Work Text:
It’s cold outside, and dark. In the living room at 221B, Sherlock reads. The last movement of Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde is playing on the stereo.
From the hallway come footfalls on the stairs, and the panicky relentless cry of a newborn.
John enters, weighed down, hollow-eyed, numb. He shoulders a heavy bag, and carries a small pink shrieking bundle. He is on his own with her.
John stands in the door for a long moment. Sherlock rises from his chair, and the two look at each other. Sherlock notices John’s defeated expression.
John sighs, I’ve done all I can. She doesn’t need feeding or burping or changing. She needs something I can’t give. I can’t help her. I…can’t.
John crosses to the sofa and sits down. The baby is in his lap, her red face contorting. He leans forward over her, sheltering her. From Sherlock’s standing height, John looks even smaller, even more lost, as he hunches over the child.
Sherlock says, Put her down and unbutton your shirt. John splutters, indignant. Sherlock continues, I want to test a theory.
John glares at Sherlock, but he obeys. He places the baby beside him on the sofa, and unbuttons his shirt partway down from the top.
Sherlock unwraps the baby from her blanket. He picks her up awkwardly, and turns her in the air until she’s vertical. He places her carefully on John’s bare chest. As she cuddles into John’s chest, Sherlock drapes the blanket over her back.
Ever so slowly, ever so gradually, the baby’s cries subside. But as they do, we realize that John’s shoulders have begun to shake. He sobs silently, his head down.
Sherlock sits down beside John and aligns his shoulders with John’s. John sags against Sherlock, and together, they lean back into the sofa.
Sherlock says softly, It’s winter. She needs warmth. We all need warmth.
The baby sleeps, then John too. Sherlock remains awake, staring into space, thinking. Hours later, the three are still in the same position.