"Mary," John pleaded, grasping her hand with both of his more tightly as it slackened. Slowly, blearily, she shifted her gaze from a point on the ceiling, dropping her eyes until they fixed themselves onto John's face.
"Mary, please, hold on." He said again, desperation seizing his body and constricting his throat as he willed her to do what she could not. She had tried so hard, gone through terrible pain, pain that John had not the slightest comprehension of, all in vain…
Mary's mouth twitched up in the barest ghost of a smile, and a look of pure love filled her tired eyes. A faint whisper of breath escaped from her lips, fogging the oxygen mask. Then her eyes glazed over and her hand fell limp.
The murmured voice of one of the nurses spoke into the sudden silence of the small room.
"I'll call it. Time of death, 3:42 AM."
There was not a single rustle. Then, at once, they quietly left the room, a nurse softly mentioning something about giving some privacy to John, whose tears had begun obscuring his vision, blurring everyone as they passed. The door glided shut, pulled by the last person, and closed with a click. With that sound, all the connections John had with the world outside broke, and nothing mattered but the woman that lay on the bed before him.
"MARY!" He screamed, ripping her name from his chest as he allowed his full agony to finally overwhelm him. He buried his face into her chest and sobbed, hot tears burning his face and dissolving into her hospital gown. He screamed her name over and over, until it no longer made sense, until his voice gave out and until nothing but tortured, wild, animal noises escaped him. There was nothing, nothing. Nothing but he and this woman in the whole room, in the whole hospital, in the whole world. Nothing. She had left him.
And she had taken their child with her.
John could not tell how long he stayed there, unmoved from his original position, dry sobs still racking his body after he had cried himself out. He dimly registered the door opening, heard footsteps crossing to him. A cautiously gentle hand was placed on this shoulder.
"John," said the soft voice. He knew that voice. The hand on his shoulder slowly, tenderly, drew him off her, back into the chair positioned right next to the head of the bed. John opened his eyes and looked at her motionless form, then dropped his gaze to his own hand, unable to bear the sight any longer, and he was dimly surprised to see that he still held her hand in his. Another voice spoke to him through his haze of misery. A female, a nurse. "Doctor Watson? John? You can't do any thing else for her. We did all we could. You have to let her go…" John looked at the pale hand he held and realized that there really was no more hope, no more point in wishing. He laid her arm over her upper belly, and a fresh wave of tears threatened to blur his vision once more. Before what little resolve he had left him, he reached over with trembling fingers and closed her eyes.
Then the tears spilled over, and he buried his face in his hands, and he let go of all of the hope left inside him, all of the excitement and fear and nervousness he had come here with. It was gone. It had left with Mary Watson.
When he finally, blearily, raised his head out of the sanctuary of his hands, he became aware of the presence still beside him. The hand was still on his shoulder, but it rested hesitantly, if a bit awkwardly. John lifted his head and blinked, trying to see the owner of the hand through puffy eyes. Sherlock stared down at him with a mixture of concern and alarm, studying him intently. He gently helped John stand and walked him slowly to the door. John looked back one more time, but the sight burned in his mind and he found himself turning abruptly away. Once they turned into the hallway, they paused, and Sherlock directed him into the chairs outside the room. Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it, frowning. He did this a few times before stuttering out, "Where - do you want to go?" John dimly remembered something about Sherlock not doing well in these types of situations.
Then the question hit him. Where would he go? He could not go home. Absolutely not. At his house, the house he shared with Mary, there was the bed he slept on with Mary, the crib they had set up two weeks ago, just to be prepared, there was still a note lying on the kitchen counter from Mary to John reminding him to get the shopping and that she loved him. He could not face that empty house tonight. The very thought drew him upright, and made his breath catch in his throat as his loss hit him full force a third time, but he had no more tears to cry, and his sides heaved with sobs as he collapsed again, and this time, he leaned against Sherlock's shoulder as everyone dissipated around him.
By the time he was coherent again, Sherlock seemed to have made a decision for him, which was just as well, because John was heaving great shaky, breaths, unable to see or notice much around him, trying to get a grip on the situation but finding it impossible. Sherlock carefully stood him up again and was steering him out of the hospital, leading him into the cool London air, the familiar sounds of the city at night swirling in his ears. He supposed Sherlock hailed a cab, because next thing he was aware of, he was riding in a car, arms tucked into his sides, Sherlock speaking to him in low tones, not knowing or caring what he said, pain numbing his senses. John next registered the scent of the Baker street apartment, Sherlock yelling something at Mrs. Hudson, her surprised and irritated tones, then shocked muttering and a scurrying of china while John was then ushered onto the couch upstairs. A warm cup of tea was directed into his uncooperative hands, and there was a gentle suggestion that he at least try to drink it. John stared down at it, remembering that the hands holding the teacup held the hand of his wife not a few hours ago. Had it really been that long, he wondered? It seemed as if it were a dream, a nightmare, and now, after waking, it had never even happened, but the memory haunted him and he was now floating, somewhere in between hell and earth, and he might as well do something, anything, to get back to anyplace other than this horror land. John took a quivering sip of his tea, the liquid returning him, somewhat, to the physical world. It took him several tries to swallow, and it burned going down his raw throat. He realized, hazily, that he must be very dehydrated. Slowly, he finished his tea, sip by sip, and when he had finished with it, he was eventually coerced into a lying position, blankets draped over him. There was so much pain inside him that he didn't think he would ever fall asleep again, and even if he did, what good would it do anyway? He felt a hand on his arm, and he saw Sherlock watching him, a small crease between his eyes.
"I am sorry," he whispered.
A hard lump formed in John's throat as Sherlock turned and left, and it was not until he heard Sherlock disappear into his bedroom that he managed to choke back, "Me, too."