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Jenn watched the two men leave the room of her patient, their steps growing quieter as they left the intensive care unit. The patient, the tragedy after a car accident, brain dead, unaware. The men, attuned to the situation, to each other in different ways.
The grieving partner, John, his shoulders a little stooped, heavy with care. There was sadness and pain visible in the depths of his dark eyes, the set of his shoulders. He was clearly in shock, numb, but vocationally a physician and therefore able to rise above it, to converse about the medical situation, the gravity of organ support prior to donation. He spoke with ease about the medications, the aggressiveness of the neurologically triggered Diabetes Insipidus (DI) that Mary was now battling. He took in the equipment, the ventilator, the lines, the pressures, and asked questions about end organ damage, about the testing already completed. He was supportive of the current plans toward organ donation. He didn't say too much about the baby, but Jenn would get updates through the hospital grapevine, and had already heard she was so fragile, so premature, and starting to decompensate. John's steps, walking away from the room, were unrushed, quiet, somber. Jenn could feel the sadness radiating, and sighed. She liked him, on some gut level, intuiting that he was a very nice man. Who'd been ... just gobsmacked with an unimaginable nightmare.
The taller one, a rock, John's support person. Steady. Cool if not disengaged. He watched over John fiercely, like a protective bird of prey - ready to strike if necessary. He was polite, and calm, and had spoken to her a few times. But his icy eyes sometimes gave Jenn the creeps, so she much preferred addressing John directly when she had to. Having someone close, attentive, present did make it somehow more palatable, that John wasn't traversing this mad journey alone.
The organ procurement officer was at the nurses station, furiously yet methodically matching up possible organ recipients. Her patient, Mary, at the young and healthy point of life, was poised to really impact so many others. If Jenn'd had more time, had a less critical patient, she might have been able to hear about the confirmed matches. Heart, first. Lungs, pancreas, kidneys - they would all be so very life changing, life saving, life enhancing.
Her head back in the game, she double checked vital signs, confirmed that none of the IVs would be emptying in the next few minutes, and surveyed the room. It was orderly chaos, equipment, people, trauma, devastation. The aftermath of a wide-pathed tornado. And she considered the irony: One of the worst days for the family of the patient. A catastrophic end, unplanned, loss.
... and on the other side, there were families and patients just now receiving a phone call of hope. Of relief. Of life-changing good news.
I'm calling to tell you we may have a matched organ for you.
++
The chaplain arrived at the doorway, having just briefly spoken to the spouse, with his friend, in the hallway.
"Do you have a time yet?"
Jenn offered her best estimate. "Maybe another hour? Blood and Transplant is working just in that back hallway."
"Okay, I'll check in. And just so you know, once we have a time, I'm coordinating an Honour Walk." He hesitated, waiting for Jenn to respond to that, and when she didn't, he smiled briefly. "I've done them before, another hospital, but not here yet. I've rounded up some people, we line the hallways between here and the OR. Pay our respects, to honour the donation, as the entourage goes from here to the surgical suites."
"Heard of it. Never been part." Jenn sighed, thinking of the work between here and there, the things still to be done. The things that could still go wrong. "Okay, do I ... I don't have to do anything for it, do I?"
"No. Just follow along, only if you want."
"We'll see."
"I think you'll appreciate it," he told her, "if you can do it?"
The monitor alarmed again, blood pressure, and an IV pump announcing some sort of line occlusion, which disallowed Jenn from thinking any further about it at the time.
++
The chaplain had already heard that the spouse would not be accompanying the bed to the OR, choosing to say goodbye in the room. Which of course, he knew was how some - many, actually - in the situation did prefer to handle things. But still, he wanted to ask, carefully, if they were opposed to the honour walk, and to give him and his support person the option to be present. He at least wanted to reach out regardless, gently offer the opportunity. It happened, providentially, that he found one of the Watson visitors near the waiting room, in the hallway, alone.
"You're here with Mrs. Watson? Mr. and Mrs. Watson?"
"Dr. and Mrs.," Sherlock couldn't help but clarify. "Yes."
"I have a ... something I'd like to talk with him about. Or to let you know, if we can. Is Mr. ... Dr. Watson close by?"
"He's got his eyes closed in the corner of the waiting room. He wanted a few minutes by himself." Sherlock could feel the urge to square off at the door, to prevent entry, to protect John's brief moment at all costs. "He's exhausted."
His smile was fond, brief, and he spoke again, "Good of you to guard the door, then. I'm relieved he's not here alone." There was a pause, and Sherlock didn't want to make small talk, so he waited. "I wanted to let you know, sometimes in these cases, of organ donation, we do what's called an honour walk. Where people associated with the hospital, the nursing units, the OR, various others who are ... touched, who are appreciative, will come, stand in the hallways as the patient who is donating goes from the ICU to the OR. Pay their respects. To honour the decision. To show support for the family and the process. It's very moving, and ..."
"No." The abruptness of the unasked for response cuts off the chaplain. Sherlock explained further, quietly. "We won't be ..." After a pause, he changed focus. "John isn't interested in that, in attending that. He's already told them he will say goodbye in the room. And then he and I will leave. Probably go back to his daughter in the nursery."
The chaplain hesitated a little, patiently, listening. "All right. I understand, and as I said, whatever he chooses is fine. Is there anyone else, someone close to Mrs. Watson, who might like to be a part of that?"
Honour walk, he pondered. Sherlock thought of the man Mary'd been heading toward. Of Lestrade, who knew about it, of the others who didn't know about it. John, in particular, who didn't know yet. The very word 'honour' rankled. "I don't think so, actually." He sighed a little, hoping their voices weren't disturbing him. "He's made a lot of hard decisions in the last days. He's already overwhelmed."
"I understand. You know him best. I just wanted to reach out, make the offer." He circled back to the need to make sure they weren't opposed. "I was hoping for permission, your permission on his behalf, to proceed. If John would be opposed, of course, we won't do it. Neither of you have to be present."
"It's a kind idea, the walk. Go ahead. But we're not interested." He left unsaid what he was thinking, something about it not being deserved. But he really didn't mind, and didn't think John would, either. In his head, he can hear John prompting him to be civil. "Thanks for checking."
