"Molly just called, John."
John turned from the window to see Sherlock, his face sober, holding out his right hand for John to grasp. John smiled slowly and nodded, accepting the hand offered to him.
The paper work had been finalized without issue. There had been no opposition to Geoffrey's small remains being released to Mr. John Watson, father. The medical examination had been completed long since with a simple statement of 'stillbirth' written as a last notation in a now closed file.
They left the flat on foot to make their way to St. Bart's, not holding hands but each acutely aware of the other, although silent with their own thoughts. The May day was brilliantly sunny and warm. The city's parks were full of shrieking children and the pavements were crowded with cheerful people shopping, lunching and generally going about their business without a care in the world, or so it seemed. The juxtaposition of cheer and promise outside to loss and grief inside was jarring; the sort of casual cruelty of which only nature is capable.
Molly greeted them at the lab doors and led them to morgue, flustered and awkward in their presence as though uncertain how to treat the living amongst the cool and silent beings with whom she usually shared this space. She retreated when they reached the counter but returned moments later with a small bundle, carefully wrapped in delicate blue, cradled in her arms. Nothing of her manner was awkward now; she was confident in this role, her face alight with grace and kindness as she stepped forward to offer John what she held.
Meeting her eyes in silent gratitude, John accepted the baby, drawing him close with a deep sigh before dropping his eyes to gaze downward.
Suddenly, the soft silence was abruptly broken by Sherlock. His voice was harsh in the stillness of the room, "Four pounds. One ounce." His words were bitten off and ragged with the effort of forcing back emotion.
Molly winced and stared at him in horror.
He saw her expression but was unable to stop. "Ten and one quarter inches. Hair blonde. Eyes likely blue and brown. Cause of death, placental abruption." Sherlock halted with sharply indrawn breath, struggling to control his facial muscles, his eyes desperate.
Molly's face contorted with anger and she opened her mouth to speak to him.
But before she could say anything, John lifted his eyes from the still baby in his arms to look at Sherlock. He smiled gently and reached a hand to Sherlock's cheek. "Come here," he said.
Sherlock nodded abruptly and took a jerking step forward, his eyes pleading with John to forgive, to understand…
John's voice was soft and his eyes shining with love and compassion. He said again, "Come to us, Sherlock." He drew Sherlock closer and whispered, "Look at me."
John needn't have said anything, at just the touch of his hand the brittle tension began to melt from Sherlock and he relaxed with a soft exhale. He looked into John's eyes and surrendered, unafraid of what he saw there; sadness yes, of course, but peacefulness too; a man broken… but the fragmented pieces recovered… and what was shattered could be re-formed… Sherlock breathed again. He bowed his head to John in reverence before looking up at him once more.
As he did so he heard a sharp exclamation from Molly who was staring at John.
Sherlock smiled. John was glowing. Sherlock leaned down to kiss him on the lips before he said quietly, "Let us take him home now."
…
Home was a small grave in the Holmes family cemetery, beautifully kept, of course, its grass neatly trimmed and flowers fresh. Waiting for them when they arrived at the gravesite was the sympathetic and benevolent Bishop of Westminster Cathedral. Perhaps unused to performing such intimate services, but all the more sincere because of it, the Bishop spoke movingly of birth and death, love and loss. Afterward, he grasped both their hands firmly and offered a simple blessing before leaving them to their graveside contemplation.
They stood hand in hand before the tiny grave. Its white marble gravestone and swirling gold inscription of Robin Geoffrey Watson-Holmes reflected brilliantly in the May sunshine. And the light was glorious now; the punishing glare of the morning was lost in the soft green of afternoon in the cemetery.
The 'adoption' of Geoffrey into the Holmes family had been a straightforward one, conducted one cool spring evening before the fire at 221b Baker Street. It had consisted of a characteristically bald offer made by Sherlock, which had every appearance of randomness but was actually the result of several days of serious thought on Sherlock's part. His offer had been met with a horrifying flood of tears from John, at least, horrifying from Sherlock's perspective until it was explained to him by John that John was actually happy and was 'just surprised, that's all!" The misunderstanding had been cleared up quickly with hugs, kisses and a pot of tea. And with that Sherlock had become a step-father of sorts.
Standing before the grave of his tiny lost son, John squeezed Sherlock's hand in gratitude and accepted a kiss in response. He then bent forward to place a white rose onto the black earth before they turned away together. As they did so, neither felt the necessity for goodbyes for they both knew there would be a lifetime of return visits to this peaceful, lovely place.