Father, Not A Detective

Chapter One: The Beginning of a New Chapter

John hardly remembered opening the front door to 221B Baker Street, and before he knew it, he was already faced with the front door to his flat. There were no sounds coming from the other side. No pacing footsteps. No kettle whistle, no frying of food, nothing. Which probably meant Sherlock was merely staring through a microscope. Sometimes, John questioned whether Sherlock was even paying mind to the substances underneath the lens. One time, he could have sworn there wasn't anything under the glass. That maybe he was simply in deep thought or not wanting to be bothered by John at the moment. John's shaking hand rested on the door knob, for today, he did not come to bear good news. Today, he wouldn't ask Sherlock to be his best man; he wouldn't come to him with a case or come to shoot the shit. He came, bearing bad news. Twisting the door knob was the first step of the challenge he was facing.

Surely enough, Sherlock was gapping down his microscope. John wanted to smile at the familiar sight, but his lips refused to curl.

"Sherlock..." John whispered.

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope to acknowledge John's presence. Something was up. Something terrible had happened, anybody could see that.

Eyes: blood shot. Nose: red. Clothes: wrinkled and unmatched, John wouldn't leave the house like that, unless he was in a rush. Hair: unbrushed and disheveled. Left hand: balled shut. Mary.

"John?"

John shifted his weight to his left foot, opening and closing his left fist rapidly. His tremor was returning slowly but surely. He took a deep breath and looked down to his feet. He stood there and swayed, as if he were losing his balance. He looked sick, resting his hand on the kitchen table to keep himself up. It took everything in him; every nerve and military training, to not break down in front of Sherlock. Part of John half expected Sherlock to scoff and return his attention to his experiment after he'd told him the terrible news. But, these days, Sherlock was rarely that heartless. John took another deep breath and held it briefly before spilling.

"Mary...she's..." he choked. God, this couldn't be true. John was going to tell his best friend that the only other person that mattered most to him was gone. "She's dead."

"She's-" Sherlock stared intently. "Dead? She was fine yesterday."

"Yeah, well that was yesterday, today is today, and my wife is dead!" John slammed his fist on the table at the last word, shaking the glasses on the counter.

John squeezed his fingers, trying not to cry. "During childbirth...the baby, she's alive. Barely." He shakes his head, not believing the words he speaks. "But Mary...she just couldn't handle it all." John chokes on a sob, covering his eyes with his hand.

Sherlock squints slightly. "John, I-I don't..." he looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. "I don't know what to say. What can I do?" He reached towards John.

"There's nothing you can do. My wife is on a slab and I'm left alone with my child." His words were harsh, but he was so damn frustrated. With himself. The reason John married Mary was to protect her and love her. It was "death till they part" but it wasn't time, he wasn't ready.

Sherlock gripped John's shoulder, showing every ounce of comfort he could muster, even if it wasn't much.

"John, don't be ludicrous. You um...You have me." He could have rolled his eyes at himself. Showing support was something that Sherlock wasn't too keen on. Especially towards his best friend. "I'll do anything you ask of me," he continues, "Just, don't lose hope."

God, he hoped he was saying all the right things. John wasn't one to snivel. Seeing him like this wasn't easy for Sherlock.

John gave a shaky sigh and looked up at his dear friend. "Thank you, Sherlock. I really need you."