Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hello everyone! I have finally found time to bring this story to its close. Thank you, as always, for your support and I hope you enjoy the chapter. Beware that it is very emotional … consider yourself warned.

Molly was pacing in the waiting room of the hospital. John was sitting in one corner of the room and Sherlock was in a chair opposite, stoically staring at the wall. His mind was being bombarded by emotions and thoughts and he couldn't process it all, much less say anything.
After arriving at the hospital via ambulance, Celia had been seen by the on call pediatric specialist. It did not take very long for Dr. Churchill to be called into work and by the time she arrived – which, to be fair, only took a few minutes – Celia was already in the operating theatre. John and Molly had asked questions but the only response they got was that a doctor would be out shortly to discuss things with them. Finally, Sherlock had stood up and towered over the nurse working the desk. The words were still echoing in Molly's mind: "That's not good enough. Get us a doctor, now." His tone had been threatening and the nurse, though she looked determined not to let her fear show, was trembling as she paged a doctor.

The news was not good. Celia had developed an infection in her intestines.

"Can't you treat her with antibiotics?" John had asked and the doctor sighed.

"I'm afraid she's severely septicemic. The infection has already spread to her heart and lungs, prompting organ failure. They're trying to save her heart now."

There had been a stony silence.

"Will she live?" Sherlock had asked the question.

"We'll do our best."

John closed his eyes, the words pulsating through his mind. Their best, he suspected, was not going to be good enough this time. He could see it in the doctor's eyes as he talked and heard it in his voice. Celia was a very sick little girl and there was only so much surgery could do in this case. Medicine was failing them; Celia's body was intent on taking their precious girl away.

Minutes passed and John lost track of time. Finally, the door to the waiting room opened and Dr. Churchill, still wearing her scrubs, came in. Sherlock and John stood and the three adults looked at the doctor.

Dr. Churchill looked back at them and John could see she was exhausted – emotionally and physically.

"She's dead."

John and Molly turned to Sherlock, surprised by his blunt statement.

"Yes." Dr. Churchill's voice was quiet. Molly turned back to her, tears filling her eyes.

"But … but … she was winning, she came home! She was doing so well. How is she …?" Unable to say the words, her voice trailed off.

"The infection was spreading too quickly and her immune system was compromised. We did everything we could."

Molly burst into tears and John pulled her close. He swallowed the lump in his throat, through tears trickled down his cheeks, too.

"I'm very sorry," Dr. Churchill said. "I'll let you have some privacy but please let me know if I can do anything at all."

John nodded and pulled Molly closer. Her shoulders were heaving and he felt his own chest ache as he tried to control his tears. He glanced at Sherlock, who was standing stoically in the same place, still looking at where Dr. Churchill had been.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly. Sherlock either didn't hear or chose to ignore John. He left the room alone and no one followed him.

Sherlock calmly left the hospital and took a cab to their new house. He unlocked the door and walked upstairs, stopping in the doorway of the pink bedroom. Sherlock's eyes carefully took in the details – the pictures Molly had pinned to the wall by the crib and the teddy bear next to the changing pad. Sherlock silently crossed the room, pulling the closet open. He removed a small dress from its hanger, tucking it and a tiny box into his coat. After one last look, Sherlock pulled the door closed with a sense of finality.

At the hospital, John had eased Molly onto a chair and found her a cup of tea. She'd refused, much like John anticipated she would, and set it down before sinking into the next seat.

"I don't understand." Molly murmured. "I see dead people every day, I cut them open. I'm not scared of death, I'm used to it."

"She … Celia," John corrected. "Was not a random stranger on a list. She was your daughter."

The word triggered another set of tears and Molly bent forward, her head in her hands.

"What am I going to do, John? She was everything to me."

John didn't say anything not because he didn't want to but because there simply weren't words.

Arrangements were made. It was a closed-casket service, though Molly had personally dressed Celia in a pink frock with white, eyelet lace trim. On her head was a knitted cap with a flower. The baby looked peaceful, like she was sleeping.

"Do you think he'll come?" Molly asked John. It was the day of the memorial service, though it was very small. Three sets of parents (Sherlock's, Molly's, and John's), Molly's sister, Kate, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg. John and Molly were standing in the foyer of the small chapel cemetery.

"What?"

"Sherlock. Do you think he'll come?"

John sighed. Their friend had moved back to Baker Street the day after Celia had died and had not said a word to anyone. Mycroft was handling the house and Mrs. Hudson was looking after the baby's nursery. Molly didn't want to go back in there, she said, though she asked John to retrieve a few items. The rest could go to charity.

"I don't know." John answered Molly. "I asked him this morning when I brought him some breakfast but he didn't answer me."

Molly sighed.

"I wish he would talk to me."

"He's not talking to anyone. He'll … he'll be okay. He's grieving."

"We're all grieving!" Molly exclaimed, though she wasn't angry. Her eyes filled with tears again and John sighed, pulling her into a hug.

"I know." He murmured.

Sherlock did not show up at the chapel that afternoon. The service started forty-five minutes late on account of waiting for him but John finally sighed and said they may as well start. John had been to a number of funerals in his time – mostly comrades he'd lost during the war. While those had been difficult to get through, they were nothing in comparison to seeing the heartbreakingly small casket lowered into the ground. He was grateful when it was over.

John climbed the steps to 221B three days later, his heart feeling heavy. It was difficult to readjust to life as it had been before Celia and he'd just finished moving the last of the boxes from the nursery. The past year had seen much change – the entire pregnancy had been one roller-coaster and then the diagnosis of Edward's Syndrome had thrown them all for a loop.

