Title: Sunset's Wake
Author: Still Waters
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
Summary: It wasn't until that moment, when the dazed man in the practical black jacket came pushing through the crowd and into her arms, that she understood why she had been drawn outside St. Bart's that day. Minor character POV on John at The Fall.
Brit-pick: Many thanks to the wonderful mrspencil, who was especially helpful in educating me about differences between US and UK funeral practices.
Notes: Since my first viewing of "The Reichenbach Fall," I've been drawn to how one particular background character – blue skirt and blazer, white blouse, hospital ID around her neck, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail - handles John outside St. Bart's in the wake of Sherlock's jump. She is the one person - hospital employee or bystander – who completely focuses on John; the only one to put her back to Sherlock's body and keep her eyes fixed on John, maintaining constant physical contact with him and following him to the ground when he collapses. She is the only one John speaks to; the one person he leans into at the end when the shock becomes too much, seconds before regaining his feet and pushing everyone away with defensive hands and posturing. Even then, she is the last one to leave him. I felt that there was a greater story behind that woman – who has no name, no dialogue, and is on screen for less than two minutes – and her approach to John that day. This is the story she gave me. While the character has no name in this piece (she didn't offer a name and I didn't feel right arbitrarily choosing one), her year of birth was set as 1959, making her 52 years old during the episode. The theme of hands and faces in relation to our humanity was inspired by something my anatomy and physiology professor told us years ago when we saw our first cadavers. Episode research involved watching the same 1 minute and 38 seconds of TRF (1:21:46 – 1:23:24 on the DVD) countless times in order to catch all the character details within the chaotic scene. I paid particular attention to 1:22:07 – 1:23:11, writing out time-stamped notes on actions, body positioning and language, facial expressions, dialogue and tone, and atmosphere. Any dialogue quoted from the episode does not belong to me. Thanks to Aithine's incredible screencap site, the woman can be seen (by removing the spaces in the following links) on the far left here ( sc . aithine sherlock / 203 / 25 / sherlock-203-24540 . jpg) and with John here ( sc . aithine sherlock / 203 / 25 / sherlock-203-24928 . jpg). This story was quite a journey, from repeatedly watching Martin Freeman's heartbreaking portrayal of John's grief and shock, to jotting down the woman's history as it came in bits and pieces over several weeks, to the days of writing and editing the final product. I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.
The first time she saw a dead body, she was eight years old; when her mum, an undertaker, brought her to the funeral parlour while school was on holiday. She had been to her mum's job before; the office had a big, comfortable armchair where she'd curl up to draw pictures for the staff and listen to Mr. Finnemore's stories about his farm. But that day, after hanging up their coats, her mum took her hand and brought her to the back of the building, beyond the doors she'd always been told not to open. Still holding hands, they walked up to a table where an elderly woman lay in a vibrant purple dress, her hands and face covered by thick white cloths, curly silver hair poking out beyond the barrier.
"This is Mary. She's one hundred and two years old, loves the color purple - "
"Like me!"
"Yes, like you," her mum smiled, giving her hand a warm squeeze, "and she took care of sick animals for almost seventy years. She died yesterday."
It was her first real introduction to death.
Over the next several years, her mum continued to bring her to work on the occasional school holiday or at the weekend, introducing new, neatly clothed bodies with white cloths over their faces and hands.
"This is Alastair. He's eighty-six years old, loves scuba diving, and served in the RAF."
"This is Mark. He's seventy years old, was a tailor, and has a dog that's taller than your father!"
"This is Katya. She's ninety-three years old, was a scientist born in the USSR, and bred Siamese cats."
Once she reached her thirteenth birthday, the verb tense shifted from a mixture of present and past to past tense only and the bodies - and stories behind the hidden faces and hands - started to change.
"This is Charlie. He was forty years old, studying to be a doctor, and died from a burst blood vessel in his brain."
"This is Sean. He was thirty-eight years old, a fireman, and died saving a family from a burning house."
"This is Lyla. She was twenty-one years old and had a heart attack while giving birth."
"Why do you do that?" she blurted out. She wasn't sure if it was to distract herself from both the shock of seeing someone so close to her own age and the horrifying reminder that birth didn't always end in life, but the non sequitur response came out like a punch. As if, after all this time, she was not only just noticing it, but suddenly needed to know: right now.
