Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror, trousers and socks on, although that already felt like a mammoth task to complete. He was slimmer, he hadn't been eating properly, despite the desperate urges from his friends. Sherlocks eyes zoned in on a scar at his side, a sudden memory coming to his mind.
~
"Hi, you're home! How was the case?"
"Fine, might need a bit of patching up though.."
"What– Oh shitting hell what have you done.."
"Ah. Yes, as you can see–"
"Shitting shit, Sherlock!"
"It's fine, calm down."
"Fine? Fine?!" She was trying to examine the wound. "You've been stabbed, it's not fine!"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's just a graze, needs a stitch or two, that's all. I've been stabbed before."
Her eyes were wide, disbelief across her face. "You don't build immunity to being stabbed, Sherlock!"
~
Sherlock actually laughed out loud at the memory, chuckling for the first time in weeks. It wasn't much, still private and quiet, but it was something, even he could acknowledge that.
He glanced up the rest of his attire for the day. Ties really aren't his thing, but he supposed it was better to not argue on the dress code of these things.
———
Mary walked into the 221b living room, followed by John Watson as he nearly bashed into the door frame, not paying attention as he shouted down to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock chuckled to himself.
~
Sherlock had spun quickly, ready to rush off on a new case, but as he turned he immediately smacked his head into the wooden doorframe, whipping back.
Rebecca hissed. "Oooo, that's going to hurt in the morning." The tone of her voice did a rubbish job of hiding her mirth.
Sherlock rubbed his bump. "It hurts now actually." She laughed then, she couldn't help it. "Are you laughing at my pain?"
Rebecca tried to cover her mouth, to squash the sounds erupting from it. "Not at all, my darling, let me see. I'll kiss it better."
~
John noticed the slight upturn of his friends lips. "Something funny?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, not right now." His eyes scanned over his friends in their all black clothes. Mary held the baby, and even he had a tiny suit on. Sherlock decided then if the child could wear a tie for one day, then so could he.
John pressed his lips together. "How you doing?"
Sherlock shrugged. "You know."
"You look better." The conversation was awkward. "See you shaved."
"Hm. Figured I should smarten myself up a bit." He straightened his tie. "Should always look good for the wife." The Watsons shared a look, unsure if they should laugh or cry, when the small human in the room made a gurgling noise, flexing his fingers in Sherlocks direction. "How's.. How has he been?"
Mary felt like she wanted to jump for joy. He was actually acknowledging Thomas. "Good." She blurted. "He's doing good, he's sitting up on his own for ages now, loves peek-a-boo!" She stops, noting the sadness in her friends eyes, and wonders if she can push her luck today on this topic. "I can tell he gets confused sometimes.. but he knows his daddy." She steps toward Sherlock and when he doesn't step away, she takes it as a good sign.
John stood in the background, holding his breath.
Sherlock looks at the child, removing a hand from his pocket and hesitantly moving it towards the little fingers reaching for him. "Hello, Tommy." The words were whispered. He looked at Mary. "May I please hold my son?"
She nod, tears in her eyes, handing the baby over to his father, and stepping back.
Sherlock readjusted his grip, staring down at the infant, eyes suddenly having a sting to them. "I am so sorry, Thomas. I'm so sorry that mummy isn't here.. I'm so sorry." He wiped the tears from his nose against his shoulder. "I'm going to be here now, alright? I'm here. You and me against the rest of the world." He kissed Tommy on his head, cradling him close to his chest.
A horn honked from downstairs, John looked up and out the window. "Car's here."
Mary held her arms open. "Here, I'll put him in the car, give you five minutes."
Sherlock felt himself hesitate to hand his son over now he finally had him back, but knew she was right, he needed some time to prepare himself.
As they left, John stepped to the kitchen. "I think one drink today won't do you any harm."
"Thank you, John."
"Don't thank me yet, I mean it when I say one." Sherlock scoffed, accepting the glass as it was handed to him. "You've an odd number of these now." He says, referring to the whiskey tumblers. "How is your hand?"
Sherlock hummed. "It's fine. Doesn't hurt."
"Sure? I can have another look–"
"Its fine, John. Honest."
He nod, watching his friend swig from the glass, his sleeve coming up slightly to reveal the black rope charm bracelet he wore around his left wrist. "Is that.."
"Yep." Sherlock responded quickly. "It was in her bag of belongings the hospital gave me. I'd bought it for her one Christmas, she never took it off. Luckily it's adjustable."
"What charms are on it?" John knew exactly what charms were on it.
"The letters T and S, that's all." Sherlock put the glass down and stood, fixing his tie once again in the mirror. "She was always very sentimental."
