blood, who came and got her on the way to the hospital, still not knowing whether the unresponsive John Watson he had pulled out of the Thames would survive at all, let alone be the John Watson they knew if he did.

No, from the moment she opened her door, this was the only way it could have been. The only possible truth.

Her boys.

"How?" she asked, cringing at how thin and brittle her voice had gone, as if that single syllable was suddenly burdened with every one of her years.

Lestrade hesitated, shifting on his feet. "I don't -" he started.

"Inspector," Mrs. Hudson drew herself up. "How?" It was her no-nonsense tone; the one that said, 'I've had body parts in my fridge and all manner of criminals making a mess under my roof for years. Don't coddle me.' "Please," she added quietly, meeting Lestrade's eyes.

I need to know. I have a right to know.

A flash of the anguished friend surged across Lestrade's face before the neutral, empathetic professional regained control. "They were shot. Sniper, at long range."

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes. "Was it…." She sniffled wetly, reopening them. "Was it quick?"

Lestrade watched her carefully, gauging his words to answer the unspoken questions – Did they suffer? Did they die in pain? – as gently and honestly as possible. "Instantaneous," he assured her. "Single shot to the head. Neither of them felt a thing."

Mrs. Hudson dipped her head in silent relief, struggling to find her voice as the tears refused to be held back any longer. "And they were….you know…..together?" she looked at Lestrade imploringly.

Lestrade fought back a shaky breath at the image of John – who must have sensed the sniper somehow – lying on top of Sherlock, shot dead mid-tackle; Sherlock's protector to the very end. As long as he lived, Lestrade would never forget that sight. "Yes, they were," was all he trusted himself to say.

He saw the quick flash of relief in Mrs. Hudson's tear-filled eyes; a moment of 'all right, then' in the midst of a storm of 'nothing will ever be all right again.' It was a relief he recognized from his own eyes in the rear view mirror on the drive to Baker Street. The two of them had seen John and Sherlock without the other before, so as painful as it was to lose both at the same time, for the men he and Mrs. Hudson cared for, it was – in some macabre, yet almost merciful way - for the best.

The kettle was boiling. Mrs. Hudson turned toward it with a shaky breath that she had intended to be steadying. She had prepared for this moment. For years, she knew it could, and likely would, happen. So she could handle this. Really, she…..

Lestrade was ready, across the room in two long strides when the wind whipped the windows with a deep moan and Mrs. Hudson followed; legs giving out as she joined winter's despair, sobs tearing through her.

With practiced efficiency, Lestrade settled her into a kitchen chair, tucked a blanket around her shoulders, made two cups of tea, and sat next to her as she cried.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Hudson put down her tea, one hand reluctantly leaving the mug's warmth to wipe at her eyes. "Thank you," she gave Lestrade a grateful, shaky smile as she accepted the tissue he offered. "I'm sorry," she apologized, tidying herself up. "You must have….." she sniffled, "….work to do, and here I am, blubbering away, taking up your time…." She abandoned the tea to twist the tissue in her hands.

"I am working," Lestrade interrupted gently.

Mrs. Hudson looked over at him and saw something in his expression that told her, quite plainly, that trusting anyone else to tell her the news had never once crossed his mind. It reminded her of the devoted protectiveness that often shone in her boys' eyes; almost as if Lestrade had taken over responsibility for what John and Sherlock had held so dear. And it was with that realization that she finally saw Lestrade for the first time since opening her door: the man who had lost his two closest friends just as surely as she had lost, not two tenants, but two sons.

She dropped the tissue and took his hand. "Are you all right, dear?"

Lestrade swallowed roughly; cleared his throat as he attempted to keep the haunting playback from clouding his eyes. Driving into the field just as John tackled Sherlock to the ground…Sherlock shifting once under John's motionless body before jerking and going still himself…..being the first to get to them, to see…..

Judging by Mrs. Hudson's face, he hadn't hidden a thing.

"I found them," he said simply, reaching for his mug.

Mrs. Hudson squeezed his hand and held it, eyes bright, as she picked up her own.

The wind shook the windows, threatening the tiny room with winter's bone-numbing cold.

But a far more insidious chill had already taken root; steaming tea ice in its inhabitants' throats.

Mycroft arrived late in the evening, long after Lestrade had gone.

The DI had spent an hour with Mrs. Hudson before ensuring she had his mobile number, phoning Mrs. Turner to come sit with her, and promising to check in on her again as soon as he could.

The man was an excellent DI and an even greater friend. Mrs. Hudson would thank him for both next time she saw him.

Because thanks to Lestrade's care for her, she had the renewed strength and mental clarity to receive Mycroft Holmes into her flat and see exactly what she needed to see; to provide for a need the man would categorically deny to the end of his days.

Mycroft was as superiorly polite and proper as always. Impeccably dressed; posh and polished.

But there was one thing missing: his pocket handkerchief.

As if - composed though he was - he had not only needed it, but neglected to replace it.

Mrs. Hudson ushered him into the kitchen, puttering about like a good hostess and dutifully ignoring Mycroft's insistence that he wasn't staying for long.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't have time - "

"You have time for this, Mycroft Holmes," Mrs. Hudson insisted, pouring tea from her best china and putting out a packet of Sherlock's favorite biscuits. "Sit and eat," she waved him to a chair.

Mycroft joined her at the table with a characteristically dramatic, resigned sigh. However his hands lingered on the warm tea cup after his first sip, and an almost pained, wistful look passed across his face as he took one of the proffered biscuits.

Mrs. Hudson waited until he finished the biscuit – a slow, savoring, precise process, as if each bite was catalogued and connected to a memory – before speaking. "You'll find him?"

She'd like to think herself above impulsive revenge, but underneath all the tears she was angry; wanted the person who had done this to John and Sherlock, and to everyone who loved them, to pay for what they had taken away.

And she may not have known Mycroft's exact position in the government, but she wasn't fool enough to think he couldn't make that happen.

"Them," Mycroft corrected almost absently, looking down into his tea, one finger tracing the lip of the cup. "There were three men involved. Two have already been apprehended and Inspector Lestrade will have the third by morning."

He glanced up from the tea and there was the avenging brother; the man with the full power of the British government at his hand.

Mrs. Hudson knew it was cruel of her to smile at the unspoken promise within Mycroft's words, but 221B was as silent as two graves were soon to be full, and the unflinching devotion that had Sherlock tossing CIA agents out of windows and John passing sleepless nights on her sofa with a loaded gun – warning growls that told the world Mrs. Hudson was protected – well, that love and protective instinct went both bloody ways.

So she wasn't ashamed when she nodded and picked up her tea with a short, "Good." Because it wasn't a word. Nor was it a growl.

It was Mrs. Hudson's roar.

Something akin to feral respect passed over Mycroft's face in the instant before a thin-lipped smile settled into place and he resumed drinking his tea.

When Mycroft took his leave fifteen minutes later, the street was silent; winter's violent wind nothing more than a memory as he walked out to the waiting car.

Mrs. Hudson could have read the wind's sudden absence as one of two things: a moment of mournful silence - nature's respect for their loss - or a tactical retreat; the gusts falling back in the face of a far more dangerous force.

Closing the front door as the black car pulled away, she lingered at the foot of the stairs to 221B and chose to believe it was both.