"Do what?" her mum asked, in that familiarly reassuring 'I think I know what you mean, but I don't want to jump to conclusions' tone of hers.
"Cover their hands and faces like that," she gestured at the cloths, eyes fixed on the young woman's abdomen.
Her mother sighed softly, eyes half in the present, half in the past. "Our hands and faces are what make us human; what identify us as a person, a life with a history all its own. Our entire life's story is written there. When those are covered, it's easier to see a body as just…a body. A vessel."
"But you've been telling me their stories for years," she said; both protest and reminder, tangled well beyond separation.
"Only the tiniest bit that I've been told," her mum corrected. She paused, as if searching for the words of an explanation she'd long prepared and now finally had to give. "Seeing their hands and faces….seeing their story and hearing it at the same time….it can be overwhelming, even if you never knew them. When they're covered like this, it's often easier to manage the loss, to separate the body from the story of the person they were. When you can see them fully, you can read between what others tell you; it's impossible not to. You get to know them, and therefore, you mourn them. And that can hurt."
She chewed her lip, considering her mum's words. "Is her baby going to be all right?"
"Yes."
"How….." she swallowed thickly, eyes moving to the covered face. "How is her husband?"
Her mum's expression shifted; something very subtle, as if her daughter was starting to ask the right questions. A hint of pride and….success? And then it was gone, tucked away behind the sobering response to her query. "He has a beautiful, healthy daughter and he's burying his wife tomorrow. He's very happy. And very, very sad."
Her eyes lingered on the cloth covered face, eyes burning, fighting back a sniffle. If it hurt this much now, she couldn't imagine how her mum ever looked at them one hundred percent.
"Do you want me to take it off?" her mum asked softly, following her gaze.
"No," she shook her head jerkily. A little sob escaped despite her best efforts and her mum swiftly wrapped her in a hug. She turned away from the table, buried her face into her mum's chest, and cried; the ever-present ring on the chain around her mum's neck a cool, comforting weight on the top of her head.
"Oh, sweetheart," her mum whispered, hugging her close. "I'm sorry."
She lifted her head at what sounded like doubt and regret in her mum's voice. "No, it's….it's okay, mummy. I want to see, just….." She sniffled wetly, swiped at her eyes to clear her vision, and looked up at her mum - a wordless explanation and assurance - before shifting herself so that her back was resting against her mum's chest and her eyes were back on the body – Lyla – on the table.
I'm not hiding. I'm just not ready. Yet.
Over the next six months, she began asking more about the deceased's lives and even what killed them; her mind opening and accepting as she "met" new bodies. But their hands and faces stayed covered.
Then one day, two weeks after her fourteenth birthday, she walked in to find two bodies laid out. One was completely covered and very, very small.
"A baby?" she whispered, as if the child was still alive and she was afraid to wake it.
Her mum nodded and she got what she'd later remember as the first real glimpse of the sadness in her mum's eyes; the toll of caring for the dead.
"Do you remember Lyla?" her mum asked quietly.
She nodded. Of course she did, how could she forget…..and then she was physically knocked back a step with force of the connection. "No," she shook her head; pure, vehement disbelief.
"This is Andrew, Lyla's twenty-three year old husband, and Amanda, their six and half month old daughter," her mum said wearily.
"Both of them?" she choked out. "How?"
"Car crash."
"Why?" she demanded, rage surging where, a moment ago, there had only been shocked sadness.
"I'm afraid that's something I can't answer," came the worn response.
"It's not fair."
"No, it isn't."
She stepped forward, drawn to the tables. "I want to see them."
One of the things she loved most about her mum was how she trusted and respected her judgment, even as she watched out for her during those tumultuous teenage years. The pause was her chance to change her mind, and when her response was to take another step closer to the bodies, her mum simply came up and removed the cloths from Andrew's face and hands in an equally silent acquiescence.
"Amanda too?" her mum clarified softly.
She could only nod, eyes rooted to the man, the open life, in front of her.
She studied each of them in turn. Apart from the skin color and a few cuts and bruises, they looked like they could have been sleeping. "They don't look like they should be dead," she mused aloud. She'd imagined a lot worse with something as awful as a car crash.
"Internal injuries," her mum supplied. "And we'll take care of the cuts and bruises before the family comes to the chapel of rest tomorrow."
