Author's Note: This is my attempt to reconcile ACD canon with the BBC timeline regarding John's marriage. It started as an intellectual exercise, but I've already taken Mary to heart, and I hope you will, too. Please R&R
Flu season was a wretched time to be a G.P. John Watson had been coughed on so many times today it was a miracle he wasn't already hacking and feverish himself. He took the next chart from the holder and opened the door to the exam room, listing off the symptoms as he stepped through.
"Fever, muscle pain, fatigue, congestion, some vertigo when standing too quickly. Well, Miss… Morstan, I think we can sort this one out well enough."
He looked up, and into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. They belonged t what appeared to be a very attractive ginger lady, but it was hard to know for sure as she'd covered the bottom half of her face with both hands.
"Oh my god!" Her exclamation was muffled by her fingers and sounded nasally, but those green eyes made up for it. They were sparkling like a child's at Christmas.
"Sorry?" John said, smiling in spite of himself.
She lowered her hands to reveal a radiant smile. A giggle escaped, but she immediately composed herself. "I'm so sorry. What a way to make a first impression. You must think I'm still in primary school. It's just – you're John Watson. The John Watson."
"Yes, I suppose I am," John said, eyeing her more closely. Despite the feverish tinge to her cheeks, she looked a bit wan, and the bags under her eyes were not the result of a few hours of flu symptoms her chart indicated.
She'd caught his look. "I'm not crazy," she said. "Though I know it has to sound like it. I swear I'm not crazy, though. I've got cancer."
"Oh-"
"Well, had cancer. Six months in remission." She raised her hands in a celebratory jazz motion. "But flu symptoms and acute myleogenous leukemia –"
"Look remarkably similar," John finished for her. "So you'll be wanting bloodwork along with the flu swab."
"Yes," Mary said. "My doctor is on holiday, and to appease my dear sainted mother, I chose to come here. I had no idea I'd be meeting the John Watson."
"You keep calling me that," John said, crossing his arms and rocking onto his heels. "Why?"
"Oh, Dr. Watson, I was one of your biggest fans. Sherlock Holmes and that blog of yours got me through my last round of radiation."
John felt the words like a wall slamming into his body. It had been a year since… and no one had mentioned his blog in at least eight months. The world had moved on. He had moved on. He wasn't prepared to hear Sherlock's name thrown about so casually – the way one talked about someone on the news, or the latest Doctor Who episode.
"Well," he said, his throat dry. "Always nice to know someone's reading." He rummaged on the counter for the throat swabs. "Open, please."
Those green eyes above the purplish shadows widened. "I'm so sorry. You've had a terrible loss, and here I sit, throwing it in your face."
"It's alright," John said, making a scribbled note on the chart that would be indecipherable to everyone, including himself.
"No, it's really not. He was your best friend. It must still be awful for you."
"Well," John said, flourishing the swab rather aggressively. "Time marches on , and so do we –"
"Don't give me that crap."
John stared at her. The words were delivered without heat, but with enough force to be felt, even with the rasp of congestion. She gave a slight smile and went on.
"I've spent four years now looking death in the face every morning. You don't just march on till it's all better. You march on because you have to, sure, but only until your legs give out and you find yourself flat on the ground, about three feet from where you started. And everybody stands and stares and says, 'but you said you were fine,' and asks why you aren't grateful enough for the good days." She met his eyes. "It's hell, what we've both been through, so don't pretend it's not."
She sniffled unceremoniously. John laughed, more to relieve the tension than anything else, and passed her a tissue. He ran a hand over his jaw as she blew indelicately and gave a croaking groan.
"You're right. It is hell." The words felt good to say aloud. They looked at one another for a moment. "Well, I'll take a quick sample for the flu test, and then get a phlebotomist in to draw some blood. How long have you had these symptoms?"
He asked the perfunctory questions and she gave the perfunctory answers. She'd felt feverish the previous evening. The congestion and aches had woken her up in the night. Her mother's daily check-in phone call had propelled her from under her blanket mountain on the sofa and into the clinic. John made notes, took the throat swab, and listened. Even with the flu, Mary Morstan had a magnetic energy about her. She laughed easily when describing her mother's concern, gave a self-deprecating impression of herself waking up at 4 a.m. with nose and eyes streaming. John found himself delaying calling the phlebotomist.
"Well, I'll get this swab tested right away, but I think we know the results already," John said, holding up the vial with the throat swab inside. "Once we get the blood, it should be –"
"A minimum of two days, but up to a week," Mary recited. "I've had it done a time or two."
They shared a smile. "We'll call you as soon as the results are in. Do you want them sent directly to your primary doctor?"
"Does that mean I won't get to see you again?"
He blinked. Her tone was light and teasing – maybe she was actually flirting, maybe not. He drew breath to speak twice before settling on, "Well, not in the clinic at least."
She laughed, a pleasant sound even if it ended on a cough. "I was hoping for more of the famous Watson charm." He raised his eyebrows, but she seemed to be expecting that. "You tried to be modest on that blog, but I can see why Sherlock couldn't keep track of your girlfriends. A face like that, brains and manners to boot – half of London could be at your feet."
"Yes, but you also know I can't seem to keep a girl. 'Confirmed bachelor,' apparently," John said, taking a slight step back. She was direct, but not brash, and deserved as much in return.
"That's because they were all idiots."
The phrasing was so… familiar that John laughed in spite of himself. Mary took it as encouragement. "They were! They expected you to be just another average bloke. And you couldn't or wouldn't try and juggle two equally important relationships at once. No wonder those relationships didn't work out."
"Did you study psychology or something?" John asked, feeling rather defensive.
"No, I've just seen a lot of people making bad choices – may have made a few myself along the way. And I've got a very faulty censor these days." She laughed apologetically. "This whole appointment has been one inappropriate blurt after another, hasn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know." John shrugged. "There wasn't anything out of the ordinary about getting the throat swab."
"Good, then," she said. "If the results of the bloodwork take longer than three days, send them to Dr. Schaffer. Her information should be in my chart. She'll be back in town by then."
John nodded and wrote it on the paper in front of him before placing the chart on the counter and moved toward the door, holding the vial with the throat swab.
"I hope you start to feel better soon, Miss Morstan. I'll test this and prescribe something if it's positive. Pleasure meeting you."
She nodded, beaming again. "Oh, the pleasure is mine, I can promise you that. I wasn't kidding earlier. Your blog was the only thing I had to make me want to get up some of the worst mornings. In a way, you and Sherlock have already saved my life."
"Well, it's an honor to hear," John said. He reached for the doorknob.
"Dr. Watson," Mary croaked.
He turned at once.
"I may never get a chance to say this again, so I want you to know I believe you. I know you were telling the truth." She looked suddenly sheepish, but forged ahead. "I even did my share of posting those 'Believe in Sherlock' posters last year. It was one of the first things I did after I got discharged from the hospital. I completely believe in Sherlock Holmes, the impossibly brilliant detective and in the impossibly brave, long-suffering John Watson. It's all too incredible and all too real to be fiction." She sucked in a deep breath. "And I'm truly, truly sorry for your loss."
There was a knot John wasn't even aware of anymore that loosened as she spoke. It was like being able to draw breath for the first time in a year.
"I hope the results come back after three days," he said, rather stupidly.
She cocked her head, expression suddenly anxious.
"Then if I want to see you, we won't be doctor and patient anymore."
