Chapter 44: Separation

Sherlock handed Jonathon the bottle of milk and watched as his son took it and began to drink it and hold it himself.

"You're growing up too quickly." Sherlock told him. "Even if you're almost a year old." Jonathon kicked his foot out; Sherlock took that as a sign of agreement.

Emmaline was at school, right before her holiday break, so as was usual Sherlock was watching the baby. He enjoyed his time with Jonathon, and was looking forward to his son's first Christmas. It was less than two weeks away, and he had already gotten John something magnificent.

Sherlock had found a website that allowed you to make your own baby board book, and he had made several murder mystery books that he thought Jonathon could enjoy, as he got older. Emmaline would probably find it distasteful, but he wanted to see if his son had an inclination for the same hobbies, he did. They were already neatly packaged in the top of the closet, waiting for Christmas Eve before they went under the tree.

He had planned on putting them out earlier, but several of their ornaments had suffered a terrible death at the hands of their son; he did not want to see the wrapping paper treated in the same manner, before the time was appropriate.

Sherlock watched as his ten month old son pointed at a picture above the fireplace and made a noise.

"Severed head," he told his son. "Filled with maggots."

After Emmaline had developed his next round of pictures, she had placed a few around the house that suited his taste. Speaking of, the door opened and with it came a shivering Emmaline, carrying the chill of the December on her as a shawl.

"It's so damn cold!" She complained, taking her coat off and hanging it up.

She hurried across the room to the couch, and snuggled under Sherlock's warm arm.

"How are my boys?" She asked, giving Jonathon a kiss on the forehead.

"Jonathon was just having his evening bottle, and about to lay down I think. And I put the leftover roast in the oven to heat." Sherlock told her.

"Aw, thank you Sherlock." She spoke softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably the same, but I'd be replaced by a sitter whom you'd have to pay." He offered.

"Well isn't it a good thing I got married then?" She quipped with a smile.

Sherlock laughed shortly. He readjusted his arms so he could comfortably hold both his wife and son, looking upon his quaint little family.

"I really don't want to have to get up." Emma said with a sigh.

"Then don't." He put his head on top of hers, both of them lying in their familial bliss.

"I have to – I have homework I need to get done." Begrudgingly, she hoisted herself from the couch and retrieved her school bag.

An hour passed in an easy way, Jonathon falling asleep in Sherlock's lap, Emmaline getting the roast out of the oven before continuing her work; it was the usual routine of their house.

Sherlock stood and put Jonathon in his crib, smiling as his son rolled over to grab his blanket. He stroked a finger down John's soft cheek before leaving the room, and closing the door.

He found Emmaline still in the kitchen, sitting at the counter, reading her psychology book.

"Working on something hard?" He asked, picking up her dirty plate and setting it in the sink.

"Oh thanks; not really it's just a lot of reading."

"Hmm." Sherlock murmured, coming up to wrap his arms around her from behind.

His hands resting on her hips, his thumbs rubbed circles against her hipbones, hoping to distract her from the boring homework she seemed so interested in doing.

"Sherlock…I need to get this done."

"I understand." He told her sincerely, before resting his mouth against her neck, suckling eagerly at her collarbone.

She groaned in desperation and lust. Sometimes Sherlock could be so damn difficult to live with…

"Please stop. I really need to have this done for school." She beseeched again.

He sighed in defeat. His warm hands left her rounded hips and his wet mouth left her soft neck, now tingling. It was important that she stay on top of her schoolwork, and Sherlock knew that.

"I'm sorry. I'll leave you to your work." He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, depositing himself on the couch, and scooping a book up off the floor.

Emma sighed. Realistically, she could put off her work until the next night; it was not due for a few days. It had also been so long since she and Sherlock had been intimate. With a grunt of exasperation, she closed her book and made her way to the couch.

"I'm sorry Sherlock; I know we haven't gotten to spend too much time together recently."

She nudged his legs down, forcing him to sit up, so she could burrow herself into his arms.