"Can….can I come?" She wasn't quite sure why she asked. She didn't really know them, except that now, she sort of felt that she did.
Her mum's tired eyes brightened. She smiled and there was that pride again, like another step taken. "Of course you can."
And so she attended her first viewing, for Andrew and Amanda Orson. Standing somberly next to her mum, clad in an equally simple black dress, she watched her greet family wearing dark clothing and darker eyes. She stood in the corridor and listened to people talking, crying, and laughing; simultaneously sharing stories and wondering 'why?' while the minister who stopped by attempted to offer answers. After the last person paid their respects and the chapel was silent once more, she walked up to the boards of photos surrounding the two coffins; life condensed down to a handful of still images. There were photos of Amanda growing up, of Andrew as a child himself, of Andrew and Lyla's wedding, even one of Andrew and Lyla gearing up to go skydiving, huge grins on their faces.
And then there were the paintings.
Andrew had loved to paint, particularly sunsets, and the coffins were flanked by several of his pieces. There was one that was all black but for a tiny strip of red; another exploding with pinks, purples, and oranges, brushed with clouds of every gray over calm waters.
She would never forget those paintings.
Over the next year, she started watching the embalming process, learning about the art of make-up and the science of body preparation. Fear of fire kept her from watching cremations, but she did get herself to look at the final result: a life's vessel reduced to ash. She pronounced herself ready and was thus introduced to the full spectrum of life – from newborns to centenarians – and death: birth defects, genetic diseases, illnesses, infections, accidents, assaults, murders, suicides, age and time. She discovered that she wasn't squeamish and that while she was curious, to a degree, regarding the science of death, she was more curious about the deceased themselves; felt the need to see every body, no matter how damaged or heartbreaking, because to not see it would be almost like ignoring that person's existence, dismissing their life history. Something that just felt…..wrong. Disrespectful.
Because if there was one thing her mum had taught her, it was to always be respectful.
The way each body was handled – from the stillborn infant to the clinically depressed teenager who hung herself, the ninety-six year old great-grandmother who went peacefully in her sleep to the thirty year old whose first bee sting ended in anaphylaxis on a camping trip, to the animal abuser stabbed by his neighbor and the serial killer shot by the police – they were all treated with respect.
Maybe it was because of how it related to her mum's lessons. Maybe it was even how her mum got through it all herself. But somehow, that simple respect brought her enough comfort to keep coming back to the hurt and sadness.
She thought of Andrew and his sunset paintings often; wondered if he'd ever painted sunrises before he knew what death – and endings - were.
What she didn't think of, however, was that the inordinate amount of time she had spent in a funeral parlour since the age of eight could be considered shocking or cruel. She may not have told her friends about it, but it was more out of wanting to keep her private time with her mum private than worrying about them thinking her odd. She knew that her mum's career – and her personal exposure to that career - was different, but it all felt…important somehow. And so she never even considered questioning it.
Shortly after her fifteenth birthday, her mum shooed her out of the preparation areas and sent her out to attend the chapel of rest and funeral services. For a full six months, she had no contact with the deceased until seeing them at the chapel of rest, church, or other personalized service. She helped prepare and clean up the chapel at the funeral parlour and handed out order of service sheets at the funerals, but most of all she greeted mourners, walked about, and listened. Observed. And thus she began to hear, not just the stories of the deceased, but how their stories were intertwined with those of the people they left behind. She read the impact of the lost life on every face in the room, saw exactly what the deceased meant to every friend, family member and casual acquaintance in attendance. It was richness beyond measure, seeing and hearing that life in context; a streaming video rather than audio snippets from the other undertakers or still photos on memorial boards.
She began to mingle with the crowds, meeting eyes ranging from blank, haunted, and overflowing with grief, to those filled with fond remembrance, acceptance, laughter, and even relief. She listened to the silence of voices that didn't trust themselves to speak, to cracked, hiccupping ones under tearful eyes, to contagious laughter at a well-told tale. So many people and so many ways of approaching loss; endless permutations of emotions, facial expressions, body language, and tone.
One day she was pulled into conversation outside the chapel of rest by one of her mum's colleagues as Henry, the deceased's older brother, was sharing a fond memory of booby-trapping George's piano and the resulting, escalating prank war.
"We never did declare a winner," Henry chuckled as the story came to an end, eyes suddenly going misty. "He did love to play."
