beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 1

The crying woke him up.

Sherlock slipped out of bed, yawning. He made his way to the sitting room to find John sprawled on the sofa, snoring and fidgeting, while Rosie whimpered in her crib. Before she could throw a full-on tantrum, Sherlock quickly made his way over to her, trying not to trip over the toys that littered the floor. John's bedroom was still being restored. Sherlock had, of course, offered his to Rosie and John, but they couldn't get the crib through his bedroom door. So for now, the sitting room had been converted into the babysitting room.

Sherlock carefully picked her up, trying to do it the way John had taught him. She shushed a little then, and John opened his eyes. "Yes, look after her this once, will you, Mary?" he mumbled. Sherlock's heart gave a painful pang, and then John turned over and went back to sleep.

"What's the problem, now?" Sherlock whispered to Rosie, "Do you need some fresh air?"

He crossed over to the kitchen and opened the window. Perhaps holding a baby next to an open window in the middle of a crisp London night wasn't the best idea, but Rosie hushed immediately, sucking her thumb and staring up at Sherlock. Yes, she hated the confinement. He absentmindedly stroked her hair and looked out of the window. For once, he was seeing and not observing, for his thoughts were far away, on a guarded island in the middle of a lonely sea.

He wondered what Eurus was up to. He had visited her a few times already. At first, she wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't even acknowledge their presence. But when he started playing the violin to her, her face would light up, and recently, she had even started playing with him. He wished that he had had more time to get to know her. Psychotic or not, she was his sister, and he really felt for her. He couldn't believe that Mycroft had kept her locked away all this time, and couldn't help but think that the confinement had probably made her worse. She was smart, no doubt; she couldn't channel her intellect the right way was the only problem.

Sherlock had tried to reason with Mycroft, but he was convinced that Eurus had to be confined in the strictest of prisons.

"I know what she's capable of!" the elder brother had yelled.

"So do I! She played those stupid games with me too, remember? She killed Victor!"

"Those games were a mere sample of her true abilities, brother mine. She murdered three innocent men - alright, one of them was guilty. She killed the Governor and his wife solely for the purpose of her barbaric experiments. She almost made you shoot me - although I confess, she can't take full credit for that." Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but Mycroft cut him off. "In case you've forgotten, she almost killed John Watson."

This was the one argument which always made Sherlock shut up, and Mycroft knew it. He knew the lengths that Sherlock was prepared to go to to keep John safe. Mycroft had known, before Sherlock did, that Sherlock's love for John was more than just 'friendly'. And so Mycroft walked out, twirling his umbrella, leaving Sherlock to fume with frustration and deal with his internal conflict.

Sherlock peered through the open kitchen door to John's sleeping frame on the sofa, pangs of longing in his stomach. How he wanted to go over there and shift John's head to his lap, stroke his hair softly, and just watch him sleep. But he knew it wasn't possible. The living, breathing proof was now snoring in his arms. He wound a lock of Rosie's hair around his finger and thought of Mary and her lingering presence. John still missed her, obviously, but his initial stages of grief had passed. Sherlock missed her, too, but he could deal with it as long as he had John.

He thought about the letter he had received earlier that day. Typical Mary, with her posthumous gifts and messages. The contents of the letter disturbed him more than its author did. I can't think about it right now, he reminded himself. There are more important matters to deal with.