A/N: This piece contains some philosophical musings, that do not necessarily reflect my own beliefs, but rather what I think the characters would express. Thank you for reading!
Rosie's breathing evened our as the soft melodious notes wafted over her head. Her father watched as his friend played, eyes closed in concentration.
There was something different about his playing now. Sherlock had taken to playing lullabies for Rosie when they stayed overnight, showing his affection for her in the way that suited him most. The way he was playing now, however, surprised John. It was sadder, more haunting, intense. And Sherlock's expression reflected that.
"That was a pretty good piece," John remarked, when Sherlock had finished. He cocked his head to the side, studying his friend. "Never heard it before."
"It's an old Austrian lullaby, with German lyrics," Sherlock offered. "There are different variations, but I'm familiar with the one my Austrian au pair used to sing to me."
Without knowing why, the doctor understood that this song was important. Not only to Sherlock, but to John, and Rosie too. There was something about the way the detective kept glancing from his friend to the sleeping baby, his eyes filled with an unspoken sorrow.
"Will you sing it for me?" John asked softly.
So Sherlock did.
"Aber Heidschi Bumbeidschi schlaf lange,
Es ist ja dein' Mutter ausgangen..."
His pleasant baritone accompanied the violin, flowing and ebbing with ease throughout the song. John's German was nearly nonexistent, and he patiently waited for his friend to translate.
"It's basically a nonsensical lullaby, that refers to a an imaginary creature called Heidschi Bumbeidschi. The first paragraph describes a mother leaving her baby, and never coming back."
"Oh, God..." John breathed.
"Yes, I can't imagine why people think singing the lyrics to children would be a good idea. I like the melody, however. In the next two paragraphs, the baby gets a trip to heaven, and is escorted by angels. He see lights, stars, a snow white horse, etc. All the fantastic things people believe to be up there."
John was quiet for a moment. "You liked this lullaby," he stated gently.
Sherlock contemplated for a moment, then nodded. "I used to imagine myself in heaven, touring with the angels. I imagined meeting my Nan, who passed away when I was four. Children often cling to fantasies when faced with a loss, I'm told," he said dispassionately.
Despite the dry tone, or perhaps because of, the doctor felt a shiver run down his spine. What he saw before him was a little boy who had faced too much loss, and forgotten how to hope.
"John," Sherlock asked, his tonew almost forlorn. "Do you believe in heaven? Do you believe you'll get to see her again?"
John sacked in his breath. For the consultant detective to ask his opinion, especially on a topic he held so much disdain for, was extraordinary. And his bringing up Mary's death... he must be feeling unusually introspective, the doctor mused. Maybe, just maybe, there still existed a little boy who wished he could still hope.
"I'm not going to argue theology with you, Sherlock," John began softly. "Heaven knows you'd beat me hands down in two seconds flat." They both smiled at the unintended irony in his words.
"I'm not the most devoutly religious man around, as you well know. My opinion on this is based more on some feelings I have."
"Sentiment," Sherlock added, with a small smile.
"Sentiment. Whatever. I've seen some of the worst humanity has to offer, especially in my tour of duty in Afghanistan." John closed his eyes, the images of lost lives and carnage sticking to his eyelids, as the smell of burning flesh clung to his nose.
"And yet, I've also witnessed human greatness. Kindness, and love, that lead to sacrifices so great, that it convinces me that there is more to the human spirit than a mere chain of chemical reactions." John paused, looking at Sherlock through eyes that still held grief.
"Mary," his friend whispered. "She sacrificed her life for mine."
Sherlock's posture sagged, and he looked away from his friend. It suddenly struck John just how much guilt and pain the man was still carrying for the loss of John's wife. The second thing that struck him was how much of that guilt was his fault. It was time to tell his friend some things he had never told him before.
"Yes, Mary. But I wasn't talking only about her." He looked intently at the detective. "The best friend I ever had has sacrificed himself again and again for his friends' sake."
John held up a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth. "Just listen. You faked your death, and spent two painful and dangerous years, all alone, to remove all danger so your friends would be safe. And I know that if jumping for real was the only option, you would have done it."
Sherlock nodded minutely, but remained silent.
"You went after a dangerous man when Mary was threatened," he continued, treading carefully. "You risked your life and freedom to eliminate him, so we would be safe. You continued to do all in your power to follow up on all threats. What happened on the end was NOT YOUR FAULT. If not for you, Sherlock, I might never have been able to hold Rosie in my arms."
John was tearing up, and vaguely noticed some wetness in the detective's eyes. "I was only doing what needed to be done. John," he said firmly, and the doctor understood that his words had been accepted.
"The last paragraph," Sherlock added, almost inaudibly, "is about the imaginary creature taking the baby away, and never bringing him back. And then the song ends with wishing the baby a good night."
Sherlock began playing again, silently this time. Looking at him, John could almost read his thoughts. The mother who never came back to her baby. The little red-haired boy who was taken away, forever. And the little boy, with dark curls, who dreamed of angels with lanterns and snow white horses.
For the first time in a while, John closed his eyes and prayed. "Please, God, let us all find peace."