Leviticus 20:13

The Loss Of An Angel

    "I'm sorry to make you do this, Sherlock I really don't think you need to go out of your way for me." John was muttering, and yet Sherlock was only half listening. He didn't care about how necessary his actions were, in fact he couldn't care less if he was somehow inconveniencing John by being considerate. He needed to be there not only for this poor man but for his daughter as well, he knew he would never forgive himself if he never got to say goodbye to that girl. He hadn't thought his last visit would truly be the end, he had counted on at least one more, maybe just a follow up, he had never wanted to say goodbye like this! And he already felt as though it was too late, he already suspected that the minute they arrived at the hospital would be the minute they received the news...
"Got your seatbelt on?" Sherlock wondered as he already turned on the engine. John nodded, letting his head fall against the headrest weakly, looking upon Sherlock as if he wasn't able to process if he was really there or not.
"I don't want her to die Sherlock. She can't die." John muttered weakly, his eyes beginning to pool with tears once more. Sherlock just nodded in agreement, taking one of John's hands once more and beginning down the road to the hospital. Maybe he was going a little bit faster than what would be considered legal, however once they reached the highway Sherlock was pushing eighty as they sped on down the road through the multiple lanes of traffic. He never knew that this little car had the capabilities of going so fast, and yet maybe it too understood the severity of the situation. With John's hand clenched in his own Sherlock was able to make the thirty minute drive in only twenty three minutes, and that included finding a parking space. By the time they arrived John seemed nearly immobilized, and yet he was able to push himself out of the car and onto the pavement, leaning heavily against the blue roof as he waited for his helping hand to come around and take his arm. Sherlock knew that it would probably be looked at as odd since he was a priest and John was another man, and yet suddenly he felt empty if he didn't have John's hand in his own and so together they made their way up the sidewalk and into the building. As soon as the two made their entrance the secretary jumped to her feet, as if John Watson was the last person she wanted to see at a moment like this.
"Mr. Watson, I'm sorry but I can't..." she began, however Sherlock just shook his head, ignoring her all together as he started to lead John up the hallway and towards the elevator.
"Father, Mr. Watson! Come back here please, you're not permitted to go upstairs!" the secretary called, and yet Sherlock and John suddenly walked faster than they had before, and they slipped onto the elevator before the secretary could track them down and force them to stay down in the waiting room. There was something wrong, something off about the whole building. Sherlock could sense it as soon as he walked in, and it wasn't just because of the man leaning against his shoulder nor was it the ever presence smell of death and antibacterial spray. It was something more than that, a certain emptiness and a certain sense of tragedy that simply hadn't been here the first time he had walked into this very same hospital. Neither of them could say anything as they ascended through the floors, and yet they both had the same things on their mind, the same sudden realization that there might not be anyone waiting for them upstairs. When the doors opened Sherlock led the way, holding John's hand like a mother leading her child across the street. He could already sense chaos, as soon as they walked out of the elevator a nurse ran by, carrying what looked like defibrillators in her arms as she raced in the direction they had been heading. Sherlock stopped in his tracks when he saw the scene unfolding in front of him, just down the hallway where Rosie's room was. The door was open and yet there were people spilling out, doctors and nurses wearing smocks and lab coats, all rushing around with different items in their hands and moving quickly so that others could get past. Something was happening, something bad. Sherlock froze, stopping in his tracks when he saw the mess in the hallway before him and yet it seemed as though the apparent tragedy only made John more energetic. Instead of lolling around like the broken man he had become he jumped to life, and suddenly his hand ripped from Sherlock's as he started his way in a mad sprint down the hall.
"ROSIE!" he screamed desperately, barreling down towards the door where all the nurses were huddled. They all formed a wall around the door, and yet as soon as John arrived he began trying to push past them, trying to worm his way through in his sudden desperation.
"LET ME SEE MY DAUGHTER, LET ME SEE HER!" John was yelling agressivley, trying to push past with all of his might. Sherlock raced up to collect him, throwing his arms around John's chest and restraining him to the best of his ability, trying to pull the desperate father away from the hospital room with all of his might.
"ROSIE, ROSIE BE STRONG!" John began screaming. "SUNSHINE DON'T BE AFRIAD!"
"Mr. Watson, we need to leave." Sherlock whispered, holding John around his chest while his arms still flailed out in front of him.
