ONE
The first weeks after Mary's death were the worst.
John went to bed that night feeling empty. As he laid in his and Mary's bed he replayed the doctor's words from the hospital.
"Eclampsia… the baby… we tried everything we could… so sorry for your loss…"
The scene played back in his head over and over again until the sun rose and starting shining into the room. John looked to his left and placed his hand in the sunlight that only fell on Mary's side of the bed.
John ran his hand over the covers, moving it up to the pillow and tracing the outline of the imprint her head had left the night before. He sighed deeply and rolled onto his back.
BEEP BEEP.
Another sigh.
BEEP BEEP.
A loud groan.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.
John relented and reached over for his phone. Five texts from Sherlock.
SH: John.
SH: John.
SH: John?
SH: JOHN.
SH: JOHN?
Jesus Christ.
JW: What do u want, u incessant dickhead?
SH: I'm sorry, John.
Shit.
Tears began to well in John's eyes.
NO. Absolutely not. I am not about to let Sherlock bloody Holmes reduce me to tears with a single text.
JW: No ur not.
JW: I know u didn't like Mary. U don't have 2 pretend u care.
SH: You're wrong, John.
SH: I was really quite fond of her by the wedding.
About ten minutes passed with no other message.
JW: Is that all u wanted Sherlock?
SH: I'm at your flat.
SH: Let me in.
JW: No.
SH: Fine. I'll break in.
JW: Don't u fucking dar-
John heard the door click and swing open. He turned his head and saw the long coat and curly mop. "Get out." He turned his head back the other way and stared at Mary's empty sleeping space with a blank expression, the life completely drained from his eyes.
"John, um…" Sherlock entered the flat and took a few steps closer to his friend. "I think it's necessary to talk about, uh… about the, um…"
"The funeral."
Sherlock paused. "Yes." He looked down at the floor. "John I promised I would always be here for you. I'm here, I'll do anything you need me to do."
John rolled over and looked at Sherlock with bloodshot, watery eyes.
Sherlock's eyebrows rose slightly. "I'm here."
A week went by. John hadn't been able to sleep at all.
Sherlock did most of the planning for the funeral, and kept John steady when the time came to attend it. John had insisted he needed his cane to go to the service, but Sherlock denied it, saying John could rest a hand on Sherlock's arm if he felt weak.
John made it to the end of the service without breaking his usual stoic expression. As everyone else filed away from the fresh grave, John and Sherlock stood staring at it.
"I'm sorry, John."
"Stop it, Sherlock."
"Really. You don't deserve this. Not after what I did to you."
Then John broke. A guttural sob escaped from his mouth as he sank to his knees. As the tears began to pour out, Sherlock knelt down beside him. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and gave it a strong squeeze.
"Don't shut me out. Promise me, John."
John's hands were balled into fists as tightly as he could manage. Raindrops started to fall on them, and he relaxed his muscles.
"Yeah."
"Good." Sherlock stood up and offered a hand to John. He didn't budge.
"I'm staying."
And so they both did. Sherlock stood silently by his friend's side until John finally fell asleep.
John woke up the next morning back in his bed, unaware of how exactly he got there.
BEEP BEEP.
SH: John.
SH: Are you awake yet?
JW: I am now.
JW: How did I get home last nite?
SH: Doesn't matter.
SH: Are you free today? Got a case.
SH: Of course you're free, what else would you be busy with today?
SH: Baker Street. One hour.
JW: No.
SH: Yes.
JW: Sherlock. NO.
SH: John. YES.
Five minutes passed.
JW: Damn.
An hour later and John Watson was back at 221B Baker Street for the first time in a little over a month.
He opened the door and walked through. "Mrs. Hudson? Are you in?" No answer, so he made his way up the stairs.
As soon as he reached the top, Sherlock swung the door open to reveal a policewoman costume that was quite revealing in itself.
John's eyebrows shot up so high they smashed through the ceiling.
"Not. One. Word."
"Never." The corner of John's mouth twitched and he followed Sherlock inside the flat. "Has Lestrade seen you wearing that?"
"None of your business." Sherlock dropped into his chair.
"Oh, so he has then? Oh, that's brilliant!" John let out a high-pitched chuckle that ended in a sigh. His smile disappeared. "So this case of yours? What is it?"
"Oh… I didn't really have one, I just wanted to get you out of that flat."
"Why?"
Sherlock shot him a look that said everything. John replied with a look of cynicism and impatience.
"I'm fine," he said in a monotone voice.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I'm fine."
"Okay, John. Just remember that I am trying to make quite an effort here—" he gestured to his attire "—to cheer you up."
"Yeah. Thanks. Sorry." John shook his head and lowered his gaze to his feet.
Sherlock furrowed his brow with concern and looked around the flat, trying to figure out what to do next.
"Well, now that you're here… Anything you'd like to do?"
Passive shrug.
"I could show you some experiments I'm working on?"
Noncommittal shrug.
"We could play a game?" Sherlock was starting to get visibly exasperated. He wasn't good at this kind of thing.
Exaggerated noncommittal shrug.
"For god's sake." Sherlock tilted his head up to the ceiling and groaned. "Uhhhhhh, fancy some chips?"
They looked at each other for a moment.
"Yeah, why not. I supposed I'd better eat something."
Sherlock clapped his hands together and jumped up. "Great! Let's go." He was headed for the door when John put a hand on his chest to block him.
"Sherlock."
"What?"
"Clothes."
"Right."