"Between the cases Lestrade has been giving me, your school work, and Jonathon, I honestly don't know how we're managing." He told her truthfully.

"Jonathon isn't that bad; and you're a great father. I'm sorry I haven't been home so much to help out." She sighed. "Maybe I should take some time off of school to help out."

"No."

"Sher—"

"No, I mean it. You are doing too well, and it means too much to you. You want to be a psychologist so you need a degree. Do not give up on that. We have managed so far, and we will continue to do so."

"I am close to graduating; just another year after the spring semester."

"See? There's no point in taking off school right now." He replied.

There was a comfortable silence as Sherlock held her, and Emmaline closed her eyes, enjoying his warmth and closeness. After a moment, his hot breath was in her ear.

"So, about the kitchen…"

Emma smiled and turned her head. "Did you have a general direction you were going in with that?" She asked.

"Yes I did. Would you like to see where?" He whispered sultrily, flicking his tongue out against her ear.

"Mmm," she moaned. "I think I get the gist of it." She replied, capturing his teasing mouth with hers and pushing him down against the sofa cushions.

"Let's not take our time tonight, agreed? I need you."

Sherlock nodded, his curls bouncing as his hands hurried in the mad scramble to remove clothes. She smiled before descending again.

ᶓ

Emma woke up the next morning to the sound of the shower running. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, her limbs barely cooperating with her. Groggily, she found her way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower with Sherlock.

"What?" He turned as the curtain opened, letting in a wave of cold air, his soggy curls matted to his forehead.

"Move." The one word was spoken in a sleepy-slur and Sherlock laughed, stepping further under the water, pulling her under the jet.

She shivered at the temperature change, but after a moment was glad for the heat. Her muscles relaxed and the soothing steam woke helped wake her up.

"How long have you been up?" She asked as she reached for the soap.

"Only a few minutes; I haven't checked on Jonathon yet." He informed her.

"Well, let's wash and then get dressed; you can make his morning bottle and oatmeal."

"You're just saying that because I do it better than you do." He teased.

"I know you do." She conceded, rinsing off and stepping from the shower. "Whenever I try making it he throws a fit."

"He's a daddy's boy." Sherlock said, still in the shower.

Emma rolled her eyes, wrapped herself in a towel, and quickly ran across the flat, to their bedroom. Sherlock followed at a more comfortable pace to their room, and they tried not to make too much noise as they dressed. Yes they were waking him up, but a few minutes rest always made a difference.

Sherlock kissed Emmaline's cheek before leaving the room to make John's breakfast. Emma shook her head before stepping up to their son's crib.

"Hey baby, time to wake up." She cooed softly.

She ran a finger down his face, and was alarmed when it felt cool. He appeared to have slept wrapped up in his blanket and they always kept the flat at a reasonably warm temperature. She watched closely for a moment, looking for the rise and fall of his chest. When she saw nothing, Emmaline truly began to panic.

"John," her voice came out a strangled whisper. She brought her finger under his nose, checking for the breath she hoped would be there. She felt nothing but the static air in the home.

"Sherlock!" She yelled. "Sherlock!" She screamed again as her shaking arms reached in to pick up the child she knew in her heart was gone.

Carefully, she wrapped him up in the blanket and left the bedroom. She saw Sherlock, hurriedly stepping from the kitchen, stop in his tracks.

"We have to go to the hospital now."

The tone of her voice told him it was urgent. He immediately grabbed her keys and bag from the table and ushered her outside and to the car. He drove to the hospital in silence, never once asking what was wrong, only knowing that it was serious.

Emma sat there, holding the limp thing in her arms, tears threatening. He felt heavy, looked like one of Sherlock's corpses. John was gone and the thing she was holding was the flesh he had left behind. She could not bring herself to open her mouth and say anything to Sherlock. She did not want to believe it herself…but Emmaline had been surrounded by death before.

Sherlock drove straight to the ED, a man opening the door and asking what was wrong.

