Broken Child

Chapter 5

Sherlock sat in the chair outside of his wife's hospital room, cold-heartedly awaiting her outcome. The hours that passed where hours of complete and utter torment. Because he couldn't go in, because they wouldn't let him go in, he rested there irate, and torn apart by lament. Waves of fear and grief flood Sherlock's body, threatening to consume his sanity, his mind. The barriers he held in his subconscious to protect him from emotion crumble into nothing, and leave him racked with worry. He had thought about phoning Lestrade, asking him to find Moriarty and do his best to protect their family. He dismissed the idea when he remembered how pointless it was. He could be hiding anywhere, and he couldn't entrust his life as well as his wife's and future child's with those idiots. Sherlock himself could do a better job if he had the interval and devotion to do so. But the fear of Moriarty, threatening to tear down his future family, looms in the air and rips Sherlock apart. That is, if his family isn't already gone. At this thought Sherlock buries his head in his hands and breaths in deep, then wipes his hands down and places them together under his chin. No word. No word for hours. Their were only two possible outcomes. She was alive, steadily, and they had her under some sort of drug, something he need not be a part of for liability concern and the baby was fine. Or she was...gone. Barely alive, hanging on by the tiniest thread of life for hours before they finally have to end Molly's misery, her suffering, taking their child along with her. Sherlock hated the thought. Hated the very idea that she was undergoing the pain, whatever form if may be, and that they both may be gone forever from his life. Left alone in the world again. But he could not dismiss it. You cannot dismiss the possible outcomes.

When the glimpse of a white coat finally enters the corner of his vision, he springs to his feet, turning to the nurse alert and attentive. Sherlock steps forward, eyeing the nurses hands, the indents of her fingernails sponged with blood. The rest of her skin was smooth and clean. She had been wearing gloves , but had taken them off after some while. She had tried washing her hands as best as she could but still...their was so much blood.

"Well?"

Sherlock can barely manage a whisper. The nurse pauses, looking down solemnly at the tile floor.

"She lost a lot of blood. She was running a high fever,"

She says, and everything seems to crumble down into nothing. Like paper crinkling together, balling up and being tossed away. Sherlock holds his breath, desperately clinging to that thin strand of hope. That she'll say something more, that theirs a catch.

"But she pulled through."

Sherlock sighs in relief. His mind clicks into action, the cogs keeping his thoughts racing, spin into motion, his mind functions again and this time the weight of negative emotion does not slow it down. She was alive. Ready to take on the role of a mother. The thought springs joyful tears into his eyes that he quickly blinks away when he remembers the baby.

"A-and the baby?"

He stutters, and to his surprise the woman smiles softly.

"He's perfectly healthy,"

Sherlock breathes in deep, a tremendous amount of tension lifting from his shoulders. He forgets about Moriarty. He forgets about the confrontation they had just moments ago. His family was alive. That's all that matters.

"She's weary, be gentle with her,"

The nurse gives Sherlock a nod and walks past him. As she stalks forward Sherlock immediately reaches for the door handle, gripping it tightly in his closed fist. He composes himself. Straightens out his back, takes a deep breath. Then he pulls down on the metal handle, slowly creaking the door open and slips in quietly, shutting the door behind him.