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Sherlock knew she would come. Natasha always came when he needed her to, whether or not he said so in as many words. She was perceptive like that. And fiercely loyal to the few she allowed herself to love.
It still caught him off guard when he looked up from his laptop to find her standing in his doorway, holding a bag and not much else. His thoughts had been elsewhere.
She set the bag next to the door.
Sherlock spared a last glance for Mary's face, still and unmoving on the screen of his laptop. He closed it without saying a word.
"Mrs. Hudson said she'd be right up with a tea tray." Natasha crossed over to kneel in front of him, hands on his knees, eyes on his face. Concerned, sad, determined. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair until their foreheads were touching and took her by the shoulders. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, not saying a word, simply taking in her familiar scent. Wolfish behavior they were both prone to. "I told her it wasn't necessary," she added in a quieter voice, smoothing her hands over his knees. "What can I do? Where's Rosie?"
"With Molly," Sherlock answered after a beat. Molly hadn't abandoned him either. She never would, but Rosie was priority. He knew that. "She'll be taking turns with Mrs. Hudson the next few days."
Natasha gave his knees a gentle squeeze, their faces still intimately close. "And John—"
"Grieving," he said quietly. "He doesn't want to talk, I don't know what to do." He could hear the tremor in his own voice on the last syllable. Could hear the guilt tainting his words. His fingers flexed around her shoulders as if making sure she was still there. As if making sure he wasn't alone. He still hadn't answered her first question and he wasn't sure he could now without unraveling. He could still hear Mary's voice in his head. Save John Watson.
Natasha didn't need him to say anything else. She never did. Before he could register she was moving, she'd nudged him back into his chair and settled on his lap, pulling him into her arms without hesitation. Sherlock's reaction was instinctive, well-practiced, and familiar. He wrapped his arms around her like a vice, buried his face in her soft red hair. Held her like he was drowning and she was a life raft. She was lethal and dangerous, but this softness of hers, this warmth, that was all his. Unconditionally, no questions asked.
She tightened her grip on him, turned her head just enough to whisper against his hair. "What happened isn't your fault," she said. "I've got you. Always, I've got you."
"I need to keep them safe." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. "John and Rosie—I made a vow."
"And I'll have your back then too," she promised. "I made a vow too, remember? To you, a long time ago."
Sherlock didn't talk about Mary. Didn't open up to spill his insides because it wasn't his style. But he did give in. To Natasha, to his grief, to the pain of losing.
The game wasn't over. The case had only just begun. He would save John Watson if it was the last thing he did, but for one afternoon, he let himself grieve the loss of Mary Watson the way it was meant to be grieved. Like a broken heart. Like the loss of a best friend. Like the emptiness left behind by one of the few people who saw him and accepted him for who and what he was.
Natasha's arms were safe haven. He could lay the pieces of his broken heart bare.