The Power of Hope

John wasn't sure exactly how Sherlock was taking the news, but he knew that it wasn't good. The silence in the cab and the way that Sherlock had stared out the window the entire time and not so much as looked towards him. Not that it was unusual, but it was a little different when they were coming back from the hospital.

A stark difference to Sherlock's personality as they had arrived, where he had gestured to the front entrance of King Edwards and said sarcastically "Only the best for the Holmes family," because John knew that Mycroft had set it up. Set up a room, for their mother.

As of a week ago, Mycroft had dropped by and John had been third wheel to a conversation that had quickly turned personal. Mrs Holmes - Wanda, John had learned from meeting her, once, that Christmas dinner - was poorly. Only today had Mycroft called to inform that she had taken a turn, and that Sherlock ought to be at the hospital.

What was surprisingly - and if it had been anyone else, it wouldn't have been at all - was that Sherlock dropped everything and went. It reminded John once again how much Sherlock honestly cared for his family... Christmas dinner poisoning notwithstanding.

And, not surprisingly, John had gone with him. Hadn't thought about not going, even if Sherlock had been cracking jokes at their own expanse, because he had changed tune too quickly after seeing his mother bedridden. The humour had fallen from his eyes, not that it hadn't been a mask to begin with, and it was replaced with worry that John rarely seen on Sherlock.

And now, they were back to Baker Street for the night, Sherlock probably in endless worry for his mother and John in endless worry for both Mrs Holmes and Sherlock.

John felt that he should say something... but he didn't know what.

"Sherlock..." he started, knowing he had no addition to that sentence and saying it regardless.

But Sherlock didn't seem in the mood for conversation, same as the rest of the night. His fingers slid into his scarf to pull it off, flinging it onto the chair. His coat followed, slipping from his shoulders to drape over his arm, where it made it as far as the kitchen table before being discarded onto the chair there. He continued down the hallway without missing a beat, and his bedroom door closed with a snap of finality behind him.

John cringed as the door closed.

Oh. No, he couldn't just leave it like that. They hadn't closed doors in the flat since John had moved back in after Mary's death. They just... didn't.

John sighed softly and removed his own coat. He didn't know what else to do for Sherlock except make him a cup of tea and let him sleep, which wasn't the most ideal of circumstances when one's mum was bedridden, but... it was Sherlock. He didn't talk, he didn't share. He never had and never would, and John had learned to make tea and leave biscuits and turn on crime programmes if Sherlock was in a mood within range of the telly. He could only do what he could do.

So.

Tea.

He prepared it methodically, exactly to the way that Sherlock preferred it. He added the sugar and the cream, and picked up the mug to carry back to the detective. He didn't knock - they didn't do that, either, now - and pushed open the door without an invitation.

Sherlock was curled up in bed, still in his blazer and slacks, face down into the mattress. He didn't look up as John walked in, although he moaned slightly into the blankets. "John-"

"I made tea," John interrupted, setting the hot mug down on the nightstand.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before uttering an "Oh", mostly to himself. He rolled over, dislodging his face from the blankets, and there were tear tracks on his cheeks.

John could not do an emotional Sherlock. It was impossibly indescribable the way that Sherlock being emotional took him down ten notches; if Sherlock was in such a state to actually shed real tears over something, John was frozen in insecurity and unassurance on how to handle him. Yes, he wanted to make it better... but with Sherlock, he knew he had every possibility of making it worse because Sherlock didn't take things the way normal people did. And so John was left in a state of limbo of not being sure what to do and desperately needing to do something, and all he was doing right then was just staring.

"Sorry." Sherlock thumbed his tears away and reached for his pillow, tucking it up against his chest. "Emotionally unbalanced."

John blew out a breath. "'s okay." What a stupid thing to say. Thankfully, he rarely had an emotional Sherlock on his hands. Who knew what kind of damage would come out of his mouth if he had to do this more than once or twice a year. "I mean..." He licked his lips. "... It'll be okay. She'll be okay."