The chaplain bestowed on him in return, a kind nod, a smile. "Of course." He followed with his usual, heartfelt farewell, that if John wanted, or needed, to please make contact. "I'm sorry, you know. This is so very heartbreaking."
With a tilt of his head, Sherlock silently agreed. He thought of the baby, of the long road ahead. He considered that, as yet, John didn't even know what would likely be the worst of the situation for John. You have no idea, he thought. "Agreed," came out of his mouth instead.
++
"Ready?" The transplant coordinator had read from the checklist, equipment and personnel and destination all accounted for. She spoke the patient's name and date of birth again, and another NHS associate confirmed the name with the band on the patient's swollen ankle.
Jenn had been preparing for the past few minutes. Extra IV bags added to the infusion poles so that nothing would run out. Coiling equipment power cords, fastening them neatly and out of the way with velcro straps. Placing other equipment on or near the bed. The breakaway doors were both open and several associates from the surgical theatre were waiting to accompany the patient.
The chaplain, as well, was present in the hallway, having sounded the word, rallying support for the honour walk and hopeful that there would be a good response.
"I'm ready," Jenn assured the room, her voice quiet but confident. "We're ready."
The bed was unlocked, the ventilator switched over to the portable unit, and multiple gloved hands reached to secure the bed, the monitors, the multitude of wheeled IV poles. Other hands steadied the bed as they began to leave the room.
It wasn't until they'd actually exited the ICU bay into the hallway that Jenn finally decided to accompany them. Given that this was her only patient, she did actually have time to go along. The deluge of documentation still pending would certainly wait.
"It's okay, I've got this," one of the OR staff said, taking their place at the headboard. Jenn nodded as she stepped aside, feeling slightly bereft, that she had somewhat been relegated to the background. Not her deal any longer, nor hers to manage - and she inhaled, exhaled, reminded herself that she had not exactly been replaced - but her role was now different.
++
The patient, silent, eyes closed, surgical cap over her cropped blond hair. Chest rise, under the paisley patient gown, continued, the ventilator assuring oxygenation. Her skin was pale, hands and feet swollen. There were no restraints of course, as she was incapable of purposeful movement. The casual onlooker may not have known that this particular patient already had a signed death certificate, but most knew, and had gathered for that reason, at the behest of the chaplain. The ICU charge nurse stood at the corner of the hallway, others gathered behind her, and she locked eyes with Jenn. They'd been friends a long time, co-workers, had been through hell at times.
That moment of eye contact between two colleagues, nurses, and friends was ...
It was ... a warm, compassionate, sad - sorrowful even, a particularly painful, very human moment. It was mostly, I have your back, and thank you. The look said I'm sorry, good job, and I'm here for you all rolled into one, kind, honest look.
Jenn's journey with this patient, the connection with the patient, the family, the close friend who'd all been so present, had been quite intertwined. Discussions about the tenuous situation, the severe physical injuries. She'd spoken to the patient's spouse, the doctor, been able to relate on a complex level, the shared language. He was still so very shocked. The friend, the taller dark haired one. Initially, his pale eyes, all seeing, all something -- well, he had given her a bit of a pause. She could see, sense, smell, and feel his protective nature, that spring-loaded tightness that was ready to unleash at any moment, any perception of threat against John, the spouse. Protective like natures fiercest animal. A bear? An elephant?
The initial talks of course were cautiously hopeful. Allowing the anaesthesia from the stat caesarean section to clear first. Then the imaging, diffuse oedema on the CAT scan of the head. Then, statements like, perhaps the swelling is not so severe, there may be improvement, the perpetual 'wait and see' the phrase, the life support; subsequent discussions, the clinical findings - ultimately the absence of cerebral perfusion. The brain death criteria. The pronouncement of brain death. And then, and only then, after the brain death reveal, did the talks with Blood and Transplant begin. They were, indeed, two very separate things and should never be muddied. Sometimes they were, but this case ... Separate. Both were devastating, along this journey.
The journey, whatever led to this, the accident, the trauma, the circumstances, were all in the past.
The journey to the OR, marking her present. Their present. Jenn wondered at the location of John, the friend. Probably in the NICU by now.
There would be no future for the patient in the bed.
She understood it was a one-way trip of course, but as it sunk in, her breath caught - and she took a mental step back.
It was the emotional equivalent of a gut-punch. She knew, she'd known, she'd been around a lot of death, and it never was rote.
But this? The walk, the honour walk, made it so very real. She blinked, seeing the organ procurement officer, the OR coordinator, the anaesthesiologist. The amount of IV pumps, medications without which the patient would already have lost all signs of life.
The ventilator. Breathing tube, also mission critical to their particular place. Her tape job, her tube holder, her attention to safety. And yet so much bigger than her - it was the team. The monitor and all the waveforms. Blip, blip, blip. She blinked again, saw faces in the hallway. Lining the hallway, far as she could see. All gathered in support. Paying respects to the process and to the patient. Mary.
The patient. Another glance at the patient.
Oh god, the patient. Not coming back to the ICU. Not really her patient any longer.
The arms that would never hold her baby. Never hold anything ever again. The wedding ring, taped in place. Another deep breath, shaky this time. Sheets crisp, covering discreetly. Abdominal dressing from her surgery barely rounding out the linens. She blinked again, eyes moist, and she reminded herself that she was wearing her nurse role, her protective layer of caregiving, and she reached out to be a part of the progression by holding an edge of the bed.
They rounded the corner of the unit, approaching the doorway, another hallway lined by the rest of the ICU staff, those who could spare these precious minutes. Her unit, her coworkers, all strong, assertive, chatty - today, absolutely silent. Respectful.
Each step, closer to the destination of the OR.
In her mind's eye, she could vividly imagine other ORs, other patients gathering, who had received and probably made exciting phone calls, even now probably packing a bag, were looking at hope. At a brighter future.
It was what kept her coming back - the challenge of making a difference, of doing what she could, whatever was within her power, to help people.
Even when - or maybe especially when - it was hard. It was awful.
