Mrs Hudson brushed her hands off on her apron. She did hate to get it all bloody, but sometimes it had to be done. Better than her clothes anyway.
But she was finally done. This was the last one, and the messiest one, which was why she'd saved it.
There was a jingle behind her, and Mrs Hudson spun faster than someone with a bad hip should be able to, razor blade still in hand.
Two pointed ears greeted her, and a whiskered face soon followed.
It was a cat. Toby, if the name tag was anything to go by.
Mrs Hudson sighed. She hadn't taken a cat into account.
"I suppose you can come home with me," she murmured, rubbing his head absentmindedly.
Toby squirmed out from under her hand and began bathing himself furiously.
"Oh. Sorry about the blood."
Toby only glared, as cats do.
She cleaned up the mess while Toby cleaned his fur, and they both finished at the same time.
They left Molly on the floor in the bathroom, a tear stained note at her side and blood drying on the tiles next to her wrists.
Nobody would suspect it was anything but a suicide, not after the events of the previous month. Poor Molly Hooper had suffered the loss of two of her dear friends, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, not to mention the tragedy that had befallen Detective Inspector Lestrade, and the government official who'd called her by name, but not answered her questions.
Mrs Hudson had been very busy indeed.
And it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.
There had been one too many holes in her wall, one too many midnight explosions, one too many strange guests, and far too many demands for food, despite her continued insistence that she was not his housekeeper.
She did adore Sherlock, after all, he'd taken care of the business with her husband (the patsy, he deserved to have it all blamed on him, since it was technically his fault) but the boy simply had to go. Same with John, who would ask too many questions if Sherlock just disappeared.
And once she decided they'd both have to be taken care of, there were a few more people she needed to deal with.
Lestrade would suspect something. For all Sherlock talked about his inadequacy, the man wasn't an idiot, and would notice their absence. So Mrs Hudson added him to the list.
Next was Sherlock's brother, who was likely the most difficult of all of them. But still, where there was a will, there was a way, and Mrs Hudson most certainly had the will.
Then there was just one final piece, the one that had given her a new companion, much quieter and unruly than the one who was the cause of all this.
She'd poisoned dear Mycroft when he came over to bother Sherlock about something or other. He was first, although not first to go. It took him a while, but when it did happen, it appeared to be a heart attack.
No, Sherlock took first place. He overdosed. It had been a long time coming and wasn't a shock.
Except to John.
Mrs Hudson used that to her advantage. Everyone knew how close they were. John would be stricken by grief, and could very well wander into the street and be hit by a car, or otherwise encounter an unfortunate accident.
She bide her time before taking care of the DI, and in the interim, Mycroft passed away. Heart attack, so much stress placed on him with the government job, not to mention the loss of his brother.
She didn't bother killing the DI when his time came. That wasn't necessary. But in his line of work, injuries were common.
A stray bullet found its way into his skull when they were investigating a string of disappearances. The man didn't die, but may as well have. If he ever regained consciousness, he'd never be the same.
And then there was Molly, who'd been last, the final loose end.
Well, except for one thing.
On Mrs Hudson's lap, Toby purred. In Molly's... absence, she'd taken the creature in. He seemed quite content in his new home.
As was Mrs Hudson. Calm, quiet, peaceful.
Finally, there would be no more mess.
After all, she wasn't anyone's housekeeper.
AN: So, this was a prompt given to me by finalproblem, which was this (exactly)- Mrs. H murders everyone, the end.