"Sherlock?" he called, stepping into the sitting room. He was getting worried about Sherlock; his friend still hadn't said a word (other than "I'm fine, John." and "Leave me alone.") and refused to eat or get out of bed. Today was no different and John walked down the hallway and pushed open the bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" he asked again. Sherlock was wearing his dressing gown and curled up on his bed, the duvet haphazardly covering his shoulders. He wasn't asleep but was staring blankly at the wall.

"Sherlock," John said with a sigh, noticing the still-full tea cup that he'd placed there before he'd left that morning.

Sherlock merely blinked slowly in return. John frowned.

"You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"It doesn't matter. It's been days since you've eaten. Can I make you something? Or order in take-away?"

"No."

Sherlock rolled over so his back was to John. The doctor sighed again.

"You have to get out of bed."

"I don't have to do anything."

"Sherlock," John began. "I know what this feels like - "

Sherlock could keep it in no longer.

"No, you don't. You weren't her father."

John flinched as though he'd been punched in the face.

"I was there every step of the way."

"You weren't her father." Sherlock repeated. "You obviously don't know what it feels like. You're not even grieving for her!"

"That's not true!" John exclaimed.

"Well, you're going out and doing things, it's like you don't even miss her! You never talk about her. Just yesterday I saw you smile!"

"Everyone mourns differently, Sherlock. Of course I miss her, she was my little girl."

As soon as he said these words, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"No, she wasn't."

John chose to ignore the statement and continued.

"Not a day has gone by where I don't constantly think about her, remember how beautiful she was, or cry that she's gone. If you bothered to get out of bed you'd know that I have one of her blankets tucked under my pillow and I cry myself to sleep every night. I'm only going out because there are things that need attending to and you're not doing it. I can't expect Molly to do it all and Mycroft can't. That leaves me."

He hadn't meant to sound angry or blame Sherlock but that's what ended up happening. Sherlock glared over his shoulder at John.

"No one asked you to do those things."

John shook his head.

"Don't make the mistake in thinking you were the only one who loved her, Sherlock. She was special to all of us."

Sherlock didn't reply and John left the room. The detective sighed deeply … his mind was still a jumble of thoughts and emotions and he didn't know how to get through this. Death was common for him but this death … this death hurt.

Sherlock didn't join John for dinner and, for the first time, John didn't bring Sherlock food (not that he'd had eaten it anyways). He didn't know where John was off to this time but the next morning, Sherlock heard coffee being made and a coat being zipped up and John left the flat.

Good.

Finally getting out of bed, Sherlock went to his bureau and pulled the small dress and box from the top drawer. He took them to the sitting room and laid the dress out on the table. It was one he'd bought for her – a pale blue dress with capped sleeves and a white ribbon trim. It was simple but he'd loved it and it accented her hair and eyes beautifully. The box next to the dress was plain white, though there was a pink C stamped on the top. He opened it to reveal a small, heart-shaped locket. He'd bought this the same time he'd bought the dress but he hadn't told Molly or John about it. Sherlock had been saving it for her birthday and knew he'd lose it in his own room so he'd put it in her closet. The box was not simply a jewelry box, however, as a gentle tune began playing once the lid opened. It played one of Sherlock's favourite classical pieces and he sat back in his chair, looking at the dress and locket. Gingerly, he picked up the dress and sniffed it. It still had her smell – a mix of baby powder, baby shampoo, and milk. He felt tears well in his eyes as he quickly put the dress down again. Standing, he closed the lid of the jewelry box before picking up his violin.

A few hours later, Sherlock found himself striding through the cemetery towards Celia's newly erected headstone. He gently put down his violin case and flicked the locks, pulling the Stradivarius out. For the next five minutes, Sherlock lost himself in the music he'd composed and when he finished, he was surprised to find tears streaming down his cheeks. He wasn't surprised that they were there; he just hadn't realized he was crying. He put the violin down before touching two fingers to his lips and then to the headstone.

"Sweet dreams, my Celia Rose."

He'd always hated the idea of talking to headstones – no one could hear what was being said and a piece of carved rock hardly represented whoever was buried there – but this was the goodbye he'd never gotten to say. But it wasn't goodbye. It was simply a farewell.

This baby had changed him in ways he'd never expected. Never again would he look at Molly Hooper the same way and never again would he take his relationships for granted. He had a new understanding of life and death – one that would likely influence his work – but the memories he had from this girl, while painful at the moment, were the best things Sherlock had. She was the one good, pure thing he'd contributed to this world and she would always be with him. He'd thought about wearing the locket himself but decided it would merely annoy him. Instead, it now hung on his bedpost where he would see it every night, a reminder of his daughter. Not that he needed reminding, of course, but it was nice to have something tangible.

John looked up when Sherlock entered the flat.

"I was scared you'd gone off and done something stupid," he said, looking back at his paper.

"Do you have plans for supper?"

John looked up again, surprised.

"No."

"I thought about seeing if Molly wanted to join us at Angelo's."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea. We'll just be miserable together."

Sherlock sighed.

"Or we can reminisce over good food and toast our daughter. We're the only three who knew her, John, and I'm not about to let Celia become simply a memory. We've got to remember her properly."

John smiled – a sad smile, yes, but a smile all the same.

"Well, in that case, let me get my coat."

Would tonight's dinner be awkward and uncomfortable? Probably. Would there be tears? From Molly and John, likely.

But this would change … eventually, John and Sherlock would get cases again and Molly would return to work. Soon their meals would see Molly and John chatting and laughing while Sherlock texted homeless people. Things, with time, would go back to normal, Sherlock was sure of it.

And this, my friends, concludes The Moment. It's been one of those mixed-reaction stories but I've enjoyed working on it. Thanks for reading!

StoryLover18