Author's note: I started thinking about Sherlock again. And we all know where that leads to.

Anyway, I couldn't help but notice there's a serious lack of Sherlock/Mrs. Hudson reunion fics – there are maybe even less of those around than there are Lestrade/Sherlock reunion fics, and that's saying something. And doesn't she deserve one too, our dear housekeeper- landlady I mean?

Could be seen as a followup to "To Make It Shine", but you really don't need to read that story first.

I don't own anything, and please review.

Thank God I used the awful tea set my mother-in-law gave us as a wedding present, she'll later think, though all in all, it's hardly surprising she used it, because not using it always makes her feel ungrateful, and that's a feeling she never could live with. So she's always made a point to use it at least once a week, even when her husband was arrested, convicted and executed. It didn't make her so much think of him, after all, as of her mother-in-law, the rather trying old lady who'd been certain she had "bewitched" her wonderful boy to marry her. At least she didn't live to see her wonderful boy being executed as a murderer. Though she'd most likely not have survived it anyway.

She is rather thankful for the whole ordeal, in hindsight. Not because her husband was executed, of course, though if she's honest, she'd wanted to get away from him for a while; the alcohol and the beatings, it was all getting too much.

No, she's grateful for the ordeal because she met Sherlock, then still an addict, while running around the city in shock after her husband's arrest.

She hadn't even noticed in what part of town she'd come – one she certainly would never have visited if she'd been thinking clearly. But, there she was, and she was lucky, this time at least, because instead of a robber or murderer or junkie who thought a nice old lady would be an easy target, she stumbled upon Sherlock, who clearly was in search of his next fix (though she never told him she knew that, he probably wasn't aware she could even spell the word "junkie").

At first, she'd been rather alarmed by the sudden appearance of the thin and pale (even thinner and paler than the day he d– passed on, the poor thing) young man, who'd taken one look at her and said, in a bored voice, "Obviously abusive marriage. A drinker, then?"

She hadn't been alarmed anymore then, not even scared, because there had been something in his voice – he'd sounded lost, just like her. So she'd simply nodded, much to the astonishment of the young man, and told him everything, from start to finish. At the end of her story, he had looked at her in a way that told her he wasn't used to people telling him things like he had a right to hear them, and simply said, "Well, better get you home, then." And he had brought her home, quite quickly, even though she'd been roaming the streets for hours. Of course he knew every street in this town.

Naturally, it hadn't ended there. She'd invited him in and not taken "No" for an answer. She'd made him eat and, while he'd been picking his foot, asked him how he knew about her marriage. It had been the right question to ask; he hadn't stopped talking then until his plate was clean, which had taken the better part of two hours. He had told her all about his dream of solving crimes, in the meantime explaining why her husband was the only one who could have committed the murder on that poor girl (he'd read about it in the papers, of course he had), and in the end, he'd been astonished to find he'd not only eaten but also talked to another human being, which apparently didn't happen very often.

She'd made him sleep in the guest bedroom, washed his clothes, and made him promise to come back within the next few days when he'd tried to leave without her noticing in the morning.

It was then, when they said goodbye in the sunshine that was coming through the windows of her kitchen, that she'd asked, "What is your name, dear? I'm Mrs. Hudson."

"I know" he'd answered, and then, after a moment's silent, he'd said "I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes".

He'd then said "I promise", and, though both his and her surprise, had kept it. There was something that drew them together – they both needed someone to talk to, someone who cared whether they lived or died. He'd later told her, once, when he'd shown up high and she hadn't said anything about it, that it was the only promise he'd ever kept, because he was an awful person, and the fact that he actually believed that had made her love him all the more.

By the time he'd returned, she'd started cleaning her and her husband's bedroom and had found the jewellery the police told her had been missing from the girl's body.

She'd given it to Sherlock, who'd promptly ensured her husband was executed. She's still ashamed to admit it, but it had been a relief.

When Sherlock had next shown up – he usually came in the evening, ate, stayed the night and went away in the morning – she'd told him about her plans to return to England. She still owned the building in Baker Street she'd inherited from her mother, after all, and she could let the flat in the basement and on the first floor. It would probably earn her enough money to live comfortably.

He had actually been sad she was leaving, even though he'd tried to hide it. And she had been sad too, sad to leave him behind to probably die from an overdose or being killed in the streets. But, she'd told him, "I'll always be happy to see you, dear. Remember: Baker Street, 221B. You're always welcome. Always. I promise."

