Innes had been howling for over twenty minutes, he was fastened into his car seat ready to go into the taxi to Harry's funeral – but John was holding up matters.
"I can't find the shirt that I'm looking for!" He called for Sherlock to hear.
"Is it the white one?" Sherlock replied, he had been ready for an hour now as John had been over panicking about them being late; so now Sherlock was attempting to appease the screaming child with little success.
"Yes! Have you seen it?" John appeared at the door, a tie in his hand.
"I ironed it for you, it's on the pile of laundry." Sherlock had already told him his, but nothing seemed to be retaining in his skull for more than about two seconds.
"Oh right, thanks!" he said absent mindedly. "Can you do something with Innes? Maybe he needs changed or something? Can you check before we have to go?" Sherlock sighed; it was not that Sherlock didn't like looking after Innes, on the contrary it actually interested him very much, it was John's current state that was constantly alerting him to the fact that something was wrong. He fumbled with the strap holding Innes into the car seat, undoing it and picking Innes up, at the same time calling:
"Come on John, the taxi will be here in a moment." Innes did not need changing, and he had just been fed, so he could not be hungry, but when he was picked up he settled more, stopped wailing. Possibly he just wanted to be held…
John was looking neater than Sherlock had ever seen him, his black suit freshly cleaned and the shirt white and crisply ironed and a black tie. He took Innes out of Sherlock's arms when he appeared in the living room and replaced him into his car seat. A car horn beeped from outside.
"That'll be the taxi." Sherlock said, and John picked up the car seat containing Innes and proceeded to follow him.
John remained completely silent on the way to the crematorium, Sherlock supposed that it was down to the event they were going to. His face grew paler and stonier every second as they drew closer to the crematorium.
Clara was waiting outside the building, dressed entirely in black and surrounded by a small gaggle of rather bedraggled people; Sherlock assumed that these were Harry's old friends.
"Hi." Clara said to John after they had climbed out of the taxi, she was not as bright as usual – and her eyes looked very bloodshot again, as though she had been crying already. "We're just waiting to be called in." She explained why they were all waiting outside; John nodded. "How is Innes?"
"He's doing good." John answered; this was not entirely true – the last few days had been tough. Innes did not seem to be settling at home with John, he cried almost continuously and barely slept at all during the night. Sherlock wondered if the anxiousness that John was feeling was impressing upon the baby.
"Good, I'm glad." She nodded. The doors of the crematorium opened behind her and a member of staff beckoned the people, notifying them that they could now enter.
A hushed silence covered the people as they filed into the room, which was set out with rows of chairs into which everyone took seats on. Clara, Sherlock and John, carrying Innes, took places in the front seats, closest to the podium where the funeral director would stand to take the funeral. An unbelievable sweep of grief clammed over John, as he unstrapped Innes from the car seat and lifted him into his arms; feet away from them was the body of his sister, and Innes' mother, inside a coffin which would be her last resting place. He clutched onto the baby who had fallen asleep during the taxi journey, as music swelled up coming from somewhere behind the rows of chairs. A young man had proceeded up the side of the rows of chairs and took took the position at the front of the congregated group.
"We are here today to celebrate the life of Harriet Watson." He began, and John's mind began to filter out the noise from everything around him. It felt as though he was being encased in water – everything sounded blurry, far away, as though he wasn't actually present. He couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate, the voice inside his head was scolding him because of his inability to bring his mind into focus. He didn't want to accept this was real, he suddenly wished that this was all a horrific dream… John felt like a gaping chasm was opening up in the pit of his stomach that would devour every last piece of his soul, sucking every piece of happiness that had ever been inside of him. What brought John's mind back to reality was the sound of crying – not the grief-stricken sobbing that was coming from Clara to his right, or the sniffing sounding from those individuals behind him, but the desolately empty cry of a child. Innes was crying in John's arms, his small face screwed up and red, howling from the depths of his lungs. John attempted to quieten him down as the pitch of his screaming was almost drowning out the funeral director entirely.
