John wrapped his knuckles along the window ledge in the ensuing silence which had followed ever since Kevin had left the room; he had turned his back on Sherlock again. Sherlock had been unsure on whether he should break the silence – whether John would want to be on his own, or whether his presence was of any use at all. He presumed that John would have asked him to leave if he didn't want him to be there, so for the time being he stayed put. This was such a mess… Well, it wasn't really a mess, there was nothing any of them could do to have prevented it, but still there was a tangle of confusion, upset and devastation left behind. Harriet had died… She had turned up to Baker Street five hours ago, full of exciting news and new hope for a family reunion between John, herself and her baby…There was no way that any of them could foresee that in only a few hours that promise would be so coldly ripped away from them.

Her baby… Sherlock had been thinking too much about John to consider the reality of that. John hadn't lost the last member of his family; he still had his nephew; and that child had lost its mother. What was to become of him? Harriet hadn't even gotten the chance to name him; she hadn't spoken about names at all… His bracelet would be "baby Watson" inscribed for the time being… Or until John chose a name for him. No doubt John wouldn't even be thinking about him, the news hadn't sunk in and taken hold yet. Sherlock retrieved his phone from the inside of his coat pocket and fired off a message that, for once, he had no problem sending:

'Might require your assistance. John's sister has died. –SH' Even as he sent the message Sherlock was pretty certain that Mycroft wouldn't be able to do anything practical, but he might be able to sort out any legal formalities to prevent John from having to do it…

"John?" Kevin was back at the door. "I can take you to see her now." John moved to follow him, then paused before exiting the room. They were led to a double door, which Kevin pushed slightly open.

"Take as long as you like." He said, gripping John's shoulder for an instant to show his sympathy and John nodded.

The door sung shut behind John and Sherlock, and they were left alone in the brightly lit room. Harriet was lying upon a hospital bed, a white sheet brought up to her chest covering most of her body. Her face was pale, but her features were placed in such a way that she looked as though she might be sleeping – the only thing that was missing was the rising and falling of her chest. John stood very silent and still for over a minute just staring at the body of his sister; then eventually he took several steps forwards and stopped at the side of the bed. He reached out and clasped his hand around one of Harriet's – he gripped it with fierce desperation and stroked the side of Harry's face with the other.

"She's… she's still warm." John said, his voice breaking. "Oh god…" He breathed. "Harry."

Sherlock stood at the door, making sure to be as unobtrusive as he possibly could be; this was John's moment; this was John's moment – last moment – with his sister. He didn't know for how long he stood, watching John cradling Harry's arm and stroking his hand across her forehead.

"This is wrong… just… just wrong!" John's voice was underpinned with emotion, but he wasn't crying.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock spoke eventually; there was nothing else that he could think to his friend. John carefully placed Harry's hand back down onto the bed on top of the white sheet, but remained in the same place, simply staring. Sherlock moved forwards to stand beside John, attempting to show a level of support for him. John's face was almost as pale as the white sheet that covered Harriet and he was staring down at her deeply; there was an extraordinarily long silence between the two of them which seemed to grow and expand in the space. Eventually John was the one who broke it suddenly in a sharp tone:

"I'm going to be sick…" He did not pause long enough for Sherlock to respond in any way; he had whipped round and retreated from the room that they were in. Sherlock followed behind him, not quite sure whether he should follow John or leave him to his own devices. John had fled from the room and along the corridor, through a set of double doors and into a gents toilet; Sherlock followed slowly and paused before pushing the door of the toilets open. One of the stalls was occupied and Sherlock could hear John coughing fiercely. The toilet flushed from inside the stall, but there was a moment before the door opened and a pale faced John tottered precariously out.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked tentatively, John ignored Sherlock as he ran his hands under the tap and then – using his hands as a cup – scooped water into his mouth to rinse it out.

"You're so smart, why don't you tell me what you think?" John answered, the reply sounded weak, resigned rather than sarcastic which was probably how it had been intended to be. John dried off his hands and then stood, resting his back against the wall of the toilets staring at Sherlock. Again this double confusion arose inside of Sherlock: what did John really want him to do? If it was him he would want to be alone, but he always wanted to be alone, so it wasn't much of a change, but John… John liked people, John didn't seek constant solitude like Sherlock did. Maybe John would want someone around. Itn wasn't the kind of question that Sherlock felt forthcoming in asking, especially right now – his social ineptitudes already extended further than most people thought possible, and now – he felt immensely awkward.

