John woke slowly; he was curled into a tight ball with his bed covers entwined around him in a tangle. It took him several minutes to really come to, he was so warm and still so tired that he could easily have gone back to sleep. However, as he brought his arm round from bent behind him, he opened his eyes ever so slightly and was looking directly at the empty cot. He sat bolt upright, where was Innes? Then he remembered and sank back down onto his bed: Sherlock was looking after him so John could get some rest. He had been asleep for nearly six hours, the curtains despite having not been opened that morning were much dimmer with the evening light that was now coming through them. He should probably get up and relieve Sherlock from babysitting duties, he would probably have been driven out of his mind by Innes' crying. The bright lights that were turned on in the hallway and living room made John squint, his eyes had been so accustomed to the darkness recently that the light brunt them. Sherlock was sat on the sofa, his long thin hands placed on either side of the infant, who was awake and staring up into Sherlock's face. It was practically the first time that John had known Innes to be awake and not be bawling his head off. Sherlock was talking to Innes, but he wasn't lowering his voice like most people did when addressing a baby, he was talking to him as though he was an adult that he was conversing with.
"These are your phalanges, and I must admit you have an excellent grip with them." He had reached out a finger to touch Innes' fingers, but the baby had curled his hand around Sherlock's outstretched finger. "Now you've got three kinds of bones in your phalanges, the distal, intermediate and proximal. Most people call the phalanges, fingers. That's probably what you'll learn them as, if John has any say." John cleared his throat and Sherlock turned his head to see John in the doorway. "Hello John. Are you alright?"
"I… I thought I should come and relieve you of Innes." John said weakly, his voice wasn't more than a croak.
"Oh you don't have to." Sherlock answered calmly. "I can look after him tonight; I can put him in the Moses basket, so you can get a decent bit of rest. We're having quite a good anatomy lesson, aren't we Innes?" Sherlock twitched the finger that Innes was holding onto.
"Oh, okay." John said. "Thanks, night." And without another word, or pause, John turned round and made his way back up the stairs. He waited for a moment at the top of the stairs, and could hear Sherlock's voice saying:
"These are your metacarpals and your carpal bones; those are the bits that join your hand to your wrist." Sherlock had gone back to the anatomy lesson.
John sat down on the edge of his bed once more, for some reason he had lost all the good, warm feeling that he had had when he was waking up. It was like they had all drained out of his feet and been replaced by the cold, numbing sensation all over again. He thought that Sherlock would have been going crazy having to look after the screaming Innes, but on the contrary both of them seemed to be perfectly fine without John. Innes never stopped crying when he was with John, but Sherlock had succeeded on quietening him down within a matter of hours. Sherlock was better at looking after Innes than he was; Innes was better off without him. Everyone was better off without him…
The consuming emptiness that had grown up inside of him had not faded away in his sleep; it had increased if anything. The absence of Innes was both a double edged sword; it was nice to not have to be consciously trying to shut Innes up; he wasn't in the right frame of mind to be looking after him. But with him not being in the room, he felt guilty – he had promised Harry that he would look after Innes, and right away he had pawned him off at the first opportunity. He ripped off the socks that he had been wearing for two days and then collapsed back on to the mattress. John's mind wouldn't shut up – he felt inundated, under barragement; he screwed up his eyes as though it would stop the thoughts. His stomach was squirming inside of him as he pulled the duvet up over his head' why did these thoughts plague him whenever he just wanted to sleep?
He sunk into an uneasy sleep, waking up periodically as if his brain kept trying to remind him about Innes needing fed; but every time it took him longer to get back to sleep…
When he woke up just after 8am he noted that he hadn't once heard Innes cry throughout the night; perhaps his first thought had been right – they were all better off without him. He was still curled into a ball, his knees very close to his chest, but suddenly it felt as though feet were pressing down upon his chest. Sobs were rising up inside him and he was unable to suppress them; he buried his face deep into the duvet, masking them with the bedclothes. He was being so incredibly stupid, or that's how he felt. He had never, ever gone to pieces like this before – not when either of his parents had died, or when he had lost anyone while in the army… so why now? He had barely seen, or been in contact with Harry for the past several years; so why had her death triggered such a cataclysmic collapse within him?