Hope lost here for this patient, Mary Watson, meant hope perpetuated for others. Perhaps, she thought, although the bed would return to her unit empty, it wasn't exactly a one-way trip after all.
++
The text messaging system was completely secure and encrypted. It was used by medical staff everywhere for meaningful, timely, discreet communication.
Less often, it was used by the chaplain for such a time as this.
Honour Walk! Please join us, if you are able, in five minutes time to honour the ultimate gift from a grieving family, bestowing hope upon strangers. Meet us in the upper hallway between the ICU and the OR along the South Hall along the corridor, for this silent, respectful show of gratitude. Whether you attend or not, thank you for your service.
++
The chaplain accompanied them from the beginning in the ICU, through each hallway to the OR. He nodded at some, gave a small smile of appreciation to others, and ended his trek at the final hallway, the OR, holding back one of the doors as they passed through. As the bed disappeared, some staff followed of course, where their part would truly begin, others peeled off. He faced the group there, eyes somber, seeking; they looked to him to reassure them, to offer comfort. A few tried to discreetly blot a tear; most were just ... mildly stunned at the purpose, the reason, the sudden end to their journey. There was a disquieting ambiance, though everyone was quiet.
Faintly clearing his throat, he spoke, unrushed, "Let's take a moment to pause, and to honour the life represented in the bed. She was a daughter, a wife, a mother. She loved and was loved." Blink. "To say a quiet and humble thanks for personal blessings, for health." Blink, blink. Breathe. "And let's take a moment to send good wishes, safety, and skill to the surgical team just beyond these doors, as well as for those surgical teams who will be gathering soon, today, for the gift for others, for a second chance. Of life for many others. A journey of another sort." With a silent break, he raised a hand in benediction toward the now closed door, lips moving briefly in unvoiced prayer, and when he turned back, he said simply, "Thank you all so much for being here, for being part of something much bigger." His eyes caught Jenn's face and held. Then he nodded sweetly at her, breathed another, "Thank you, and be blessed," as if speaking directly to her. And, to some degree he was.
Exhaling a shaky breath, she glanced quickly at all those gathered in support, who wanted to share in the moment, in the process - and it was overwhelming. She saw, she felt, she trembled. Her legs made a small attempt to carry her back to safety, back to her unit, and she not-quite-stumbled, reaching out a hand toward the wall. To her chagrin, a man standing close noticed and reached out for her, as he apparently expected her to fall. She meant to avoid him, but ended up holding his arm, his elbow, as he steadied her. At least, she told herself, she'd made no noise as silent tears fell.
The stranger spoke quietly, barely audible, guiding them both back out of the throng of people. His hand was warm, one on her shoulder, the other on her arm.
From across the hall, the chaplain didn't see any of that as several people spoke with him, sharing a touch, a story, or offering quiet words of thanks; his words in return those of encouragement. It was all important; his role was a ministry of interruptions, and by the time he was able, when he scanned the area for Jenn, she was already gone.
++
Greg wouldn't have admitted it to many people, but when he came to the hospital, intent on checking on John (and Sherlock), he was irked at the gathering blocking his access in the hallway just outside the ICU, Mary's ICU. He'd seen John there once or twice, in Mary's room or the waiting area. Another time, closer to the NICU; once through the glass, where he could barely see John standing, staring into the isolette, his expression forlorn and lost at times, or simply blank. There were people lining the hallway, clearly waiting for something, and the actual path through was blocked. He considered gently elbowing past, or flashing his badge, or simply forcing his way across, but thought that, just maybe, as his sarcastic wit reminded him, these people were likely also having a rather bad day, that catastrophe had already struck, and he probably didn't need to make anything worse by being rude.
The last thing they needed, he reasoned, was a non-uniformed policeman blazing a path through. So, curious, he stood a few moments, wondering about taking another route around, when the attention of the crowd shifted to one direction, the metallic clunking of automated doors opening.
"What's this about?" he whispered to a friendly looking person standing nearby.
"Honour walk. An organ donor, coming by soon. Going to the OR for ..." she left out the conclusion of the sentence, and Greg nodded quickly as a small wave of angst ran through him. "Bad car accident." Out of the double doors of the back of the ICU, best Greg could tell, came a bed, surrounded by no fewer than five people pushing, two people with clipboards, and a few others in scrubs, clearly focused on an urgent matter, a mission, an urgent destination. Some of them had name badges belonging to the hospital; others had the more official tags from NHS. Her tone grew wistful as she added quietly, "I heard she was pregnant."
Greg inhaled sharply, then nodded once, looked away, then took a careful step away from her as the bed came closer. With a dry mouth, he swallowed a couple of times, steeling himself and embracing that behaviour he'd learned over the years on the force. Stoic. Unruffled. Coolly professional. Non-reactive, at least on the outside.
If it wasn't a sure thing by detail, it certainly was confirmed when he saw. Faint wisps of blond hair poked out from under the floral cap of the familiar person in the bed. Not that it looked like her exactly, but even under the tubes, her face was recognisable, her stature tell-tale, the faint rounding under the sheets - no longer pregnant, but still minorly swollen. Her arms, pale, still, lines and wires protruding from her neck, a plethora of IV pumps with tubings snaking under the sheets near her midsection. Breathing tube, certainly Greg was familiar enough with the device to recognise it, to a ventilator.
Forcing his gaze elsewhere, he scanned the surroundings, intently, deliberately. Conspicuous by their absence at the bedside: John. And Sherlock.
For which, Greg was extraordinarily thankful. He cast a careful, cursory glance around again, taking in serious faces but none familiar.
His eyes darted back to the bed briefly, where even that face wasn't too familiar. Then to those gathered, those standing quietly. The procession, slow, smooth, quiet save the requisite sound of equipment, wheels, footsteps, drifted by him, through the group in the hallway. It was a short trip just a bit further down, where more automatic doors clicked open. Greg lingered behind as one man, one soft spoken man, smiled tenderly at the crowd before speaking.
++
People evaporated in waves, some back to work clearly, others off to some destination, some of the nurses returning to other patients and other settings, administrators back to their offices, support staff back to their tasks.
