History was something that was avoided, at all costs.
There was a tiny little picture in the possession of Mrs Hudson that marked a moment in Sherlock's past. A cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg, a sentimental story about the late Mr Hudson and suddenly the old woman was hobbling across the room and back again as quick as John had ever seen her. Box opened, a shuffle of papers and then a small Polaroid pushed into Watson's hands.
'Someone took that for me in Florida when my husband got in all that trouble. Deary me it was hot there- dripping all the time- couldn't breathe! But I do look good in that picture; had a nice tan' said the landlady, stirring her tea.
It was blurry, a lightly tanned but worn Mrs Hudson stood smiling in the centre of shot with a background of palm trees and water behind her. The white skirt and jacket were flattering and smart, evidently bought for the court appearance, but the face was one of a woman a dozen years older, tired and sunken.
And there, in the