"He's not breathing." She told him, her first words in minutes.

The man took the baby without a word, expecting the parents to follow. Emma and Sherlock got out of the car, handing the keys to what Sherlock assumed was a valet, before entering the hospital.

"What do you mean he's not breathing Emmaline?" Sherlock asked, clutching at his wife's arm.

They were stopped at the waiting room, a nurse patiently telling them their son was being seen to immediately. She took down their names for the doctor, and then walked away to attend to the numerous others in her care.

"Emmaline, what's going on?" Sherlock grabbed her, forcing her to face him. The dead, despairing look he saw etched on her face almost broke him.

"It wasn't him, Sherlock." She tried to explain. "John is just…gone."

He let go of her, shaking his head. "I refuse to believe that." He said through gritted teeth. Amidst all the people in the hospital, Sherlock stepped away from his wife and slid has back against the wall, wrapped his arms around his knees, and sat alone, waiting for news of his son.

Emma did not try to comfort him; she dare not go near him. She knew the doctor would take no time at all in declaring him dead; she only wondered what she had done wrong. It seemed that everyone she cared about died. Fidgeting nervously with her engagement ring, she thought about how this could have happened, and began to blame herself.

They were supposed to be sleeping in their room last night, but had instead bunked on the couch because of their carnal desires. If she had not left her homework, had simply said no, Jonathon might still be alive. They might have noticed if he had stopped breathing in the night, been able to save him. They were both such light sleepers, one of them would have noticed.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?" A crisp voice called out, registering with her above the other clamoring voices.

"Yes?" She responded, finding the owner of the voice.

He was a middle-aged man, still good looking, with ginger-hair and a beard, wearing a white lab coat.

"I'm Dr. Barnes; I was attending to your son whom you brought in this morning."

Sherlock came up wordlessly behind his wife as the doctor introduced himself.

"I'm sorry to tell you that your son was dead when he arrived here; I'm very sorry for your loss."

Emma felt like a rope had just snapped. Whatever had been tethering her to this world had freed itself, leaving her floating in the void. She found herself falling back, against Sherlock, trusting him to hold her weight. He faltered, grasping his wife's arms, hoping his own legs could still support him.

She was running, searching, for whoever had been on the other side of the rope. John, where was John? He was not supposed to untie it…running, her lungs burning, she had to find him…Finally she caught up with a little boy, a few years older than Jonathon, but with the same chocolate curls of her beloved Sherlock.

"Come back!" She screamed. "Get back here!" She yelled until her voice was hoarse but the little boy just laughed and ran ahead of her, and she lost him in the dark.

"…It seems to us that he died suddenly in the night; we're going to perform an autopsy to rule out other possible causes of death. We are going to have to call the police to escort you back home, ask you a few questions, and examine your home. It's protocol when a child dies so suddenly like this, with no explanation." The doctor continued.

"Call Scotland Yard and ask for Lestrade please." Sherlock said. "He's the only competent officer they have." His voice was a complete monotone, the man Emmaline had come to known replaced. This was a completely different beast. "Thank you for Doctor." He said to the man, before grabbing Emmaline's hand and guiding her outside, to the car.

They sat, the engine idly rumbling, words hanging between them, with nothing to say.

ᶓ

Lestrade could not believe that he was being called back to the residence, just a short week later. He had already had to have his men treat their home as a crime scene, question them, treat them as criminals until the autopsy had come back for their son. It had been Sudden Infant Death Syndrome – a killer with no known cause. Nothing to be done about it, it was a murdered that struck randomly and left broken families wherever it went.

Lestrade had seen Sherlock withdraw further into himself, becoming a shell of the man Greg had known, and Emmaline had never been more distant. He could tell that the couple was not handling the loss well, as people, or as a unit.

Greg got in his car and flashed the lights, making all haste to the home of his friends, where neighbors had called in with complaints of shouting. It was not a surprise to him that he had received a domestic disturbance call. A few minutes later he was parking and running up the steps to their flat. A few flights away, he could hear the muffled shouting.

