John was very quiet on the journey home – he hadn't wanted to put his nephew down again since being allowed to hold him, despite Dr. Mitchell's assurance that he would be allowed to take the baby out of the cot the next time he visited too. Mrs. Hudson met them at the door to 221B; evidently she had been waiting for them.

"You've got a visitor." She informed them, "A girl. She was rather hysterical when she arrived, so I took her upstairs and made her a cup of camomile tea."

Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock replied, unhooking his scarf from around his neck and hanging it and his jacket up on the hook at the bottom of the stairs. John proceeded to bolt up the stairs at full pelt, even though Sherlock knew who their visitor was and he was fully aware that John would know it too. Clara was sitting on one of the armchairs, the mug of camomile tea in front of her; her blonde hair was dishevelled and her eyes were tired and bloodshot – unlike Harriet, Clara had obviously not given up drinking, she looked like she had been surviving on vodka and crisps. As Sherlock followed into the living room behind John, he saw Clara jump to her feet:

"John! What's going on?! I got an urgent message saying I had to come home and come here the second I arrived and –" She gabbled, seemingly oblivious to anything that had happened. Mycroft had clearly neglected to mention exactly why she needed to come home.

"Sit down." John said to her calmly, although Sherlock could see from John's breathing that he felt anything but calm at this moment. Clara stopped gabbling and perched nervously back down on the edge of the armchair seat, it was obvious that she had no idea what was coming. John, also, seemed unsure of what to say to her stood seemingly transfixed to the spot, thinking. "Harry came to visit us a week ago and… well, she told us all about Paolo and you disappearing off, but I don't think you knew that she was pregnant."

"Pregnant? What – how…?" Clara exclaimed in response, and then fell silent, her eyes dawning with comprehension. "Oh… from the… oh…"

"Yes, uh – she went into early labour and there were…. Complications." John spoke; Sherlock could hear his voice trembling, about to break. "And she… she – she died." The same kind of stunned silence filled the room as had done when John had found out; the heard Clara gasp.

"She…? No!" Clara's hands had sprung up to her face. "No. She couldn't have! She's… she's really dear?" John was looking at the floor rather than at Clara, but he nodded resignedly. Clara wailed loudly and gripped her fingers in her hair, as though trying to rip it out; she had lowered her head so much that if she moved any lower then her head would be on her knees. "But – but… why didn't she contact me? Why didn't she let me know she was pregnant? I would have –"

"Come back?" Sherlock cut over her coldly. "She couldn't contact you, she didn't know where you had gone and she was under the impression that you didn't love her… what would you having coming back achieved?"

"I…I would have been there for her…" Clara whispered miserably. Sherlock made a derisive noise, but John shot him a warning look and he fell silent, scowling.

"If it's any consolation… she still loved you very much."

John said very quietly; tears had begun to stream down Clara's face, streaking her cheeks with eye make up. John sank into his armchair, unable to respond to Clara's tears.

"Oh god…" Clara repeated over and over, her hands were not gripping onto her knees. "I can't believe… oh god no." She was rocking back and forth, seemingly unaware of the presence of Sherlock and John, entirely consumed by her grief. After roughly ten minutes Clara seemed to recompose herself slightly, she sniffed loudly and wiped her face with the sleeves of her t-shirt. "She was pregnant?" She seemed to have only recalled this piece of information. "What happened?"

"She had a son." John answered in a monotonous tone.

"And – is he… is he alright?" She asked.

"He was very premature, but he's been doing well." John said.

"Will I be able to see him?"

"We can take you tomorrow." John replied, Clara went quiet again. Sherlock was still standing, his gaze moving back and forth between Clara and John; John had managed to remain composed throughout this conversation, but Sherlock could tell that it was taking every ounce of his strength to do so.

"You can stay here if you want to, but it'll have to be on the sofa." Sherlock offered, Clara nodded in silent thanks. "I'm going to head to bed, it's been a long day - and if we're going to take you to the hospital in the morning then we'll need to be up early." He stated, matter-of-factly. "John, are you going to do the same?"

"Yes." John agreed slowly, pushing himself out of his armchair.

"Thank you." Clara said lowly, but John didn't respond.

Sherlock and John ascended the stairs in single file, both quiet from the conversation that had just happened. At the top of the staircase both of them paused, John staring at the floor and Sherlock inspecting John.

"I'm sorry John." Sherlock muttered quietly, reaching out his hand and resting it on John's shoulder. For a moment John just stood, comforted by his friends acquiescence, before muttering: "Thanks." And turning into his own room.

Sherlock wasn't yet tired, he sat in the chair in his bedroom, which was situated directly above the living room; he could hear sobbing coming from below. Clara was obviously incredibly upset by the news that had been delivered to her; and in the stillness of the night – Sherlock was sure he could hear another person sobbing also.

A/N: As always, I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter/story so far!