"I want to help." He finally blurted out. "I want to help, but I'm not quite sure how…" He heard his own voice trail away.

"There's nothing you can do." John snapped sharply, "There's nothing I can do… there's nothing anyone can fucking do!" John rubbed his palm across his forehead and Sherlock could see his fingers trembling. "I wish she hadn't come to me!" He vented, Sherlock stared back at John for a second.

"John, whether she came to you or not, exactly the same thing would have happened tonight, you know that – don't you?" John ran his free hand through his hair, but the look on his face showed that he didn't believe what Sherlock was saying. "You've been able to make sure Harriet had the best care – and the baby too. What would have happened if she went home and hadn't realised anything until it was too late?" Sherlock said. "Stop blaming yourself, because it is not your fault!" John had his head clutched in his hand; his mind was swimming with 'what ifs?' and 'if only's'. Every possibility or chance that might have presented themselves within the course of the evening piled on top of one another inside John's brain pressing down so much that it felt like a physical force inside his skull. It was too much! He had tried, he had medically judged as best as he could, he had advised, he had done his best. Yet he had missed, he had overlooked, he had failed… and Harriet was dead.

"Oh god… oh god!" John's voice shook as thought after thought seemed to strike him in recurring waves. "The baby!" He gasped air in, "What… what's going to happen to the baby?"

"That will be up to yourself, you're her next of kin." Sherlock spoke calmly, hoping to placate some of John's fright, but it didn't seem to help any – he ran his hand over his face in an even more pained manner. John looked dreadfully pale, Sherlock could see his hands trembling; and the ceilings and walls were spinning before John's eyes. Sherlock took several steps forwards and gripped John's forearm tightly, worried that he might pass out. "Come on." Sherlock murmured in such a soothing tone that John allowed himself to be steered out of the toilets and along the corridor by his friend. Before he knew it he was sat down in a chair in a small side bay by a full window. "I can't repeat enough that this is not your fault John…" He began soothingly. "You've done all you can, so stop reprimanding yourself for not doing enough." John sighed heavily, rubbing his fingers over his forehead once more. It was silent for a while, and Sherlock could hear John's erratic breathing – it was as though John couldn't quite decide whether to hyperventilate or stop breathing altogether. Sherlock's knees were beginning to stiffen up as he stayed crouching down in an effort to be of some comfort to John. Very suddenly John broke the silence, gasping and clapping his hand to his mouth:

"My god… the baby!" John's eyes widened until they were like two saucers in his face; it was as though the whole events of the night had just hit him in one fell swoop. Like the suddenness of Harriet's death had entirely obliterated the memory of what had come before it. "Holy fuck! What's going to happen to the baby?" His hands were trembling again, but he seemed to be more melancholy than the last time he had asked this question.

It's alright, it'll be up to you what will happen to him." Sherlock repeated.

"Me?!" John exclaimed in surprise. "Why me?"

"Well…" Sherlock hesitated, maybe this wasn't the best idea to discuss this right after the death of John's sister; but they would have to talk about it soon. "You'll be Harriet's next of kin… so the decision will be down to you."

"Oh god…" John buried his head in his hands again.

"But you don't have to think about all of that right now." Sherlock tried to be reassuring. "The hospital will be able to help for a bit; you'll just have to think about the long term stuff."

"Jesus! How am I supposed to…" he started and then stopped abruptly. "I can't make any… I mean, I don't know anything…"

"Calm down… you don't have to make any decisions right now." Sherlock repeated; John nodded slowly, but the frantic look in his eyes did not subside. "You have time, you've got plenty time, so right now you don't need to worry yourself about it."

Sherlock was not very accustomed to having to be comforting, and he wasn't sure that he was doing a very good job – but John seemed to be slightly less panicky than he had been five minutes ago. He looked worn out and tired, as though all of the problems in the world had come to rest upon his soul and burden down his shoulders. It was too much in too short a time for John's mind to fully take in. It was too great a loss for him to feel able to function and feel whole in heart.

A/N: I hope you're enjoying the story! I'd love to know what you think of it! :)