The scrub-wearing woman who'd been so distressed next to Greg had quickly regained her composure, and let Greg lead her to an alcove, where he offered her a seat. Offered to buy her a coffee. "Can't," she breathed. "Have to ... get back."
"You're okay?"
"I'm ..." she started to deny it, acknowledging that with her fading smile and her expression, the slightly nervous chuckle that of course she wasn't exactly okay. "Thanks," she amended, "for ... all that."
"You're sure?"
"Yes." Her eyes welled briefly, the faintest tremble of her lower lip, as she let her guard down very briefly. That quick, she raised it again, tipped her head back slightly, a careful exhale. One deep breath, a quivery inhale, and she spoke, stronger, "I'm ... I'll be ...." A small twinkle of her eye as she admitted the struggle, that she accepted her self-awareness, and she squared her shoulders, let the tiny smile reach her face. "I'll try to make it back to my unit without flopping about on the floor."
"Good plan." He sensed that indeed she was well, if not fine, better - or close to it, that this was not her first upset moment of the day, or her career, and he backed off. "Thanks to you too. For ..." he let the sentence trail, gestured toward the closed doors of the OR, the setting, the hospital in general. "All of whatever you do."
"You too. Catching distraught strangers in the hallway. Other random acts of kindness." With a nod and another small smile, a glance that conveyed her genuine thanks, she disappeared. He wondered, not for the first time, what kept nurses at the bedside. It was hard, he knew, and at least some of the time, not unlike that of a police officer: crisis lurking in every nook and cranny.
Crisis also lurked, he knew, for a hospital chaplain some days.
When Greg turned again after watching just a few seconds, he figured he'd go find John in one of the usual waiting rooms. If he didn't find him, he would send off a quick text to Sherlock. But before taking a step, what he found instead, watching him from across the hallway, still enough and subdued enough to be nearly invisible, was in fact a familiar face that wasn't there earlier. Or a familiar face that had avoided detection.
Mycroft Holmes. Funny that typically he took up all the presence in an entire room with his confidence and control, his aura - odd that he could chameleon himself into the periphery of a formerly crowded hospital hallway. He'd blended in with the gathering earlier.
And he was watching him back.
Mycroft did not appear to be impatient, or just arriving, or trying to go somewhere. Given the lack of others lingering behind, Greg approached unhindered.
"I didn't plan to be here," Greg said. "Seems perhaps you did?"
"Perhaps." His face was closed, unreadable as he echoed Greg's word choice. "They're in the nursery, the NICU it's termed, with the baby," Mycroft explained, his demeanor as reserved as ever. He didn't mention that, last he heard, the baby - John's daughter - wasn't looking as good today, and there was some concern. A brow raised, and he turned cool eyes to Greg's warm ones. "How's the investigation coming along?"
Greg heard of course, the faintest emphasis on the word investigation, implying it was more than that. Although it shouldn't have surprised him that Mycroft already knew about some of those issues, too, he couldn't keep the mild look of surprise off his face. And then he stilled himself, his expression. Of course he knew.
"Do keep me updated, detective?" Mycroft actually looked apologetic as he made a show of consulting his wrist for the time. "Well, seems I need to be moving on. I'm sorry for the question, when clearly you have other things to do. As do I."
Greg merely watched Sherlock's brother turn and walk away, the complete opposite direction of the NICU.
++
Time slid by with as much routine as could be expected, given the cataclysmic changes, the fragility of an infant, the unexpectedness of the life changes. Together they weathered hard things - of setbacks in the nursery, of disclosures hard to hear, of a funeral. Of wide-spread adjustments. Of naming Fiona.
Of John moving back to Baker Street.
Of bringing Fiona home.
Later, of John moving into Sherlock's bedroom.
Sherlock consulted with the Met, though choosing when he could, to consult on cases with less danger and spontaneity than he previously preferred. He couldn't risk it, with John or with Fiona. But his success rate was still solidly high, and the cases even now and again proved interesting. One such case, high on the interesting scale - as well as high profile - landed them in something of a spotlight as Sherlock untangled a case involving the NHS, narcotic diversion, a security breach, and the hospital at which Fiona'd been born. He deferred the post-case press conference, leaving that solely on Greg's shoulders, but his involvement did land him on the mailing list for those with a vested interest in the security and programmes of the hospital.
Mostly the post delivered single card requests for donations, or of a specific event, or of a need.
One afternoon it delivered a full on magazine, full of all of the above, and a few interviews that highlighted the previous year, the success stories, the human interest anecdotes, and promoted the upcoming open house.
Fiona'd just gone in for a nap, and John flipped open the cover, expecting to leaf through it mindlessly then bin it entirely.
The magazine was still open to one of the featured interviews, the familiar face in a photograph, when Sherlock arrived a short time later.
++
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock needed only a moments study of John to at least realise something had caught his attention to the point of slightly rattling him.
Words were not needed when he approached, set one hand on his shoulder, and glimpsed the article.
"Did you know?" John asked softly.
++
Q: So Jenn, as a seasoned ICU nurse, you see a lot of things. How do you keep yourself well-balanced?
A: Well, it's like with anything else, really. You soldier on through the hard things, you wear the nurse hat, you get the job done. Wearing the nurse hat? Oh, sorry, what does that mean? Well, for me, I'm a nurse, and I love what I do, which means I can handle the things that are ... that are just ... unimaginable. I have to. Self-talk, I can do this, I'm a nurse. We hold hands with patients who die alone. We support families and do what they want, or what the patient wants, even when we're fairly certain the outcome sucks. Can I say that? Ooops. An example? Well, sure someone with lung cancer that's metastasised, spread, sometimes patients choose to stay comfortable, they opt not to have surgery, and go home to manage their symptoms while they can. Sometimes they have surgery, aggressive or painful treatment, life support measures, and the final weeks or months are unpleasant. Pain-filled. To stay balanced, which was your question, you have to celebrate the good. Focus on the ones who do well or whom you help along the journey.
Q: Speaking of helping, you volunteered to help at this year's open house, in a couple of weeks.
A: Yes. For the Blood and Transplant division of the NHS, I'll be there to talk to people. Answer questions. You'll be there, right? It's end of the month.
