Chapter two
Sherlock thought that he must be mad! What on earth was he going to do with an injured and grieving Omega in his flat? Not that biology mattered to him. He was an Alpha, but he'd long since rejected the domestic side of life, devoting himself to his work which he found easy to do with the modern drugs available to control biology-specific behaviours. Still, if he thought about it, the idea was madness. However, he very much wanted to learn what John had witnessed related to the crimes he was investigating and this would provide the best opportunity he'd have to do so.
In addition, with no one to advocate for John it was unlikely that the hospital would keep him once his immediate health crisis was over and if discharged alone, in his present mental state, his outcome was uncertain. So to Sherlock, never one to worry about social norms, this seemed a reasonable solution. There was the unused bedroom upstairs in his flat that John could occupy, at least in the short term (Sherlock's search for an agreeable flatmate was ever ongoing) and perhaps John's family of origin could be located with a bit of research…not that Sherlock held out much hope for that. Abandoned Omegas, especially childless ones, were an embarrassment to family. No longer a youth, John's chances of social recovery were low.
John was discharged one day later by a dismissive doctor only relieved that someone had been found to take responsibility for him. John had remained withdrawn from Sherlock, in fact from everyone involved with his care but didn't object when Sherlock assisted him out of the hospital and into a cab. He was extremely weak; he subsided pale and limp against the back of the cab's seat and closed his eyes for the duration of the ride to Baker Street.
Sherlock allowed himself to think as they rode. He would be relieved to get back to his flat. He found hospitals put him into sensory overload with the glare of lights, always on, and the pervasive odor of disinfectant. At least the revolting stench of Harvey Smith was undetectable on John now, thank heaven. It had made the bile rise in Sherlock's throat resulting in simultaneous urges to gag and tear Harvey apart. The only thing that would have rid Sherlock of this sensation would have been the raw, metallic scent of Harvey's blood flowing from his torn-out throat…and what a pleasure-inducing fantasy that was! Sherlock shook his head, surprised at the turn his thoughts had taken. Perhaps he really was a psychopath after all! But on second thought, he didn't think so; anyone would be forgiven for having such thoughts about Harvey Smith.
The acrid scent of the hospital still clung heavily to John. He needed to be washed and his clothing bagged and binned. Sherlock could purchase him new clothes. He pondered. Perhaps flannel shirts…and cardigans to keep him warm. Yes, as soon as he felt it safe to leave John at the flat he would go to his tailors'. John needed other basics too; he had been discharged with nothing but Sherlock could provide him with everything he needed. It was a pleasurable thought and he smiled out the window as they rounded Piccadilly.
At Baker Street, John opened his eyes at Sherlock's gentle urging and accepted his help in getting out of the cab. He allowed Sherlock to assist him up the stairs into the flat but once there seemed on the verge of collapse.
"John, your room is upstairs. I'm going to carry you there, please don't be alarmed when I pick you up alright?"
John nodded, reaching for the wall for support as he swayed unsteadily. But before he could fall Sherlock lifted him easily, for John was a small man, and turned to carry him the rest of the way to the upstairs room. He was very light and Sherlock glanced down at him in concern. As he did so, his sensitive nose caught the unexpected scent of….what? Under the harsh hospital odor − there it was again…ever so faint. Something sweet and light…Was it clover? For a moment images of dew on grass and delicate spring leaves crossed Sherlock's vision, distracting him. It was several moments before he realized the scent must be that of John himself; John's unique signature, timid but persistent, emerging from under the suffocating odor of Harvey, the hospital, and all else had been smothering him. It tantalized Sherlock and he tried to catch it again, but it had vanished. He set John down on his feet and concentrated on guiding him to sit on the bed where he then removed his shoes for him.
"My landlady Mrs. Hudson made up the room and prepared the loo across the hall for you, John. She also left us some tea. I'm going to go and get you a cup while you get settled in here, alright?"
Mrs. Hudson had tut-tutted over John's story when Sherlock had told her about him and proceeded to throw herself into making his arrival as welcoming as possible. She had had her own experiences with a bad marriage and so was most sympathetic to John's situation.
When Sherlock returned with the tea, he found John lying on his side on the bed, curled in on himself with his back to the door. Sherlock's cautious enquiry yielded no response so he set the vacuum flask of tea on the nightstand and drew the duvet from the foot of the bed up over John and left the room, leaving the door ajar.
The next several days proceeded in a similar fashion to the first. John slept a great deal during the day as well as at night and showed no interest in descending the stairs. Sherlock heard his quiet movements between the loo and bedroom; the doctors had been confident that he could manage his own care during his recovery so Sherlock didn't interfere with his privacy in that regard. He checked on him regularly though, taking him cups of tea and water between meals. Other than politely thanking him, John said nothing.
