Leviticus 20:13

No More Reason To Stay

That night seemed to drag on for eternity, in fact Sherlock never realized just how late it was getting until he looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. He was tired yet wide awake, and now he was doing laps around the waiting room, trying to keep himself active and alert enough to drive home, while John talked to the doctors about the plans they had for Rosie. Sherlock didn't listen and frankly he didn't want to know, given, the constant pale expression on John's face it seemed as though nothing had changed, Rosie was most certainly among the dead now, and what happened afterwards was more than Sherlock ever wanted to think about. John was steadily gaining his strength; in fact he had been walking around as well before the doctor sat him down to talk business. Sherlock had been making sure he ate and drank, occasionally buying him small snacks such as pretzels out of the vending machines with his meager pocket change. The tea was getting cold and yet it was still perfectly drinkable, so that was John's source of hydration for the night. While John was talking, however, Sherlock suddenly felt his pocket vibrating, and he rooted around for a moment before unearthing his long forgotten phone in the midst of old pieces of gum and receipts. Sherlock answered it reluctantly, knowing that only one person would be calling at such a time of night, someone who was suddenly noticing his absence.
"Yes?" Sherlock muttered quickly, ducking away from the waiting room and lingering in the back hallway near the buzzing vending machines.
"Sherlock where on earth are you?" Greg's voice asked, sounding very panicky on the other end of the line.
"I'm here, I'm still at the hospital. Why, is everything alright?" Sherlock wondered nervously, half expecting Greg to tell him that the rectory had burned down or something ghastly like that.
"Everything's fine here, I was just worried that it wasn't fine over there." Greg admitted hastily, as if he was suddenly trying to play off his worries as nothing more than an inconvenience.
"No it's um...well the doctors couldn't save her. She's um...she died." Sherlock admitted in a small voice, suddenly feeling his throat well up with newfound emotion. There was silence at the other end of the line, as if Greg suddenly didn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry to hear that." he muttered finally. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, if that was the best Greg could come up with then surely he ought to work on his response, as a priest dealing with grievers was a part of the job, and if Greg could only deliver the 'I'm sorry to hear that' speech then he really wasn't much help was he?
"Yes well, she's with God." Sherlock agreed in a small voice.
"Speaking of that, are you still with Mr. Watson? Surely he should let you go home now, it's almost two o'clock!" Greg exclaimed, as if he firmly believed that all mourning should take a break around twelve and continue again when the sun rose.
"Greg it's not like I can hurry him, besides I'm his ride home, I need to stay. This is my job as a priest." Sherlock insisted flatly.
"No this is your job as a love sick moron. Here I am sitting up while Father Turner is fast asleep in his cozy little bed; I was waiting for you to come home any moment!" Greg exclaimed angrily.
"Well I'm sorry; I can't really control the situation here. Thank you for your concern though, I never knew you cared." Sherlock admitted in a sort of taunting voice, and he heard Greg scoff in annoyance at the other end.
"Oh stop it; I just got home myself it's not like you're special." Greg snapped.
"Ah, there it is. And for once I thought I found proof that you have a heart. As if." Sherlock muttered with a fake laugh.
"I hear that sarcasm and I do not appreciate it!" Greg exclaimed, sounding like a tired parent who was waiting for their rebellious teenager to return home late at night.
"You go on to bed Greg; I don't know when I'll be back." Sherlock muttered, glancing back into the waiting room where the doctor was having John sign some sort of document on a clipboard.
"Ya alright, just be careful Sherlock." Greg muttered irritably. Sherlock could only smile, the sort of antagonizing smile he would wear if Greg was here just to annoy him and rub it in his face that he was having human emotions and actually thinking about someone else. However Greg wasn't here, and the only ones who would witness Sherlock's little smile was the vending machines, and frankly he suspected they didn't care.
"Ya I will, goodnight." Sherlock agreed, and with that the line went dead. He sighed, turning off his phone silently and pocketing it once more, fiddling around to find a dollar in his pocket before staring with tired eyes at all the sweet chocolaty things that he could find in the vending machines. Sherlock returned with a meager pack of Oreos and a sleepy frown, finding that John was getting himself up from the couch and wobbling a bit around the carpet. Sherlock rushed to assist him and yet John flung out a hand to stop him, as if insisting he could do this by himself.