Q: Of course. So two questions, how did you decide to get involved, and what would you like people to know?
A: I'll answer the second first, and that springboards off your other questions about staying balanced. When terrible things happen, when life throws you something awful, sometimes there are silver linings. Finding something, even something small, can help get through the hard times. So find your silver lining, people should know that.
My unit, we see major trauma too often. And I didn't realise how much I needed that silver lining for myself until I participated almost a year ago in what's called an Honour Walk. It's where people gather and accompany a patient who is ... well ... who is brain dead, and becomes an organ donor. So it's a process, the organ donor registry, the criteria, the family has to agree. So as the bed and all the equipment is taken to the operating room, folks come to line the hallways, pay their respects, honour the process - the donor, the loss, the family, the gift - as they pass. My first Honour Walk was a young woman, car accident, a new mum ... [throat clearing, a faint frown, a pause]
Q: Take all the time you need, we can edit the interview.
A: I'm okay, wearing the hat now.
[Editors note: Left these observations and comments in for obvious reasons]
It was, well, first of all, indescribable. People gathered, the entire length of the ICU, down the hall, to the OR doors. The family had said their goodbyes in the room, so they weren't there. But a lot of people came, most of the ICU. A lot of support staff. Our chaplain led a very small, very respectful few words. He said a quick blessing over the situation, something about second chances, about hope. It really struck me, and I had trouble sleeping for a while, until I figured out a way to manage it. To get involved. So I've done some in-hospital education, some personal research, and a lot of time being grateful. When this opportunity came, I knew it was for me.
Q: Sounds pretty incredible.
A: It was just so powerful, hard to convey it. After the chaplain was done, he looked right at me, while saying thank you to the group. And then, it's ... well not funny of course, but the crowd goes away, the doors close, people start to leave, and I just ... I was so overwhelmed. Humbled. Privileged to be part of the ... hope. It was such a final moment, those doors closing. It's just ... over, you know? And there was someone standing next to me, took my arm when he saw how upset I was. I remember joking about, something about swooning. And I didn't, but I just needed a deep breath. A touch from a stranger, you know.
Q: There's probably a wise statement somewhere about the power of coincidence.
A: Exactly. [Chuckling]. I found out later, he was the Chief Deputy Inspector for the Yard. Of all things.
Q: So tell me a little about your role in the Open House.
A: I'll be manning a booth there, jointly with someone from Blood and Transplant. We're fundraising a little for a private room at the hospital, for families to gather, for these meetings with NHS to happen. Something private, cozy, comforting. But that's not my main goal, don't tell my director, okay? I just want people to know about it. We'll have some information, promoting awareness, helping allay some of the misconceptions that ...
++
"You want to attend. The open house."
"I do. Yes. With Fiona. And you of course." John swallowed, feeling vaguely unsettled. "You didn't answer my question."
For a few long seconds, Sherlock hesitated.
"I mean," John continued, "that was Mary's nurse. Her comments were a little too close, too many details line up. Obviously she was referring to ... then. That time."
"They asked me for permission. So yes, I knew." A brow raised. "They invited us. Which of course I declined. We already had a plan by the time I found out."
++
Sherlock recalled the conversation vividly, in the waiting room outside the ICU.
"John, listen to me," he'd said, perching on a chair and expecting - and finding - that John did the same. "Do you want to be there when they take her from the room?" The question caught John off guard, and Sherlock watched and waited while John tried to find some sense of how to answer.
Chewing on a lip, and then the cuticle of his thumb, he finally shook his head and said, "No, I don't want to watch that."
Sherlock had nodded, suspecting that would be John's inclination. "Fine. I'll make sure you get a minute alone to say goodbye when," and they both cringed a bit at the knowledge that time was short, and he amended, "before that time comes." The look about John's eyes had been nothing less than full stop fear, of the road ahead of them, of what was being asked of him. "And then you and I will walk out together."
++
"So I politely declined attending, for the both of us." He waited again for John to nod. "And no, I didn't ultimately go either."
"Sounds like ... perhaps Greg was there."
"That was news to me. He didn't say anything. But I don't suspect he was there intentionally. Not his style." There was a quieter moment during which their collective unease mounted. "Did I choose correctly in not telling you? Would you have wanted to go, to watch that, to see that whole procession?" His voice, softly, a low tone, "Especially once ..." you found out.
"No. I would have ... felt obligated to go, had you asked." Their eyes met, held, the unspoken truth that came out later, Mary's infidelity, a remote fact - shocking at the time, now, not so much. "You absolutely chose correctly."
++
Greg rolled his shoulders back, stretching out his spine, taking a deep inhale, and then letting it all out. The day, from one burning fire to the next, was winding down, and he was nearly ready to go home, lock his office, and pick it all back up again in the morning. Opening his email one last time, he glanced down the list - junk, can wait, junk, solicitation, meeting agendas, items that will still be there the following day. One, however, caught his eye, the sender somewhat non-descript but one he recognised originating from Sherlock's brother. The subject line enough to merit a slight pause, simply "Gregory, for your perusal."
He sat back, clicked on it, a little worried. To his relief, the entirety of an article from the local hospital loaded neatly on his screen, seemingly benign enough, and he perused the article once, twice, was on the third read - the third admittedly cursory read - when he realised the connection. Giving the photo a second glance, he could then recognise and remember the incident mentioned in the interview.
Even as he would never have mentioned it then to the men who now resided quite happily on Baker Street, he didn't consider it at present either. On a quick notion, he opened the calendar app on his mobile, entered the few scant details, and acknowledged he probably would be too busy to attend.
++
Jenn found the open house was mostly just like her shifts up in her unit - feast or famine. There was no one at her table; moments later, a cluster, a line, a few people deep, a flurry of activity.
"You usually work in the ICU?" one man asked. He saw the level of distraction, waited for the moment she would notice him.
"Yeah, my shift starts early tom--," she began, then looked up into intense blue eyes under steely, thick hair, and happened to really notice to whom she was speaking. "Oh my goodness," she breathed. "are you ...?! Of course you are!" She chuckled, flushed, and kept talking. "Oh dear me, I'm surprised you recognised me, you know, not swooning or something."
