Summary: Sherlock never imagined a one word text could bring his world crashing down...
Author's note: I've been solidly hit with writer's block in the midst of working on a much more involved story. So, of course, the best solution is to cruise the internets for inspiration, right? Riiiight. And, in doing just that, I happened upon a photo (supposedly) from Sherlock Series 4 filming (which I won't describe so everyone can stay spoiler free if they'd like) and it inspired this totally unrealistic THING which would not let go of my head until I wrote it. Hence, I give you this horrible angst monster... and my apologies. And my assurances that any similarities between this story and whatever actually happens in series 4 are completely coincidental. I really hope it's not like this (especially since a scenario like this really couldn't and wouldn't happen in real life) and I don't even want to contemplate where this leads, so this one chapter is all there is. If you're still up for reading it after all that, you know the risks.
Warning: This story contains a major character's death.
Sherlock never imagined a one word text could bring his world crashing down, and yet, that's exactly what it had done. The message was a location link with the word 'help.' Nothing more. A seemingly simple request, and yet one he utterly failed to fulfill.
He never imagined that after everything they'd been through, after everything he'd sacrificed to keep his vow, after they'd all risked life and limb to solve the case of Moriarty's return, that in the end, something so mundane as a rain slick road and a stalled lorry might steal the Watsons from him. ...and yet it already had done, at least partially.
Mary died instantly in the crash. The paramedics were doing their best to save John when Sherlock arrived at the scene.
He clearly remembered admonishing John once that "heroes don't exist", but tonight John Watson had proven him wrong once again. John Watson, who despite lacerations, broken ribs, a punctured lung and who knew what else, had performed a cesarean section on his dead wife. He'd done it with a penknife, despite the cold and the dark, with rain pouring in through the broken windscreen, in order to save the life of his child.
The paramedics found him holding his newborn daughter. Out of shock and grief and shear bloody stubbornness, he refused to let anyone take her from him, even though he was coughing blood and in urgent need of medical care, which couldn't be provided with the newborn in the way.
At least Sherlock's arrival just moments later ended that horrible stalemate.
"She's beautiful, John" he'd whispered next to his friend's ear as he unwound his scarf, "It's cold out here, let's wrap her up."
Only then had John relaxed his grip and willingly handed the child into Sherlock's arms. Cradling her tiny body against his chest, Sherlock watched helplessly as the EMTs went about trying to keep the child in his arms from becoming an orphan mere minutes into her young life.
Now, John was in surgery, the baby was in neonatal ICU, and Sherlock was sitting on a hard sofa, staring into space and trying to get a hold of himself.
He desperately wished to retreat into his mind palace, but couldn't seem to find the entrance. It was as if his mind had hidden the door. His thoughts circled in an endless spiral. What if John dies? What if the child does? On and on, over and over. No answers came, only a voice in the back of his head, Jim Moriarty's voice, 'People die. It's what they do.'
He had no idea how long he'd sat there. An hour? five hours? Longer? Blood stains drying on his shirt front, as he turned down offers of coffee or "to ring someone for him". Really, who would he phone? Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson? What could they do besides hover annoyingly? Precisely nothing. They couldn't change what had happened. He would have to contact Harry Watson eventually, but what was the point until he had more definitive news?
He leaned his head back against the smooth wood of the too-high-for-comfort sofa back and closed his eyes. What if John dies? What if the child does? What if John dies? It's what people do. Round and round...
He was vaguely aware of the cushion dipping as someone slid silently into the seat next to him. Not one of John's doctors, he would have heard the door to the operating wing swing open. It was a woman, her scented shampoo comfortingly familiar. She confirmed her identity by slipping her small hand inside his. She didn't speak, just sat with him, allowing the contact of their skin to say all that was needed. After several minutes, or was it hours? (he'd lost all sense of time) it occurred to him to wonder how she knew what had happened.
He spared a glance her direction, finally acknowledging her presence. The white hem of a lab coat, spotted with tiny specs of blood, peeked from beneath her rain slicker. She'd forgotten to remove it in her rush to leave the morgue. Oh God. It hit him how she knew. Mary's body was taken to Bart's.
How could he have been so stupid? He should have known, should have told them to transport Mary somewhere else. And yet, where better to consign Mary than into the hands of a friend? It was the first semi-comforting thought his brain allowed him since he got John's text. But Molly should have been given some warning before the body of a friend turned up in her morgue.
"I'm sorry...It didn't occur...I wasn't...I didn't think." he stumbled.
She squeezed his hand, "It's okay."
It was all she said, all she needed to say. She didn't ask unnecessary questions. Evidently, she could tell everything she needed to know from his anxious, exhausted posture, his terrified eyes. He was grateful that she didn't feel the need to fill the space with chatter. He didn't think he could mute it in his current state. She just sat quietly, her fingers curled inside his.
Sometime later, John's surgeon appeared with news. John had pulled through surgery and was in recovery. He always was a fighter, after all. There was a long road ahead, but John was stable. The relief that flooded through Sherlock was a physical palpable thing.
His brain began to function semi-normally again. While the doctor rattled on about John's condition, Sherlock began making a series of lists in his head of things John would need to aid his recovery. But, it was Molly who set the top priorities as soon as the surgeon had departed.
"Coffee," she said, "Then I want to see the baby."
He had to admit, it was an excellent idea. He turned to look at her, truly observe her for the first time since she'd arrived at his side. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes smudged and red-rimmed from grief and worry, and now moist with tears of relief.
A fiery heat surged through him, a primal need he normally kept locked away under tight control. The urge to kiss someone overpowered all sense of reason. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against hers.
She sucked in a breath, didn't pull away. She didn't exactly kiss him back though. He pulled back, instantly regretful.
"It's okay" She said, "That was just the stress."
In the past he'd never have succumbed to adrenalin playing havoc with his emotions like that. Mycroft's voice echoed in the back of his head. 'Middle age, brother mine. It comes to us all.' He himself had called sentiment 'a chemical defect'. Now he wondered if it was possible he'd been wrong.
But, that hardly mattered at the moment. All that mattered now was John Watson. No time for distractions. John was going to need him soon. The first thing he'd want to know when he woke up would be the condition of his daughter. It was time to prioritize. Sherlock got to his feet and turned to offer Molly a hand in standing.
"Coffee," he said, smiling down at her, "...and then, I want to see the baby."
The End. Sorry. Sorry, again.