The door was slightly ajar, so Lestrade decided to go in. He immediately categorized it as one of the worst decisions he had ever made. The flat was a mess, blankets, pillows covered the living room floor, books strewn about, and needles…hypodermic needles were a common obstacle to avoid. The yelling was intelligible now.

"How could you do this?" She was shouting. "How could you do this to me?" Greg heard something break, a shout of anger following.

"What would you have me do? Bottle it up like you, like an unfeeling automaton?" Sherlock yelled back.

Another shattering noise pierced the flat and when Lestrade rounded the corner, he could see Emmaline reaching for another vase to throw. She had been aiming for Sherlock who, even high, could still avoid blows with the best of them.

"Is this feeling enough for you Sherlock?" She screamed, her hand coming down to slam the table. "I don't know how to deal with this, and you're leaving me all alone again, when I need you!"

Greg could see the tears that she had been shedding, and the redness of her eyes. There had not been a dry eye in this house since the death of their child. He could not imagine what they were going through, but he could see that it was tearing them apart.

"I'm dealing with it in my way." Sherlock said calmly, walking past her and into the kitchen. Greg could hear the clinking of ice against a glass, and assumed he was pouring himself a drink.

"You drown your sorrows in whiskey and morphine, so you don't have to feel. Does it really bother you that much, that you let someone get so close to you?" Emma asked, picking up a fallen suitcase. "You haven't once thought about how anyone else is feeling but yourself." She accused.

"Who else am I supposed to be thinking about?" Sherlock asked, indeed coming out of the kitchen with a glass of whiskey.

"How about the other parent Sherlock? We have to bury our son!" She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Or did you never love me? You know it is hard to tell with you sometimes. Perhaps we really would have been better off if I had never met you. Clearly you would have loved that; you practically said as much last night."

Lestrade announced his presence with a clearing of his throat. He held his hands up, stepping carefully into the room.

"We having a domestic are we?" He asked.

"Ahh, Lestrade! How have you been? Got any cases for me yet?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Emma shook her head, new tears threatening to fall. Her grip on the suitcase tightened and she rolled it over, coming to stand near Lestrade.

"Take care of him please. I can't do this anymore." She pleaded. "I'm afraid he's not handling this very well."

"You're leaving?" He asked, surprise in his voice.

"I have to bury my son; I'm in no way ready to take care of another child right now."

"You can't just go, you need each other." He implored.

"No, he doesn't need me. He has only ever needed his drugs to make him feel better, and I will not be a part of it. I have to go, before it kills me too."

She headed for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob.

"You can still come to the funeral," she shouted, "if you ever really cared about Jonathon."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I care." He whispered to his now empty glass. He heard the door slamming, ringing in his ears with a note of finality. He sighed, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. Sherlock brought it to his lips and lit it, taking in the nearly empty flat. What little brightness had remained had just departed with her. It seemed that after all he had been through, Sherlock Holmes was finally living Hell on Earth.

Greg took in the sight of the place, the events he had just witnessed, and realized that he had just had a front row seat to the end of a marriage. He turned his gaze upon his friend, stared at the shaking hands, the legs that could barely support him, and understood that his only anchor had just walked out the door.

Sherlock Holmes was falling, and who knew where he would land?

A/N: I am so sorry that it has taken me so long to write this, but for many reasons it was very difficult. I also have had some personal things going on, not leaving me as much time to write as I have hoped. I'm hoping to carve out time to finish this book this week, and then edit the other two to make them better, stronger books worthy of the Sherlock name.

Also, I have to find the notebook that I made notes in for the next book in this series. Anyone who reads a few of my other stories may realize this is a recurring theme with me, but I also have a little sister who likes to hide my things. Hopefully I can find it because I had some excellent notes in there that I can't remember perfectly. I only want to give you guys the best, and I hope this is it.