Sherlock tapped his fingers upon the unoccupied reception in the mouth of the ward that had, so very little time ago, contained Harriet; how there could be no one about in a busy ward was beyond him. Eventually a male nurse appeared at the entrance to the desk.
"Can I help you, sir?" He asked politely.
"Yes. I want to know if there is any reason why John Watson needs to remain in the hospital." Sherlock responded curtly.
"One moment…" He ruffled through a pile of files within an in tray behind the front of the desk.
"His sister, Harriet Watson, delivered earlier on tonight, but there were complications and she died." Sherlock informed him, as the nurse opened a file. "I don't know if anything will be updated yet. I understand that there is a child, and we will need to return – but he needs to go home. His sister's death has hit him hard."
"Oh…" The nurse paused in his reading of the file. "If that's the case then, of course he can go home."
"Thank you." Sherlock answered.
"But," he started quickly before Sherlock had turned away. "We need to put something on the baby's bracelet as identification… Is there a name that we can write?" Sherlock hesitated – he hadn't even realised that Harriet hadn't had time to think of a name before she had been taken into surgery…
"Can you just put baby Watson for the time being? He hasn't had time of anything like that yet."
"Of course." He nodded, "Thank you."
Sherlock had stayed kneeling down in front of John for more time than he had realised – and eventually he had come to the decision that sitting in the hospital was of absolutely no help to John… he needed to go home and take in what had happened tonight, but whether he would agree to leave was a completely different matter. Sherlock thought he should clear it with a medical professional first, just in case they needed John for anything to do with Harriet's death, before just disappearing out of the hospital. Maybe John would refuse to leave, perhaps the baby would keep him within the confines of the hospital, but Sherlock judged this as not the best course of action. Sherlock returned to the room, John was still sitting, despondent in the chair by the window.
"John." He interrupted the silence in the room rather abruptly. "I think we should go home. I've spoken to one of the staff and he says we can go." John continued to stare blankly for quite some time, before rousing himself slightly.
"Yes…" He replied weakly. Despite the concordance to Sherlock's suggestion, he made no movement to follow through within it, and Sherlock watched him with an arresting care. John didn't appear to be able to move; or perhaps he didn't want to… Perhaps being in the very room that his sister had been in so shortly ago was preventing him from moving. Eventually he roused himself and got out of the chair he had been sitting in, but he still looked as though he was absolutely burdened down. Sherlock allowed John to walk in front of him and take the path down the sterile corridors to the front of the hospital which opened up into the cold night air.
The coolness and freshness of the air washed over John's face as he stepped out into the night; he stopped moving and closed his eyes briefly and took a long deep breath in.
"Do you have any cigarettes on you?" John asked quietly.
"I do… why?" Sherlock responded in slight surprise.
"Can I have one?" John held out his hand, palm up waiting for receipt of the cigarette that he now knew Sherlock had. Sherlock dipped his fingers into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his packet of cigarettes along with his lighter. In any other circumstance, Sherlock would have argued as to John's request – but he thought now was not the time to bring up those arguments that John had used so many times to scold Sherlock's actions; he placed a cigarette into John's hand and John's fingers curled around it. Placing another cigarette in between his own lips, Sherlock lit up and passed his lighter to John – who struggled with the first few sparks and then succeeded in lighting up his. Sherlock watched the amber glow brighten in the darkness of the night as John inhaled deeply, then allowed a cloud of smoke to expel from his mouth.
"I'm sorry John- " Sherlock began to say while placed in this position, but John cut him off before the words were out of his mouth.
"Don't!" He spoke sharply yet firmly. "Don't say another word. I don't want to hear any more sorry's, or condolences, or any other shit like that right now."
"What do you want to hear?" Sherlock asked tentatively.
"Right now? Nothing. I just want to go home and have 15 whiskies and collapse in a pool of my own vomit, alright?" John's words were terse and so unlike what Sherlock was used to when speaking to his friend that he almost felt worried – but he couldn't stand in the way of what John wanted to do.
"Alright." Sherlock agreed.
"You're alright with that?" John asked incredulously, turning to look at Sherlock in the dark. The amber glow from John's lit cigarette illuminated a small spot in his eyes which was almost the only thing Sherlock could clearly see.
"If that's what you want to do, why should I have any right to object? Would you like some company?" this appeared to be the wrong thing to ask John; almost instantly he crumpled until he was almost bent double as if in pain. Sherlock reached out his hand but stopped just before touching his friend's back. It took John several seconds before he could regain his composure and straighten himself up once more, dragging in great gasps of breath as he did.
"It's an old tradition…" John said fragmentally. "Whenever we lost a man…" Sherlock took that John was referring to his army days with this and nodded, before realising that John couldn't see him in the dim light.
"If you wish for company, then I shall be more than obliged to join with you." Sherlock answered, throwing down the stub of his cigarette and stamping out the dwindling ashes with the tip of his shoe. John followed suit with his cigarette, but remained silent as the two of them moved towards a brightly lit taxi rank out towards the front of the hospital.
As they stepped out of the cab at the front door to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's eyes alighted on a dark patch of dried blood that was present on the doorstep of their flat – he glanced at John in case he had noticed it, but John's eyes were too blurred and his mind too preoccupied to notice such things. Sherlock made a mental note to have it cleaned off as soon as he could to prevent any unwanted memories being brought forth by John's discovery. Mrs. Hudson's lights were off as John and Sherlock ascended the stairs; it was just as well, how she would have reacted to the news would probably be with sympathy and care, but Sherlock reckoned John wouldn't want to deal with such things yet.
The living room in 221B was still slightly disarranged, which had been caused by the presence of the paramedics and their obtrusive lack of awareness for furniture or personal items. John collapsed heavily into his armchair and put his hands to his face roughly.
"Scotch or malt?" Sherlock asked.
"Either." John replied gruffly. "They'll both do the same job." Sherlock poured out two glasses of the amber liquid, handed one to John and sat down in the armchair that he usually occupied.
The two men sat in silence for some time, neither having desire or thought to break it with speech. The first time any movement was made was when John stood up and retrieved the bottle of Scotch from the shelf, placing it in plain reach of both himself and Sherlock. Sherlock was watching John very closely; as much as he knew that it was John's desire to get absolutely hammered, he didn't want this situation to go pear shaped – he had to remain more sober than John, just in case. But that didn't look like it was going to be a difficult task.
"Half an hour passed between them, with no more noise than the chink of glass upon wood and the glugging of liquid pouring from the bottle into John's glass. John hadn't even seemed to have noticed that Sherlock had only drunk one and a half glasses, he was already on his fifth. The alcohol had numbed everything, it was almost as though the whole of the night hadn't happened.
Sherlock watched John gradually look more and more tired, as he washed down glass after glass until the bottle was nearly empty. Eventually John's head seemed to rest on his chest and his eyelids drooped shut; Sherlock remained silent for quite some time, wanting to make definite sure that John was asleep, before quietly getting to his feet and gently removing the glass, which still had the dregs of amber liquid covering the bottom, from John's grip. Sherlock stood very silently, looking down at his sleeping friend' incredibly carefully he carried the glass through to the kitchen, rinsed it out and refilled it with water. The whole flat was so still and quiet that Sherlock could hear John's steady breaths in and out as he perched himself on the sofa, knees curled up towards his chest. Ensconced as he had made himself upon the sofa, he remained the silent watch guard over John for the rest of the dark night.
A/N: I'd love to know what you think about this chapter! :)