Author's note: This is a very loooong story, and it's a bit of a dark ride, sorry/not sorry. If you are reading this for the first time, please review as many chapter as you like, but don't read other people's reviews until you are finished because some of them contain spoilers.

This story was beta'ed by the fabulous English Tutor. Without her, it would just be a bunch of dialogue without tags. I really appreciate her help! This story is so much better because of her input.

So without further ado, enjoy this heaping helping of character death, angst, ridiculous sentiment, one big case and a couple of smaller cases, and running through it all, an epic bromance (but not slash!) between two blokes who really really don't know how to talk about their feelings. OH, and I should mention that the timeline for the story is about 8 months after the Christmas special (which aired in December 2015 but should have been 2014 in the timeline of the show). John and Mary have a 7 month old daughter named Gracie.

Saving Grace

By Navigatio

Chapter 1: Shock

(27 July, 2015)

It started, as most cases do, with a text from Lestrade (of course, he didn't realize it was a case until much later). It was early on a Sunday; the sun was barely up, so Sherlock definitely wasn't.

It took a moment for his searching hand to find his mobile on the bedside table, and another for his bleary eyes to focus well enough to read the tiny, dancing words on the screen.

John needs you. Come quickly. Marston Ferry Bridge.

Just like that, he was instantly awake, mind revving. John needed him, but Lestrade hadn't said why. Some sort of accident, perhaps? Was John injured? Probably not, or Lestrade would have had him meet them at hospital. Not dead. It would be difficult for John to need him if he were dead. Accused of some crime? Possibly. So how was he to "come quickly" to a location that was over a half-hour away by cab?

He texted back on my way and hurried out the door with shoes untied, still buttoning his shirt, scarf askew and coattails flying. The entire cab ride he was muttering to himself. Marston Ferry Bridge—out of the way place, could be a nice juicy murder. But if that were the case, why would John need him? He couldn't deduce on so little evidence! It was maddening. He sent Lestrade several texts demanding more information, but received only a curt you'll know when you get here in reply.

When he arrived at Marston Ferry Bridge, the first thing he spotted were the tyre tracks, black on the rain-slick pavement. They started at the curve several metres before the bridge and continued through the gray-brown mud at the side of the road, leading down the steep embankment toward the swollen river below. It had been raining steadily for days now, even though it was mid-summer, and the usually placid Cherwell had turned from timid Dr. Jekyll to raging Mr. Hyde, a voracious muddy-brown monster. It was still raining now, just a light drizzle that frizzed his hair and left an uncomfortable ring of moisture around his collar. Or maybe it was a cold sweat that was breaking out as he put the pieces together. Tyre tracks, car accident? Mary! No no no no. . .

Slipping and sliding his way down the broken embankment, he got his first glimpse of the car and his stomach gave an unexpected lurch. Black Audi A3 hatchback, 2012 model. It was sitting on its wheels in the soft mud of the riverbank, but he deduced that it until recently had been resting on its roof at the bottom of the river, as the roof was caved in, unevenly, and caked with grayish-brown mud. The windscreen on the driver's side had been broken open from the inside, while the passenger side was shattered but intact. Streaky, slimy water dripped from every opening. All of these details registered and formed themselves into a picture in Sherlock's mind, one that he attempted to reject but knew must be true.

He looked past the car and spotted Lestrade, talking on his mobile with a harried expression on his face, while workers in white jumpsuits scuttled around taking measurements and setting out markers next to broken bits of colorful plastic and twisted metal. Donovan trailed along behind him, a bright red anorak pulled over her usual neutral-colored blazer. Lestrade gave him a small wave of acknowledgment and pointed toward the river.

When Sherlock turned in that direction, he saw John sitting on a rock on the riverbank, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, silent and still, staring out at the water blankly. The hems of his jeans were wet. John sitting alone. No Mary, no Gracie. . .

