I've had a few requests from people wanting to know how John gets revenge on Sherlock for being careless with Mary's life. So here is an epilogue to His Spare Watson; although it can be read alone.
000
He heard the familiar footsteps on the stairs and knew that John had arrived. His friend had been ignoring his texts. Now at last, he would get some answers!
"Where is it?" Sherlock demanded as soon as John appeared in the door.
John looked nonplussed. "Where's what?" he asked in innocent confusion. But Sherlock was not fooled.
"You know perfectly well what!" he thundered.
John look around the flat as if in a daze. "What the hell happened? Another explosion? Because apart from the broken windows, this looks worse than the last time the flat blew up."
"I've been searching for it all night!" Sherlock informed him, aggrieved.
John's eyebrows went up, looking guileless as a child. Oh, he was playing this game for all it was worth, wasn't he? "Searching?"
"Where did you hide it?" he insisted urgently.
"Are you going to tell me what you're on about? Because I've only just arrived. You'll have to bring me up to speed if you want me to help you find what you're looking for," John said mildly.
Sherlock was beside himself by now. "My Stradivarius, John. What have you done with it?"
John affected a look of surprised dismay. "Your violin is missing? Since when?"
"Since you left last night, John. It was here while you were here; it disappeared when you left."
"Are you seriously accusing me of taking your Strad? Be sensible, Sherlock. What was I carrying in my hands when I left here last night?" John was not hiding his amusement as well now, which was annoying Sherlock more and more.
"Nothing! Which is why I know you've hidden it in the flat! And don't think I haven't noticed that you're answering all my questions with questions! Now where is it?"
John gave another amazed look around the sitting area. "How you would ever find anything in this mess, I can't imagine. No wonder things go missing."
Sherlock fairly exploded. "The room is a mess because I've been searching for my Stradivarius! All! Night!" He strode up and down the room with an energy born of righteous indignation.
"All right, all right, calm down," John soothed in the voice he used for difficult patients. "It must be very upsetting to lose something important to you. I'll help you look, shall I?" He gave what Sherlock knew was meant to be a significant look, but its meaning escaped the detective.
Sherlock drew a deep breath and tried to gain control of the situation. "All right, John. I understand. You're angry about that little experiment I did during the Cornwall case. You told me I should expect retaliation and your reprisal has been . . . masterfully executed. But isn't it time now for an end to this . . . prevarication?"
John shook his head, chuckling. "No, no. We were just winding you up about that, Sherlock. I was never angry about that experiment."
Sherlock stopped his frenetic pacing. "You weren't? I almost got your wife killed, and you're not angry about it?" He could not understand how he had misread the situation so badly.
John gave a patient smile. "Look, I know you tried to get Mary to leave the room. You tried to keep her safe. And good job she wouldn't leave, yeah? Or where would YOU be now? She knew what she was doing, Sherlock. And god knows, once she makes up her mind to do something, nothing on earth can change it." He added affectionately. "She's a bloody force of nature, isn't she? Pulling you out of danger that way."
"Yes, yes, your wife has many admirable qualities," Sherlock waved all those qualities away impatiently. "I imagine we could go on enumerating them indefinitely. Don't, please. Just tell me where my Strad is and let's end this stalemate."
John's smile grew a bit less forbearing at this cavalier dismissal of Mary's virtues. "Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Hudson if she nicked it. Could be she wanted a good night's sleep for a change?" he suggested.
Sherlock shook his head. "I've already talked to her. She was as disturbed by its disappearance as I am. And her distress was obviously genuine, whereas yours is clearly feigned."
Did John smirk? Sherlock wondered. It was such a fleeting expression. But just then, his mobile signalled an incoming text. He looked at the screen with disbelief. It was a picture of his black violin case, tied with heavy ropes to a chair which was unmistakably in one of the interrogation rooms at Scotland Yard. There was a handkerchief bound around it; whether it was meant to be a gag or a blindfold was impossible to say.
"This is not funny, John," he said dangerously.
"What?" John asked, still playing his little game. Sherlock had had just about enough.
"Are you claiming not to know about this?" He handed the mobile to John. John's reaction proved he had not seen this picture before. He burst into a gale of surprised laughter.
"Oh, this is brilliant! Brilliant! Mary's a genius!" he exclaimed.
"John, this is a delicate and extremely valuable instrument!" Sherlock cried indignantly.
John gathered control of himself. "I know, Sherlock. Believe me, it's being treated with utmost respect. It's in good hands, in the safest place I know. Trust me," he said reassuringly.
"Fine!" Sherlock snapped. He strode towards his bedroom in a cold fury.
"What are you doing?" John asked.
Sherlock ignored him. Pulling off his dressing gown, he balled it up and flung it away and started looking for something to wear amongst the ruins that was his normally neat room.
"Sherlock," John called. "Come back in here and sit down. Now."
Sherlock froze. That was not his friend's voice. It was not even his doctor's voice. This was Captain Watson of Her Majesty's Armed Forces speaking. John almost never used that tone with him, and it gave Sherlock pause. This was no mere prank the Watsons were pulling, then. This was serious. He considered what he knew of the situation: John had never lied to him—although he was not currently being straightforward either. Therefore, although John would not reveal his precious violin's whereabouts, he was telling the truth about it being in a safe place. Sherlock trusted John implicitly, regardless of this outrageous behaviour. And Sherlock realized that his own reaction to this temporary loss was unmerited. He was still angry—but he was now in control of himself once more.