She wasn't sure why – one of those spontaneous actions completely beyond her control that seemed to happen to her out of nowhere sometimes – but she mentioned her own love of the piano. Fifteen minutes later, at Henry's request, she was seated at the funeral parlour's old piano playing Fur Elise. George could have hated that song for all she knew, but it was the only piece she knew by memory, and Henry had sounded so hopeful.
When the song was finished, Henry came up to the piano and kissed her hand like a prince in a fairytale, eyes bright over a smile that was wistfulness, gratitude, and something deeply private all at once. "Thank you."
"What for?" she'd wanted to ask. But then she really saw his eyes, read the comfort he had received from the music, the respect she had shown not only George, but him as well, and she understood.
She didn't know it then, but that moment was a turning point; a whole new beginning.
Over the next year and a half, she became busier with school and other activities, but still attended the occasional chapel viewing or funeral service, often playing requested piano pieces to honor the deceased and comfort the living. She found her focus shifting to the point where she didn't even need to do more than glance at the deceased; everything was right there in the living who had known them. Most of all though, she began to see an underserved need: that the living needed just as much, if not more, respect and care as the deceased's body did. Support that they often didn't get enough of because so few seemed to know how to give it.
Her seventeenth birthday came and went and death hit close for the first time as her classmate Susanna died of leukaemia. She went to the chapel viewing and funeral service, to the cemetery for the burial itself, and to the cramped flat afterwards, cradling a cup of tea to her chest and talking to Susanna's parents and relatives better than any of the adults there. She was a calm, solid presence in a sea of mourning adults and shocked teenagers. Through her own tears and loss she listened, shared, supported, and respected as naturally as breathing; found that she couldn't not do it.
Her mum pulled her aside at home later that night, gave her a big hug, and told her how proud she was of her.
And that's when she finally understood what, honestly, she'd unconsciously known all those years. All those little looks, lessons, and experiences. "You did all of this on purpose. To teach me."
Her mum smiled and ducked her head, fingering the gold ring lying on her chest. "We all fear death, our own mortality. It's part of being human. But I didn't want you to fear it from lack of knowledge or exposure. As for the rest…..well, it's important to know how to respect the dead, but it's even more important to know how to care for the living they leave behind. Anyone can learn how to treat a dead body. Very few ever learn how to treat the lives that body touched."
She would never learn a greater lesson.
The years passed. She went to university, married and had children of her own. Some may have found it surprising that, with her unique upbringing, she didn't go into mortuary science, bereavement counseling, or even medicine. But her mum's lessons and pride were never contingent on a career path and she grew to realize that just because she was good at something and understood it better than most, it didn't mean that she had to make it a profession. She took a job in hospital administration – a friendly voice and efficient hands helping smooth the way for the clinical staff to do their work - and no longer attended strangers' chapel viewings or funeral services; only those of friends and family. It was enough.
Time went on: joys and sorrows, births and deaths, new lines in her face and hands, and gray in her hair. Her mum passed at age sixty-three, peaceful and free of pain, at home with hospice's support and her family by her side, five months after cancer's initial invasion. Her good friend Emily committed suicide at forty-eight after being diagnosed with early Alzheimer's. And her childhood neighbor, Mr. Temin, passed in his sleep, a smile on his lips the day after his one hundredth birthday. Prominently displayed at his colorful, upbeat memorial service was his final note to his loved ones: "If I see you tossers moping around my coffin dressed all in black, I swear I'll haunt your arses."
After each service she'd come home and rest her hand on the sunset painting she'd bought for her dorm at uni – the one she'd taken to every flat since – and think of Andrew.
Death, she'd come to realize, was a lot like sunsets. Some were beautiful and peaceful, others just a sudden plunge into darkness. And those in its wake, whether mourning the sun's loss or finding joy in the beautiful sky left behind, those people, with the proper care, went on.
She hadn't expected to care for a stranger again, but then she had never expected to be introduced to the dead at eight years old, play the piano for the grieving at fifteen, or still be thinking of Andrew thirty-eight years later. Life had a funny way of disregarding expectations.
And so it was that on what would have been her mum's seventy-fifth birthday, she found herself, a St. Bart's administrator surrounded by clinical staff and on-lookers, mum's ring on her hand and Emily's watch on her wrist, being the only person who could put their back to the broken body of Sherlock Holmes and properly care for John Watson instead.
