Sherlock was off that morning, that whole day in fact. Greg and Father Turner shared Monday's mass schedule, and so Sherlock was left to wander freely wherever he wanted while his fellow coworkers were forced to don their robes and preach to the small crowd every other hour and a half. It was wonderful to get to enjoy sleep while he heard the others shuffling around and getting ready for the day, knowing that while they had to get up and get dressed he got to lay snuggled in his warm blankets for as long as he pleased. Sherlock enjoyed his day off first by sleeping in until ten o'clock, sleeping off whatever buzzed feeling he had the night before and awakening without the scarcest trace of a headache. He felt refreshed, to say the least, and he knew full well that the house would be empty. Greg had mass at seven, and Father Turner always went to the diner for breakfast and he would most likely leave from there to the church to take over at ten thirty. So Sherlock got up slowly, pulling his thin robe over his bare chest and shuffling down the stairs to the kitchen. He had a sad yet enjoyable bowl of whatever cereal Greg had stashed away (this time it was Cinnamon Toast Crunch) and sat alone at the breakfast table while he ate. The sun had been up long before he had, and the birds were chirping outside, trying to make their message clear even through the harsh winter wind that had begun to blow. Sherlock always had been a morning person; he could get up rather easily without the need for caffeine or anything else to get him going. Lonely mornings were his personal favorite; where his soul could still rest while his body begun to spring into motion. After breakfast Sherlock got dressed, deciding finally to take a stroll downtown and get a nice earl gray tea from the coffee shop and maybe stop in some stores along the way. Sherlock never bought many unnecessary things, mostly because he didn't have the pocket change for such unnecessary things but also because he barely had any time to meander down town and get them. So maybe today would be his day. Sherlock stashed a twenty dollar bill into his pocket and donned his trench coat, making sure the white collar was clearly visible before brushing out his hair and stepping out into the brisk winter's day. It was Monday, and so the streets were rather desolate at eleven o'clock, and yet he knew that whatever midday stragglers that were out and about would surely all congregate at the coffee shop and enjoy a nice hot drink of whatever it was they fancied. Sherlock made his way down the deserted streets, the barren trees hanging eerily above him, their branches stirring and crackling in the cold wind. The shops were open of course, and yet they weren't overly populated, the shop keepers sat behind their desks in boredom, entertaining themselves with crossword puzzles or television and gazing now and then out onto the sidewalk to see if there was any chance of a passerby. Sherlock snuck into the coffee shop effortlessly, seeing a couple of faces he recognized in the mostly strange crowd. He smiled at a couple of people who smiled back, enjoying their coffee much more than their forceful interactions with the priest. Only old people truly enjoyed talking to him, younger people of the parish most likely felt sorry for him and talked only out of pity, and those who didn't go to his church usually veered away, as if suspecting that just because he was a priest he was going to try to change their religion or manipulate them for some reason. None of these assumptions were right; however he had learned to stay in his lane. He only talked to people if they approached him, most of the time that is. Mr. Watson, well, he was a different case. Sherlock found himself looking for that man every time he found himself in a crowd, which was most likely a very telling sign of obsession. However Sherlock didn't quite know what to do if he had found Mr. Watson, and so it was probably a stroke of good luck when he found that the shop was filled with people who didn't mean anything to him. Sherlock ordered his tea and found a nice window seat, lounging in a comfortable arm chair and forcing himself to enjoy the rather hipster music that was playing gently over the speakers. Men and women of all kinds meandered past; a coffee shop truly was a great place to meet new and interesting people and yet Sherlock didn't open his mouth to talk to any of them. He didn't necessarily want to meet new people; more observe them, from a distance of course. Sherlock found the normal human population to be fascinating, and to be honest he envied each and every one of their individual spirits. What had they decided to do with their lives? What had they gone to college for, who did they love? Sherlock had been trapped in a priest shape mold as he developed, and suddenly he wasn't a human anymore, but a priest. He had almost no form of identity, no form of fashion or individuality. If he continued down the same road he had chosen so many years before he would end up something like Father Turner, a hallowed out man on autopilot until he died, preaching and speaking the word of God without realizing that he was a person and not simply a machine doing the same thing every day of its life. Sherlock envied the people in this coffee shop, the ones who expressed themselves, who tattooed their arms and pieced their noses and died their hair all sorts of crazy colors. They stood out; they reflected their personality onto their bodies for all to see while Sherlock was forced to wear this drab black outfit with the white collar every day of his life. He wasn't allowed to let people see him as anything more than a priest, they weren't allowed to notice that he was human just like them. He wasn't even allowed to decipher himself, to find out who he was and what he would do if he had been freed at a young age. If Sherlock could be himself what would he wear? What would he do? Were tattoos an option, would he look good with a pierced lip? Sherlock envied the people who understood themselves enough to express it permanently, while he was still sitting over here, and after how many years of being alive he still couldn't figure out how to make a decent friend. He couldn't even figure out how to start a conversation without sounding like a stalker or a manipulative man of God. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking around the last bit of tea in his cup and staring lazily out the window onto the sidewalk. No one passed by, at least no one important.