Without pausing to think of what to say, Sherlock circled the car and hurried to John, stumbling over the rocks and tree roots, shoes squishing in the mud. "John," he said simply, because there were so many questions and deductions whizzing around in his head he didn't know which one to start with.

John's face turned toward him, his eyes blank, a void. "She didn't come home," he said flatly. His head swung back toward the water, and Sherlock followed his gaze, mind working furiously. . .

She—Mary. Mary didn't come home. John wasn't on his way to hospital to see her, so she must be—had to be—(he forced his rebellious mind to follow that thread of logic to its natural conclusion)—dead. But what about Gracie? Heart pounding and stomach churning, Sherlock ran back to the car and leaned over to look in the back seat, where a baby seat was strapped in, empty except for mud and dripping water. The ruined cover was more brownish-green than pink now, the purple flowers barely visible.

Frantically he scrambled back over the rocky beach to John, who was still staring unseeing at the river. "Where is she?" he barked.

John blinked at him.

"The baby!" he shouted. "Where is Gracie?"

Still no response. Sherlock crouched next to John and seized him by the shoulders. "John! Where's the baby?"

John's expression turned to confusion, but his eyes still looked through Sherlock instead of at him. What did that mean? Had Gracie been in the car or not? Mary must have been, but Gracie. . .Suddenly Sherlock felt a hand roughly grab his arm and yank him off balance.

"She wasn't in the car," came Donovan's harsh voice.

Sherlock clambered awkwardly to his feet and confronted her, with his hands unconsciously balled into fists. "What happened here?" he snapped. "Where is Mary?"

"There wasn't anything we could do. She's been transported to the morgue. I'm—I'm sor—"

He cut off her attempted condolences with "Barts?"

"Yes, Lestrade insisted."

"I'm going to see her." He took two steps toward the embankment, but Donovan pulled him back with the hand that was still wrapped around his upper arm. He attempted to yank away, every muscle taut, but she hung on just as tightly.

"You can see her later," she hissed. "Right now, John needs you."

"I need to know everything," he snarled back. He was already furious—at the situation, at the lack of information—and Donovan made a convenient target.

She shook her head, curls quivering, lips thinned to a sharp line. "No, you need to sit with your friend. If you can't calm down and be a support for him, you can't be here."

Sherlock blinked at her. How dare she?! He took a breath to say more, but instead let it out through his nose. As much as he didn't want to admit it, she was right. For a moment, he just stood, tense and breathing noisily, then finally said, "All right, I'm calm. You can let go of me now."

"Good. Just let us do our jobs," Donovan said firmly, and then tacked on belatedly, "Please."

Sherlock had a thousand barbed comments floating around his brain that he wanted to fling at her, but he caught a glimpse of John out of the corner of his eye and relented, took a step back with his hand up in surrender.

Donovan, apparently mollified, released him and also backed up, turning to answer a question from a crime scene tech who had come up beside her. Sherlock didn't spare her another thought because his focus had moved to John, who was still sitting with his arms resting loosely on his knees, one hand grasping the other wrist, squinting out at the murky water. Droplets of rainwater clung to his hair, slid down his neck, and dampened his collar, but he had made no move to wipe them away or to avoid the rain.

Sherlock wanted to ask him so many questions (When was the last time you saw her? Where was she going? Where is Gracie right now? How could this happen?!), but he knew that would be more than a bit not good. He hadn't a clue as to what would be the right thing to say to John in this moment. All the phrases he could think of were completely trite and inadequate, so he said nothing.

He slipped off his coat and settled it around John's shoulders, which elicited only the barest reaction, then carefully sat down next to him on the rocky beach and stared out at the rushing river. After a moment of silence, it suddenly hit him like a slap to the face. Mary is dead. Drowned in that tumbling gray water. The realization took him past the bare mental awareness of the fact to something visceral—a twist in his gut, a hard lump in his throat, pressure behind his eyes.

It took him a moment to realize that John had spoken, and when he untangled the words, he discovered John had said again, "She didn't come home." Pushing aside his confused thoughts, Sherlock turned and focused on John, silently waiting in case he gave more of the information that Sherlock was desperate to know.

