The Problem With Sentiment © Anaubrey Shannon
I don't own any part of the BBC Sherlock universe. I just exploit their reimagined characters to break everyone's hearts.
Mary supposed that whatever chances she had at happiness would always be fleeting, considering her past. She knew the odds were astronomical that she would ever remain with John once he knew who and what she really was, and yet John was willing to (literally) throw her past into the fire and be content, if you could even use such a word, to move on. Mary decided to embrace the opportunity, even revel in the domestic bliss she had been afforded, but she always felt that even this, having a husband and a baby on the way, was temporary.
Sherlock, for once, was inclined to join John and Mary for dinner one evening. Though he claimed he had the time because he wasn't on a case, it was more likely that it was because he was lonely or that he wanted to keep tabs on the happy couple, and quite right of him to do so periodically. The more Mary's stomach expanded, the harder it was for her to reach and sit up straight, particularly once she was six months.
Finishing off her plate, she leaned back and stretching her arms above her head, she felt it: a peculiar grumbling sensation in her abdomen.
"Ah," she exclaimed softly, wincing.
"Everything alright?" John inquired, a subtle look of alarm alight in his eyes.
"Fine, I think. I'll just excuse myself for a moment. I need the loo, probably."
She didn't miss the calculating look in Sherlock's eyes as she carefully rose from her chair.
Walking down the hall with her hands clasped underneath her belly, she made her way over to the toilet when she felt a more worrying sensation than the first: something like a rubber band snapping inside her, followed by an intense cramp that brought her to her knees just before she made it to the door.
"Ahh!" she exclaimed once more. Steadying herself on the doorframe, she placed a hand between her legs, dreading what she'd see. Her hand came away slick and red, bleeding.
"Mary?"
No no no no no no no no no. It couldn't be. She was only six months along. Why? Her mind racing, and knowing she needed to answer, she shouted the only thing she could think of:
"VATICAN CAMEOS!"
Judging by the response time, Mary could tell that John and Sherlock had been listening for anything out of place as soon as she'd left the table. Pulling out his mobile, John dialed 999, while Sherlock kneeled by her side.
The scene before Mary was just as vivid, dramatic, and horrifying as her nightmares. Sherlock was gripping her shoulders and trying to get her to make eye contact, when all she could do was look at the blood running down her thighs and pooling around her knees on the hardwood flooring.
"Mary…focus…eyes on me. Fever…? Internal bleeding…shoulder pain…"
"For the love of all that is holy, I'm FUCKING BLEEDING EVERYWHERE. STOP DIAGNOSING ME, SHERLOCK!"
She pushed him away, and he immediately stood and started pacing, his breath coming in quick and sharp gasps, having no outlet for the panic that was rising in him equally as fast as her own. Though prone to dramatics, outright panic was not something Sherlock exposed to the general public, Mary knew. Spouting logic was the only thing aside from receding into his mind palace that he did to keep calm, and having the latter occur would be disastrous given the current situation.
"Okay, okay, okay. Just keeping talking. List more symptoms. Tell me what's happening."
All three of them knew what was happening; the word simply hadn't been said outright yet.
While Sherlock was babbling about risk factors and statistics, she felt John's warm, strong arms wrap around her, rocking her back and forth as they waited for the ambulance.
"…the unfortunate conclusion is that you are going into premature labor. In the UK, 1 in 200 births ends in fetal death…"
Mary was starting to feel dizzy, her vision growing dark around the edges. She was bleeding more heavily than she thought, then.
It was awhile before she was aware of anything again.
Sherlock didn't understand what the use of having a heart was if it was so prone to breakage. Physically, the heart is one of the most fatal areas to receive a bullet. He'd witnessed a disturbing number of victims succumbing to a shot in the heart. The collection of major arteries and veins surrounding the heart usually ensured a quick death before help arrived.
Why did everyone insist that a heart felt emotional pain, when it was the limbic center of the brain that was responsible for emotional regulation? He supposed that because the heart was so responsive to emotional changes, the term "heartache" was coined thus. It would never make complete sense to him.
Sherlock wished he didn't have a heart right now. Had he not had one, like nearly everyone he met insisted, it wouldn't be pounding painfully against his ribs. He would not feel the flush of heat in his face and chest as his panic levels increased.