Sherlock stared up at him for a split second before the tears returned to his grey eyes, and he turned his face away into his pillow before John could see them fall.

"Oh." His initial reaction said hugs but that was never Sherlock's forte and John was sure that Sherlock wasn't going to abandon the pillow or the bed for anything less than a double murder. Instead, John sank onto the edge of the bed and gripped Sherlock's shoulder loosely. "It's gonna be okay, right? Sherlock?"

Sherlock stiffened for a half moment before the words triggered him further, and he curled tighter around his pillow and sobbed. "I don't know," he gasped, and it was the single most broken sound John might have ever heard.

"Hey, hey." He tightened his grip on his shoulder, squeezing it as though it would prove the point. "It will be. Okay? Faith, remember? Keeping hope can help a lot of things."

Like bringing your best friend back from the dead, like aforementioned best friend luring you back into life after your wife and child die.

He reached up to sweep Sherlock's curls away from his face, muttering what Sherlock probably regarded as sentimental garbage. It was a strange action, nearly paternal, but Sherlock looked so hopelessly childlike in that moment that it didn't matter. It was John's nature; he wanted to help. He didn't want to sit there and watch Sherlock suffer and do nothing.

"It's going to be fine. She's going to be fine."

Sherlock made a noise that sounded like he was choking, but through the pillow and the crying, John realised it was a laugh. "How do you know that?" Sherlock muttered, fingers seizing against the crumpled white pillowcase.

"I just..."

"You don't," Sherlock mumbled. His knuckles were white against the pillowcase, and then his fingers relaxed again. "Sentiment..."

"... Sentiment," John affirmed quietly. Maybe he didn't know if it was going to be alright. Maybe he couldn't make promises, but he knew one thing: a person could not go through life alone. A person could not shoulder everything themselves and if Sherlock Holmes needed someone (even if he didn't know) to tell him that everything was going to be fine, John would be the one to do that. It was just that simple.

Sherlock sighed shakily. "... Stupid... useless..." He ducked his head further into the pillow. "... well-received..."

John smiled faintly.

Sherlock sniffled and snuck his fingers up to dance across his cheeks, although when he removed his face from the pillow, his face was mottled and red from crying. "... Thanks," he mumbled, almost so quietly that John didn't hear him.

But he did, and he smiled reassuringly. "Have some of this," he said, reaching for the earlier mug of tea to hold out to him. "It'll make you feel better." False reassurances again, but at least, John knew, wouldn't hurt him.

Sherlock rubbed his nose and sat up slightly, abandoning pillow and blankets to reach for the mug. His hands were shaking, but his fingers were warm as they brushed against John's. "Thanks," he repeated.

"Uh huh." John stood up, going to fetch some tissues. Sherlock had shuffled back on the bed to lean against the headboard, looking exhausted over the feeble steam of his tea. "Here," John said, handing him the tissues, which Sherlock took wordlessly.

That, John reckoned, was probably about as much as Sherlock was going to be able to manage tonight. Some people got tired through work, exercise, hobbies. Those things only wound Sherlock up. But emotions? Emotions drained him.

John didn't need to a be a genius to see that.

"Get some sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded slightly.

John turned for the door, planning on letting Sherlock to mull his emotions to himself now and - hopefully - get the sleep that he needed.

"John?" Sherlock's voice stopped him.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Hm?"

"The... hope thing." Sherlock looked up at him. "It sounds good."

John blinked in surprise. Smiled. Nodded. "Yeah."

Sherlock smiled wearily in return - exhausted, worried, scared, sad, uncertain - and John nodded to himself.

Hope.

I was having a moment night before last where I ended up in tears and, like with all things, related it back to Sherlock and of course John is the person to console Sherlock when he's feeling vulnerable. So I had to write this. (and I always mess with his parents to make him upset always I need to stop that haha...)

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!