After a breath, John continued flatly, "I didn't know where she was. She said she was going to Beth's house for the weekend. I didn't know."

There was a long pause. Sherlock waited, hoping John would answer his unspoken questions, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming. He became aware that John was shivering. He could feel the tremor where their shoulders brushed against each other. John, who was always so strong, needed Sherlock to be a support for him right now. Giving in to emotion wouldn't do. John and Gracie were more important than his need for information, more important than sentiment. He needed to be clear-headed for John.

"John—" he started, but his voice was too shaky, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "John, let's go home. To Baker Street, I mean. You should get out of the wet."

"I need to stay here."

Sherlock looked around. It didn't appear that any of the milling police officers were waiting to talk to John. And if they did want to talk to him, they could find him later, somewhere warm and dry.

"No, you don't need to be here. Where is Gracie? Let's go get her and go to Baker Street."

"She's with Kate."

"Kate?"

"Our neighbor. I—I've got to go get her."

"Yes, let's get Gracie."

"I didn't send a jacket with her. Mary wouldn't want her out without a jacket."

"We can get her a jacket. Come on, let's go." Sherlock pre-emptively stood and held out his hand, but John ignored it, clambering to his feet on his own and swaying there unsteadily. For a moment he still looked unsure as to whether he was leaving or not, eyes scanning the area without reacting to the muddy, bashed-up car and flashing police lights.

Sherlock put a hand on his back and gently guided him towards the embankment that led up to the road. With his other hand he pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

We are leaving. If you need John you can find him at Baker Street.

After he sent it, he reconsidered. John didn't need a lot of idiotic police officers asking him even more idiotic questions. He quickly followed it up with another text.

But don't come find him. He doesn't know anything.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and followed John up the waterlogged slope, hand out to steady him as he picked his way slowly and clumsily over the rocks. It concerned him, now that he was paying attention, that John's eyes were so blank, that he seemed to have so little control over his body, but perhaps it was a reaction to shock and stress. Sherlock would have to research that later. At the moment he was too busy suppressing the mental jolt that came every few seconds, the awareness as if for the first time that Mary is dead. She's dead and she's not coming back. He wondered if John was feeling the same, but decided not to ask.

When a cab pulled up, John shrugged off Sherlock's coat and handed it to him, then climbed wearily into the backseat without a word. Sherlock gave the driver John's address before he followed. He thought maybe John would say more, maybe give him a clue as to what he was feeling or thinking, but he just stared out the window, silent and expressionless.

Sherlock remembered with another jolt that Mary was dead. Mary is dead. Mary is dead, he reminded himself silently. Maybe it would come as less of a shock if he got used to the idea. In his mind he could see the car under the murky water, Mary's golden hair floating, eyes unseeing. Mary is dead.

The cab pulled up at John and Mary's flat (no, just John's now, because Mary is dead, his mind reminded him), and Sherlock climbed out, but John didn't move.

"John? Come on, let's get Gracie." Sherlock held the door open while paying the cabbie, and after a moment, John climbed out and led the way to the neighbour's door, but then just stood there with his hands at his sides, fingers flexing open and shut, open and shut. Sherlock reached around him and knocked on the door, which was opened immediately by a stout, middle-aged woman holding Gracie in her arms. Sherlock felt his knees go weak with relief because, he realized, that up until that very moment he hadn't been positive that she was still alive. What if she had been in the car after all and John hadn't told him?

"Oh, John," the woman said with a look of alarm. "What's happened? Where's Mary?"

John just stood frozen on the doorstep, so Sherlock answered her. "She's dead," he blurted out. "We'll take Gracie now. Thank you for your help." He took the baby from the woman's arms (she was reaching for him anyway), pulled the door shut, and turned back toward John. He had already deleted the woman's name, and by the time he led John back to his flat, he had forgotten what she looked like as well. Gracie was the only thing that was important right now. Gracie, who was light as a downy chick in his arms, with her arm wrapped around his neck and her thumb tucked in her little pink mouth. She was wearing only a baby-gro and a single sock, so Sherlock pulled her in closer and wrapped his own coat around her to protect her from the drizzle.