Without a heart, he could keep his agony over his stillborn goddaughter inside his head. Though he would rage, cry, scream, and kick, no one could see it, for he was inside his Mind Palace. All anyone would see outside of him was a man kneeling, elbows on his knees, hands and fingers forming a steeple in front of his face. Eyes closed, his form a perfect symbol of detachment and aloofness at the medical proceedings.
Those who took the time to know Sherlock were wise to his facade. Sherlock Holmes indeed had a heart, he felt pain in the places no one could see, and he knew he couldn't keep himself under control in front of Mary and John for long.
Inside of himself, Sherlock brought up a particular memory that always helped to keep him calm under ongoing anxiety. He would sit on the blank tiles of a hallway petting and stroking his childhood dog, Redbeard.
A memory was all he had left of his faithful animal companion, put down mercifully at his prime after the accident, and now a memory would be all he had of his goddaughter as well. The only moments he would have to recall would be watching her move from inside Mary. Both Redbeard and his goddaughter met violent and untimely ends, but unlike his dog, her life hadn't even begun properly before she was snatched away.
There was no doubt that interacting with Redbeard's memory was soothing, but he couldn't stop himself from wondering:
"Will all my loved ones be put down?"
Mary drifted back to consciousness feeling empty and drowsy. Unfortunately, she had been awake throughout the hellish pre-term labor. The doctors had offered to perform a D&C, but she didn't have any desire for an invasive procedure if she could go through it naturally. Luckily, the labor emptied her uterus completely, so no further action was required aside from an IV and blood transfusion.
Her daughter had come out her already dead. She was appalled with herself for not noticing that something was going wrong. Her baby wasn't very active in the first place, but wouldn't she have been able to detect it if she had been too quiet?
Once out, the nurse cleaned off and swaddled the baby for Mary to hold. She couldn't believe how tiny and purple her daughter was, how she was still warm to the touch. For a moment, Mary pretended she was a new mother with the love of her life cradled and squirming in her arms. John didn't have his head bowed in unspeakable grief; in fact his eyes were streaming with tears of joy. Sherlock wasn't in the corner of the room because he was deep in the confines of his Mind Palace. He was simply wary of the new baby and wasn't sure how to react.
But the emptiness in Mary's slowly deflating abdomen was a sick reminder of her reality. John took one look at their child before burying his face in the blankets of Mary's hospital bed, his body visibly shaking with muffled sobs. She took one last look before covering her sweet baby's face for good. She wondered if it had even been wise to look at all, for the image would plague her nightmares for years to come.
It was just as well that Sherlock had left before she could say anything to him, for her daughter had taken her words away.
Sherlock didn't know quite what to do when he returned to Baker Street. He descended the stairs, slowly and deliberately, counting the 17 steps up to the flat. It took him more than once to try and unlock the door, for his hands were trembling violently, making it difficult for him to get the key in the lock. If he had a chance to observe himself in a mirror at this moment, his hands were the only giveaway to the tempestuous emotions roiling deep inside of him. Emotional suppression was as normal to him as breathing, so why was he failing the one time it was absolutely crucial that he stay numb and unfeeling?
He was unusually lacking in energy. Normally, he would go about setting up his latest experiment in the kitchen, possibly to intently study some interesting specimen underneath his microscope, or maybe even make himself a cup of tea. As nice as tea sounded, he felt he couldn't even muster the energy or will power to do even that. It was different from when there were others around and he couldn't be bothered to it if someone else was capable of putting the kettle on. There was no energy or will power for him to call upon. He felt hollow. Also, very tired.
He decided to go to straight to bed, noting that this drastic deviation from his normal behavior was something he should be concerned about at a later date. He never went to bed when he was tired, for he would normally stay up until it was impossible for him to remain conscious, especially when he was on a case. Some of those strings of sleepless nights, he would use nicotine patches to prolong wakefulness, often affixing more patches to his arms than was medically advisable. He thought vaguely that he might employ that method just now, but his desire to just give in to this whim was stronger.
Upon entering his room, he took off his shoes, socks and suit jacket, but he otherwise remained dressed. He pulled the bed covers aside, collapsing bonelessly on the mattress before enfolding himself in the duvet, his back toward the door. Sleep didn't come, as he expected, but his other senses heightened for lack of any other activity. He could hear the distinct shuffling sounds of Mrs. Hudson roaming around the flat. She'd likely heard the news and was probably making tea for the both of them. The whistle of the kettle minutes later confirmed his theory.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called out softly by the door. He hadn't closed it behind him.