"LET ME SEE MY DAUGHTER!" John screeched. The nurses were doing their best to keep the situation under control, and one of them was attempting to close the door, and yet despite their best efforts Sherlock was able to glimpse into the hospital room, into the artificial darkness that the curtains were able to create. He was able to see the girl, the skeletal figure, lying above the blankets with a meager hospital gown on. He was able to see the doctors huddled around her, charging up the defibrillators desperately while her body lay still atop the blankets in an almost inhumane like contortion. He was able to see the heart monitor, and the slow green line that was humming progressively across the screen. Finally John collapsed into his arms, losing all of his strength and all of his anger and dissolving into nothingness. His body fell limp and Sherlock was finally able to drag him off down the hallway, seemingly in a state of some sort of unconscious delirium. His eyes were open and he was muttering things, random things, the name Rosie occasionally leaving his lips, and yet he didn't seem to be in control of any of his actions. It was almost as if along with his heart his mind had broken as well. Sherlock hastily led John to the waiting room, his dress shoes scuffing along the tiles as he let himself be dragged away in a very inelegant manner. Sherlock's arms were beginning to burn with John's weight and yet finally he found the waiting room. He led John to a cozy looking couch and laid him out gently, letting his head fall upon one of the pillows while his feet hung off the other side very unceremoniously. The other people who occupied the waiting room were obviously tense, looking up from their books or magazines to see the two very strange and grief stricken men that had just arrived. And yet no one came to help, they didn't ask if they could do anything they simply stared, as if human reactions to death was something to gawk at rather than to sympathize with. Sherlock collapsed against the couch, sitting on the floor with his head leaning against John's chest, grabbing at one of his hands as some sort of comfort and holding it like his life depended on it. He squeezed John's fingers so hard he was sure he was cutting off circulation, and yet in a way he suspected it was helping to ground John to reality, just to be sure he didn't float up with his daughter. Sherlock didn't remember crying and yet he found himself minutes later with tears soaking his face and his collar, he felt weak and helpless yet he was still able to grip John's hand with power he didn't know he had. He felt as though his world had just ended and yet he barely even knew the poor girl, he didn't know how on earth he felt so strongly about her death. Sherlock could barely imagine what John was going through right now; he couldn't even begin to try to comprehend the pain. And they just sat there, the two of them, broken men, shattered beyond repair for the time being, listening to the nurses as they wandered around the halls, listening to the music in the speakers, listening to the ruffling of the magazines, listening to the beating of each other's hearts and the breaths leaving each other's lungs. Sherlock knew that it was reality and yet he was trying so hard to convince himself that this was all just some sort of twisted dream. No matter how real this moment seemed to be it almost felt as though he was floating just outside of his body, spectating the mournful spectacle instead of living through it. It felt unreal in so many ways and yet as he gripped John's hand he knew that it must be real. Pain like this doesn't exist in dreams, feelings so strong and grips so tight didn't happen in a mere sleep induced hallucination. So maybe this was it. Maybe this was why Sherlock felt such an attachment to John from the first moment he had met him, it was all leading up to this moment. Sherlock was supposed to be here, he was meant to be holding John's hand and crying with him, their paths intertwined at exactly this moment and they danced around each other's forever more. Their hearts beat to the same rhythm and they ached with the same pain, Sherlock's purpose in this moment was to feel the exact same grief John felt, and in a way he was certain he did. He was certain that the pain of loss was seeping in through John's skin, letting Sherlock absorb and suffer in the same way the father was. Suddenly Sherlock realized that this was his destiny all along, this was his purpose not just in the priesthood but in life as well. To hurt. To suffer. To feel the pain of loss over a girl he had barely even known. He was made to hold this man's hand at this exact moment, at this exact time and place. And so what else could he do? He waited, he suffered, he sat. Eventually the nurses came over to them and tried to help them sit up and get some blankets over their shoulders. It was probably some sort of grief counseling, or at least something to help with the convulsive shivers that were running down their spines, however nothing seemed to help. The nurses helped ease John into a sitting position and yet he either sprawled out onto the back of the couch or he let his head fall all the way into his knees, bending in a way that Sherlock thought was only reserved for contortionists. Sherlock sat next to John in a very weak state, and yet he was able to stay upright and he was able to hold the blanket around his shoulders. He was able to pat John on the back while he shook like a leaf in the wind, now taking to hyperventilating while the nurses did their best to keep him sitting upright. They fed the two of them tea from Styrofoam cups, tea so hot it scalded Sherlock's throat and yet he didn't seem to mind. In fact it hurt less than the emotion pain that was ripping through his body; the shock of physical pain was nothing more than a reminder that he was still alive. John was merely spitting up his tea, not in any state to hold any sort of water or food, he had degraded to a horrible state, suddenly acting like a thirty something year old toddler. All he wanted to do was cry and he couldn't even sit up straight, Sherlock might have laughed if he didn't pity the poor man so much. Rosie must be dead by now, there had been no official confirmation and yet Sherlock had seen the