John POV: John really didn't want to have to come to the hospital today, or at least not now. He was certainly planning on making the trip in the evening, but it was somewhere around ten o'clock, and he was leaning against the very white wall of the very white lab room, watching as his sickly looking daughter was carted in a wheel chair out of the examination room. She had an IV following her around, wheeled by the same nurse with difficulty, and yet John had been called not to talk to Rosie but to talk to her doctor, who now stood in front of him with a clipboard, looking very grim.
"So, Mr. Watson." He muttered rather carelessly, walking over to the door and shutting it with a small snap. It was only the two of them in this room, and the doctor had already seated himself in the swivel chair that John had been eyeing up, so he simply stayed where he was against the wall, chewing at his lip irritably and crossing his arms. He should be at work right now, he had called in sick and yet he was quite sure they knew where he really was. He didn't want to have to admit to his bosses where he really was, he didn't want them to know that things were getting worse.
"We took some blood tests from Rosie yesterday, just routine to see if anything had changed for better or for worse." The doctor started, tapping his pen rather reluctantly against his clipboard and sighing heavily. John knew that sigh, he knew it well from all the doctors he had met with and listened to and gotten bad news from. It was the pitiful sigh, where the medical professional realizes that there was nothing he could do anymore.
"And it changed then, yes?" John wondered impatiently, glaring at the doctor and knowing exactly what was about to come.
"Yes it did Mr. Watson, and I'm afraid to say that it's for the worse." The doctor admitted finally. John closed his eyes for a brief moment, and nodded stiffly. Of course it was for the worse, that's how this was all playing out, wasn't it? Everything was for the worse. He sat at Rosie's bedside until two o'clock that day, mostly sitting there while his daughter slept. She had become weaker and weaker; the nurses had informed him that she simply couldn't walk anymore, at least not for long, hence the wheelchair. They talked for a little while, he read her a story and played dolls with her and yet there was an underlying sadness that he was attempting to mask with his humor. He was trying to keep Rosie's spirits up of course, but by trying to make her smile his heart was breaking more and more. John eventually left after Rosie slept for a consecutive hour, deciding that he best not wake her up if she was able to sleep so heavily in the middle of the day. John got to his feet slowly, kissing Rosie on the forehead softly before slipping out of the door, seeing that the balloons he had bought for her not a week ago were already lying shriveled and deformed on the tiles below the bed. As John stepped out of the room a nurse was walking in, a nurse that he recognized from all of these weeks of coming in and out of the hospital.
"She's asleep." John muttered rather pathetically, moving slowly past to let the nurse get into the room.
"Yes I imagined she would be. She's had a long day." the nurse agreed in a sorrowful tone. John cleared his throat, nodding his short farewell before starting to walk down the hallway.
"Mr. Watson?" the nurse called back, and when he turned he saw the ever present look of pity worn by each and every person he encountered. It was starting to get a little bit repetitive, not to mention annoying.
"I just wanted you to know that we're doing everything you can, and you're helping her, more than we ever could. She appreciates your coming down every day, she's always so happy to see you." The nurse said with a bit of a smile, and John simply nodded, suddenly finding that his voice didn't want to work. Suddenly he felt like if he forced his words all that would come out were tears, and so he didn't talk at all. He smiled at the nurse thankfully before turning back down the hallway, nodding to the secretary who waved despite being on the phone, and went out into the parking lot to find his car throughout the mess of vehicles on the asphalt. When John finally unlocked his car and slipped into the driver's seat he stared rather subconsciously at the steering wheel, the doctor's words going through his head on repeat. Never before had they given him a life expectancy, never before had they tried to prepare him for what happens after the medications failed, after they realized that all of their research couldn't hope to save his daughter. A month. That was all he had left of his daughter by their professional calculations, it would be a month until Rosie's body gave up, until it shut down, until she died. He only had four weeks to call himself a father, he only had four weeks to appreciate her being there, to visit her, and play with her, and buy her little gifts that she obviously didn't need. In four weeks they would deliver all of her toys and pictures back in a shabby cardboard box, in four weeks John wouldn't have to take this trip to the hospital anymore, simply because no one would be waiting in those white walls for him when he arrived. John felt a tear slide out of his eye, a slow and silent tear that did everything it could to preserve his self-esteem all while trying to release the pent up emotions that were stirring in his head. And why should he be ashamed to cry, why should he care? He was...he was losing his daughter. Why should he be afraid to cry?
