"In saving my life she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend." The Lying Detective
Settled at the table in the sitting room, Sherlock observes John as he works with the notes from their last case, transferring them to his laptop with two-fingered precision. The detective tilts his head to the side, allowing a soft smile to adorn his lips, and gentle reflection to nearly fill a new area in his Mind Palace for John and Rosie.
John is in a better place these days. He enjoys watching Rosie become a little person in her own right, although it is still difficult for him when her expressions, her fair hair, are painful reminders of her mother. She has just taken her first experimental steps, and in John's eyes I can see his dismay that she is growing so rapidly. It seems just yesterday she was a helpless little tyrant who kept her parents awake all night.
My soldier is not so angry now, but when it does arise, he no longer abandons the flat for long walks as he has in the past. He sighs, as only he can, and moves on. I credit Rosie for this new, calmer John Watson, but sometimes I wish I could claim a bit of it for myself. Sentiment, I know.
John is emotionally exhausted, still grieving, and he's striving to be the better man Mary thought of him, the good man in his mind he aspires to be. He hasn't yet realized that he is already and always has been a good man. This I have known since the very first day we met and no one will convince me otherwise. I endeavour to persuade John of this one day. I would like to believe it will be soon, but this is John Watson for whom life has always been a struggle, and in whose view he will always fall short. And, of course, there is that stubborn Watson voice in his head. The one that often lies to him.
Late at night, when all is dark and still, Rosie is asleep, and the sitting room is steeped in a soft glow, sorrow often overwhelms my doctor. We retreat to the sofa, John's hand in mine, and there he allows me to gather him against my chest, his fair head tucked beneath my chin. He sighs again the sigh that is uniquely his, and I feel him surrender, as though the world is too much for him to bear. Sometimes John cries, no longer ashamed, and I am humbled that he allows me to see him this way. I am immensely proud of him.
It is early days for our little family. John and I still bicker, albeit softly now and never in front of Rosie, but we are able to talk and it is a wonderful thing.
Perhaps with time, we will be okay.
Author's Note:
Perhaps with time, Sherlock will see that the value Mary placed on his life can be spent on Rosie and John, and himself. Mary knew they could become even more than they were.