At first there was darkness, but then there was singing. A muttered, folksy sort of lullaby in a soothing mezzo, gentle but strong. Mother? Sherlock Holmes thought dimly, suddenly aware of his throbbing cranium. No, impossible. Mother's been dead for years. And not Watson either, unless he's been hiding a considerable castrati talent from me.
Holmes stirred slightly, moaning in agony. There was singing, so this couldn't be Hell, but unfortunately there was also considerable discomfort, so this wasn't Heaven either. Not that he believed in either; such outdated notions. Though at times like these, they did have their appeal…
A soft hand, a womanly hand, trailed down his feverish cheek. "Sherlock…Sherlock, it's alright. It's time to wake up. Open your eyes, Mr. Holmes."
The great detective cracked open an eyes and the familiar dishevelment of his study dashed any hopes of a supernatural locale. It was chill, half past three in the afternoon according to the clock above the mantle, but a cheery fire was crackling along all the same. The fires he tended were never cheery, and were more often used for heating science experiments than warming a pot of refreshments, as this one was doing. There was someone in his study.
Mary Mortsan (or Watson now, for a solid four months) sat on a stool near the couch where he lay, dabbing his forehead with a warm washrag. He face was flushed from the fire, and her hair fell in half-pinned curls around her face. Her slender, pale arms, exposed from her rolled-up sleeves, bounced the light until her countenance almost glowed. She had left the curtains drawn, wore no abrasive perfume, and had coffee boiling over the fire instead of tea.
Sherlock Holmes was not a religious man, but he was starting to believe in angels.
He quelled this sympathetic thought, waving her away as if she were a persistent fly. "Miss Mortsan!" He snapped, trying harder than usual to enunciate. "This intrusion is unforgivable!"
Mary set her washcloth back into the washbasin, sighing. "You were unconscious, Mr. Holmes, sprawled out next to your needles and solutions. You may have died."
"Regardless, I will not have you gallivanting through my rooms as if you've been invited!"
Mary scowled at him, producing a crumpled telegram from her many-pocketed blouse. "Well if you don't want me here, I suggest you stop sending SOS's to the house."
Holmes snatched the note from her, running his fingers through his disheveled hair as he perused it. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he dropped the slip of paper. Mary plucked it off the sofa, hiding it back in her blouse.
"I suppose you remember now? Your pitiful plea for consolation through many a drug-induced declaration and misspelled idiom?
Holmes made a disgusted noise, snapping on his waistcoat and buttoning it up sharply. "You have a wit to rival your husband's, Madam, but laced with venom only a woman could emit."
"Evasive," Mary accused. "That note is a cry for help-"
"That is none of your concern," Holmes said quietly, trying to be civil. "The telegraph clearly says Watson, not Mary."
Mary pushed him gently back on the sofa, touching his forehead with her damp cloth. "An old friend of John's is sick in Whitechapel. He was out, and I received the message by wire this morning. Typically I would have written it off as another of your eccentric ratings, but something about the urgency with which you wrote…well, it frightened me, so I came."
Holmes looked at her with hard, glinting eyes. "So, of your own volition and with no ulterior motives…?"
Mary stood, gathering up her nursing supplies and setting them on the mantle. "I came, Sherlock. I wanted to make sure you were alright. I do care, despite it all."
"I don't follow you."
"Of course you don't," She sighed, pouring them both a cup of coffee. "You're an antisocial sociopath who refuses to believe that people can be kind without harboring 'ulterior motives'."
"Everyone has ulterior motives, Mary, it's merely a matter of finding what they are and to what end. You, for example, I can tell from your slightly puffy eyes and downtrodden demeanor that you and Watson had a spat before he left. And are you sure it was only an old friend he was going to see in Whitechapel and not an old flame?"
Mary turned on him, her nails digging into her palms. "Why must you be so cruel? What have I ever done to you to make you hate me so?"
Holmes made a disgusted noise. "Women; such an emotional response to every little thing…"
Mary snatched up her cloak angrily, brushing past him towards the door.
"No need to leave in a huff," He called after her. "I was only stating the obvious."
"And that's all you ever do, isn't it? I was hoping that if I showed you some kindness, perhaps you would give me some mercy in return, but now I see…"
He caught her wrist unexpectedly, spinning her to face him. He searched her face, so fair, so intelligent…Yet angry. Confined and tormented. His hand drifted out to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear before he snatched it back, aghast at his familiarity.
"You are a good woman, Miss Mortsan. And perhaps my treatment of you has been somewhat soured by my protective nature over your fiancée…"
"Husband, Sherlock! It's happened! You can't keep pretending as if I will simply go away and you'll have John all to yourself just like before. I love him too, you know, and you can't blame us if it's me he loves back!"
Holmes turned sharply away, picking up his violin and sinking into the armchair in defeat. Mary caught her breath, terrified. She hadn't meant to say it aloud, to call him out on what she only suspected…
"Sherlock, I'm sorr-"
"No, Mary, I am sorry." He muttered the admittance as if it pained him. Sherlock Holmes was not accustomed to apologizing. "I have treated you, as you say, cruelly. And though I will neither confirm nor deny the existence of jealousy in this tangled equation, I will admit that my saboteur of your marriage has nothing to do with your character. If anything, I almost admire you. You're a level-headed woman, with a dangerous amount of goodwill in her heart. And quite frankly I don't deserve it, but don't expect me to accept your kindness with cheer and many a thanks because it is essentially against my personal composition to do so.
He then turned his attention to his violin, plucking along with expert fingers, and Mary thought for a moment that the silence was his way of asking her to leave. But then he spoke, almost too softly to hear.
"But I appreciate the coffee and the company. Under the influence, my subconscious often does thing my ego simply would not allow, and though I am too proud to ask for it sober, I certainly could have used some human interaction."
Mary sank down next to him on the sofa, dropping her face into her hands.
"I'm sorry I'm not John, and I'm sorry he can't see what I can."
Holmes shrugged, picking up his bow. "Ce la vie, no? So. I was right about the spat?"
"Aren't you always?"
"In-laws, money…?"
"Both. Neither. I can't tell half the time." She took a deep breath, composing herself with all the dignity and quiet resolve that Holmes would expect from a proper British Englishwoman. "I should get home; the maid's probably forgotten about supper…"
"Of course," Holmes sniffed, sawing out the first strains of one of his trademark melodies, a study in organized, dissonant chaos. "Or…You could stay, you know. Only for a bit, perhaps? I could use a cultured ear to critique my new piece; Watson never had the taste or time for true art."
Mary smiled at him through the glisten of tears. There was nothing waiting for her at home, and he knew it. This was his way of reaching out to her, of momentarily letting down one of his many walls and accepting her into his circle. She knew full and well that John would show up tomorrow morning repentant without a penny to his name, but tonight perhaps she could forget her domestic troubles. And oh, how she loved the violin.
"Alright Mr. Holmes," She said, curling up on the sofa like a cat. "Regale me."
Hows about a review for the little lady? What about you there, Sir? Or you, sweet Madam?