Chapter two

London England

10:00 P.M

January 5th 2014

"Lestrade," Hotch asked, shaking his hand.

"Yes, call me Greg," he replied, "look you guys have had a long flight, let's pick this up in the morning."

"Thank you Greg," Hotch said thankfully and glanced back to Morgan who basically had a jetlagged Reid over shoulder.

"I'm sorry to say that all the hotels are shut down right now, that's where these men have all been abducted from," he explained, "but a kind woman has offered to let you stay with her while you guys are here, she'll take care of you. Here's the address, give it to a cab driver, he'll know where to go."

"Thank you," he replied and held up Garcia, who had nearly fallen over.

They hailed two cabs where Emily, Reid and Morgan nearly fell over each other to get into, while Garcia and Hotch took another one.

"Where to," he asked, in a rather cranky tone.

"221 B Bakers street," Hotch said clearly.

"Bakers street," the cab driver smiled wickedly, "you know the detective then."

"No sir, I don't know what you mean," the agent asked, rather confused.

"You will," he laughed and pulled away from the curb.

London England

6:00 P.M

January 4th 2014

"I can't believe it," Sherlock gasped, "John it's like somebody shrunk you and wrapped you in pink."

"I'd like to think there's some Mary in her, but as usual you're spot on," he smiled and rubbed his daughter's soft head.

"Mr. Watson," a sad eyed doctor approached gently. "Would you mind joining me in the consultation room, the nurses will look after the baby."

"Alright," he replied, drawing in deep, daunting breath. Sherlock not hesitating to walk right behind him, leaving the sleeping baby in the nursery.

"Mr. Watson-

"John please," he insisted, with the knots in his empty stomach, tightening the minute he sat down.

"Alright John," he frowned and pushed a box of tissue in the pair's direction. "As you know, your wife's appendix burst."

"Yes, I expect you're here to tell me how long her recovery will be?" Watson replied.

"John, I'm sorry, she didn't make it," the doctor whispered, causing a pause in the new father's face, as if he had been frozen in that moment.

Maybe he was frozen back to a time away from here. Maybe he was imagining a time when Mary hadn't been rolled away in a gurney, bleeding profusely. Yes, a time when his wife was healthy and carrying the child they had made together. Most assuredly a time, far away from here. Far from this moment, where Mary smiled in her usual pleasant way.

"I-I," he shook and gripped the table. "I don't understand, M-M, Mary and I, we, we just had a baby. She cannot be, oh-

His faced dropped into the saddest and most pitiful sight Sherlock had ever seen. Someone could have shot John one thousand times in the chest, stabbed him the back, both literally and figuratively speaking and cast a spell over him, to make him live through and feel all the pain, Sherlock would have killed for such a pleasant face. Distraught was too kind of a word, his face fell like the rain of a day which called for sunshine. Out of is his mind, was too weak, too mild of an expression, as were the words, ballistic, conniption and catastrophic.

"How can she, she, be dead," he stuttered as the next few words left his mouth.

No tears, fell from his eyes, because they were too wide with grief to allow his heart to accept the tragedy. His heart raced with each slow breath he took in, while his bottom lip quivered. Already, his demeanor appeared as a grief stricken man who had battled the pain of this loss for years on end, when he had only received the news not a moment ago. John attempted to stand from his chair, but his legs acted as nothing more than air between himself and the floor, sending him to ground in the fetal position, where a waterfall of tears, came forth from his eyes and screams of agony befell the room.

"Mary," he wailed and pulled his knees up to his chin. "Mary, you can't leave me."

Sherlock, for the first time in his life, had no words. He had never seen his friend in such a state of catastrophe. The great John Watson, shattered like glass shards in a matter seconds. He knew in this moment, no words, no stroke, no pep talk, would be useful. In a stage of grief, emotions swirl around you like a hurricane and every memory, every day you spent with your loved one, every laugh, every moment, the way their voice sounded so sweetly in your ear, how their laugh surrounded infected you, a laugh you took for granted, their cry, their face, are all swallowed up by the mass of grief and anger. The agony of pure loneliness is a storm in itself and nothing anyone can say, no amount of touch or closeness, will calm it.

So instead of annoying and angering his best friend in the world, with meaningless chatter. Instead of failed attempts to mask the pain. He laid his body down on the floor, brought his knees up to his chin and tucked his face between them. Right beside his friend, he stayed. He didn't care how long, for grief counts not time. Days, could pass even years and you would have no idea, for the hollowness which festers and grows until you feel like an immortal pit, never dying, never ending, never ceasing to find more darkness, in an already daunting and unimaginable feeling inhumanness. The two laid on the floor of the consultation room, while John sobbed himself into what seemed like a coma. His eyes pierced the wall, as if Mary would somehow walk through and this nightmare would finally end.

"John," a nurse said gently, finally awaking him from his comatose state of misery. "Would you like to say goodbye to your wife?"

London England

10:00 P.M

January 5th 2014

"Here you are," the cab driver announced, waking both of them from their jetlag state. "Bakers Street, now does Mrs. Hudson know you're coming."

