John, wake up. "Please"

Remember me

He stayed huddled in the toilet until he heard the door creak but he didn't move. He finally looked up when Greg put a hand on his shoulder and then under his arm, lifting him unsteadily to his feet.

"Cmon, let's leave John for a bit, I heard about what happened so let's go see Rosie for now yeah?" Lestrade said gently, guiding Sherlock out of the cubicle and towards the sink.

He helped wash Sherlocks face and hands and attempted to make him look presentable with what he had and then they began an unsteady way to the children's ward. When they reached room 281, Greg opened the door and showed the nurse his police badge to assure that Sherlock would need no supervision but his own.

Sherlock walked carefully over to Rosie's crib, carefully settled amongst five other babies in the room, he reached his hand down and gently trailed his index finger along her pudgy cheek.

She was only six months old, and her father didn't even remember her existence, he was still in 2016, it was a year too early, why did the bad things always happen to them?

Sherlock reached in carefully-his suit crinkled and torn-and carefully picked up Rosie, his goddaughter and held her tightly to his chest.

"Hey little bumblebee, it's me Sherlock" the detective spoke in the gentlest whisper, nuzzling his nose to her own and breathing in her sweet smell.

"Er-ock" Rosie said carefully, and Sherlock couldn't believe his ears, he looked over to Greg who was smiling widely, his face open and silent in awe.

"She said my name Greg" Sherlock whispered in awe, Rosie lifted her hand to Sherlocks hair and tugged it gently, getting the attention back on her and making Sherlocks now blue eyes look back at her in wander.

"She's a Watson alright" Greg laughed, slightly in shock that Sherlock managed to get his name right for the first time in years.

"Da?" Rosie questioned, it had been just before the accident that she heard learnt to say 'da' to John and John had been overflowing with pride for the little girl.

"Daddy's not here right now, bumble, you'll see him soon" Sherlock promised as he carefully rocked her in his arms, his own curls bouncing slightly.

Rosie looked at Sherlock in amazement, the famous Watson look, a slight cock of the eyebrow, pouty lips, it was so much like John that he felt his heart clench and had to hand Rosie over to Lestrade so he could press his fist to his mouth to muffle the strangled cry of agony that was threatening to escape.

Tears were building up in his already reddened eyes. He looked rougher than Lestrade had ever seen him.

Little did they know that when John fell asleep that night after seeing Sherlock that he dreamed of Sherlock on drugs, weeks away from his death. John had beaten him physically the same way Sherlock had done to him mentally when he jumped. Sherlocks hands shook from exhaustion, but in his dream it was a tremor brought on by drugs.

He woke the next day with a gasp, he hunted out for Sherlock, maybe he was alive but he saw that his friend wasn't there like expected, Sherlock was dead.

John didn't know that Sherlock was in fact with Mycroft currently, Lestrade also there, as they got him to eat and drink. Mycroft also had one of his little 'helpers' shave off Sherlocks three week old stubble and made him shower until he was presentable in a clean suit and now armored with his favorite coat and scarf.

Sherlock rushed back to the hospital as soon as he could, checking on John yet again to find him asleep. He sat down at John's side and laced his fingers with John's own, laying his other hand over them.

Sherlock gasped audibly when the hand he held squeezed his own gently, a comforting gesture, his gaze flitted from John's face to his hands and back again. His breath caught when John's eyes blearily opened, their ocean, the calm before the storm. Sherlock didn't realize how much he had missed John's eyes.

"John?"

"Sherlock?" John asked uncertainly, looking down at their adjoined hands in confusion before meeting Sherlocks eyes again.

"I'm here John" Sherlock assured, "do you want to see Rosie?"

"Yes, is she okay? What happened to Mary?" John asked suddenly.

"John, she-she crashed the car with you two in the back, she crashed into a car with two boys heading home from college, they were brothers. Um, John, she-- she-" Sherlock broke off, unable to speak.

"No, Sherlock she can't--Mary? Dead?" John asked in shock and Sherlock wished he could remove that look of utter grief and sadness that washed over John's features.

"I-I checked, she wasn't breathing, but you and Rosie were there and so I got you out of the car and I-I--" Sherlock could barely breathe, he could feel his breathing getting more harsh and speeding up. John pressed the call button but not for himself this time, but for Sherlock.

"Sherlock calm down, listen to me. Don't cry, your hyperventilating, calm down, breathe for me." John insisted calmly, resting his other hand on Sherlocks cheek and wiping away the tears. "Sherlock?"

A doctor came in and saw the situation and understood immediately, rushing off to fetch a paper bag for Sherlock to breathe into and calm his erratic heart rate.

Sherlock eventually calmed down, the bag crinkling and crunching as he breathed, John rubbing Sherlocks forearm as he let his own tears fall silently, he'd lost his wife, but somehow, after all the lies and the pain she had brought, it wasn't as painful as he always imagined it being.

"I'm-I'm so sorry John" Sherlock whispered and he sounded broken, like broken glass.

"Losing Mary hurts, but Sherlock, it will never compare to when I lost you"