She didn't know how she ended up outside that day. She had been walking back to her office when two nurses and a medic rushed past her and out the door. Perhaps she found the sense of immediacy odd in the absence of an ambulance siren. Or maybe it was the fact that no one was pulling on gloves or protective gowns as they ran, nor was there a stretcher or other medical equipment in tow, almost like the trio had been waiting for a signal of some sort; one with an already understood end. Either way, it shouldn't have mattered – she had no medical training, so what could she hope to do? Yet she found herself running with them, out to the gray pavement and equally gray sky, cold air harsh on her skirt-bared legs and through her thin black shoes.
There was a body lying on the ground; imposing black coat and curly black hair marred by an expanding pool of red, and her first thought was not of death, but of Andrew's painting. As she reached the small crowd of shocked on-lookers being corralled by blue-scrubbed nurses, gasped snippets of "jumped," "roof" and "oh, God" began filtering through and her chest clenched: Emily. But she kept moving. The medic crouched by the body, the nurses moved everyone back and formed a line with the on-lookers, creating a sort of barrier to the rest of the street. Everyone was focused on the dead body.
Everyone except for her.
Maybe it was the culmination of her mum's lessons; the fact that she had been exposed to death's forms since childhood enough that she didn't need to look, the shock not as great. Or maybe it was just another one of those uncontrolled, unconscious drives, like mentioning her own piano study to a grieving stranger. Either way, she found herself standing in a dead man's blood, putting her back to the body – the only one to do so – and facing the on-lookers and nurses, holding her arms out as a barrier even though none of them were trying to get closer any longer.
Until one of them was.
It wasn't until that moment, when the dazed man in the practical black jacket came pushing through the crowd and into her arms that she understood why she had been drawn outside.
He was the reason she was there.
Even before he spoke, she knew who he was. The on-lookers were shocked, shaken by what they were seeing: a stranger's sudden, violent death. The nurses alternated between sad, cringing expressions – another life lost – as they kept alongside the on-lookers, blocking further view from the street and waiting to see how and if they were needed. But the man pushing single-mindedly, desperately through the crowd, hazy, haunted eyes already locked onto the body as if they had never looked away – oh God, he had watched it happen– he was a friend. A loved one left behind.
And while she may have had no official authority there, she knew where her responsibility lay.
This was her territory.
And so she took charge.
The man pushed through, on-lookers giving way, until he was funneled right into her.
She did not give way.
"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he's my friend. He's my friend, please."
His voice caught on the repeated "he's my friend"; the professional broken by the personal. One of the nurses, tangled brown fringe over stricken eyes, tried to help hold him back, attention torn between the anguished man and the broken body he insisted on reaching, while the other nurse's hands hovered close by in non-tactile support. He struggled through them both, never even seeing them.
She never let go; a solid wall of humanity.
Standing right in front of him, she swiftly progressed from a hand on his left shoulder – a gentle 'you don't need to see anymore' – to getting an arm fully under his left and blocking his chest with her body, trying to physically hold him from gaining any more ground. He was strong though, and single-minded, eyes only for his friend, never on her; as if he didn't really feel the contact even as he struggled through it. Through her: his last barrier. And yet, despite having to fight to keep herself in his path, she could sense his own innate humanity under the grief; his struggle to the body persistent and determined, but never violent. Her focus solely on him, she got her other arm around his chest and refused to release him, even as his left hand grasped her shoulder – half attempting to push her aside, half pushing down and simply working around her - to lean all his weight forward, right hand stretching painfully for contact with his friend. The only contact he'd actually feel.
It was at that moment, his face close and his previous words – I'm a doctor, he's my friend - hanging in the air, that she was able to name him: Dr. John Watson. Which would make the deceased Sherlock Holmes. She may not have known them personally, but she knew of them; recognized them from the papers, the telly, and the doctor's infamous blog.
But he was a friend first, a name second, and so the new information did nothing to change her duty or how she'd carry it out.
She still had a solid hold on him as he leaned over her left shoulder and sought out Mr. Holmes's wrist, doctor's hands automatically seeking verification of what his eyes and heart undoubtedly already knew. As his fingers lingered on the absent radial pulse, she moved her arm from his chest, keeping her right under his left for support, and laid her hand on Dr. Watson's forearm – a careful introduction; slow steps toward a wounded animal - before gently moving down to his wrist, and finally to his hand, gently prying it away from the pale flesh.