"It was rather unforgettable."
"Yes. For me, too, for several reasons." Jenn smiled, a tiny one.
"Find the silver lining, you said in the interview."
"Yes. Thank you, again, for ..."
"We all need that, from time to time. Just a friendly face."
"And maybe a scoop off the floor."
"Not that bad."
"It's good to see you. Better day today."
"Saw the article. Had business over in this part of the city, figured, why not?"
Jenn nodded. "Help yourself to anything here. New pen. Mobile pocket holder, sticks on the back of your ..." He was already shaking his head, hands in his pockets, clearly not interested in the information, the material, the small marketing tools, the wrapped snacks on small platters, a cup of pens, other little giveaways. It struck her, then, and she couldn't stop the question. "Did you know her?"
"Know who?" Greg asked carefully.
"The patient that day." He kept his expression guarded, and Jenn continued, "I could say her name, as if I'd ever forget it, but ..." He smiled a bit in understanding about patient privacy, and something in his eyes - sadness, quietness, something - prompted her to speak again. "You know what, never mind, it's none of my business. Please forget I asked." His eyes, so guarded, vague, conveying so much without words, and she knew. She just knew, that yes, he'd known. "Thanks for stopping by," she said quietly.
"Good to see you. Thanks - for all the care back then. And doing this, too."
Another guest approached, seeking information and picking up an item or two, but before Greg turned away, he gave the smallest, very intentional nod before breaking eye contact.
++
It wasn't much later, closer to the end of the event, when Jenn spied a pair of familiar faces approaching. She was somehow both surprised and not surprised to see him, after the earlier visit. Thinking about and talking about the honour walk has kept him, and the situation, in the forefront of her mind.
"Hello," John said in greeting, a hand resting on Fiona's leg to keep her from kicking at him from where she rode in the backpack carrier.
Her eyes warmed, "Hello yourself," she echoed, smiling and extending a hand.
With his non-dominant hand, he reached out his own for a friendly handshake (lest Fiona seize the moment of opportunity to bloody his ear). It wasn't enough, apparently, and by mutual agreement they stepped toward each other, her darting out from behind the display booth to give him a quick, careful hug. His hand still covered Fiona's leg to keep her from kicking.
"Good to see you." Sliding back, Jenn grinned at Fiona's antics, her liveliness, her slight bouncing atop John's shoulders.
"Same," he replied as he felt Sherlock at his side. "You remember Sherlock Holmes?"
"Of course." They exchanged a few pleasantries, and Jenn laughed at the baby, who was bouncing up and down more vigourously in the carrier, patting John's golden hair gently. "And this is ...?"
"Fiona. She's not quite one."
"She's precious. Wow."
"The center of attention, aren't you?" he asked over his shoulder, chuckling as she began plucking at his hair, his ears. "Hey, up there. Can you ...?"
Jenn offered John, with a tiny twitch toward Fiona if he agreed, a small stuffed brown bear from her table, wearing a bright tee shirt emblazoned with the organ donation logo. Fiona answered instead, with a loud caw and lunging toward it. "Of course, thanks. What do you say Fee? Thank you?"
"You know she's only going to --" Sherlock began, a cautionary statement cut short as Fiona did indeed toss the toy - but Sherlock was ready and caught it. "We have that clip?" And John was already nodding, pulled the toy retrieval clip from his pocket. They made good use of it, attaching various things, toys, clothing, hats, and occasionally something unusual (an electronic gadget, a food item, one of Sherlock's (safe) experiments to either Fiona or John or the pushchair.
"That'll help. Until she gets bored with it not hitting the floor," John chuckled again.
Jenn was watching her, amused. "She's got your eyes, John."
"And his temper," Sherlock interjected, then when John began a quick protest, amended, "I mean, his good disposition of course."
"I'm so glad she's ... I mean, you'd never know she was a preemie." Jenn held her attention a moment with her big grin. "I remember hearing she'd gone home from the hospital. Eventually, anyway."
"Rocky start, yes. Fragile. Doing well now." There was a tiny bit of awkwardness, the unease that came with a slightly chance encounter that brought about hard memories. John plunged ahead. "Saw the hospital magazine, with your interview in it. Really phenomenal job with it, by the way."
Giggling, she confessed, "They wanted me to speak at the Founders Day Dinner. Live. In front of a big crowd. Can you imagine?" she asked, shuddering. "Told them absolutely not."
"It was surprising, seeing your photo. In a good way. Great article." Sherlock watched, wondering when - or if - John would mention it. He was not disappointed, nor surprised. "It was interesting, too, to read about the Honour Walk. It's ... uh ... how I found out about it, to be honest." John spoke it carefully, keeping it neutral, just let it hang there. Jenn wasn't sure what to say to that, and John felt badly for the conversational discomfort, so he continued. "I full stop wouldn't have wanted to go, anyway, had I known. Saying goodbye in the room, and then leaving, was ... enough. It was what I wanted." Sherlock, quiet, leaned in just slightly, a show of support. "What we wanted."
"It was right, for you. I ... would say I understand, but I don't. I do know that there're no rules, no set behaviours. It's different for everyone. So ... for you, that was right."
"No rules?" Sherlock interjected, looking to lighten the conversation. "Sounds good." Quickly, he made eye contact with John to determine the atmosphere, and when John smiled casually, he spoke again, gesturing at the table near them. "Rules are like plates. They're meant to be broken."
"Don't break the plates," John replied, gently, lightly teasing.
"Right. I agree. Don't break the plates." Her smile reached her eyes, and she talked again. "This was great, seeing you both. I'm glad ... I'm glad you're doing okay, and especially of course, that your daughter is healthy."
Their eyes connected, the underlying gratitude visible, almost palpable.
"Good to see you," Jenn said again, quiet herself, her hands clasped in front of her, before turning to leave. "The two of you." The pronoun, the we, the situation, their togetherness, she noticed.
"Thanks," John spoke, quietly, intimately,
She watched them walk away, took comfort herself in watching Sherlock's hand come up behind John's back as they did.