'It's because she's your sister! Was your sister…' The logical part of his brain was attempting, at least, to justify the reasons for his meltdown. He didn't know what to do either, how to get rid of these feelings… but he did know that they weren't doing anything to help. There was no possible good that was coming from them. He should be focussing on his nephew, he should be able to get over his feelings and concentrate on what now had become his life… but he couldn't. It wasn't possible, it felt inescapable.
Hours later, although it felt like days, John resurfaced. He washed carelessly, trying to present some kind of proper face, even though it was useless. His skin was still pale, the bags under his eyes prominent; he was still bearing the unmistakable signs of grief… He could hear the baby gurgling as he came down the staircase, Sherlock must be doing something to amuse him and it was clearly working. He stood for a long pause at the door to the living room, watching Sherlock waving individual scientific instruments in front of Innes and explaining what they were; the bright colours of the objects must be keeping Innes' attention. It was quite a while before Sherlock noticed the shadow being cast by John standing at the door.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, an air of relief present in his voice. "I didn't know if you'd come down today." John just nodded as a reply. "Do you want something to eat? Or a cup of tea?"
"I'll get something…" He answered vaguely, he was still watching Sherlock's hand dangling what looked like a bottle full of crimson liquid in front of Innes' baby chair. "Has he been alright?"
"Of course! He's been no trouble; he slept well, and he's had several feeds, and he's even been helping me tidy my chemical tray." Sherlock smiled; John thought how bizarre this was… Sherlock was so cold, calculating and inhumane to most of the adults he came into contact with, but his behaviour towards Innes showed an entirely different side to his personality, one which John had never experienced before. And it was certainly peculiar.
"Oh…" John made a small noise and looked down at his feet, shuffling them on top of the floorboards. "Good." He added eventually, attempting to cover up his obvious feelings making themselves known.
"Are you alright John?" Sherlock asked, his voice dropping an octave. John was still staring at his feet, his chest feeling tight again and a familiar warm burning sensation around his eye sockets which heralded the formation of new tears; trying to bring in air through his nose as his mouth was clamped so tightly shut. The oxygen wasn't enough for his brain and he felt a little bit dizzy; all he could feel was this sense of impending doom, like a hand was throttling him, slowly forcing all the life out of him. Suddenly a hand was gripping his upper arm: "John?" John took a gasping breath in, he could feel his whole body shaking and he couldn't really explain this sudden grip of hurt and panic that had seized him. The hand was holding onto him so tightly, almost keeping him upright. "John, take a deep breath in." John tried, but it caught at the back of his throat; he could hear himself wheezing shallowly, but could hardly stop it. "And again." He tried again, and this time he managed; the tightness seemed to be releasing itself from his chest and throat. "Come on, once more." He was still shaking, trembling almost uncontrollably, then the tears bubbled up and he let out a sob before he could even stop himself. Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock had drawn John into a kind of hug, his arm held tightly around John's shoulder. He buried himself into Sherlock's shirt, feeling the warmth beneath it, Sherlock's collarbone pressing against John's cheek. He couldn't repress the sobs that were escaping from him without even his conscious knowledge, but Sherlock's presence, the tight arm holding him was comforting. John couldn't tell for how long he stood there, close to Sherlock's person; but he eventually realised that he had stopped crying, he was just standing, being held tight and needing that embrace. "Are you okay?" Sherlock's voice was low and soothing; and it suddenly reinforced in John that Sherlock really cared. He tried to nod, but did nothing more than twitch.
"I'm sorry." He croaked finally; Sherlock moved slightly, each of his big hands on either side of John's shoulders.
"Don't apologise, you don't ever have to apologise for feeling upset." Sherlock said firmly. John looked up, Sherlock was gazing at him very intently; his eyes connecting with John's and conveying the depth and purity of his statement. "You don't apologise; not to me."
And without thinking, without hesitating, John acted on the impulse he was feeling inside him. He stretched up slightly; and kissed Sherlock.
A/N: As always, I'd love to know what you think of this chapter/story so far!