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The chairs are never comfortable in hospitals. They're always hard and plastic or poorly cushioned and too small. It's a horrible design error. The people sitting in these chairs are already miserable, why add to their discomfort?
John's head hangs between his knees, his hands warm but not at all comforting on the back of his neck. The atrocious chair isn't helping the situation.
John has been banished to the corridor while whoever it is who does these things moves the body. Bodies. Fuck.
He curls further in on himself, his back protesting at the strenuous angle.
Soft footsteps echo down the hall, drawing nearer. John doesn't give the time to particularly care that strangers are coming and going, seeing him in a state of distress. New families walk by with their children. Their children who survived. Their wives who survived.
The footsteps grow louder, stopping at his side. John screws his eyes shut and wishes the person to go away.
"Mr. Watson?"
"What is it?" John bites back, distantly aware that his reaction is unprecedented and unfair, but doesn't stop to apologise or feel sorry.
"Is there anyone you'd like us to call for you?" the doctor's voice soft and placating. It's irritating and grating on John's ears. He wants her to shut up and leave him to simmer in anger and regret.
"I can do it myself."
John doesn't hear her walk away, but when he finally sits up, slowly, he doesn't see her nor anyone else nearby.
It shouldn't a challenge. Mobile in hand. Dial number. Speak.
Only after an unknown number of minutes crawl by does John even consider doing what the doctor suggested.
His hand finds its way into his pocket, grasping his mobile.
He scrolls through his contacts, finding the 'S's. His thumb hovers over the name, hesitant.
Bracing himself, John taps on the screen and raises the mobile to his ear.
Buzzing and beeping ring along the line, going for much longer than expected. He almost gives it up as a lost cause when he hears a click, and a concerned, "John?"
John doesn't respond, too weak and surprised to speak.
Sherlock's voice comes through the small speakers on John's mobile, almost tinny in sound. "John? What is it, what's wrong? John?"
He inhales a deep breath, holds it, and slowly lets it escape. "The baby's dead," he says bluntly. Straightforward. Flat.
Silence rings in John's ear. "And Mary? How is she?"
"Dead." John's fist clenches in his lap. His wife died long ago.
"...What do you want me to do?"
"Just...," John leans his head against the stable wall behind him. "Talk to me," he hears himself say.
Sherlock's silence is filled with words, words he no doubt wants to voice. He chooses none.
"Please," John chokes out, his next words coming out in barely a whisper, "I just really need to have you here right now."
John hears Sherlock's throat click as he swallows. "I'll be right there," Sherlock replies in a voice just as quiet.
"Thank you."
"Do you want me to...," Sherlock trails off.
The sounds of fabric rustling and Lestrade's gruff voice yelling in the background dimly permeates John's thoughts. Sherlock's left a crime scene for him.
"...No. It's fine. I'm in the maternity ward, by room 204."
"I'll be right there," Sherlock says again.
"Okay."
The phone is still pressed to his ear; the sounds of Sherlock talking to a cabbie are barely distinguishable.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah...I'm fine."
John receives no response, but he can't bring himself to hang up, to lower the phone, sever the connection.
He continues to listen to the sounds of the hospital and the ones coming through the speaker pressed against his ear.
There's still walking. Still distant crying. Still talking. But now the wind-like sound of the inside of a car and short breaths.
Closing his eyes, John lets himself forget about the past few hours and imagine he's waiting here for a different reason.
He's waiting for Sherlock to arrive. There's been a murder. A brutal one. How John got to the scene before Sherlock, his compromised mind doesn't supply a plausible reason.
The phone pressed against his hear is Lestrade feeding him the details for John to repeat back to Sherlock.
"I'm here", Sherlock says, his voice much louder than John expects within his fantasy.
John's hand begins to cramp. Why is it doing that? Oh. He's still clutching his mobile. The position straining on his muscles and ligaments after the extended period of time.
Small taps begin to filter through John's ears. It almost sounds like slapping? No, not quite. They're shoes. Shoes against a hard floor.
The noise sounds doubled, like there are two sets of the same running pair of legs slightly off set from each other in duration.
It becomes louder until it's only a few feet away from John before the sound abruptly stops.
"John?"
John looks up at the tall man before him, all cheekbones and coat and unruly dark curls.
"Sherlock," John answers, glancing at the phone in his hand. He taps the end call button, pocketing it.
Almost hesitantly, Sherlock glances around at his surroundings and sits in the equally uncomfortable chair at John's side.
Sherlock stays quiet, and John doesn't talk.
The air between them is palpable in its tension. Unable to stand a silent Sherlock for too long, John finally speaks. "I'm actually glad that Mary's gone," he admits, staring at the wall of the hallway opposite him.
He hears Sherlock turn towards him in surprise.
"I thought I loved her. I really did. But then you came back and...," John shakes his head. "You messed everything up. But...she shot you, and I just can't forgive that. The woman I married was a persona. Mary Morstan isn't real. I fell in love with a ghost and even before today the woman I loved was long gone."
John looks over at Sherlock, giving him a chance to get a look at his face, no doubt telling Sherlock everything he needs to know but can't say. "You get what I mean?"
Sherlock swallows, not sure how to respond. "Yeah."
"I don't have to deal with her anymore."
"Mm."
"But...," John stop when he feels his throat closing up. "My daughter." His hand comes up to cover his mouth before he can make any embarrassing sounds. He turns forward again, not being able to look at Sherlock a moment longer.
Sherlock places his hand against John's back, softly, unsure if his touch is welcome.
"I'll never get to meet her," John whispers.
"You lost an entire future," Sherlock says while he brings John closer to himself. "But that doesn't mean that the future you do have is any less."
"Stand up."
"Why?"
"Just!" John says a bit too loudly for the quiet of the hall. "Because it's a bit too hard to do this sitting down," he finally breathes, his voice cracking.
Silently, Sherlock rises, his coat rustling as he stands. John moves to be in front of him and takes a deep breath.
John rushes at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's torso and hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. A small whine slips past his lips, and he can't stop it as tears fall and he chokes on his own voice.
John can feel Sherlock's surprise and hesitance as his arms come up to cover his body with the flaps of his coat, giving John the illusion of more privacy.
They don't say anything as they stand there, using each other's weight to stay upright. It doesn't matter that strangers are still walking by. John wants comfort and he isn't going to allow outward appearances dictate whether or not he receives it now.
"Thank you for coming when I called," John eventually mutters into Sherlock's neck.
"Of course I did, don't be ridiculous."
Hearing Sherlock insult him makes John give a watery laugh. "Thank you anyway." He hates the way he sounds, small and broken.
"Hm."
Sherlock's hands stay on John's back, rubbing up and down soothingly.
"...Can I stay at Baker Street tonight?"
"John, you are always welcome." Sherlock tightens his hold briefly before letting go, holding John away from him by the shoulders.
John keeps his gaze turned toward the floor, trying to hide his no doubt red and blotchy face from view.
"Let's go home," Sherlock says.
Nodding, John grasps Sherlock's hand, his stomach warming when he receives a reassuring squeeze back. "Okay."