Before turning back to the table, to the next person waiting there to talk with her, she saw the little bear take a short, tethered flight before Sherlock handed it back to her.
++
Later, after hanging up clothes and tucking shoes into the closet, Fiona long ago in bed, John lay quietly, listening to the evening London sounds. Dull traffic noises. A random pedestrian. A very distant horn. The faint static over the baby monitor, Fiona's rare, sleepy rustling noises. A breeze picking up, a few patters of raindrops. A lull. Then, bare feet sounds on the floor, their bedroom door quietly opening, closing. Only a slight disturbance as Sherlock lifted the duvet, burrowing himself into the cool crispness of the sheets.
"Still awake," John breathed.
"Figured you were, after today."
"I'm not upset."
"Maybe I should have run it by you, but at the time, you were ..."
"Not in a position to have to choose." John reached out a foot, his toes slipping under Sherlock's calf. "As I said, not upset." Gently so as not to startle, he snaked out a hand, touching Sherlock's arm. Sherlock's tense arm.
"Awake, though."
"Well, I do wonder what that would have felt like. People in the halls, watching. Supporting." John could both hear and feel the huff, the tension. The faint disapproval evident in Sherlock's posture, his silence. "What's ... Are you not okay with it?"
"Personally, I think it was a pointless, ridiculous thing. In this instance, anyway."
"Explain," John urged, softly, the faintest whisper. Under his hand and his foot, he could feel the energy radiating from the other side of the bed.
He was somewhat incensed, leaning closer on the pillow as to not raise his voice. "The very idea of an honour walk somehow implies that it was an honourable thing to do. It was following the law for donation, and the honour or dishonour had nothing to do with any of it." The faint light in the bedroom wasn't enough to see, but John could well imagine the pronounced eye-roll. "I mean, honestly, what was the point. I fail to see the benefit."
"Jenn would disagree. Hospital staff care about things like that. All the work. The recipients, and yes, I know it's unlikely they can ever attend one, but they would certainly have wanted a tangible way to say thank you, to show their respect ..."
The rain intensified, a few ripples of lightning followed that, and the room brightened a little. Both waited for the faint rumble of thunder. Across the pillows, they met eyes for a few intense seconds, the difference of opinion settling between them. Sherlock broke the silence then. "Had I asked you, would you have wanted to go?" He didn't need to remind John that, at that point in time, the details of Mary's destination, the details of her ... extramarital dalliance, were unknown to John.
Glancing away, he blinked hard a few times as he gathered his thoughts. "First off, I wouldn't change anything, saying goodbye in her room, with the staff there, that was absolutely fine. But had you asked me, yes, I probably would have wanted to go." He obviously wasn't finished, his lip and his brow active as he worked out the words again, "But after, knowing what we found out, I think that might have been harder, after. So I'm not unhappy that you made that decision." The room seemed to settle, comfortable, around them. "No regrets," John breathed.
Their fingers entwined, warm and safe and together. In the room, peace, while outside, the wind picked up again. There was a sizzle, a coalescence of hot and cold air, a burst of lightning still in the distance, but encroaching closer.
"Ugh I hope Fiona sleeps through ..." He paused as the thunder rumbled again, louder, echoing much closer, the roof and walls seeming to vibrate in the storm.
"Mmmm. It's likely she will."
The rain intensified, louder, as bigger drops fell outside, the sounds more background and steady. John made his own sound, deep in his throat, as he felt Sherlock approach. An arm stole across his middle, a knee sliding toward his thigh and then overtop as Sherlock nestled into the angle of John's shoulder and chest. Although neither of them slept like that for long periods, they did often fall asleep before separating. "You know," John murmured, the topic from earlier still fresh, "just in case it needs saying, thank you."
He tipped up a chin, seeking clarification without needing to verbalise the question.
"For not asking me. Not putting me in the place to have to make the choice about the honour walk."
A gust of wind, hard drops splatting against the window, and the embrace tightened.
++
"She's not going to care," Sherlock observed as John rearranged the table slightly, putting the cake down and sliding one of the balloon weights to the side.
"Sure she does, don't you Fee?" he jested back to his daughter, who was clutching his leg as she stood, her walking skills not quite there yet, but she loved standing. Everywhere, and the more inconvenient to either of the adults, the more she insisted.
"There's no one her age, even remotely, who's coming."
"So it's a party for us, using her as an excuse," John stated. "I see nothing wrong with that."
"And her actual birthday was a few weeks ago. Why are you even bothering?"
John raised his head to stare directly at Sherlock, letting his displeasure simmer on his expression. "You know, if only to rile you up, that's a good enough reason for me." He fussed one of the gifts into the pile and reminded Sherlock, "This was the time that worked for our friends. It'll be a good party."
With long fingers, Sherlock picked up one of the smaller boxes, with the purple ribbon, and shook it. "This one is --"
"For the love of ... ! Just stop it already," John shushed him.
One of Sherlock's brows creased, and he mused, "We do the work, she gets the gifts."
Amused, John lifted Fiona up to show her the table, as he asked her, teasingly, "We? What's with the 'we'?"
Fiona's first birthday party, despite Sherlock's attempt to veto the gathering, seemed a good time as any for a little get together. "Exactly my point. Ridiculous fussing." From within John's arms, Fiona reached for one of the balloon strings, looking up as the balloon jerked, the mylar making soft clicking sounds and delighting her. "And I'm pretty sure Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and ..."
"Mycroft." John added.
"I uninvited him."
"I un-uninvited him."
"Then all this extra work serves you right."
A little later in the gathering, their friends milling about, and both John and Sherlock were each convinced they were indeed correct. The balloons were scattered, the decorations somewhat shredded - those Fiona could reach, or in one case had been handed to her (thank you Mycroft) to destroy. There were partly empty plates, random items and people enjoying a few fun minutes. Fiona, cruising about between end tables and couches, seemed unfazed by all of it. And quite interested in unstacking piles, unloading drawers, and generally making as much mess as she could. And enjoying every moment.
John watched, quietly enjoying seeing the interactions, as Fiona found the little magazine from the hospital, handed it to Greg, then scrambled - a modified fast crawl - over to her box of toys that he'd tried to put out of sight to grab the stuffed bear, the one Jenn had given her, and bring it back to set on the magazine, the photo of the booth at the open house.