"I'm fine...I'm fine." He insisted flatly, however he walked with some sort of broken down hunch, looking as though he was struggling under thousands of pounds of grief upon his spine. Sherlock ate an Oreo silently, not knowing what to do to help so he simply watched as John disposed of his empty Styrofoam cup and folded his blanket with care.
"Are you planning on leaving?" Sherlock wondered softly.
"Yes well, it's getting late and I um...I don't have any reason to stay." John whispered mournfully. Sherlock nodded, trying to be understanding of John's pain yet secretly happy that he didn't have to hang around here in this depressing waiting room any longer. The sooner they got home the sooner they got other things on their minds, and as much as Sherlock didn't like leaving John alone he knew that the man needed some privacy, some time to mourn alone.
"Then we shall be going immediately, do we need to check out or anything?" Sherlock wondered reluctantly, looking around to see that they were the last ones in the waiting room, not even the secretaries had bothered to stick around and watch over them.
"We never signed in, remember?" John reminded him. Sherlock nodded, not daring to smile just in case John didn't mean that to be a joke.
"Yes of course, well, off we go then." Sherlock decided finally, starting his way to the door and waiting as John lumbered behind. Sherlock tried many times to offer an arm to balance or a shoulder to lean on and yet John simply wouldn't take it, he insisted that he could walk by himself and take the stairs by himself and even navigate the dark parking lot all on his own. Obviously he was trying to be independent again, since he was going to be forced to be alone for the next night at least, however Sherlock didn't like the idea of him stumbling around his house alone with no one to call should he fall and break his hip or something like that. Nevertheless Sherlock waited in the front seat of the car while John clambered in next to him, buckling his seatbelt with hands so shaky that it took him multiple tries just to fasten it. And yet Sherlock waited for him, obviously John wanted to do all of this on his own and Sherlock certainly wouldn't intervene with John's personal vendetta.
"Ready?" Sherlock asked carefully. John nodded, looking at the hospital one last time as it faded away into the darkness, its bright lights shining among the stars and making it look almost cheerful from the outside; however what went on inside of its walls was quite the opposite. No matter how many bright lights that building hoisted and no matter how many smiling faces it plastered onto its brochures that building stood as a beacon of death and unfortunate. People came there to die, and those doctors and nurses were helpless to stop them. Sherlock didn't let himself be fooled by the apparent good nature of the outside of the building, and needless to say he was happy when it faded away down the road behind them. They sat in silence and stillness on the drive home. Sherlock didn't hear any sobs coming from the seat next to him and yet he knew that John was broken beyond compare, he knew that whatever tears he had stored away would surely be saved for this evening when he finally sat alone and undisturbed. Sherlock pitied him, of course he did, and yet he didn't know what he was supposed to do about it, he didn't know what John would let him do. If Sherlock could do what he thought necessary he'd stay over at John's house all night, simply to comfort him and let him know that someone was here to help. And yet suddenly that felt wrong, that felt needy. Obviously this man wanted his space, no one could properly grieve when they felt like they had an audience and yet the very idea of John being alone and at the mercy of his misery gave Sherlock a great deal of uneasiness. What might John do, something rash, something uncalled for? Whether it be self-harm, alcoholism, or violence Sherlock knew that if he had someone there to coax him through it he would be better off, however maybe he could find a man better suited for the job. Surely Sherlock was already over stepping his boundaries; he didn't want to overwhelm Mr. Watson with his most likely unappreciated presence. He had to let John go, he knew that John was a grown man and if he needed help he would ask for it, Sherlock would just be pesky if he invited himself over for a somber slumber party. Sherlock didn't quite know where John lived, however once they got to town John pointed him in the right direction with as little head movements as he could manage, as if looking upon the ever familiar streets only hurt him more. His voice was a mere croak and his words brief, however it was a relief to Sherlock just to know that he was still alive and conscious while slumped over in that passenger seat. Finally Sherlock reached what looked to be