Chapter Sixteen.
John barely slept. He felt like he was lying awake, watching the second hand on the clock ticking ever so slowly by, but never getting anywhere at all. He had thought that Clara's arrival would relieve him a bit, that maybe it would take some of the weight off of him – but now that she was actually present, the weight seemed to have trebled and was pressing down soul-crushingly hard on him. He wasn't sure what he had expected, how Clara could have helped in this situation; but her presence did only one thing only for John – and that was compound more harshly than anything had previously, that Harry was dead and she wasn't coming back.
Dawn broke slowly, the birds began rousing from their period of inactivity and sang so loudly that John was astounded that he should ever be able to sleep through them. The noise of traffic became louder and louder with every minute as early morning commuters began to stream into the centre of London. The conversation he had had with Clara kept replaying in his mind; her utter shocked disbelief about what had happened and her insistence that if she had known, she would have come back. John felt a ripple of anger, mainly on Harry's part, at the way Clara had left; Clara had deserted her after years! Of course John understood that love was a complicated matter and that people could fall in and out of love at any time, but by the way in which Clara had reacted she hadn't fallen out of love with Harry – she had just gotten bored of the routine of their relationship. It was no way to treat someone you loved! You didn't jerk around with other people's feelings to satisfy your own whims and desires! Then a thought passed through John's mind, so quickly that it took him a couple of seconds to link it up with what he had been thinking about: the way that Sherlock acted to the people that he cared about was exactly the way that John thought of as unacceptable… Sherlock took risks, he strove towards what would satisfy his own desires and he continually picked people up and dropped them when they were no longer required. So despite thinking that Harry should have recognised this and wised up to the way Clara was treating her, he could not really blame Clara – for he too accepted similar treatment from his own friend.
Unable to settle John finally rose at half six, dressing and then pacing around the room, thinking of the day ahead and the conversations that he was still yet to have with Clara: the whereabouts of the man Paolo; the questions around custody of the baby; and the choice of a name… All that would still have to be discussed and decided.
By half past seven John felt as though his head was about to explode with all of the thoughts that were teeming inside of it, they were all so blurred together now that he could hardly distinguish the end of one thought from the beginning of another. It was an acceptable time to rise now – he assured himself, as he left his bedroom and began to make his way down the stairs; if they were going to go to the morning visiting hours then they would have to be having breakfast and getting ready to leave shortly. There were sounds of movement from Sherlock's bedroom, but John didn't knock on Sherlock's door – he would appear in his own time. Clara was asleep, curled up on the sofa, her eyes were puffy and red even despite them being closed, she must have been crying. John hadn't heard her, but then again by the time he got to his room last night he was so consumed by his own thoughts that he wouldn't have heard if a bomb had gone off the floor below. She didn't stir as John entered the living room; John didn't awaken her yet, instead he entered the kitchen and turned the kettle on. As the kettle boiled, John heard feet from up above – Sherlock must have awoken. He waited for Sherlock to join him, preparing a cup of coffee for him, and when Sherlock appeared – looking as fresh as ever – he accepted the cup from John.
"Do you want me to wake her?" Sherlock asked, staring in the direction of Clara who was still curled up on the sofa; John took a sip of his tea and sighed:
"I suppose…"
"Have you got a cup of tea for her?" John poured water into another cup and handed it to Sherlock, who strode over and banged into one of the little tables loudly. Clara woke abruptly, assumedly from the loud noise so close to her and peered around in confusion.
"Cup of tea for you." Sherlock said flatly, laying the tea down in front of her; she rubbed her face and sat up.
"Thanks." She mumbled. Sherlock returned to the kitchen and stood next to John; from the manner of his actions, John could tell that Sherlock didn't think much of Clara. He didn't want to air this view right now, not when Clara would probably hear him.
"Are we going in for the early visiting hours?" Sherlock finally questioned, John nodded then paused shortly.
"You don't need to come with me, not if you don't want to…" John replied very quickly.
"I don't mind it…" Sherlock said, bristling a little as though thinking that John was telling him off.
"I just… I don't want you to go out of your way – if there's something better you could be doing." John muttered.
"There isn't." Sherlock answered very seriously.
"Oh… okay." John hadn't yet expressed his thanks at how Sherlock's continuing support was much appreciated from, yet before he could broach this subject Clara broke in on their conversation.
"Um… you don't have a towel I could borrow, do you?" She asked tentatively. "I just wanted to clean myself up a bit before we go."
"Yes, of course." John put his cup of tea down and retrieved a towel from a small cupboard near the boiler. "There's a bathroom just there." He indicated, and she nodded.
Twenty-five minutes later the three passengers were seated in a taxi on their way to the hospital. John was more restless than he usually was, and he kept raising and lowering his knuckles to in front of his mouth, as though he was trying to smell something present upon his hand; Clara was also consistently twitchy, tapping her fingers on the edge of her knees and chewing her fingernails of her other hand, they were both nervous.
When they arrived John led the way into the hospital and up to the paediatric ICU, pausing outside the doors at the window and staring inside. The bay that usually held his nephew was empty, for a few seconds Sherlock could see terror rising in John's eyes, before he knocked on the doors rather briskly. Dr. Harper appeared at the doors, recognising John and opened them.