"Coincidence?" Sherlock murmured from John's elbow. "Does she actually see the bear in the photo, and is matching it up to her own?"
"Doubtful. She usually likes bigger photos, or her books ..." John began, but then stopped when she pointed a finger at the photo and then smacked the bear up and down on the magazine. "Oh, or, maybe not."
And then she commandeered Mrs. Hudson's attention with a different book, and they settled into the chair off to the side to read it.
"Nice article. Seems to describe you, the article. Helping that nurse." Molly perched lightly next to Greg, asking the question as if she wanted to make him uncomforable. The conversation, the topic, grabbed John's interest, while Sherlock sat close, also clearly paying attention but trying to act as if he wasn't.
"Coincidence, I'm sure."
"Except that I saw you there."
"There, at the open house?" Greg frowned. "No."
"No, but did you go to the open house?"
Greg shook his head no, but it was an uncertain, confused, obviously fake denial.
"Liar." She smiled, a little triumphant. "No, I saw you at the honour walk. Yes. There at the hospital." Like the proverbial child with a secret, she grinned, to herself, glancing at Mycroft who was listening, close by. "I saw you there," she reiterated, and when there was a pause, she added, "Actually, you too, Mr. Holmes. I saw both of you." Her voice was low and she was making an attempt to be low-key. "It was a nice article. And it was nice of you, Greg, to take care of that nice nurse."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Greg said quietly, trying to ease out of the discussion.
"Well, let's see, Greg, you were there, looked rather annoyed at first. But you waited. And then talked to the nurse, and then you and Mycroft had a little chat in the hallway too."
Glances were then exchanged between Greg, Molly, and Mycroft, as none of them specifically wanted to look at John directly. "It's okay," John said, reassuring them. "I wouldn't have wanted to go, myself, but I'm ... I guess, yes, I'm glad you were there."
Sherlock was staring intently by this point at his brother. "Indeed," he said.
++
A tap on the doorframe interrupted Jenn's focus, where she stood close by a patient, critical but stable, resting with closed eyes against the pillows. The newcomer gestured silently for Jenn to leave the room. Nodding, she hastily finished up the bit of documentation and exited, looking again at the entirety of the situation before doing so.
"Sorry to bother you," Chrissy said. Chrissy was one of the nursing administrators, "and I won't keep you. Thought you might be interested, the article, that open house you did, a few weeks back? You talked about organ donation?" She waited for Jenn to nod. "Good news, there's been an anonymous donor, a directed donation toward the private room, the project you were promoting." Jenn nodded, recalling that they'd requested a private waiting room for these specific families, the visitors, the hard conversations away from others. "The amount will completely cover the renovations and furnishings."
"What?" she breathed, knowing that fundraising was definitely not something she really even talked about that much. "Wow, that's ... surprising."
"Thought you should know. The donor mentioned you by name."
"Oh," was all she could say, very caught off guard.
"Nice job," Chrissy said, her smile genuine and appreciative. "We in admin were hoping you'd help choose how best to decorate it." Jenn nodded, still a little shocked. "I think there'll be enough for a small plaque with your name on it ..."
Jenn was already shaking her head no at that. "No thanks."
Chrissy smiled at her, tilting her head just a little, "I guess I'm not surprised at that."
"Good news, and thanks for telling me."
"Thanks to you too."
"I should get back," Jenn whispered, wondering to herself whom it might have been.
++
Fiona wriggled and dug her bony elbows into John's stomach as she settled into his lap, holding once again the bound book with photos and memorabilia. At seven, she understood quite a bit, and given her nurturing, she was so very inquisitive. No question that popped into her little mind went unasked.
Even when it was a little uncomfortable.
Especially when it was a little uncomfortable.
"Does it hurt when you donate your organs?"
The page in front of her, Mary and John at their wedding. The only photo John could find of the two of them so long ago in which Mary was quite pregnant, holding up a tiny outfit. A photo of her in the NICU. John kissing her little head, Sherlock holding her with tubes and lines. One of her in the car seat, tiny, propped up with blankets and such. One of the music box, which was one of her favourite things on the top of her dresser, which had some pretty, shiny jewelry in it that she wasn't allowed to touch much. Also in the scrapbook, a sweet thank you note from the Blood and Transplant coordinator, thanking the family for their sacrifice, their ultimate gift, for allowing part of Mary to live on. They'd talked about it enough that there was no great reveal, no giant moment, no "we have something to tell you" kind of memory.
"No. Because actually, only your body is still kind of alive but the rest of you, isn't. You're not aware of anything."
"You're dead." John knew that Fiona'd certainly overheard plenty of conversations and wasn't squeamish in the least.
John tried not to fast forward to even harder discussions, with possibly more challenging audiences. "Yes."
"So mummy said it was okay, then?"
"She decided ahead of time, yes, that if it ever came to that, it would be okay. And she would definitely have approved."
"She helped people."
Fortunately, Sherlock across the room didn't make any noise or any commentary. John marveled again at the faith of a child and wanted to keep Fiona as innocent as possible for as long as they could manage to get away with it. "Yes. It's a very honourable thing, to help others like that. To give something to someone else who needs it." He chose the word, honourable, intentionally, for the message it conveyed. "She certainly loved you," John said quietly. "Just like we do." He nuzzled at the back of her ear, making her giggle again.
Fiona turned the final pages of the book, other photos of her baby-hood. The apnea monitor. The one from her first birthday with Nana Hudson, Uncle Mycroft, Molly, Greg (whom Sherlock kept calling Gavin), and the three of them gathered round. The back cover, one of her and the dog, Flynn.
With the simple ease of a child, she set the book back on the shelf, picked up the much-loved stuffed bear still wearing the bright coloured shirt, the one Jenn had given them many years before, and scampered off to find something else to do. Setting it on the shelf by the album, she asked, "Can we get ice cream after dinner?"
The men exchanged another glance, each of them shrugging their agreement, and John answered. "Sure." At their feet, Flynn's tail thumped on the floor, also offering his approval.