Title: Unexpected Developments (1/?)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: John, Sherlock, Mary, various
Word Count: (this bit) 889
Genre: humor, friendship, possibly a bit of angst and h/c in future, who knows
Warnings/Spoilers: spoilers for both seasons, vaguely EMPT-esque post-TRF fic. I suppose I should warn, for my readers, that there actually is a relationship in this (ACD canonesque het), but it is only vaguely romantic in that sense; this is, as always for me, a gen story, and primarily Sherlock & John oriented.
Summary: Sherlock died almost a year ago, and in his will left everything he possessed to John Watson, planning to reclaim his flat and possessions when he had disposed of the remainder of the Moriarty syndicate. He did not, however, plan on John (ever the quick mover) actually getting married in the interim - and settling with his newlywed bride into Sherlock's flat!
Disclaimer: If I owned them, S3 would have been in production by now.
A/N: Inspired by this prompt: When John and Mary got married, she moved into 221B. Naturally it's madness sometimes, but fortunately she has 221C as her safe haven., and by my own tentative re-interest in the Sherlock fandom. I fell out of love with the fandom due to the immense amount of Reichenangst floating around, and in the wake of that and a delayed S3 I think we all need a bit of humor/fluff/borderline crack/anything else my brain can come up with.
And, I've yet to see a BBC Sherlock fic that actually portrayed one of John's girlfriends as the type of woman I could actually see working in that universe without grossly offending either side of shippers. So. This little thing won't be everyone's cup of tea, but hopefully will be at least a decent read - not to mention practice for me to re-enter a fandom I've fallen out of long ago. I've always wanted to write a story involving Mary as I think she would work in this particular adaptation, so indulge me - and please be kind, as it's been a long while? :)
In his defense, this has never been a scenario he had envisioned. Not a part of the plan – or of any of the contingent plans.
When he had voiced as much to John, in the most reasonable and patient way possible, John had simply stared at him for a moment, fire igniting in his stormy eyes. He now finds himself edging backward in self-preservation, for his face remembers all too well John's firm right hook, and the rest of him remembers too well the way the man can hold a grudge with the best of them. And, he will admit, pretending to be dead for nearly a year does rank a bit higher an offense than leaving skewered eyeballs in the crisper, or putting John's laptop on the highest bookshelf out of sheer spite.
"Well, Sherlock." John's voice is amiable, pleasant – dangerous. "You shouldn't have died and left me the flat then, now should you."
He blinks, mental hard drive processing his initial answer to this query (hardly legally binding now, John, I could technically now have you evicted) and discarding it immediately as not the smartest of responses to a man who has barely yet stopped swiping away tears of joy and frustration at his return after a very long year of painful memories.
John is still looking at him, eyebrows – more grey in them than a year ago, and he feels a twinge of what must be Remorse at the knowledge that he is responsible – clenched fearsomely, though a twitch of fondness quirks at his lips as he watches his erstwhile flatmate-come-resurrected-miracle fumble for a Good Thing to say.
Not his area, they all know.
Finally he coughs, awkwardly, and wriggles deeper into the depths of his coat, retreating like a turtle into protective shell.
"I – that is…ehm." He casts a nervous look at the closed door which hides his former bedroom, wondering if they had simply boxed up his things, donated them to charity…in John's obviously aberrant mental state (really, this scenario was not one he could have ever anticipated), he should be pleased the doctor did not just torch the entire place. "Do you…wish me to find alternate accommodations, then?"
John looks very much like he is about to do just that, returned-from-the-dead or no returned-from-the-dead, but a gentle swat upside the back of his head has him yelping in surprise and turning a glare to his left, where the object of their discussion has walked up and very neatly derailed the rampant emotion that had swamped the room after his shocking reappearance.
"Stop being mean to the poor man, John," Mrs. Mary Watson – Sherlock's mind trips over the name, because it just screams Wrong and yet it exists here, in front of him, in his flat – chides sternly, and a moment later he is startled to receive a quick peck on the cheek as the woman sweeps on past them into the kitchen.
John stares open-mouthed after his wife, looking remarkably like a cable-knit Koi fish.
"You know full well you're thrilled as anything to see him alive, John, so do stop pretending otherwise," her voice carries back through the open sliding glass door. "Holding a grudge is so undignified, darling. Mr. Holmes, do you take cream or sugar in your tea?"
"I like her," Sherlock declares suddenly, and then wonders a bit sheepishly where the words came from.
John glares at him. "Good on you. By the way, we've turned your bedroom into a nursery."
He blanches with horror, whereupon John dissolves at last into a fit of giggles, the most welcome sound Sherlock has heard in months – the sound of home. "Sherlock, your face!" John splutters at last, holding his sides. "You great idiot, no one's been in there for six months; God knows what you had growing about with those experiments of yours. Have fun with that bit, by the way; I wasn't about to clean it without the reinforcements of an exterminator."
Tension leeches from his body, leaving him feeling rather like an unstrung instrument, limp and tired and yet strangely…not happy, but at least content.
A clink of china, and the strange Woman who somehow finagled John Watson into falling so deeply in love that he looks healthier and happier than Sherlock has ever seen, sets a tray containing three steaming mugs down on the table nearby.
"Rule one," Mary says pleasantly, delicately-shaped eyebrows raised toward him. "This purple mug? Is mine. The others are fair game, but there will be consequences for touching this one. Severe consequences."
Sherlock stares at her for a bit, and then grins ferally, already taking up the thrown gauntlet and secreting it away in a brand-new room of his Mind Palace.
Feeling oddly like a third wheel, John decides he needs something a bit stronger than tea and stumbles out to the kitchen. The sounds of a rapidly escalating catfight begin behind him, and he shakes his head.
He'd often wondered, in those early days of the dating scene, what might happen if he ever – wonder of wonders! – met a woman who could actually both love him, and at least tolerate Sherlock Holmes.
Well, after all, ten months ago John Watson stood over a simple grave, commanding a dead man to return – and he obeyed.
Surely one more miracle is not too inconceivable?