Mary puts into words the unique and special bond that she, John and Sherlock have.
The answer, she supposed, was that she loved him.
And just look at him. Aquamarine eyes, alabaster skin and near ebony curls that did as they pleased. He was a beautiful creature. But to be honest, she never really saw that anymore. But to the people that hated him that was all they saw. They thought that he was arrogant because of his looks and his intelligence—in that order. He constructed his world this way. There was only one way he wanted to be seen and that was the way he controlled it. Years of never understanding why he was the way he was and finding no satisfactory answers anywhere, even from those who loved him as well as they could, turned him in a very particular way. And the outside world was worse, of course. You have to hit the ground running and to a person who has emotional equilibrium problems—well, there is no stable ground.
Ever since he had come into her life the questions had been asked. But to say that she loved him wouldn't have gotten her very far. People couldn't understand it, or her, letting him into their lives the way that she did. But from the second she met him she knew him, and she did indeed love him. He carried something important to John and she saw it the moment they laid eyes on each other or, she should say, they each carried something that the other needed. A catalyst that allowed a fullness of life that otherwise was not possible. Even as John railed, fussed, fought and got them thrown out of three restaurants in a single night she fought to control this excitement that was growing in her. So this is John. The one she only got glimpses of. The one who Bill one time spoke of when they had gone to a pub one night, the one who was in the carefully put away articles that she found by accident in a closet. He wasn't just the bristly-lipped man who would at times brood until all the life was out of him and then would suddenly turn around and become this ray of sunshine to make up for it, only to slowly slide down into the depths of depression again.
But on occasion, this man who loved her so completely would lean into the screen during the news. Something had happened in Afghanistan, soldiers had been injured. Once a DI came up on the screen and he gave an account of something that happened in the city, and this mild mannered man became something different. She'd even call him a man of action, his whole senses would be wrapped up in that moment and she'd wonder if the phone would ring and he would have to disappear into the darkness. For a few moments she would feel this anticipation in her wishing to him, come to the surface. Come out. But the news report would pass and the ember would die away.
But she knew it was there. She had seen it.
She started working at the clinic a couple of months after he started. She didn't notice him particularly, except that he kept to himself, usually eating his meals in his room or going somewhere out of the building. She innocently asked about him once and got drawn into the web of whispers and theories that surrounded him.
He traveled with that internet detective, that one that killed himself. They had traveled the world working together it was said. Some said that were "together." He certainly seemed to be grieving someone. He had been to Afghanistan, it was said he was a war hero. They even heard he worked for the secret service and had met the Queen and he had gotten a special medal, but he couldn't talk about the work that lead to it. Some had read his blog, but they said it had been taken down.
Such talk. She didn't know what to believe. She hadn't been following much of went on in the world around her for a while, instead working hard to build a stable life for herself, and was doing it through fits and starts. It took a while, but it looked like she'd finally gotten rid of all entanglements—romantic and otherwise. Now that she was looking at the world around her again, she didn't know how to take all the things that were said about him, but she did know he was different.
First, he never wore the aura of a doctor. That cloak that covered one in a certain inaccessibility, even as they smiled or joked. If you could get him to talk, the common man in him was plain. He did for himself in so many little things where another doctor would have called the nurse to perform the work. And it wasn't an affectation. It was what who he was.
Then she would watch him come and go, mainly because often he would use the common doors used by the patients, almost as often as he would use the employee door. Doctors never used the patient door, any more than they would go out of the building in their lab coats, another thing that he'd often forego. She had the feeling that he often walked to work.
So it was no surprise when he came in the main doors of the clinic that day, with a slight smile for the staff which was usually followed by disappearing through the doors that lead to the back. But this time he stopped. She let her eyes follow where his were focused.
A man sat the second row back with someone. She thought it might be his wife. The man had a glazed look in his eyes, his face had gone lax. Dr. Watson walked over to the couple.
"Hello. I'm John Watson, I'm a doctor. What are you here for? What time is your appointment?"
The man looked up with what must have been the last of his strength, because his eye rolled back into his eyelids and he slid out of the chair and onto the floor.
She watched John Watson throw his lunch, followed by his coat into the nearest chair. As he did he looked to them at the desk—call the ambulance, get his nurse and doctor Evans to assist him stat. He kneeled and asked the woman for the man's name, then called to him repeatedly, rubbing his sternum, and then with no response he began to loosen his clothes.
The nurse appeared, the doctor came and he began to direct them. He directed Mary to come and move the other patients away so they could work. He asked for instruments and means of moving the man from the floor and so many other necessary things, which room to use for emergency care, what instrument could be used to substitute for what they would have used in an emergency room, facts that were stored in his head and came without thinking about them.
The time seemed to go so slow, but when the ambulance had left, it was only 20 minutes that had passed. She sat down and tried to be as calm "just-another-day" about it as everyone else seemed to be, but she wasn't. This was the first time she had really looked at him. He was far younger than she had thought he was. And the way he handled everyone and everything—it was masterful. She felt ridiculously giddy, had she developed a crush? And this quick? She rescheduled his morning appointments since he went to the hospital with the patient and the whole time she kept thinking of how to introduce herself.
But his diffidence did not make that easy. It seemed that the last thing he wanted was attention after that morning. He didn't come in the main doors anymore and if he wasn't with a patient, his door was firmly closed or he wasn't to be found. After a couple of weeks of this the message became clear—do not approach me. She had given up hope.
Then the day came. She worked an early shift and was waiting at the bus stop to go meet friends. She looked around and there he was walking right towards her, and as she could tell was going to walk right by. He didn't see her at all.
"Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson?"