When she received no response, she merely shouldered the door open all the way, setting a tea tray on the nightstand next to Sherlock's bedside.
"Oh dear." she sighed. She hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's atypical behavior either. Without a word, she poured tea for herself, leaving the rest for him before departing to her flat downstairs.
When Sherlock resurfaced from his mind about three hours later, he turned in bed to find a small glass of what he determined to be gin accompanying the tea on the nightstand. The tea had gone cold from his neglect; so there really wasn't much use of him drinking either of the offerings, but he could at least distantly admire Mrs. Hudson's gesture.
John hadn't heard from Sherlock since the stillbirth. He wondered if it had been selfish of him to stay away from Baker Street, because he was confident that Sherlock would be closed off and silent. While it didn't bother him under normal circumstances, having an impassive, usually unmoving, and non-vocal Sherlock around him would have been too much for him to bear at this time. He'd had enough stillness from his dead child and despondent wife. He didn't know how he would handle it if he were subjected to the same behavior from his best friend.
As much as it pained him, John had to face the one person with whom he was fearful of interacting. He knew he had to fetch Sherlock today, which meant he had to come face to face with his selfishness for not wanting to put up with anyone. This was the day he could not give in again, as he had for the past several days, for today was his daughter's funeral.
Visiting Baker Street today was harder than any of the other times he had done so when the circumstances weren't the best. Amongst them, there was the day he visited Mrs. Hudson after months of silence, during the time he thought Sherlock was dead, and additionally the time he came up to visit Sherlock after he and Mary pulled him out of the bonfire on Guy Fawkes night. It was bad enough that previous to his rescue, he'd nutted Sherlock in his nose the night he'd revealed himself as alive to John. The amount of blood that had spurted from his best friend's nostrils seconds after the impact had been a spectacular sight.
Best friend. He smiled in spite of himself at the thought that no matter what he'd done to or for John over the years, John never stopped calling Sherlock his best friend. As he climbed up to the flat, he felt anxious at the thought that he might have left his best friend during a time when he probably needed him, no matter if John had to endure his stillness and impassive silence.
Opening the door, John was greeted by an unusual smell: that of baked goods. This was odd and disconcerting, for whenever he smelled something like this, the scents originated from downstairs, in Mrs. Hudson's flat. She never did any baking in Sherlock's kitchen because he often had experiments inside his oven. The only conclusion John could come to as he hesitantly set his keys aside was that it was Sherlock who was responsible.
He would rather not have had his conclusion confirmed when he saw the product of Sherlock's uncharacteristic culinary pursuit sitting on the table: an elegantly decorated, single tier cake. It would have merely been weird to John, but he choked when he read the inscription, written in large letters with black icing:
"HAPPY STILLBIRTH-DAY, CHILD."
Layers of revulsion and anger kept stacking up inside John as he noticed that near the top of the inscription, a numeral candle "zero" was stuck in the cake. It looked like the candle had been lit an hour ago and had since burnt out.
Not having any means of directing his rage, he picked up the cake and scraped it down the garbage disposal with his bare hands. He didn't add water before flipping the switch on, as he wanted to completely obliterate the cake as ruthlessly as possible. The screeching and scraping sound the drain emitted as the cake ceased to exist was slightly mollifying, but it didn't stop him from yelling out:
"SHERLOCK! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU PLAYING AT?"
John heard a groan coming from the bedroom. The unadulterated rage he felt moments ago, while not gone, had fizzled out a considerable degree.
"Sherlock?" he called out, much more evenly.
Opening the door, he wondered how many things he would see today that he would have given anything to erase from his mind. He took note first of the tea setup on the night stand, the beverage long cold, accompanied by a half glass of what appeared to be some form of alcohol.
He next took in Sherlock's appearance. He was lying on his stomach in bed, head turned away from the nightstand, his left arm hanging off to the side. He was still dressed and his hair was in complete disarray. Looking down, horrified, John noticed a bottle of sleeping pills on the floor next to Sherlock's hand.
He felt his heart skip a beat. He sprung into action, rolling Sherlock onto his back and propping his head up, slapping his face. Taking up the bottle, he noted that the pills were actually prescribed to him, for when his post-traumatic nightmares were severe. He shook the container. It seemed as though most of the pills were still in the bottle, so John could rule out a suicide attempt, unless he'd taken something else with them, noting the alcohol present in the room. He felt Sherlock's forehead and checked his breathing and pulse.
"Sherlock! Come on, say something, please!"
