This was never meant to be more than a 1 shot, but I had a bit more to say. This is set about 2 years after Holmes for Xmas, and 2 years before Sherlock fakes his death if you happen to be following these things.

Sitting in the hospital family room, with his sobbing wife, he felt numb. He knew Sir Herbert had been ill, he knew it was getting worse, but he had somehow expected him to survive, to pull through. Genius though he was, his brain had rebelled at his father-in-laws death. He couldn't really fathom what had happened and so he was just sitting silently and still on the hard plastic chair.

He had managed to text John, and told him to explain to their children that their Grandfather had died. They had however been told to wait till the Doctor came to talk to them, so here they sat together in silence, he numb, and she heartbroken. He looked across to her, her body still rounded from her own elongated stay in hospital, hands bunched over the scars he knew now decorated her once flat stomach.

He would never be the world's most caring husband, but he felt for her now. Once so strong and so aloof, such tragedy in such a short time had taken its toll on her. The racking sobs would never have been part of her a few short months ago. Now however she seemed like a different person, John had told him to give her time, let her grieve. Sherlock just wanted her at home where she BELONGED.