Six days had passed. John still wasn't speaking.

Sherlock tiptoed around the unfamiliar flat, biting his tongue and giving the master bedroom a wide berth. The void in his gut had been eating him alive ever since that terrible morning. He pushed it out of his mind for the hundredth time that day and focused on the tiny bundle in his arms. It was lucky, he decided, that he didn't know. He would find out some day, of course, but that was a long time off. Perhaps John would come around by then.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

Mrs. Hudson offered a soft, tired smile, a look he had grown accustomed to as of late. He bent to kiss her cheek.

'How's our little one getting on?' she asked.

He glanced down at the sleeping child who shifted into a slow, one-armed stretch. 'Remarkably well, considering his caretaker.'

He chose to ignore the tears at the corners of her eyes as she squeezed his arm. 'He's a very lucky boy.'

He smiled, tight-lipped, a now-familiar lump settling in his throat. 'Thank you for watching him this morning.'

'My pleasure.' She offered her arms and Sherlock shifted, passing the baby to her as if he were made of glass.

'I've got his bag and everything in the car. It's just outside. I'm hoping he'll sleep the whole time, but I'm not confident in that.'

'I'm sure we'll manage.' She smiled through a quavering sigh. 'Well, I'll be off. See you shortly.'

He held the door for her. 'Yes, thank you.'

The click of the latch was as loud as thunder.

His arms felt too long without the weight of the baby. He slipped his hands into his pockets and turned back to the empty flat. There didn't seem to be enough time. He wandered into the guest bath to wash his hands and adjusted his tie in the mirror. His hair was out of sorts. He combed his fingers through it to no avail. The clock read 9.45. He took a deep breath and headed for the bedroom.

John was seated at the end of the bed and staring out the window, just as he had been since that morning. The only evidence that he'd moved at all was the exchange of his rumpled hospital clothes for the suit from the back of his closet. The sleeves of his jacket were a hair too short and the trousers needed to be taken out. His tie was knotted in a perfect half Windsor. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach all over again. He cleared his throat. John blinked but didn't turn.

His face was gaunt, dense bags beneath his steely eyes. No sleep. No tears. Not since that morning. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced his voice to stay steady. 'It's time,' he said.

It was a beautiful day.

John leaned back against his headrest, eyes locked on the sunny London morning as it passed by the taxi window. His hands on his knees were discomforting in their steadiness. Sherlock tried to no avail to stop himself from repeatedly glancing at his friend. Every nerve in his body ached to take John's hand, touch his shoulder, crush him against the freshly laundered fabric of his shirt and never let him go. Instead he set his hands in his lap and clasped them together until his knuckles turned white.

At least it was a small affair. The news hadn't been made public. Molly had made a few discrete calls to the appropriate channels, inviting just enough attendees so John wouldn't be alone. A few of her friends, weepy and despondent. Lestrade mumbling gruff but comforting words. Mrs. Hudson and the baby, of course. Flowers from Sherlock's parents. Major Sholto stopped by to offer his condolences and a sharp salute; that had been a nice touch. John had nodded to all, face grave and lips tight. His shoulders stooped with the thump of dirt on the polished wood of the coffin. Molly had squeezed his fingers and he shook his head, slipping away the moment the vicar finished the final blessing. Sherlock watched him go.

'He's not eating,' Molly said, close to his side but not touching. Sherlock swallowed and shook his head, the only confirmation he could offer. 'Have you spoken with him at all?'

'He isn't speaking.'

He could feel her eyes on his face, steady and worried. 'And the baby?' It took him a moment to shake his head again. It felt like betrayal. Molly's hand slipped through the crook of his arm and she leaned against him a moment. 'You'll let me know, won't you? If there's anything I can do.'

John stood in the shade of an ancient tree, his gaze pointed toward the other side of the cemetery. Sherlock sighed through the stone in his chest, his hand finding Molly's on his elbow. 'You've already done so much.'

'Sherlock.' He dragged his eyes away from John and met hers. He found himself sucking on his bottom lip, refusing to allow any tears to escape. Her smile was soft but genuine. She nodded at him. 'You're not alone. We'll get him through this one day.'

He nodded in reply. It was better than telling the truth.

That afternoon it rained. John returned to his room without a word and closed the door. Sherlock fed the baby to keep from screaming.