Sherlock knocked quietly on John's door and when he received no response, he gingerly opened it a crack. John had been asleep but he woke, stirring drowsily and opening his eyes to look at Sherlock in the doorway…and then he smiled. Sherlock, about to close the door with a hasty apology to John for waking him, stopped still and found himself staring back at John, transfixed. No one had ever looked at Sherlock the way John was now, with that particular expression in their eyes, and Sherlock found himself immobilized by it, not even able to breathe.
Sherlock had known John had beautiful eyes; he had marveled the dark blue of John's irises−deep blue like the heavens on a summer night, encircled by an unusual colour-orb of earth brown−from the first time he'd looked into them. And right now John's eyes seemed to be casting some of kind of immobilising spell on Sherlock; which was a ridiculous notion and one Sherlock rejected immediately. Still, something unusual happening…was it a trick of the light? Yes, it must have been, for even as Sherlock stared, the sensation of entrancement faded. Sherlock blinked to find that John appeared as perfectly normal as usual.
Still, unaccountably confused and uncertain of himself all of a sudden, Sherlock said, "Ah, dinner. Would you like something to eat?" He wasn't hungry, he rarely was, but he remembered that it was dinner-time, when most people ate, and it was the only thing that he could think of to say on-the-spot.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I should have prepared us something!" John's brow furrowed with anxiety and guilt.
"No, no John. I already have, please just come down when you feel like it."
This wasn't in the least true, of course, but that was what microwaves were for, wasn't it? Sherlock smiled at John and closed the bedroom door gently. He then vaulted down the stairs to put two frozen meals to heat before John could arrive in the kitchen and catch him out in his fib.
When John arrived shortly after, they settled at the table in a companionable silence to eat Mrs. Hudson's Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and carrots.
After supper, with the dishes washed and put away, Sherlock sat at the table with his lap-top and John, sitting on the couch, resumed reading his book, The Urban Social Geography of London, which he had begun earlier in the day. Despite the quietness, Sherlock found it difficult to concentrate. Instead, he found himself casting frequent side-long glances at John. The evening was chilly. The temperature outside had dipped significantly over the course of the day to where it was now hovering on freezing. John was wearing his thick sweater but Sherlock found himself worrying that John was not warm enough. He rose from the table and lit the gas fire.
John didn't notice. He appeared perfectly at ease. In fact, he was the most relaxed that Sherlock had seen him. Giving up trying to stay focused on his research, Sherlock allowed himself to observe John. There was something different about him this evening. Sherlock was sure of it now. But what? If it could be scientifically discerned Sherlock would have known what it was, for no one was a more brilliant scientist that he. No, whatever it was it seemed to emanate from a different domain. The only clue as to the nature of it was in the impact it was having on Sherlock himself: a sensation of peacefulness, happiness, optimism….all good things, in fact, very good, but mystifying.
Sherlock sighed. Setting aside the puzzle of John's aura for now (he remembered a recent paper he'd seen somewhere on bioenergetics…perhaps he should dig it out and read it…) he decided to broach with John something that he had been putting off all day. He didn't want to make John unhappy but he should offer to share with him what he had learned.
"John," he interrupted the silence in the flat. John looked up. Sherlock hesitated before he continued, "You probably don't remember but the other night when you were upset, you asked my help to find Geoffrey."
John said self-consciously, "I'm sorry Sherlock I shouldn't have burdened you with my problems like that−"
"No, John, it's fine. It's just that I have some information for you if you would like to hear it. I….I'm sometimes not good at timing though, so if this isn't a good time, just tell me, please. I don't want to upset you again…"
John looked puzzled. "You have information? Please tell me if you know something."
Sherlock moved to sit opposite him in one of the living room chairs.
"Well, I was at the hospital early this morning, before Harvey was killed. I was able to learn some things about the day you were brought in and you lost Geoffrey. The information that you want, John, is in the medical records − not just anyone can read it, please don't think that – but I knew you wanted to know so I… er...took a look."