After making sure his face wasn't lined with tear streaks John turned off his car in yet another parking lot, staring up at the steeple of the church and asking himself just why he would dare come back here in one of his most desperate times. Surely Father Holmes was going to question him again, and John was quite sure that one simply mention of his daughter was going to break the dams behind his eyes once more. And yet maybe that was what he needed, someone to cry to, some to understand him. Maybe he ought to accept Father Holmes's help and gain a sidekick on this battle against the clock, or in this case, against reality. John ran his fingers through his hair and got out of his car, joining a scattered crowd of old women and men who were making their way very slowly towards the door. John made a point to hold the door for as many as he could, feeling rather bad when he made direct eye contact with an elderly couple across the parking lot before closing the door and slipping inside himself. Mass was concluded of course, everyone here was here for the spaghetti and yet John still felt the need to pray a little bit, to ask for something from God even though he wasn't quite sure what that something would be. Surely God couldn't give him what he needed, he couldn't give Rosie a longer life, he couldn't just cure her, so why did John bother praying? Maybe it felt better, maybe it felt like he was doing something more than just carting around stuffed animals and balloons to make her smile. John nodded at the ushers before walking into the darkened church, seeing once more that it was only him in the pews. John checked around to make sure Father Holmes wasn't lurking anywhere in the shadows, but honestly John didn't know if he wanted to see that man or he didn't. Obviously there was some sort of subconscious driving force in his brain, otherwise he wouldn't be sitting here in the church would he, the only place that he was sure to bump into the priest. Maybe he wanted to be approached, to be talked to. John shook any thoughts about the priest out of his mind for a moment, kneeling down in one of the pews and fidgeting with the rosary that now dangled from his fingers. He said the necessary prayers for a moment before adding some requests of his own, just the usual save my daughter lecture God got every time John kneeled down to pray. When he finally rose to his feet he felt rather heavy, heavy with the weight of what he had just asked of God and heavy with the weight of what he knew God could never grant him. He knew that the basement was packed with people, all in the lightest of spirits, and he knew that another face awaited him at the bottom of those stairs. There was a reason he was here instead of at home, there was a reason he had decided that he would be eating at the church instead of at a fast food restaurant. He had known Father Holmes was going to be here, and he might as well get the most out of the conversation he knew was imminent. So John walked out through the dark church into the entrance hall, nodding once more at the ushers who smiled at him and pointed him to the stairwell as if he were unable to find it himself. John descended the old steps carefully, hearing voices, laughter, everyone socializing and eating and having a grand old time. He had never really considered this as a social event, and suddenly he felt very out of place when he saw that there were huge circular tables packed with people who all seemed to know each other. He hadn't even considered that the church cliques would all be here together, attending with their friends or family, and what was a single man supposed to do in the middle of a strange crowd? John bought his ticket reluctantly, his eyes darting all over the room in an attempt to find the priest he knew was waiting for him somewhere. Now Father Holmes's presence might just be a welcome one, if John had to sit alone and look like a total loser then he might as well try to flag down one of the high class members of the church to sit and eat with him. It was a cafeteria type hall, with tile floors and a little kitchen in the back. There were men and women walking around pushing drink carts filled with water and several types of sodas, and there were circular tables draped with red table cloths dotted along the floor. John walked among the tables nervously, hoping that a nice old lady would flag him over and attempt a conversation and yet they all kept their heads down, either completely engrossed in the conversations they were having or simply focusing on the plate of spaghetti that was set before them. John finally found an empty table towards the back, seating himself down and feeling like a complete loser as he heard everyone else's conversations and yet sat in silence. He sat at the table and tapped his fingers, wondering just how to order and how to get drinks around here. Did he order through a waitress or did he go up to the counter and get some sort of serve yourself meals? Oh this was confusing, already John was starting to feel overwhelmed and out of place. He checked his phone for a moment, pretending to look engrossed in whatever was happening on his tiny little screen, so that if people looked over at him sitting alone they would assume he was simply waiting for someone. However all he was doing was scrolling through the calendar app and then the news app and then his contacts, with no social media or games to play his phone didn't offer all that much opportunity for entertainment.