And so he acquiesced, throwing himself into the chair across from John, still sulking, but calm.
John began, "I'm going to tell you a story now. It's a story you've heard before, but either you deleted it or you never grasped the implications of it. It's a story you ought to have understood and acted upon, and you did not."
"I'm listening," Sherlock intoned, trying to sound bored and not quite succeeding.
"When Mary was four years old, her mother vanished without a trace."
Sherlock impatiently interrupted. "Mary's mother died of a brain aneurysm, John, she did not vanish."
John sighed. "Of course, we know that NOW, Sherlock. But four-year-old Mary only knew that when she went to bed that night, her mother was there and seemingly well; but next morning, her mother was gone and never came back. Even if anyone tried to explain to her what had happened, she couldn't have understood it. Then, when she was six, the nanny who had been caring for her for two years disappeared."
Sherlock was annoyed. "People don't disappear, John. The woman eloped with an AWOL soldier and they went into hiding."
John shook his head. "Again, yes, we know that NOW. But Mary was only six. No one bothered to tell her what happened. She only knew that her nanny, to whom she'd become very attached, left one evening and never returned. Then Mary was sent off to England, a place she'd never been, and passed around amongst strangers: great-aunts and second cousins and whatnots. She learned not to care about anyone, because everyone she knew either disappeared or sent her away; either way, she never saw them again. When she was sixteen and her father mysteriously disappeared, everyone was impressed by how well she took the news. What they didn't understand was that, as far as she was concerned, he'd disappeared when he'd sent her away, ten years earlier. It was another ten years before she learned the truth of his murder."
Sherlock shifted in his chair, trying to stave off impatience and finding it beyond his capability. "Yes, yes, John, you're right. I know the story. And then she met you and learned to care again, and lived happily ever after. It's touching, if a bit cliché. But what does it have to do with me?"
John was exasperated. He stood up and moved closer to Sherlock's chair, gesturing broadly for emphasis. "It has everything to do with you, Sherlock! Mary is the strongest and most fearless person I have ever known. The one and only thing she's afraid of is that the people she cares about will disappear. And you bloody vanished!"
Sherlock felt a wave of cold shock wash over him, remembering Mary's white face when he'd returned to their cottage after an unexplained absence of several hours. He'd known she'd been upset—how had it escaped him that she'd been terrified?
"But, John, she knows how I work. She knows I just take off sometimes. And she knows I can take care of myself. Why would she be worried?"
"Because she cares about you, you idiot!" John exclaimed. "Look, you knew full well that I'd hidden your Strad. You knew I'd never let anything happen to it. You knew it wasn't really lost. And yet . . . ." John threw his arms wide, indicating the entire room. "You drove yourself mad looking for it. Because losing something that's important to you IS upsetting!"
Sherlock remained silent, absorbing the fact that he was actually important to Mary. John went on. "Think about how it looked to her. She was in the bath. Through the open window, she could hear you talking to someone out in the garden. And when she came outside to look for you, you were nowhere to be found. She didn't know if you'd been kidnapped, or killed, or what. You were in the middle of murder investigation—was it the murderer you'd been talking to? Well, as it turned out, it was! She called you on the phone, and you'd turned your phone off. She walked up and down the road, trying to find some sign of you. You were just gone."
"I didn't realize," Sherlock murmured.
"But you should have," John replied, not unkindly. "You should have realized, Sherlock. You knew her story. People think you don't understand feelings, but when we met, I was emotionally damaged and you helped me. You do understand these things. You just weren't paying attention. And she deserves better from you."
"That's why you text her so often throughout the day," Sherlock said slowly, the truth finally dawning on him. "I thought she was just interested in keeping up to date on our cases."
John smiled grimly. "She is interested. Of course she is. But updating her also gives me an opportunity to reassure her that I'm still on the planet."
"I'm sorry, John. You're right, I should have realized. I will apologize to Mary when I see her, as well. I promise I won't take her courage for granted again." Sherlock was truly contrite.
"Good!" John said, looking satisfied. "Although actually, she'd forgiven you already. I'm the one who felt you needed to learn a lesson." He raised his voice. "Mrs. Hudson, you can come in now."
The door opened. Mrs. Hudson had obviously been standing outside in the hall waiting for her cue. And in her hands was Sherlock's violin, sans case, in perfect condition. Sherlock rose and took it from her reverently, caressing it gently.
Mrs. Hudson was a bundle of nerves. "John told me to look in the pantry when he arrived this morning, Sherlock. I never knew he'd put it there. And he asked me to wait until he called me to bring it to you. It's all right, isn't it?" she said uncertainly. She'd been up all night herself, listening to Sherlock's frantic rummaging, and knew how upset he was.
"Yes, it's all right, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, smiling at her reassuringly. "John is entirely responsible for this situation. He has taught me a valuable lesson. And he was right—my violin was in the safest hands possible." He took the bow from her hand and began to softly play a happy air.
"I tossed the empty case out the window after I put the Strad on Mrs. Hudson's shelf. That way I could leave with empty hands and make you think it was still in the flat." John explained. "Mary was to send a picture to your phone this morning—I never expected her to take it to Scotland Yard and tie it to a chair! She's obviously been having too much fun with this idea."
"Obviously," Sherlock said absently, without missing a note. "I'd have found out the truth myself before too much longer. But thank you, John, for showing me the clues I had missed." He played on; and John, of course, began clearing up Sherlock's mess. Life had reach equilibrium once more.