"John, are you alright?" A tense voice asked from the doorway.
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'm alright." Another voice, weaker and filled with sadness, replied from the window.
"Do you not want to go? I'm sure he would understand."
The man shook his head. "No, no. I'm going. I'm going."
The woman nodded tersely before turning in a tight circle and rushing down the stairwell. The man followed soon after, though much slower, and with a slight limp.
The woman was already standing next to a cab as he closed the door.
"Do you want to ride in this one?" The woman asked. A look of worry was etched in the lines of her face, a look that never seemed to go away.
The man shook his head. "I'll get the next one."
The woman nodded again and got in the cab, closing the door behind her. As the man watched the cab roll away, he saw a tear roll down the woman's face.
The man really didn't want to go where he promised he would. He didn't want to face it. He thought what happened was partially his fault. But it wasn't. None of what happened was his fault, none at all. And deep down, deep, deep down, he knew it.
When the next cab drove up next to him, he opened the door and told the driver where to go. The driver nodded solemnly. The day was a day of mourning for most in England. Most knew who had passed. Most knew who was taking it hardest. Most knew that the man would probably never move on.
How could anyone, when someone they loved, had died?