For a moment, all she could see was their hands, the chaos around them muted and shrouded, all of existence pared down to three stories; three lives intertwined in a moment of finality. The long fingers – musician's fingers if she didn't know better – and manicured nails of the brilliant deceased. The skilled and impossibly steady hand of a man whose world had just shattered; a healer/protector with quiet strength. And the gentle hand of a woman – stranger to them both – guided since the age of eight for this very moment, clad in the silver and gold armor of her own losses.
And then, with a stab of vindictive cruelty, the world sped up again; an inescapable tidal wave of shock, loss, and violent death, threatening to drown them all.
Dr. Watson went under.
Within milliseconds of breaking the physical connection between him and Mr. Holmes, the strength she'd read in Dr. Watson's hand and had felt as he pushed his way through her was swept away; decimated with the final proof. His voice gave out, protesting the separation – "please, let me just" – followed a second later by his legs as they collapsed underneath him. It was only her continued grip under his left arm that kept him from dropping hard, allowing her to somewhat awkwardly ease his descent and follow him to the ground.
And then it was just the two of them on the cold pavement; two crouched figures surrounded by two sets of blue scrubs and hovering hands making them into an island within the sea of on-lookers who still couldn't look away. She had shifted on the way down to crouch at Dr. Watson's right side, maintaining her as-yet uninterrupted contact with a firmly supportive, grounding grip under his arm. But not only was she the only one to follow him to the ground and never break physical contact with him, she was also the only one completely focused on him with the same intensity with which he focused on his dead friend. The on-lookers looked at Mr. Holmes. The nurses, while standing around them and creating a supportive, and much appreciated, shield, did look at Dr. Watson, but never kept their focus on him; attention often pulled to Mr. Holmes, the onlookers, and the administrator planted firmly at Dr. Watson's side.
It wasn't surprising. The nurses' physically injured patient was beyond their help and when it came to emotional wounds, they had the entire group of onlookers to consider; perhaps they were shielding her and Dr. Watson because they recognized her connection with him and were glad to turn care of that particular patient over to her. The onlookers were too shocked by the broken body to handle the devastated friend equally, if invisibly, bleeding out at his side. And, as her mum had taught her, it was generally easier for people to deal with a dead body than to deal with the living they left behind. She didn't hold it against anyone. She simply recognized the pattern, the need, and stepped in to fill the void.
Because she didn't need the familiarity of funeral parlour walls to recognize that there were people caring for Mr. Holmes and that she was there to care for his friend.
Angled now in her crouch at Dr. Watson's side, Mr. Holmes to her right rather than at her back, her peripheral vision caught sight of the medic and newly arrived paramedics turning the body onto its back. She didn't need to have been looking at Dr. Watson while it happened. She didn't even need to have seen it herself. She could have been struck blind seconds before and still have known the exact moment that blood-streaked, empty-eyed face was brought into full view.
Because Dr. Watson let out a groan that could have once been an "oh" before grief filled his lungs, drowning its release to an incomprehensible keen of jumbled, thickly emotional consonants. "Jesus, no. God, no." He had touched his friend's hand; felt the absent pulse in the wrist and watched the lax fingers drop back to the ground as he was pulled away. Now he was seeing Mr. Holmes's face full-on, and what he saw drew those nauseated pleas from the very heart of him. He managed to look blank and about to be sick at the same time, the last two words on the edge of tears that his eyes weren't ready to release yet. He leaned a bit to his left, refusing to look away from Mr. Holmes despite the pain of seeing paramedics loading his friend's broken body onto a stretcher. Most people wouldn't have wanted that to be their last image of a loved one, but Dr. Watson's unwavering focus felt more like principle than shock. As if he had sworn to see this friendship through to whatever end and he would not betray his word, no matter the personal cost. At one point the two of them exchanged words; his eyes still on Mr. Holmes's body, hers still firmly on him. She would never remember what they said to each other in that moment, just as she would never forget the chill of the jacket in her grip, or the way his boneless collapse to the ground hid the tension and fine tremors warring for control in the muscles under her hand.