Everything was in normal range, if a little slow, but he wasn't dead or dying, and there was no evidence of vomit aspiration. So why would he not respond to having his face slapped, even if he was apparently deeply asleep? If he had taken only the recommended dose (unlikely), he would surely be woken more easily. He had to find out how many pills Sherlock had taken, but it wouldn't be any help if he didn't have him awake to ask. Perhaps he needed to find something stronger than a slap to rouse him, maybe a strong or distinct odor…
His brain jarred. Smelling salts. He'd used them on Sherlock before, when he'd been knocked out cold during a dangerous case. John rushed over to the medicine cabinet, searching frantically for where he assumed the salts were still stored for easy access. His first guess was correct.
Finding what he needed, he went back over and snapped a capsule in half, wafting it under Sherlock's nose.
The effect was immediate, thankfully.
"Ugh! Bloody hell, don't they make those without ammonia these days?!" exclaimed Sherlock who, luckily, sounded lucid.
He sat up slowly, head held in his hand, the other still rubbing at his nostrils. Looking up, he met John's stern gaze.
"Mind telling me how many of my sleeping pills you took and why you baked that cake?" he asked with threatening timbre in his voice. Sherlock was unaffected by the tone, but he didn't feel much like dodging the issue.
"I felt like sleeping for once, but leave it to my transport to deny me the opportunity when I actually desired it, so I took five pills." He stated bluntly.
"Five! Jesus!" John said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You know my history with barbiturates. My tolerance is still considerably high."
"And the cake? What excuse could you possibly have for that? Your idea of a joke?" John questioned further. The roiling anger was rising back up, so continuing to talk would either make it worse or keep him under control for a little bit longer.
"Oh, I meant to dispose of that. I had done a couple lines of cocaine beforehand, so clearly my decisions were poor ones last night."
"Fucking hell, you must be superhuman. Ozzy Osbourne doesn't have anything on your tolerance level."
"I'm not stupid enough to take stimulants and sedatives at the same time. I came down from the cocaine first."
"I should bloody well think you wouldn't be able to sleep when you wanted, seeing as you snorted a load of cocaine beforehand! I swear you say these things just to see if I'll have a heart attack before you!"
John realized as soon as he said those words that he might have gone too far. He could see the hardening look in Sherlock's eyes. He knew the look, for it was reserved for those he wanted to impart considerable amounts of scorn for their idiocy. He'd never been on the receiving end of this look. He hoped he would never earn it again.
"Can you really be that slow, John? What do you think goes on in my mind? 'Oh, I think I'll have a kip right now. Maybe I'll just snort a load of divits to speed things along!' No, I haven't been able to sleep since I left you and Mary at the hospital. The night before last was hellish, to say the least, so I decided last night I would do some cocaine because I knew I wasn't going to sleep anyway. It certainly works more efficiently than plastering my skin with nicotine patches!"
Sherlock was breathing rapidly by the end of his outburst. It was clear that he hadn't intended to say as much as he had. He turned his back, and said in a resigned voice:
"I can only conclude that the primary reason you came here was to fetch me for the funeral today, your outburst at my behavior having been an unfortunate aside. I'll be ready to leave soon."
Sherlock turned to place a hand in the middle of John's back and steered him out of the bedroom before closing it in his face.
After so much anger, John was feeling numb once more. Sherlock emerged five minutes later dressed in a suit only differing in style from his normal attire with the dark grey dress shirt underneath the jacket. He had what looked like a cup full of tea in one hand and a now empty glass in another. John's eyes widened as Sherlock downed the whole of the cup's contents in one go.
"Have you just drunk a cup of cold tea from two days ago?" John felt mildly disgusted at what he'd witnessed.
"Yes, and with gin mixed in as well. Hendrick's, I believe."
John had run out of words and Sherlock supplied no further conversation. They avoided each other's gaze as the pair of them descended the stairs in order to head for the graveyard.
A/N: 2/7/2015
I made corrections to this chapter once I did more (grim) research. A miscarriage and a stillbirth are not the same thing, I've come to learn, so my corrections reflect that. This is such a sad story, but I hope I can leave anyone reading faithfully or passing by feeling hopeful by the end.
Also, since it will be roughly a year and a half before the 4th series of Sherlock happens, this timeline occurs in spite of what might happen in the S4 universe. BABY WATSON DYING HAD BETTER NOT BECOME CANON. It will make me immeasurably sad.
Thanks lovelies!
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