Work Text:
“Oh Sherlock, England will not fall. You can hold it up without me,” she said under her breath, taking out the last batch of scones from the oven.
Arranging them neatly on a plate, she bobbed her head along to the Iron Maiden compilation playing in her AirPods. She knew John and Sherlock would come back in the evening, lost in a new chase, running after a new criminal. But she was done, and wanted them to remember her the way she was, chastising them for shooting the walls and throwing Americans on her bins. She could only hope they knew that they were like sons to her. Sons who brightened her days with their shenanigans even though they graced her life when both were in their thirties. She tried to be the firm landlady they needed, and occasionally their housekeeper despite what she'd claimed, but they knew her heart was soft.
Smiling tenderly, she recalled the spontaneous kiss on the cheek from a man who evoked respect at Scotland Yard and fear amongst criminals. How, when no one could see, Sherlock helped her maintain the small back garden and took care of her strawberries. And how the fierce soldier and doctor that was John lent her a hand with hanging the laundry and oiling the doors so they would stop squeaking. They had their hands full with the lives they'd chosen, and she deemed them ready to take care of each other.
It had taken her less than a week to arrange the necessary paperwork. Speedy's would be taken over by Mrs Turner and her married tenants who'd become her family just like John and Sherlock had become hers.
Now, she was ready for her last journey. To see where her tired legs would carry her if she put the pedal of her red Aston Martin to the metal.
With just necessities packed in her handbag, she left her keys to the house on top of the envelope on her kitchen table. They would find the deed and the note she penned on Speedy's note paper, and they’d know what to do. Not go after her. Because they knew how to honour an old woman’s will.
Her small frame sunk into the comfortable seat of her car and she manoeuvred through London slowly before shooting through the motorway. Windows down, heavy metal blasting through the speakers, her hair flying on the wind, she drove, letting tears fall down her cheeks.
She'd lived a full life on her own terms, and she was going to say goodbye to it the way she chose.
Smiling against the setting sun, she whooped, feeling free as she imagined her boys coming home soon to her note.
“Take good care of each other, my Baker Street boys,
- Mrs Hudson”