Johns lips quirked up. "So are you."
Sherlock nod. "I know. That's why I'm wearing it."
The soldier checked his watch. "It's time to go." John watched his friends hands twitch. "We'll be late." He said, softer.
The man himself was having a mental battle over if he couldn't actually do this. Bury his wife. "She'd hate this."
John smiled sadly. "True, but she'd tell you to straighten your tie and just get on with it." He touched Sherlocks shoulder. "She'd tell you you can do this."
———
Outside the church stood the people closest to his wife, the ones that will be following her in, while himself, her father, her brother, and John Watson will carry her.
Sherlock froze at the sight of the coffin, her coffin. "I–I can't do this.. I don't–"
"Sherlock," John rounded on him. "Look at me, you can do this, you can. You'll do it for her."
Sherlock was shaking, colour drained from his face.
Then someone unexpected touched his arm gently. Diana Hale. "Sherlock, breathe. Breathe." She smiled, but the evidence of tears were still down her face. "Let me tell you something. My daughter loved you more than anything in this world, and I know that doesn't bring you much comfort at the moment, but let it help. Even if only for today, let the memory of her loving you help." A wrinkled hand touched his cheek. "I apologise for the things I've said, they weren't true. What you two shared together was something special, something people search millions of lifetimes for and will still never stumble across, and I know nothing can fix the way things have turned out for you both, but you can do this, because no one else is good enough to carry my daughter. No one else is good enough for her, but you are."
Sherlock took a shaky breath.
"Be strong for now." She said. "We can cry later."
———
Sherlock walked up to the stand, his feet dragging slightly, his head hung almost as if in defeat. He didn't look over the crowd, couldn't bare to look anyone in the eye, instead he pulled out a piece of paper, staring at it.
John and Mary shared a concerned glance, wondering if they should leave him to try or help him down. A small cry came from Marys lap, and she rocked Thomas gently to try and calm him. Sherlocks head snapped up, eyes focused on his son. John felt a flood of panic, make or break, that sound will push him to the edge of what cliff. Then, surprisingly, Sherlock folded the sheet of paper and stuffed it back in his pocket, clearing his throat. "I've heard several times in my life, and multiple times over the past month, that apparently it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, and I must admit, I do think it's utter bollocks." He sniffed, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Though saying that, the idea of never having loved Rebecca, or been loved in return by her, is no life I'd be willing to live. Which is why the path my life follows now is such a difficult one to tread...."
———
Mycroft and John watched Sherlock rock the buggy gently as he stared at his child, both filled with a great overwhelming relief.
The elder Holmes cracked first. "If I'm honest I didn't think this is where he'd be. If my brother hadn't have pulled himself together by today, I estimated he'd be dead in two weeks." There was a pause, letting that statement settle. "I'm very glad he no longer appears to be heading in that direction."
John clenched his jaw. "I'd be lying if I didn't think the same."
Mycroft and John shared a look, many an emotion passing between them; sorrow, joy, heartbreak, and thanks. Thankful that the man they both called a brother seemed to finally be coming through the other side, becoming well enough to care for his child, well enough to want to care for his child.
They could see Sherlock out the corner of their eye, walking himself and his sleeping son over to the men in the corner.
"I know what you're thinking." He says, dropping into a chair beside Doctor Watson. "I'm ashamed to say you may have been right, but now," he looks at Thomas. "I couldn't leave him. I couldn't do that, not to the only living thing of her I have." Sherlock smiles sadly. "Mrs Hudson still brings two cups of tea up every morning. Not sure if it's habit or comfort, but I don't mind. It makes me feel as if she's still there, just pottering about getting ready for work."Sherlock smiles, it's real, fond, but sad. "Sometimes I get her mug out of the cupboard before I realise..." The widow sighs. "By next week I'm hoping to move home, raise Tommy in our family environment, he deserves that."
John nod. "Think that's a great idea."
"It will– It will be hard. I don't know how or if I'll succeed, but I'm going to try."
"That's all you need to do, brother."
A hand squeezed his shoulder supportively. "We're always here, mate. We're not going anywhere."
Sherlock let the edge of his lips turn up slightly, some of the weight he'd been holding onto easing. "I was wondering if you could give me copies of all the pictures you have of her, I want to start adding more photos to the walls."
"Of course. We'll send you everything we have."
"Thank you." He let out a breath then, eyes not wandering from the blow up image of her on the stand. "She's really gone... I don't know how I'm going to do this. Day by day, I guess."
John shakes his head. "I wish there was something I could say to help, but I have nothing. It's going to be hard, Sherlock, really hard, but day by day sounds good."
Gazing down to his sleeping son, he sighs. "Day by day."