She hadn't thought she would see him again, not in this life time, at least, but, three years later, he'd shown up on her door step, clean and just having solved his first case for the nice Detective Inspector who'd come to be such a good friend to him.

She'd been overjoyed and given him a cuppa, of course, and during the next five years, he'd been a regular visitor. Then, because he'd noticed (naturally) that neither flat was yet inhabited (thankfully she still had her rent, so she managed just fine), he'd asked if there might be a way he could afford it – which translated into "You couldn't give me a special deal?"

Of course she could. And she had, though he'd still needed a flatmate.

And so John had joined them, and their weird, happy family had been complete, a family that also had members that weren't living in the house, like DI Lestrade or Molly (who still check up on her, now and then, bless their hearts, and nobody's happier than her that, by now, they usually visit together; everyone deserves a little bit happiness).

And for one and a half years, everything had been perfect. She had her boys, they had each other, there were birthdays, there was even a Christmas party.

And then Sherlock had jumped, thrown his life, his brilliant, wonderful mind, his big heart, away, and naturally, she'd lost John too in the process. He couldn't live where he'd shared his life with Sherlock, and she could understand that; she'd moved back to England all those years ago too, after all.

Of course, she hasn't spent a minute worrying that that silly girl could be right. Her Sherlock was not a fraud. Nothing could ever convince her otherwise.

That doesn't mean she'd let the flat again, though. Oh no. It might be three years since Sherlock's... fall... but she knows John will be back. At least, she hopes and prays he'll be back. She wants one of her boys, if she can't have both. She wants part of her family back.

She's come so far in her reminiscences when, all of a sudden, her front door opens, and she leaps happily out of her chair.

She told John to keep the keys, and it can only be him. The only other pair of keys (except hers) is where it belongs – in Sherlock's coffin. She asked Molly, in the morgue, standing over his body because she had needed to see him to understand it was true, to put them with the suit she'd brought to have him buried in (Mycroft Holmes had called her to let her know that all of Sherlock's things were in his flat, and could she be so kind? She was), because she couldn't imagine giving them to somebody else.

As it turns out they obviously were never buried with her boy, because Sherlock is standing in front of her.

The cup shatters at her feet, and she stares at him.

He takes a step towards her. Looks at her. Then, gently, slowly, says "Mrs. Hudson. Please don't..."

But she reacts a bit different than he expected her too, apparently, judging by his face when she interrupts him with "How dare you, you silly boy!"

He stands there, struck speechless during the next few minutes while she rants on – "And you left John all alone, do you know what that did to him? And I was so lonely sometimes, and I went to your grave – well a grave – every week, and I brought flowers, and do you know how much flowers cost nowadays, you bad boy?" – and so on, and then she looks him up and down, realizes something and says "Dear Lord, you are thinner than you were when we first met, you poor thing! Come in, I'll give you a cuppa and something to eat, and you. Will. Eat. It. All."

Sherlock, too stunned to do something except obeying, follows her into the kitchen and takes of his coat. She gives him a cup of tea, he eyes the set and says "Sorry about the cup."

"Oh, it's all right dear, a present from my mother-in-law – I've hated it for forty years."

He chuckles at that, bless him, and she simply adores his chuckle, always has, so she hugs him, because that's the only thing to do, and he let's go of the cup and hugs her back, and so she's broken two cups in a day, well, at least she can get rid of the set now.

After holding him long enough, she gives another cuppa – after today, she's never going to use the set, so why not make the best of it – and cooks for him, and he slowly begins telling her what he did in those three years – and if she wasn't used to the things he did for a living, she'd probably run away screaming, but she's always been made of sterner stuff than people suppose.

So, after he's eaten, and told her he'll spend the next few days, until it is safe for him to return, with his brother, and that he might need her help to catch the last of Moriarty's gang, and she's promised – of course – to help him at all costs, she asks, "You are moving back in, dear? And you are taking John with you?"

And he looks at her for a moment and answers "I promise."

And she knows everything is going to be all right.

Because she was the first one he ever kept a promise to.

Author's note: Turned out differently than I expected, but regular readers of my fics will know that's the way it normally happens, when I start writing.

I hope you enjoyed, and please review.