September, 2014
When next Sherlock wakes, it's not John, but Mary sitting in the chair by his bed, a bright - and expensive, judging from its sheer volume - bouquet of gerbera daisies nodding cheerfully from their vase on the windowsill. He lifts his head slightly to glance over at the morphine drip, then settles back on the pillow with a sigh.
"I was wondering when you'd wake up," Mary says. "You've been out for hours."
"I see you've managed to surprise me once again, Mrs. Watson. I didn't think they'd let you in."
Mary's lips tighten at the name, and Sherlock reminds himself to stop calling her that. It doesn't seem to bring out her best.
"Who wouldn't? No one knows but the three of us, and John… " her voice trails away and she swallows - looks out the window, away, anywhere else. "He was here all night and most of the morning. I think Mrs. Hudson might've faked exhaustion so he'd take her home."
"I've clearly been underestimating all the women in my life," Sherlock says dryly, and Mary snorts. Then he, too, looks away, long fingers plucking at the loose weave of his blanket.
"Have you -" he begins. "That is, are you - did he -"
Mary gives a shaky laugh.
"Spit it out, Sherlock. Have we talked?"
Sherlock's silent, shuttered expression answers her question more eloquently than words.
"No," she finally says.
For a time, they sit together in a silence that's neither companionable nor tense, but pregnant. Sherlock feels keenly the weight of things unsaid, barely even acknowledged, and he diverts them all into one, uncharacteristically plaintive question.
"Was I wrong?"
Mary meets his eyes, her own clear and unflinching.
"About what?" she counters, a parry to his unintended thrust, and Sherlock lets slip a wide grin. This is what he likes about Mary; where, in the end, Irene had been all too human, all too vulnerable, Mary is a fortress, her walls built higher and deeper than any Sherlock might hope to construct. He admires it - they could have been friends, under different circumstances. If he's being honest, there's a part of him that still hopes they may yet be.
"You do love him," Sherlock clarifies, and there's the flash of ferocity on which Sherlock's gambled everything, lighting up her eyes.
"I would do anything for him," Mary says. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, sinking deep into the pillows.
"Good. I'll -"
"You love him, too."
It's not a question, and Sherlock's mind comes stuttering to a halt.
"I - what?"
Mary pins him with a raised eyebrow. "Love John, Sherlock. Wouldn't you do anything for him, same as me?"
"I… " Sherlock's mind is a blank. "He's my - friend. I don't -"
"Sherlock."
With a dull scrape of wood on vinyl floor, Mary pulls her chair closer to the bed, her smallruthlesscapable hand pressing lightly against his forearm and quelling the vague unease her words have provoked. She glances down at the place where they touch, and when she meets Sherlock's wide eyes again, her gaze has softened.
"Never mind," she says. "I understand, Sherlock, truly I do."
"He loves you," Sherlock blurts out, and Mary gives Sherlock's arm a light squeeze.
"He does - did… I don't honestly know," Mary says mournfully, shaking her head. "Poor man - we're quite a pair."
Sherlock, still reeling from a riot of emotions he barely understands, can't tell which of them - her and John, or her and Sherlock - she's talking about.
"If he'll still have me - I'll keep him safe, Sherlock. No-one will ever get to him."
This is all the assurance Sherlock will ever need. God knows he can't say the same; twice, now, his association with John has had the unintended effect of putting him in danger, and though he'd do anything - has done everything - to keep John safe, Sherlock knows he's a liability. But Mary… if she's managed to keep a lid on her past so tight she's hidden in plain sight for months, she won't let herself be a target, and John will be safe.
Only Magnussen…
"Nothing else matters," Sherlock says softly, breaking the silence that's grown between them. "Nothing. Keep him safe… if you can - if you can, make him happy, and I will consider any debts between us settled."
It isn't until a fat drop of water splashes on his arm that Sherlock looks up to find Mary frowning, her mouth a tight moue of dissatisfaction at this display of emotion.
"Fucking hormones," she finally growls. Sherlock barks out a laugh, then winces as his muscles clench painfully. Mary reaches across the bed to raise his morphine a notch.
"There," she says, settling back in her chair. A beat, and then a final plea.
"Sherlock, don't tell John I was here. Please - he wouldn't understand."
Sherlock's eyes grow heavy as the world begins to fade. He feels himself frown; mumbles, almost to himself, "No… I don't think he would."
Then he sleeps.