a once very neatly kept row home, one of the town houses that were built so closely together that they shared a wall with their next door neighbors. It had once been very well landscaped and painted, however the paint was peeled or weathered in some areas and the flowers were mostly all dead. Surely this house was John's, the bleak reminder of when suburbia had still been on the table. The house was merely the skeletal remains of a time when he had a wife to do the gardening and a job to fund the housekeeping and a daughter to play on the neatly mowed lawn. And now what was it, what was John? A widower, a lost father, a man without a steady income and a man without a purpose. He was a shell, looking like a man on the outside but feeling nothing on the inside, like a disappointing hallow Easter egg. At least that was surely what he thought of himself, for now. But Sherlock saw more, he knew that John was more than just the exoskeleton of a middle aged man with potential, he was magnificent, he was beautiful, he was the definition of strength without the fallacy that men didn't cry. He was human, a human that had suffered through so much and yet still kept his sanity, still kept his will to carry on. Sherlock respected John Watson more in this moment than he ever had before, simply because he was still here. Still fighting. Sherlock pulled up alongside the curb and jumped out promptly, making his way around the car before John even had the chance to unbuckle his seatbelt. Sherlock opened the door helpfully and John spilled out onto the sidewalk, wobbling on his feet in the darkness as he tried to remember how to stand up straight. Sherlock watched him carefully, keeping his hands ready to shoot out and support John just in case his knees gave out and he began to fall. Maybe Sherlock was taking this a little bit seriously, John was sad not crippled, and yet he surely didn't want to have to return to the hospital with John in his arms, not right after they had lost their first Watson.
"Are you alright to stay alone?" Sherlock wondered nervously, looking up into the dark, empty windows that stretched through the front of the house. John rubbed his eyes miserably, making a grunting sound that made him sound more like an upset cow than a man.
"I'll be fine." He muttered in a weak voice, not convincing Sherlock well enough at all. However Sherlock knew that he was in no position to pamper, and if John insisted he could stay alone then he would simply have to. Sherlock wasn't family, he didn't even know if he was a friend, so he certainly couldn't barge in uninvited and camp out on John's couch while listening to his host crying in his bedroom.
"Mr. Watson if you need anything, anything at all, call me, please. I'm here for you at whatever hour, at whatever cost, I don't care." Sherlock insisted flatly, watching John intently as he nodded, his eyes scanning the sidewalk in front of them and his hands twitching nervously by his sides.
"Ya...ya I will." He agreed, sounding almost like he was saying that just to get Sherlock off of his back. Nevertheless Sherlock could only hope he was being serious, he would hate to see John go without a necessity simply because he was unable to get up and go out by himself. Who knows what might trigger another spontaneous grieving session? Seeing Rosie's favorite ice cream shop as he drove by, seeing her favorite cereal in the grocery store? Sherlock would hate to see John shut himself in simply because he was too weak and too vulnerable to take on the unforgiving world, he wanted to be there to help him with whatever he needed and to assist on getting him back to his feet. They stood there together rather awkwardly on the cement, knowing that after such an emotional night a simple goodbye wouldn't suffice as a farewell. However Sherlock didn't know what else to do or what else to say. Surely there was something John could be expecting from him, something a bit more...personal? The whole neighborhood was asleep, it was a bleak and freezing winter night and the darkness was penetrated only by the single street lamp that illuminated their shadows from above. The moon would be the only witness to whatever happened here tonight.
"Oh I um...I suppose you might want this back." John muttered quietly, reluctantly pulling Sherlock's beaded rosary from his pocket. He held it for a moment in his hands, his fingers tangled in the necklace as the shiny cross pendant glittered and gleamed despite the darkness. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths and trying to contain the stampede of sadness that had just overwhelmed his brain. He didn't want to cry, he didn't want to shed one single tear lest John see how broken he really was. If he was going to be John's rock then he shouldn't shatter with every single emotional blow.
"If you would like to keep it, just for..."