heart monitor, there was no way they were going to bring such a thin, helpless child back to life so easily. John was alone, alone in all meaning of the word. No wife, no child, he had been living alone and yet at least he had Rosie to come and say hello to, and now he didn't even have that. John most likely thought that he was now a man without a family, a man without anywhere to turn. And yet Sherlock had been living without a family for as long as he could remember as well, living alone in the crowd. He knew what it was like to have no one to turn to, and he was happy to say that John had at least two people who cared for him and loved him and wanted to make sure his life went smoothly from here on out. One of those people was Sherlock, of course. He had been here before and he was here now and certainly nothing was stopping him from being here in the future. He decided not only to make it his goal but to make it his responsibility to watch over Mr. Watson as if he were a member of his own family, to make sure he was happy, to make sure he was sober, to make sure he had someone to talk to in those lonely nights. The second person was God himself, looking down and watching over John like he did the rest of his human sons and daughters. Now of course God was looking after everyone, and yet John's tragedy only made him even more of a likely candidate for good fortune. God worked in mysterious ways; people have known that for years. Just because Rosie had died doesn't mean that God had stopped caring, it simply meant that he knew it was her time. Everyone had to die someday, and for some their time comes quicker than others. Unfortunately for Rosie Watson her time came quicker than others, and yet Sherlock knew that now she was with the angels, she was with God. He wasn't crying for Rosie's sake, he was crying for John. She was safe now, her suffering was over, she can have peace at last. John, however, was suddenly alone. More alone than he ever had been before, and so Sherlock cried for him. Maybe that was selfish, maybe it wasn't giving Rosie enough credit, and yet here and now he knew that John needed all the support, he needed a supportive hand and an understanding heart, and thankfully Sherlock was here to help.
"Mr. Watson are you feeling better?" Sherlock wondered softly, letting his hand trail up and down John's back while he hunched over, his blanket falling over one shoulder and looking almost like a Roman cloak. John didn't talk, he simply hummed, humming in a tone that told Sherlock he was about as fine as he looked.
"I think you should sit up." Sherlock recommended, letting his hand pause right underneath the back of John's neck as he tried to support the poor, frail man.
"I'm not...I don't want to." John muttered deliriously.
"But you must. It will help you." Sherlock insisted in his softest voice, talking to John as if he were talking to a child. John groaned miserably, wiping his eyes with his tear soaked hand once more and starting to lean back very slowly, very weakly. Sherlock supported him the best he could, holding onto his shoulder and helping him ease back into the cushions. When John was finally comfortable Sherlock readjusted his blanket so that it draped evenly across his shoulders, and yet John seemed too submissive to even thank him. He seemed in a wild sense of delirium, probably in the midst of trying to convince himself that this was all some sort of horrible nightmare.
"There you go, you look better already." Sherlock said proudly, although John looked about as crappy as he did before, just now he was sitting up. His face was paled unrecognizably; his eyes bright red and his entire face shining with tears in the lights. He looked broken, in fact if Sherlock looked hard enough he could probably convince himself that he saw the fractures playing along John's pale skin, as if he had been dropped and not yet shattered.
"I'm not better." John muttered in a low, miserable voice. Sherlock hummed encouragingly, not quite knowing what to do to help John relax any more.
"What can I do to help?" Sherlock wondered carefully, feeling as though even though this was a moment of grief that he may just be over stepping his boundaries. And for the first time this entire night he kept his hands to himself, thinking that if John wanted to any sort of physical contact he would initiate it himself.
"I'm uh...I don't know. I don't think you can do anything. Just...stay with me." John whispered reluctantly, as if was worried Sherlock would decline.
"Of course Mr. Watson, of course." Sherlock assured in a soft tone, pulling once more at the corners of John's blanket to make sure the poor man was properly covered.
"Thank you." John whispered, sinking back even deeper into the couch cushions behind him and grabbing for one of Sherlock's hands in a weak little swat. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, ever so softly of course, because smiling at a moment like this would surely be frowned upon. However he couldn't help himself, John's insecurity and his need for human contact in a moment like this simply couldn't outweigh each other. He wanted to be held and yet he was too afraid to ask, and of course Sherlock was too afraid to initiate anything lest he scare John more than he already was. But as a friend and as a companion Sherlock knew that it was his moral obligation to bide to this man's wishes, at least now while they suffered together on this very uncomfortable couch. And so Sherlock took John's hand softly, interlocking their fingers and giving John's hand a reassuring squeeze, looking him determinedly in the eyes for just a moment before looking away shyly.
"We'll get through this John. You'll be just fine." Sherlock insisted, and of course he was telling the truth. Of course he knew that they would both recover from this loss because that's what people did, they bounced back. Now it may not be a matter of days, weeks, or even months. It may take years for John to finally come to terms with his loss, but he could do it, of course he could. With grief therapy, a strong bond to God, and a good couple of friends to help him through John was sure to recover after time. He was sure to hurdle this barrier in life and enjoy his life before it was finally time to join his dearest daughter in Heaven.