Johnlock & Teenlock: One Shots

Johnlock Three: Hopeless

"Dad?" The words pulled Sherlock out of his daze. Sherlock looks down at his beautiful daughter, who was tugging on his pant leg. Sherlock bends over and scoops her into his arms, hugging her tightly, as if she would float away. "Is Daddy gunna wake up?" As sweet and innocent as his daughter's voice was, the words still hit him like a brick.

He looked through the blinds to watch his husband, laying in a hospital bed. With tubes and machines surrounding him. It sent a shot straight through his chest. A war was going on in his brain. Whether or not he should tell Rosie the truth. "I don't know, Rosie." Sherlock said, completely deadpan, with a tear rolling down his cheek. At only five years old, Rosemary understood that Daddy may never wake up. And that it was clearly breaking her Dad's heart.

John had been in a comma for three months now after getting hit by a car. He missed his daughters fifth birthday. He missed the opening of Harry's new law firm. Rosie's first piano recital. It killed Sherlock seeing the love of his life so close to death and being so helpless to save him.

Never in his life has he felt so god damn useless. He could always solve his cases in half a day. He could point out who did what and where, just by looking at them. He knew ever little stupid thing in the universe. Ask him about different types of tobacco. Or how to quickly decompose a body. Or maybe where you left your keys. But of you asked him how to bring his John back? No answers.

As of late, an ache formed in his chest when he saw his blogger's chair barren and empty. He could barely muster the energy to play with his darling Rosie. A half inch of dust now gathered on his violin. He knew that he had to stay strong for Rosie. In the future, he will be the best dad he can. Just for her. And only her.

And him. But right now . . . It doesn't seem as if he'll be there in the future.

-

With a crash, Rosie was jolted awake. The clang of broken strings and papers flying breaking her heart. She picked up Mozart and slid out of bed, padding to the source of the noise. There was Dad, kneeled down on the floor with his head in his hands. "Dad." She said softly. He turned his head, tears running down his face. He quickly tried the brush them away. I have to keep strong, just for her.

He opened up his arms. "Come here Rosie." His voice deeper than usual. Deep down, she knew. She knew that Daddy wouldn't be coming home. She squeezed Mozart tightly and walked over to her Dad, falling into his arms. "You know I love you right?"

"I love you too." She sniffed, nuzzling into his shoulder. With her small words, Sherlock had to bite his lip, trying so very much to keep himself from sobbing. Rosie had taken after Sherlock in many ways, excelling farther than any other kid her age. She received Sherlock's brains. But . . . When it came to her kindness and gentleness, it was clear that she had taken after John.

A father and a daughter both broken by death. A father and a daughter both connected by one sad and terrifying fact. And they had to try their damned hardest to muster up as much as they could. One last thing that they could muster? Hope.