Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Forty

The night was black like smoke, cold like death. Fine rain fell like mist across the windshield as the car turned onto the residential street. It halted under the orange glow of a streetlight, the silence thick and heavy as the engine cut out.

John got out of the car, dragging his feet as he walked towards his house. He didn't want to step through the door, because coming home without his wife somehow made it real. Margaux climbed out of the driver's side and followed beside him. She placed her hand on his back, guiding him gently as they walked. Sherlock opened the car door, yet before he could set his foot down, John turned around.

"No," he said sternly, his voice harsh and coarse.

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, his foot on the pavement, his hand clutching the door handle.

Margaux turned back to him. "Just... stay there," she said quietly with an empathetic smile.

The warmth inside the house surrounded them like a hug. Vaughan was sleeping soundly on the couch while Rosie slept beside him in her basket. Molly stood in the middle of the living room, her arms folded and lip quivering as she watched John walk straight past her. Margaux hurried towards her and pulled her into a tight hug, feeling her sniffling against her shoulder.

She pulled away and turned to John "Do you want me to take Rosie too?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he began to climb the stairs.

"It's okay," said Molly. "I'll stay. He shouldn't be alone."

They shared a nod.

Margaux lifted Vaughan off the couch as Molly draped a blanket over him, careful not to wake him as they walked to the front door.

III

Sherlock held his sleeping son close to his chest, wrapping his coat around him to shield him from the rain. They climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Margaux's flat. He watched her fumble with her keys as she unlocked the front door, pushing it open and ushering him inside.

He carried Vaughan to bed, shushing him softly as he stirred. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, stroking his head and watching him sleep. He assumed he was feeling grateful for him, but he couldn't be certain. Sherlock had never been good at distinguishing his emotions.

In the kitchen, Margaux poured herself a large glass of neat gin. She swirled it around for a moment before bringing it to her lips with a shaking hand. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, watching quietly as she gulped it down.

"Well goodnight," he said.

"What?"

"I have to go. There's a case I wanted to do some reading for–"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said I'm leaving, Margaux," he snapped. "I have outstanding cases – better things to be doing with my time than watching you guzzle down gin!"

"Mary. Is dead. And you're just heading on back to work like it was some minor inconvenience!?"

He hovered in the doorway, choosing his words carefully to avoid the lump forming in his throat. "I cannot let myself grieve. If I give way to grief, I risk falling apart."

"If you give way to grief?" she scolded. "She was one of your best friends, Sherlock. She was John's wife. We watched her die. She deserves for you to grieve you cold bastard!" She slammed her drink down on the counter, causing the glass to smash and cut her hand. She winced in pain, looking down at the blood pooling in her palm.