It was only once Mr. Holmes's body was beyond his sight that Dr. Watson's eyes finally left his friend and stared straight ahead to the empty, blood-marred pavement with a seemingly impossible combination of overwhelming shock and utter emptiness. She could pinpoint the exact moment that his world crumbled, all life and purpose ripped out of him, leaving him desolate; reeling. He dropped his head, no longer possessing the strength to hold it up, and listed to his right, into her grip, turning his slack mouth and devastated eyes into her shoulder and chest, looking away from the scene for the first time. But he wasn't hiding. It was more like…..seeking shelter amidst the ruins of an unexpectedly decimating storm.
She leaned over him, protecting the protector, honored to provide it.
Even if it was only for a few seconds.
Because then that inner strength stubbornly resurfaced – whether by sheer force of will or an unfortunate amount of practice from similar scenarios, she wasn't sure – and Dr. Watson was on his feet. Head bowed, eyes closed, he raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out, silently pushing everyone away. His face may have been ducked, but it wasn't covered, so she could read the story of a man who needed air and space just as easily as the hands that clearly said "back off." There was a hint of that humanity again as he gave a minute head nod, acknowledging peoples' support and responding to the silent and verbal queries as to whether he'd be all right, but the positioning of his hands and set of his shoulders were clearly those of an overwhelmed, crowded man who desperately needed space to sort himself out.
There was no further need for words, touch or presence. Her work was done. Even so, her hand came up to linger near his shoulder once he dropped his defensive gesture, and it was only when he finally looked up, staring straight ahead, unseeing, through the dispersing crowd, that she finally walked away; the last person to do so.
But once she reached the hospital doors, she turned to look at him one last time; one final check. Like the impossibly steady hand that had confirmed Mr. Holmes's death, Dr. Watson was standing tall, hands at his side, fingers loosely curled, halfway to the fists that post-suicide anger would, at some point, inevitably bring. Lips pressed, he was shattered and empty, resigned and resolved all at once; eyes locked on someone, some future only he could see. It made her heart ache desperately despite, or perhaps because, of how familiar it all looked on him. Like his earlier collapse and leaning into her had been a brief, rare loss of self-control and this….this was him returning to a default setting; something he'd used and relied on many times before.
She watched him sway briefly, but remain firmly on his feet. Yes, there was certainly strength there; she couldn't not see it. He wouldn't break. He had been lost, hurt, and alone before. But he was grieving. Would grieve. And she wasn't sure which feeling overwhelmed her more as she turned away: worry that he'd cut himself off from the mutual support of others that Mr. Holmes left behind, or honor that he'd allowed her – a stranger's – touch and presence in the initial devastation.
She was already through the door when Dr. Watson's chest started heaving, leaving only one man, one stranger, to witness that private release: the one holding the weapon intended to have stopped him from breathing altogether.
Back inside the hospital, she went straight to the loo, telling herself that the lump in her throat had to pass because she hadn't felt like this after a stranger's passing since Andrew. Ten minutes later she was still standing in front of the sink, bare feet tingling on the chilled tile. She looked up into the mirror, to her tear-streaked face – if Dr. Watson couldn't cry yet, she would cry for him – then down to shaking hands that could still feel the warring muscles under his dark, unassuming coat. With a heavy breath, she finally turned on the sink, knowing that it was the hands and face of the living – of Dr. Watson – that would haunt her long after she washed the dead man's blood from her shoes.
The sink ran red, then pink, then clear. She replaced her shoes, dried her face, and went back to work.
That night, she lit a candle and sat in her darkened sitting room, staring at the sunset painting and absently twisting her mum's ring on her finger. Her husband kissed her head, draped a blanket around her shoulders, and let her be.
That weekend, she went to the coast, escaping the sensationalized suffocation of "suicide of fake genius" headlines for the wide-open crash of salt-water waves.
Braving the chill, she stayed on the beach that first night to photograph the sunset. It was cold and abrupt, leaving a black sky with a bare smudge of red.
Most people who had been at St. Bart's that day would have thought of Sherlock Holmes; of dark coats, darker hair, and thick blood on gray pavement.
She thought of Andrew; of paintings, death, and endings.
But most of all, she thought of John Watson; of grief and loss, determination and despair. She wondered if he found peace in watching winter sunsets too, cold air cleansing his lungs even as it stung his eyes, wind rough through his hair.
Or if he had lost that too.