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Mycroft had called. Sherlock, of course, preferred to text, and he rarely picked up when his brother phoned him, but after the fifth ring he answered anyway.
So he was ready for when he heard the key scrape in the lock down the stairs. He was ready for John's footsteps. He was ready for the sound of a hand reaching out to steady itself against the wall. He was ready for the loudly whispered "shit!" as John tripped.
He was not ready for the tears falling down his (best) friend's face when he looked up from his chair.
He supposed he should have been ready. He supposed that crying is, in fact, a logical assumption when someone is faced with grief. But his army doctor had never cried. Not even at Sherlock's tombstone, John had not cried. John had not cried in the hospital. He had not cried when they stitched him up. He had not cried when the doctor came to tell him "they did everything they could". He had not cried when he saw Mary's body for the last time, still round with his unborn child inside. He had not even cried at the double funeral. He had not cried when he told Sherlock he needed a few days alone and that he would call when he was ready.
And so even though Sherlock was ready for drunk John, for angry John, for grieving John, the genius did not know what to do with crying John. But he did know what to do when he saw the doctor trip again. He was out of his arm chair in a flash of limbs and a swish of his dressing gown to grasp John's upper arm and half-lead half-carry him to the couch where John collapsed with his feet firmly on the floor, his head in his hands.
Sherlock grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it around John's shoulders before sitting next to him. He was about to suggest tea when John looked at him through swollen eyes, wiping a hand across his face.
"I'm sorry," he sniffed.
"Don't be. Grief is a natural -"
"Just shut up."
"Right." Sherlock snapped his jaw shut. It wasn't often he didn't know what to do. He glanced quickly around the flat, looking for some source of inspiration. He found none. On a whim he reached to take John's hand, answering John's questioning look with a shrug.
"Physical contact is known to help with -"
"I said shut up."
"Right."
"Just sit with me."
Sherlock nodded and John grasped Sherlock's offered hand in response, his breath hitching as tears began anew.
"Mary. Mary. MaryMaryMary," he said her name with every exhale, the sobs shaking his shoulders. Sherlock offered gentle hand squeezes at regualr intervals, trying - in vain - to help. It felt like hours before John finally took in a shuddering breath and then started to shake even harder, a new name on his lips. "Allison. AllieAllieAllie."
Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor, pulling John's head to his shoulder, rocking back and forth as John - John, his army doctor who does not cry - cried until the light of dawn was filtering through the curtains. John's tears eventually ran dry and as the light changed, Sherlock heard the doctor's breathing become slow and steady. Still Sherlock rocked, trying - in vain - to ease the pain as John finally slept.