The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Ten

Max – age three

A/N: Not my usual happiness, instead I have decided to tackle the emotional obstacle that is Watson after Mary's death.

Purple iris.

He knew that he would never be able to look at purple iris again with the same enjoyment and pleasure as before. They had graced his wife's bouquet on their wedding day, and their fragrance had been the first thing that Ella had breathed in.

It was supposed to be what their second born child was supposed to breath in first.

Instead Mary breathed in the scent of purple iris as she died.

The light was refracting through the cut glass vase holding the hated flowers, casting flecks of light to sparkle around the room. Mary would have enjoyed the sight. And Ella, if Ella was here she would have pranced about the room, tapping all those within her reach and begging Papa to help her touch the rest of them. Mary would have been exhausted from her efforts at birthing their son, but she would have laughed gaily.

Their Son.

Watson would have been a father twice over had their son survived the birth. Would have had a son to pass along the family surgery to, if that was what the son desired. They could have enjoyed fishing in the countryside or games of cricket with other retired army chaps, or even gents that he knew from the Yard. He loved Ella dearly and with all his heart, but there are some things one just simply cannot do with a young lady.

But none of that truly matter now. He is sitting alone in a room at St. St Bartholomew's with two figures hidden beneath shrouds of pristine white cloth, waiting for him to say hi final goodbyes.

But how can he say goodbye? Mary, sweet golden Mary who had been his saving grace. Who had understood from her arrival in his existence that he was irrevocably attached to Holmes for the rest of his life? And she had little problem with the arrangement, so long as he returned home in time for supper. What other wife would be waiting at the door with hot towel and pipe, eagerly awaiting to hear his latest adventure? She was everything to him. His sun, moon, heavens, and stars a bright. How could he find his way out of the ever growing gloom without his North Star guiding him homeward? Without his albatross leading him back to shore? Without his map showing him the path laid out underneath his feet?

How could he live without his Mary?

And so, deep in his grief, Watson fell against the wall that he had been leaning on to avoid going near the covered figures. And as the sobs began to rack his body, he slowly slid down the wall to sit down upon the floor, with his bad leg fully extended in front of him. This reality could not be real. Not his Mary. Not his Isaac.

Uncountable moments later, but not long enough for him to lose himself to the hole that seemed to be tearing into his chest, there were hands on his shoulders, awkwardly embracing him. He did not care whom the hands belonged to; as long as he was allowed to remain alone in his grief, those hands could shave his hair for all he cared. It truly did not matter.

The hands began to move to slide about his person in a quick physical exam. The reason why escaped his mind for the moment. His health no longer mattered. Mary was gone. The reason for his waking up in the morning was lying dead no more than six paces away from him and there was not a damned thing that he could do about it. Tears that he believed were spent began to fall again.

'Come now, old boy, you really must be pulling yourself together. You may have recently lost Mary and your unborn child, but my Watson, please remember, you have another child.' The hands forcefully cupped his face, making him gaze into the other man's worried brown eyes. 'Your Eleanor,' the other man began again, 'your little Ella who loves to ask questions about why the sky is blue and why things go boom is at home. And she wants her father.'

His eyes began to drift back down as he thought about his little Ella, his little girl who was so much like his love that even to think of her face hurt. Would he be able to stare into that face and not see his dead wife's face starring back at him?

The man gave him a sharp slap across his left cheek that strung even as he grasps it again. 'WATSON! She has already lost her Mother and her brother this evening. Don't make her lose her father. Don't make her lose her only other piece to a normal family. Now, you will come home with me. And you shall embrace your daughter and together you will begin to grieve. And at some point you will be allowed to move back into your apartment, but for now Baker Street is where you will be. Have I made myself clear?'

The other man has made himself crystal clear, as clear as the vase with those damned flowers that he hopes to never see again in his life for all eternity. He will go home and see his Ella, because that is what Mary would have wanted him to do. He will live to fulfil Mary's unspoken desires. And so he allows himself to be dragged from his resting place upon the floor and his coat placed upon him and tugged back out the door. And led back home.

A/N: I have successfully, mentally, destroyed one of my favourite literary and cinematic characters. Wonderful for it only being a Thursday. I hoped to capture the hopelessness that Watson would have felt to have his one piece of rational life torn from him so cruelly because of something so normal—childbirth complications. If you spot any mistakes please let me know, but I feel good about getting this out so soon after the last chapter.