Between the frozen meals Mrs. Hudson had prepared and the well-stocked cupboards and refrigerator they managed well enough for food, not that John was eating much. Sherlock left John only once to run a couple of errands and to visit his tailor, during which time Mrs. Hudson kindly agreed to stay in the flat in case John should need something.
It was in the middle of the third night when Sherlock, for once asleep in his room, was abruptly woken by a wailing cry which he quickly ascertained was coming from John's room. He scrambled from his bed, pulled on his dressing gown and took the stairs in twos up to John's bedroom where he pushed open the door and flicked on the light. John was alone; no intruders as Sherlock had almost feared but he was obviously in a bad state, lying curled up, sobbing and clutching his abdomen.
"John, what is it!?"
"Geoffrey! The baby! Tell them, Harvey, please? Don't let them take him away! He needs me; he'll die without me Harvey! Oh God, my baby, tell them to give him to me please?! I'll do anything you want, just let me have him, please, please!"
"John. Wake up." Sherlock spoke quietly but his voice was deep and resonant enough that it penetrated John's consciousness and he turned to stare wildly at Sherlock in the doorway.
"Harvey?"
"Harvey is not here, John."
John collapsed sobbing again, but Sherlock could make out his words, "He knows where Geoffrey is." John hugged his body, "Sherlock, I want Geoffrey, he needs me, please help me find him, please…"
The pleas were of a man stripped bare; helpless and reduced to wretched begging and they tore at Sherlock's emotional defenses. Acting on extraordinary impulse, forgetting completely to ask permission to touch John, he went to him and leaned over to lift him into his arms. He sank down on the bed holding John and instinctively began to rock him in an attempt to alleviate his terrible suffering.
"John, John, wake up please. It's me, Sherlock, we can talk about this, but you need to wake up first, alright?"
John continued weeping for some time but he appeared to be more oriented than when Sherlock had first arrived so he said nothing more, just held John, trying to control the churning of his own emotions which were threatening to overwhelm him now that they had been cut loose.
"The baby's gone, Sherlock." John's voice was a whisper.
"Yes, John. I'm sorry. If I could do anything to bring him back to you I would."
"He was beautiful and perfect. I know he was and I loved him more than anything."
"I know John. I know you did."
"But Harvey's right isn't he? Geoffrey died because I was too weak to protect him. What kind of a father can't protect his baby and let's someone….hurt him?"
Sherlock sucked in a shocked breath. "That is not true John! You almost died when he was taken from you; you were willing to give your life for your baby, John! Remember in the hospital? "
John began to sob again. "I begged them to give him to me…but they wouldn't."
His body was rigid with distress, his breathing reduced to sharp gasps, dragged in when his lungs rebelled and demanded air. "I wanted to see him, Sherlock, I wanted to hold him. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, even if he was already gone. But they wouldn't give him to me. Oh God, I never even saw him! He didn't get to hear me tell him how much I loved him. He never knew!" John's last words were a wail of anguish.
Sherlock had never cried in his life that he could remember, not once, but he felt the tears now.
John's pain was devastating and Sherlock felt helpless; what did he know about babies and pregnancy loss? He tried to draw on whatever instincts had been compelling him to try to help John since he'd first met him.
"John," he said hoarsely, "Listen to me. You carried your son with you for seven months, day and night, and during those months how many times, every day, did you tell him how much you loved him?"
He seemed to be making an impression for John quieted.
He continued, "I think it was very often. Am I right?" John didn't respond but Sherlock could tell he was listening. "Geoffrey knew you loved him, John." He sought John's eyes. "Of course you wanted to see him and hold him; to say goodbye, of course you did and you should have been allowed, the doctors were wrong not to give him to you, but don't let yourself think that your baby didn't know you loved him."
John was quiet but he nodded. He then looked up at Sherlock as though about to say something but stopped, and reaching, touched his cheek lightly. "You're sad." He sounded puzzled, "Why are you crying, Sherlock?"
Sherlock choked on a breath. "I'm sad for you John. I wish I could have stopped what happened. I wish you could be happy right now with your son in your arms. If I could make it happen, I would."
"But it wasn't your fault."
"No, and it wasn't yours either, John."
John fell silent again but to Sherlock his silence seemed for the first time since he'd met him to have a meditative element rather than be simply pure, mute grief.
Before long John fell asleep, his body still weak from trauma. Sherlock moved to set him in bed again but before he did, hardly aware he was doing so; he drew John closer, dipped his head and breathed in his fresh scent, now stronger and reassuringly mingled with Sherlock's own scent from his borrowed t-shirt and pyjamas. How appealing John's scent was!
He didn't stir when Sherlock finally slid him off of his lap and under the duvet, drawing it up over him. Sherlock rose and stood looking down at John for a moment. He then turned to the door and switched off the room's ceiling light, but before he left, he turned back and said, "I will do as you ask me John; I will find Geoffrey for you."