The Only Thing Worth Fighting For

Chapter 3

"Are you ready?" A low voice from behind John asked as the doctor attempted to fasten his tie whilst still lumbered with his cast.

John huffed out a mirthless laugh and let his head fall forward. "It feels like a stage play. It's just a charade."

Sherlock stilled and turned John to allow him access to the wonky tie; his nimble musician's fingers making quick work of the proper knot. "Let's just get through today," Sherlock whispered and placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder before they took a large breath and walked into the living room where people waited for them.

Mrs Hudson and Molly were cooing over baby Rosie, who had been dressed in a pink and black dress and matching shoes. The room silenced as John entered much to his annoyance as he felt all eyes straying towards him.

"I hate this," John whispered to Sherlock. "Do I have to go?"

"It's your wife's funeral," Sherlock mumbled in return. "I think to not go would be a bit not good and if you stop being my conscience then how will I survive?"

John chuckled slightly and felt Sherlock grip his shoulder once more before the detective peeled off to talk to Mycroft who was chatting with Greg in the corner. Sherlock approached and glanced at Greg with a curious look, the DI had been staring at Molly and quickly changed his view as Sherlock noticed. With a coy smile, Sherlock stayed silent and pretended he couldn't see the two flirting in the small space of the Baker Street living room.

"Cars have arrived," Mycroft spoke loudly, watching as John exhaled and steeled himself for a tough day.

"'Friends is all I have'," John scoffed from his position in his chair. "Where the fuck were they when she was being cremated, eh? They're more than happy to turn up for a free wedding buffet but not to see her off."

Sherlock sat with Abigail resting against his shoulder; his long, spindly fingers rubbing a track up and down her spine as she nuzzled closer into his warmth. He had taken her from John when the doctor had reached for the whisky and began pouring huge measures which Sherlock was sure would be much larger than triples. The detective had stayed silent; watching John carefully for signs of emotional distress but finding only anger and rage.

"Bastards, the lot of them!" John gulped another sip of his drink. "We're better off without them."

Sherlock continued to stay silent and focussed instead on soothing Abigail who was becoming sleepy and restless. The day had been an excitement with various people cooing over the baby as she was passed from person to person despite John's obvious nervousness. Sherlock had eventually taken to carrying her around and refusing to allow anybody to take her away from his grasp.

"Why aren't you speaking, Sherlock?" John asked, swaying slightly in his seat. "You always speak."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Sherlock admitted.

"Tell me why I don't feel grief," John looked sadly at Sherlock, his eyes brimming with tears. "She was my wife, the mother of my child. Why am I okay?"

Sherlock attempted to speak but was cut off by John continuing. "After you died, I was a wreck. I didn't eat, I didn't sleep. I didn't talk to anybody. I hardly left the bedsit I moved into because I couldn't stay here without you. Why did I feel that way about you but not her?"

Sherlock shook his head and lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, John."

"This is the woman I vowed to love and cherish, through sickness and health until death us do part," John chuckled dryly at that, "the woman I made love to, I slept beside and whispered sweet nothings into her ear as I conceived our child."

Sherlock's cheeks and ears flushed pink at John's comment but he remained silent; allowing John to get his thoughts from his chest. "Why can't I feel, Sherlock?"

"You can John, it'll take time," Sherlock whispered into the still darkness between them. "Just... give it time."

"Time, yes. How much time does it take to stop grieving? It took me two years to get over your death and then you came back," John whispered, a tear trickling down his cheek to land on his shirt.

"I've said I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered.

"No, you misunderstand," John started before looking at his glass. Noticing it was empty he reached for the bottle and poured another large glug of amber liquid. "I'm glad you came back, I was angry yes and I'm sorry for that... but I feel like I'm already over Mary's death and it's only been three weeks... how is that possible?"

Sherlock felt completely out of his depth; sentiment wasn't his forte and he flailed for answers which would satisfy John.

"But then again, I didn't know her, did I?" John continued, "I grieved for the wife I thought I had during your recovery. The woman I married died the day you were shot and in her place was an imposter, a stranger wearing my wife's face and using her memories but it wasn't her. Not my Mary. She was, whoever she was."

"John, maybe you've had enough to drink," Sherlock said softly as John resorted to drinking straight from the bottle with a hiss.

"Can you grieve for a ghost?" John asked before tilting his head. "A question for the philosophers or those men cleverer than me."

"We should go to bed," Sherlock soothed. "It's been a long day."

"Yes," John nodded, "we should go to bed... Join me Sherlock, take me to bed and help me to feel something. Anything. Please."

Sherlock froze and his brain clicked offline for a moment before he inhaled sharply and shook his head. "No, John."

"Oh yes, I forget. You're above sentiment and emotion," John sneered.

"Not at all," Sherlock whispered, his eyes meeting John's for a lingering moment, "but I don't want to take advantage of my best friend whilst he's drunk and emotional."

"What did Mycroft mean?" John asked, quickly changing the subject and catching Sherlock off guard. "He said you lost more than a best friend when you were gone."

"That's a story for another night," Sherlock assured John as he stood and held Abigail to his chest. Walking beside John's chair he stopped and placed a hand over John's shoulder and sighed. "Goodnight, John Watson."

Sherlock lay in John's bed listening to the sound of John awkwardly walking around the living room; the detective plotted John's journey from the noises of things being knocked and the crashes of John colliding with the coffee table on the way to the toilet. Faint sounds of retching could be heard from the bathroom before Sherlock heard John settling onto the sofa, followed by choked and muffled sobs.

The younger man counted down the minutes before climbing from the warmth of John's bed; checking on Rosie he ensured she was secure before moving down the stairs where he saw John asleep on his back on the sofa. Creeping to his own bedroom, Sherlock took a blanket from his cupboard and picked up the plastic bucket which resided under the sink in the bathroom. Draping the blanket over John's frame, he placed the bucket by John's head before returning to the kitchen and filling up a large glass with water and putting it on the coffee table in front of John.

The detective stilled beside John's head and sighed sadly as he stroked a hand through the blond strands of John's hair; Sherlock smiled as John arched into the touch and mumbled something sleepily before relaxing once more. Sherlock debated with himself for a moment before bending at the waist and pressing a soft and gentle kiss against his blogger's forehead, savouring the smell and sensations on his lips.

"Let's just get through today," Sherlock whispered into the darkness, before turning back to John's bedroom and the little girl who slept there.