"Yes, she does, thank you," Hotch said groggily and woke up Garcia, after tipping the driver.

"Glad to do it, oh and say hi to your flat-mate for me," he snickered and drove off into the streets of London.

"Oh hello dears," a sweet little lady called out and met them at the door. "I'm Mrs. Hudson."

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," Hotch replied in his usually business like tone. "I'M S-S-A Hotchner, this is and tech Garcia, agents, Jennifer, Emily, Derek, Reid, Rosse and Jennifer's son Henry. I hope he won't he be a problem, I know you probably didn't sign up for a child."

"No problem dear, my husband and I never had children, so I'm grateful when they're around.

"I'm sorry, I hope we're not disturbing him," Hotch asked, feeling rather guilty.

"Not at all dear, he died," she said sweetly and opened the door for all of them to step inside.

"Oh I'm so sorry," he gasped, not feeling like he was making the very best impression.

"Not at all dear," she replied and locked the door behind them.

"If you don't mind my asking, how did he die?" Hotch wondered and caught Reid causally as dropped halfway up the steps.

"The law sentenced him to it," she smiled and followed behind them on the steps.

"Alright," he gasped, rather shocked, but taking a step back from the issue.

"I hope you don't mind, me being gone in the morning, I have to meet with a funeral director," she explained, seeming to mourn over this more than speaking of her husband's passing.

"For your husband," Hotch asked, regretting these words the minute they passed his lips.

"Oh goodness no," she laughed, but her face quickly dropped. "A young lady. She was married to a man who rented this flat, years ago. They had a flat together, but she passed yesterday, after their daughter was born.

"I'm so sorry," Hotch offered his condolences.

"I'm afraid her husband John, is a fair amount of pieces," she sighed and wiped a tear from her eyes. "Sherlock is trying to convince him to move back here."

"Who's Sherlock," Hotch asked.

"He rents this flat, he and John, were flat-mates here, a few years back, but then Sherlock died," she frowned.

"I thought you said he still rents this apartment," the agent shook his head rather confused.

"Oh Sherlock is back now," she smile proudly, "but you're probably too tired to hear about all that tonight. Sherlock is staying at the hospital with John tonight, so choose any room you'd like. They'll be here in the morning. So don't be alarmed, if you here them puttering around."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, you are a very kind woman," Hotch said gratefully, as she turned on the light and revealed bullet holes in the walls, alarming him a little.

"No worries dears," she replied in her usual sweet tone. "I'll let you get settled, sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams Mrs. Hudson," he sighed as she walked back downstairs.

London England

3:00 A.M

January 6th 2014

"Reid I told you, stay on your side of the bed," Morgan groaned in a tired tone.

"I'm not even on the bed," Reid replied in a groggy tone.

"What are you talking about boy genius," he hissed and attempted to push him away. "I told you no cuddling."

"Then you shouldn't be in my bed," a voice unfamiliar to Morgan rang out.

"Reid," Morgan shouted.

"John, go back to sleep," he whispered.

Morgan rose up and noticed a mess of dark hair sprawled out across the pillow. By this point, the figure noticed a pair of terrified eyes staring down at him, as his he were an axe murderer. The figure sat up slowly and gazed into this face stricken with terror. He looked not scared, for he knew he could outwit or shoot this stranger in his bed. H looked confused, his expression, clearly reading, "you're not John." Sherlock reached up his hand, as if feeling this intruders face would help him better understand what he was doing in his flat. His hand came within an inch of Morgan's, before the agent leapt straight into air like a cat suddenly plunged into a bucket of ice cold water and attempted to scale the wall and hide unnoticed on the ceiling.

"Hotch," Morgan called out, in a voice so loud and sleep disturbing, that could have woken all of England.

"Morgan, what' wrong," a sleeping five second ago bolted in and tripped over Reid like he was the dog sleeping in the floor, sending him on ride under and out the other side of the bed, crashing his head into a wall.

Derek stood in the corner shaking in is his socks, because he had been scared straight out of his boots. He made about three separate attempts to raise up his hand, before it stayed up long enough to point a finger in Sherlock's direction.

"Who are you?" Hotch asked calmly, not wanting to upset Morgan even more.

"I believe I have the right ask who is who, considering this is my flat," he scolded, looking rather flustered.

"You're Sherlock," Aaron gasped, with an apologetic gaze.

"You're the agents," he smiled wickedly. "Mrs. Hudson informed me of your stay at Baker's Street."

"I apologize, we were not expecting you until the morning," Hotch sighed in embarrassment.

"Oh yes, the doctor cleared the baby to go home and here we are," he laughed and gazed towards Morgan, who stood cherry faced in the corner.

"We heard Morgan screaming," Emily and Garcia both shouted, as they ran into the room, short of breath.

"Sherlock came home earlier than expected," Hotch explained, as his ears attuned to a baby screaming in the next room.

"That would be Isabelle," Sherlock hissed.