John didn't pull out his keys until Sherlock reminded him to unlock the door, and even after it was open he didn't go in right away. He just stood in the open doorway staring blankly, with the keys still in his hand.

"John? Let's get Gracie's things, yeah?" Sherlock prompted.

"Right. Yes," John said automatically. He led the way in and kept going down the hall to Gracie's bedroom, but when he returned, he was carrying only a small, purple jacket. He sat in a recliner, with the jacket clutched in one hand, rubbing his face with the other.

Sherlock bit his lip, feeling very much out of his depth. He knew there were many more things Gracie would need, if they were to stay at Baker Street for a night, or possibly more, if Sherlock had his way—even though he didn't quite understand John's reaction, he sensed that John shouldn't be left alone right now, especially not to care for a baby.

Finally he crossed to the chair, disentangled Gracie's fingers from his hair, and said, "Here, John. Hold Gracie. I'll—I'll get her things." He held out the baby and John took her, without moving his gaze from an indistinct point on the wall. She snuggled into his arm but he seemed not to even notice.

With an anxious backward glance, Sherlock set about collecting the things he thought they would need: extra nappies, a handful of baby-gros, leggings, tiny socks, a bodysuit stained with yellow down its front, a blanket. All of these he stuffed into the nappy bag until it was fit to burst, then he grabbed a carrier bag from a drawer and gathered up jars of baby food, a box of rice cereal, a can of infant formula he found on the counter. He knew they would need bottles, so he grabbed the one in the drainboard, and finally after a brief search he found two more, looking barely used, behind the glassware in an upper cabinet.

He finished the task to find John still sitting staring at the wall, even though Gracie had begun to squirm fretfully in his arms.

"John, what do you need of yours?"

There was a pause before John responded, distractedly patting Gracie on the back. "I—I don't know. Clothes, I guess. . ." He shifted the increasingly upset baby to his shoulder and shushed her, arms wrapped tightly around her small body and lips against her ear.

"I'll find something. Almost ready." Sherlock headed down the hall toward the bedroom and was confronted with a whiff of Mary's perfume. The realization smacked him in the face again. Mary is dead. Not coming back. She's dead. . . No, stop that! Must focus on John and Gracie. The dead couldn't be comforted by his actions; only the living mattered. He shoved sentiment aside and continued down the hall to the bedroom.

Trying to ignore all of Mary's belonging surrounding him, he hurriedly grabbed a couple of changes of clothes for John (folded shirts, a jumper, trousers, pants, socks, vests) and shoved them into a backpack. In the bathroom he found two toothbrushes, standing side by side in a white cup. After a moment's consideration he picked up the green one. The other one was yellow, and yellow was Mary's color. Was Mary's color. Mary is dead, dead, dead. . .

With an effort, he kept moving, zipping the backpack shut and striding purposefully back to the sitting room, where John was rocking Gracie, who was still squirming and grizzling, with her whole fist stuffed in her mouth.

"All right, John, let's go."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Where are we going?"

"To Baker Street, remember?"

"But we need to stay here, in case she. . ." John trailed off in confusion, then said softly, "Oh." After two deep, controlled breaths, he nodded sharply and pushed himself out of the chair. "Right. Let's go." Good. That was good, Sherlock thought, but he didn't say that aloud.

Sherlock hefted all of the bags and followed John to the door, where John took one of Mary's coats off the rack and tossed it over his shoulder. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that but didn't say anything. Mary is dead, his mind taunted him. She couldn't breathe under the water. The straps of the backpack were cutting into Sherlock's shoulders, making it hard for him to draw enough air into his lungs. He shifted the pack upward, but that didn't help. Maybe he was drowning too.