"Here, give him to me." Sherlock whispered into John's ear, holding his hands out to take Innes; John paused for a second, and then allowed Innes to be taken from his arms. Sherlock shuffled out of the row with the crying Innes and moved to the back of the room near the door. John stared at the coffin, feeling his throat closing and his eyes burning with unshed tears; he still couldn't concentrate, his mind suddenly reeling and teeming with memories. Himself and Harry as kids, hours and hours of them playing on a wide stretch of barren grassland; Harry visiting him while he was at university and getting so drunk that John spent the few days looking after her; the long period of absence, his fury about her alcoholism and his refusal to be part of her life. Then even more vivid: the night she appeared at the flat, them rushing to the hospital, her labour and John being there, his guilt at not noticing something was wrong, her death, and her son… almost absent mindedly, as if he had forgotten where he was, he fumbled his phone out of his pocket and found the picture on it. He had forgotten about it entirely. He stared down at the picture that the nurse had so obligingly taken for them – Harry, looking exhausted, holding the bundled baby Innes in her arms and John beside her, grinning with pride. It was this picture – more than anything, more than the place where they were, than the coffin mere feet from him – which crushed the feelings down inside of him and released the repressed tears from his eyes. He placed his hands over his face; he didn't want to be here anymore, he didn't want this reality…
"John?" Clara's voice penetrated the memories encompassing him. He looked up, the coffin was slowly descending and the funeral director had left the podium. It was over… "John? Are you alright?" This was an incredibly stupid question for anyone to ask, especially at the funeral, but he nodded anyway. "I think me and the rest of the guys are going to go for a drink, you know…" She shrugged as though this was self-explanatory. "I thought I'd ask whether you wanted to come along?" It took a long time for this question to register in John's head, but it eventually did.
"Uh… no… thanks, but I think I should head home… Innes will need a feed soon…" He answered very despondently.
"Oh… okay." She nodded understandingly, "Well, I'll come round soon, yeah?"
"Yeah, okay." John agreed without even thinking. Clara moved off to join the gaggle of people that were still waiting just beside the door, but John stayed in the same place for several more seconds, frozen stiff. Until Sherlock approached him carrying the, now mercilessly, not crying Innes.
"Shall we go?" He asked, John nodded again and picked up the car seat; Sherlock initially made a movement to give Innes back to John, but John recoiled slightly.
"Can you take him, please?" Sherlock as surprised by this request, but he didn't deny it. He carried Innes and walked alongside John out of the crematorium building and out onto the road; it was a main road and busy with traffic, but there wasn't a taxi among the lines of cars.
"Shall we walk until we can hail a taxi?" Sherlock suggested, again John didn't speak, but jut began to walk along the road in silence. Three quarters of the way down the road Sherlock spotted a taxi and managed to awkwardly hail it with Innes still in his arms.
John sat in his armchair, he had not spoken since they left the crematorium and he had hardly shown signs of inhabitation – it was like shutters behind his eyes had been drawn down, closing out all light or life. He just wasn't there… Innes was asleep, for the time being, in his car seat – and Sherlock didn't want to disturb him by taking him out of it. Sherlock tried to find things to do which meant that he could keep an eye on John, without being overtly noticeable as watching him. John didn't move for over half an hour, then he suddenly stood up.
"Sherlock, can you look after Innes for a bit? I don't feel very well, I think I need some sleep." He said.
"Yeah, of course." Sherlock answered, and watched as John left the living room.
He just needed to be alone for a while. He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside – there was something just so unbelievably harrowing and soul wrenching that he had been physically hit over the head by something very large and heavy, it was weighing down of his body, there was a bubbling, swelling feeling inside of him which was overwhelmingly strong. It was fighting, and winning, to become the dominant influence inside of him; and in the end it won. John collapsed backwards onto his bed, curling his knees up to his chest, very much like the fetal position that a young child often felt comfortable in. And he sobbed; impounded by incomprehensibility, imprisoned in inconsolable grief and pain. It was just sinking in; it was all becoming real.
A/N: As always, I'd love to know what you think about this chapter/story so far!