John's eyes widened and his voice was a ghost of a whisper, "Do you know where his is? What happened to him Sherlock? Even if they put him in the…if they didn't save his body…I want to know. I just need to know, Sherlock."
"Yes, I understand John." Sherlock stopped, not sure how to tell John what he had learned, unsure what his reaction would be. "John, because of the circumstances of his death, as standard procedure, the doctors ordered an autopsy on Geoffrey. His body was sent to Bart's. It….he…..is still there, John, held until a post-mortem examination can be performed. It can take a long time, sometimes up to eight weeks before it's done…." What Sherlock did not tell John was that Harvey had refused his claim to Geoffrey's body and approved its disposal post-autopsy.
"An autopsy?" asked John.
"Yes, John. But I have a friend at Bart's, in the mortuary, she's very kind, she'll take care with his body, you don't need to worry that he won't be treated well, John. You can meet her if you like."
"Your friend? A medical examiner? Geoffrey's body is at St. Bart's? And I can have him back when the autopsy is done?"
"Yes, John."
"Sherlock−" John dissolved into tears.
"This is good, right John? This is good news and you are glad, John?" Sherlock couldn't tell…
John smiled through his tears at Sherlock's tense expression, "Yes, yes, Sherlock, thank you, thank you so much. You can't imagine what this means to me. How…..happy this makes me. I can say good-bye now and…thank him. I'm sure it sounds strange," he looked at Sherlock hesitantly, "but after he was with me, I wasn't lonely any more, I talked to him every day about the things we would do together after he was born and how happy we'd be…and I want to tell him how sorry I am too that I couldn't protect him, couldn't stop him from being hurt the way a father is supposed to do. I need to ask for his forgiveness Sherlock…" John was sobbing once more, deep gulping gasps racking his body as he bent over under the weight of his grief and regret.
"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered hoarsely, moving to crouch before him, "I'm sorry, please John, tell me what to say or do, please! I don't know how to help you." He leaned in and drew John close, then sitting down beside him, he pulled John onto his lap. The tears were dripping down his own face as well. Lord in heaven! What was it about John's pain that sliced straight through his heart and into his soul?
"There's nothing else Sherlock, I'm so grateful. Thank you. Now I can care for his body, put him to rest somewhere where I can visit him whenever I want. What you've done means everything, everything to me!"
"I'm glad I can help you. That's all I want John, is to help you." Sherlock could hardly believe his own ears when he heard himself say it! But it was true. Somehow and at some point in time, what John needed had become the most important thing in Sherlock's life. He wasn't sure what that meant, just that it was true.
He gazed down at John trying to make sense of his new discovery. His world now seemed to begin and end with John…what was it that used to be the centre of his world? His work? Himself? He couldn't remember.
John was calming as the storm of his grief passed. He lay still, his face tucked against Sherlock's shoulder, content, it seemed, to stay there for now. Soon likely he would fall asleep. He was still weak and he tired easily. Sherlock would wait until he awoke again and then make him a cup of tea; Sherlock was incapable of cooking or making much else but John seemed to appreciate the tea and so it was enough.
As he sat, the minutes ticking by, Sherlock again felt that sense of deep contentment he was starting to expect in the proximity of John; the flat was quiet and dim, warm from the fire, and John was safe in his arms…and what was his sweet scent? Sherlock breathed deeply. Fresh honey. Or was it vanilla? Actually, maybe it was more like sugar-sweetened chamomile tea… so light, so pure. And compelling. Once more he had the strong urge to bury his nose between John's neck and his shoulder and just breathe him in. But he shouldn't, he thought, if John woke it would probably frighten him, so it was best not to do it…still, Sherlock wanted to very much.
The spell was broken by the sound of a text alert from Sherlock's mobile. With an arm still around John's back he reached for it. The text was from Lestrade.
SUSPECT OUT. MEET AT WESTMINSTER. CHAPEL OF HOLY SOULS.