"Hello Dr. Watson!" He greeted them cheerily, and before John could utter any question, any notion of the panic that he was feeling Dr. Harper answered the question. "We've moved your nephew to the neonatal ward as he's doing so well – would you like me to take you along there?"
"Please." John agreed, a touch of relief present in his voice; and the three of them followed Dr. Harper along one of the one of the corridors towards the other paediatric wards. There was a small bay with only four young children inside, Dr. Harper lead them right up to the cot containing John's nephew – he was no longer in an incubator, but resting in among a thick white blanket.
"He's improved a lot in the past few days, and he's gained three more ounces – it just goes to prove that we must be doing something right!" Dr. Harper notified John. "He'll be able to go home with you in no time!"
"Thanks." John replied.
Once Dr. Harper had departed, John moved closer to the side of the infant, stroking the side of his finger along the baby's cheek; but Clara stood well back – staring as though she had never seen a baby before. After quite a prolonged silence, she took a tentative step forwards.
"This – this is Harry's son?" She asked in a low whisper, John nodded. She seemed to dither on the spot, not sure whether to move forwards and have a closer look at the boy, or whether to keep her distance.
"Come and see." John said encouragingly, and Clara moved to his side, looking down. The bundle of blankets was hardly moving at all, aside from the gentle movements of his chest rising and falling as he breathed in and out, he was in a fitful doze and didn't seem to be ready to wake up yet.
"He's tiny!" Clara commented, resting her finger next to the baby's curled fist.
"He was really premature, but he is beginning to grow now – he's put on several ounces, which is a good sign." John acknowledged; without Clara noticing it John had been taking small steps backwards, leaving her beside the baby's cot on her own. When he was far enough backwards for her not to notice, he moved to stand beside Sherlock and surveyed the scene. "Clara, Sherlock and I are going to go and get a coffee, we'll be back in five minutes, alright?" She turned to look at John and nodded mutely. John chivvied Sherlock out of the ward, taking a mental note that it was ward 61, and they walked along the corridors in the direction of the main reception where he knew there was a little coffee and sandwich shop.
"Why did you want to leave her on her own?" Sherlock asked inquisitively; he was still not altogether sure that they could trust Clara, and leaving her alone with the baby seemed like a bit of a risky chance.
"If Harry and her had still been together then that would have been her son." John replied plainly. "I think she's entitled to some time alone with him. Besides, I've got to ask her later on about custody, and whether she knows where that Paolo guy is, so I'd rather keep her on my side just in case…" John filtered away.
"Just in case what?" Sherlock asked, although he was sure he knew the answer.
"In case she, or Paolo, want custody." John answered. "Whatever happens, I still want to be able to see him – and if that means keeping her happy now, then I have to do that."
"You really think that she'll want custody of him?" Sherlock sounded highly incredulous now.
"No…" John bit his lip. "I don't… but I don't want to rule it out just because it's not likely now. " John sat at a table while Sherlock ordered two coffees, which turned out to be a horrible grey colour, and brought them back across to the table.
"You really want him, don't you?" Sherlock asked, John's eyes jerked up from staring at the colour of the "coffee" and, with his eyebrows raised, viewed Sherlock's face.
"What do you mean?" John lowered his coffee cup slowly back onto the table top.
"I mean, you really want guardianship, don't you?" Sherlock expanded only slightly.
"Well… yeah." John nodded. "Of course I do, he's my nephew."
"But you weren't so sure a couple of days ago… what's changed your mind?" Sherlock was trying not to be too over conspicuous in asking, but he knew that he wasn't doing too good a job.
"It's just… he's family. I'd rather he stayed with family – even if I'm not meant to be a parent, I can give it my best shot… And it'd be better than him growing up in a care home, wondering why no one wanted him." John replied, "And, I guess – watching him over the past couple of days; he's such a little fighter and he's shown the Watson spirit already, how could I hand him over to someone who would grind that out of him?" Sherlock nodded; he had expected John would want to look after his nephew once Harry had died, but the passion that he felt for the baby had grown increasingly as they continued to look after him. "I know that man, Paolo, is his father, but I can't stand the thought of him swanning in and taking him away… So if I need to fight to keep him, then I'm prepared to."
"I don't think you'd need to fight." Sherlock replied calmly, his cup of coffee raised an inch or so above the table top.
"How not?" John asked.
"It just doesn't seem like he's the type of person who would appear and suddenly demand to take him away."
"You never know what he'd be like if it is about his child." John commented darkly. "He could turn up and demand access."
"I doubt it." Sherlock muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. "Urgh – and they wonder why people complain about hospital food! This is disgusting"! Sherlock hadn't bothered to keep his voice down and a passing waitress scowled at him. "Shall we go back?"
"Let's wait a few more minutes, I want Clara to feel like she's had enough time." John insisted; Sherlock looked as though he wanted to protest but he kept his mouth tightly closed.
Clara was sitting with her head down when John and Sherlock had decided that it was time to make their presence once more. She had her eyes closed, and didn't notice them entering until they were right beside her.
"I… I didn't hear you coming back." She croaked, once she had opened her eyes.
"I don't… I don't know how you can do this." Clara choked, her voice sounding very thick with emotion. "How you can cope…" She broke off, her hand covering her face.
"For him," He replied very simply, gazing down at his nephew. "He's not got anyone else."