"No, no I don't want it. It's yours you... you just take it." John insisted flatly, sounding as though he was becoming more angry than upset now, as if he was thoroughly annoyed by Sherlock's persistent pestering. Sherlock nodded, taking a meager step forward and holding out his hands acceptingly. John let the rosary fall almost ceremoniously into Sherlock's palm, and Sherlock could only nod his appreciation as he let the necklace slip over his head and hang with that familiar weight onto his chest. This rosary had been through so much, it had seen so much suffering and death, it had hung around the necks of women and men who were broken inside and out, it was so symbolic, it was so powerful. Suddenly it didn't hang with the weight of the pendant but the weight of the lives it represented, when Sherlock dangled that rosary around his neck he felt his mother's protective arms, he heard Rosie's childish laugh, he felt John's anguish, and now he could only wonder what John felt of Sherlock when he wore the same rosary around his neck. What feeling was predominantly expressed when John thought about Sherlock?
"I suppose I should let you go then, I suppose I've hung around a little bit too much." Sherlock admitted reluctantly, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at his shoes in shame. John's reaction, however, was quite the opposite of what he had expected. Sherlock had expected silence; he had been fully prepared to walk to his car without so much of a handshake goodbye. However as soon as Sherlock finished his sentence John flung his arms around his neck, pulling Sherlock down to his height just so that he could hold him in a very uncalled for but not unappreciated embrace. At first Sherlock didn't know what to do, to be honest this was the first hug he had received in a startlingly long time. And from John Watson himself, well at first Sherlock suspected he was strangling him instead of hugging him. and yet John's grip was strong yet not aggressive, he was clinging to Sherlock as if he suspected that Sherlock would try to escape and he wanted to hold him there as long as possible. Some would describe it as a manly hug, and yet there were no back pats at all, in fact Sherlock thought he felt John's tears splash against his skin, as if he was nestling his head into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock cautiously wrapped his arms around John, not knowing what he was allowed to do in a situation like this, however he was slowly starting to like it. He held John close to him, letting his own head fall supportively on top of John's messy head of blonde hair. And for a moment they just stood there, standing so close with their arms wrapped so tightly around each other, well you might have mistaken them for a couple who was parting ways after their first date. They were timid in each other's arms yet not altogether uncomfortable, nervous for the other's reaction yet not nervous enough to stop. Sherlock was beginning to love this hug more and more, he loved the proximity, he loved feeling John's breaths against his collar, he loved to feel John's chest rise and fall ever so slowly against him, he loved the coarse texture of his unwashed hair and the grip of John's hands against his back. It was almost as if the closer they stood the more powerful Sherlock's feelings became, until suddenly he was mistaking their friendship for something much more, he was mistaking his appreciation for something substantially different...
"Thank you Sherlock, for everything." John whispered, his voice cracking emotionally midway through his sentence. Sherlock ever so gently pulled away, just so that he could look John in the eyes but not far enough so that their arms would fall away from each other's. He held John around the shoulders, and yet their eyes met in the darkness and they sparkled with a much different light than before.
"Like I said John, it's not a problem. I'm here to help anyone and yet...well I'm quite sure you have some sort of exception. There's something about you, Mr. Watson, something that assures me that I will walk to the ends of the earth if you so desire." Sherlock assured. For the first time that night John smiled, his beautiful brown eyes ducking away from Sherlock's while his cheeks glowed red. His arms never loosened, however, and they were still standing together in a sort of awkward tangle of arms and heads.
"There's an emotion to match that very description." John muttered with a sort of coincidental grin. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, not quite sure where he was going with such a statement. However obviously he was using that as a closing remark, because as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak John had already stepped away, letting their arms fall away from the other and their breaths escape them little at a time, as though their lungs refused to inflate properly. Sherlock stood rather shocked on the cement while John made his way up the stairs, pausing once to look back.
"Goodnight Father." John muttered from his front stair, one foot ready to ascend while the other was ready to run back and leap into Sherlock's arms once more. Sherlock took a much needed gasp of air, wondering why he suddenly felt so empty as John got farther and farther away.
"Goodnight Mr. Watson." He responded forcefully, his fingers grasping at the rosary around his neck while John simply smiled weakly, fishing his key out of his pocket and unlocking the door with trembling fingers. This time Sherlock knew well enough to leave, and so with a rather reluctant air he turned away from the sidewalk and got back into his car, taking one last look at the house before he drove away to see that one single window was illuminated, presumably the only one that would be occupied tonight.