He looked around as though the words came out of the ether, then he saw her face.
"Hello—Mary. Good to see you."
"You were really lost in thought there. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, and you? How are you?"
She smiled, "I'm good. Leaving early today I see."
He looked a little cornered, like she was asking things she shouldn't. But he tried to cover his hesitation with an uncomfortable smile, "Yeah, I'm—I'm going to see about a friend of mine—and I can't be late. So, have a good evening."
He went to continue on, but she called after him, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry but I just want to tell you when you helped that man the other week in the waiting area—it was—amazing to watch. You're a very good trauma doctor."
He continued to be and increased in his discomfort. He nodded and mumbled a sort of "thanks" and almost went to continue again, but she wasn't quite through with him.
"So why are you here?"
"Excuse me?"
"This is—well—watching you work was like realizing you're a Stradivarius playing 'Mary had a little lamb.' I mean, there's nothing wrong with 'Mary had a little lamb,' but really? This is backwater for you."
She could tell the doctor was completely thrown. And she knew she had managed to, once again, put her foot in it.
"I'm sorry, I do that. Don't mind me, I get to talking and my mouth has a mind of its own. Forget I said anything Dr. Watson."
He continued to stand there, and much to her surprise, grinned. He was still thrown, but he seemed to find her candor at the very least amusing. "Well, I am…okay," was his reply. Then he looked back at the clinic. He gestured to it as he looked back to her.
"I only use 'doctor' in there. I'm John. Or if you prefer Watson, some people do that."
"John. Well, I'm holding you up from meeting your friend, so I'll let you go, but don't be a stranger. I'd love to talk to you again sometime. Perhaps we could go to a pub?"
She could see he was saying to himself 'Is she's asking me out?' She smiled, "But let's keep it under our hats. I don't want to have to fight the other girls for you."
He held his smile, good, she thought, even as he still struggled to make sense of things. Then he nodded, and before she let him walk away she got his number. When he walked away he looked back at her, as confused as he ever was, but he waved back when she gave a small wave bye.
Mary had a smile on her face that lasted the rest of the evening.
She called him that same night.
"Anna-Grace!"
The voice was so close it caused her to jump. She looked around, a tall blond man was smiling as a woman came towards him. She could have done without that. She was already nervous. She sat at the pub waiting for John to appear. She'd left work a few minutes early to touch up her make-up and put a curl or two in her hair, not that she was sure he'd notice, but it would make her feel more confident.
There he came, he looked around and she waved and smiled to attract his gaze. She was happy to note, that though it was a small one, he did smile back.
Now if only he would shave.
She asked what beer he wanted as soon as he sat. He offered to get it, but she reminded him that she had invited him, not the other way around. And the smile remained. She kept noting that. He asked for his beverage and she headed for the bar.
Getting the beer also gave her time to collect herself. She wasn't sure how he was going to take this next part, but she knew she was no good at beating about the bush. If he didn't understand, he just didn't understand.
She came back with two beers and a smile firmly pasted over her nervousness.
She handed him his drink and sat down across from him. "You're cute. I mean that. I think you're cute, but I must admit it is also sort of a butter-up, because I'm getting ready to go after the gorilla."
John sipped his beer and sat it on the table, folding his hands. "Okay."
"I didn't know anything about you before starting to the clinic. I've been—coordinating my own life," she spun her finger around for emphasis, "Misspent youth and so on. I'm finally getting my life back on track. So I had to decide—what's behind that cloud that surrounds you. I mean you must feel it. I also think you like to generate it to certain extent, so people can't find you in all that. So—I googled you a little bit, just to try and get the facts. I'm no stalker. Did you know The Science of Deduction website is still up?
"Really?" He replied, though he knew full well it was.
"Your friend said that he found some green paint and from there deduced that the brother had committed murder. Is that true?"
"Actually, yes it is. He used my phone the first day I met him to send a text to the police to arrest the brother if he had a green ladder." He still had that text.
She nodded appreciatively, pushing her lips into a thoughtful frown, "What was it like to live and work with someone that smart?"
"He could be a miserable git and the biggest curmudgeon, and often was."
Mary's voice caught in surprise, before she started to laugh.
She saw he liked watching her laugh, and he relaxed as he spoke, "If you're the 'only' of something it can get lonely, whatever that 'only' is. Only guy, only girl, only one that doesn't get it, only one who does, etc., Sherlock was always the 'only one' in every situation, but way back when people didn't get diagnose for things, did they? They just assumed you'd grow out of it or you were being difficult on purpose. Either way there was no helping that. He devised his own coping strategies, which mainly entailed treating people like dirt. Get them before they get you mentality."
"But that's not all he was. He just plain didn't know certain things. He was like this bad kid in class that for some reason takes a shine to you and as time goes on you start to understand that the way he's lived is the only life he'd known. Now I don't think he would have ever been 'Mr. Personality,' but he was growing. And—if you were one of the chosen few—there is not one thing in the world that he would not do for you. Not one thing."
Mary felt her heart catch. All the things that were written about this Sherlock Holmes, the things she decided to not mention, were outside words. They had nothing to do with the world he knew and she had the feeling he got tired of trying to explain it. She wondered at him.
"Could you tell me a story about him? I want to see him the way you did."
John looked at her as though he was questioning if he should, "I don't know—"
"Please?"
He looked down at his beer.
"How did you meet?" that caused him to look back at her, "There has to be a story there. I'm right, aren't I?"
The corner of his mouth went up as he looked off, seeing it in his mind. He pursed his mouth then looked back at her, "I was walking through the park when a friend of mind called to me from one of the benches—"
She wished she could say they were a house afire after that, but it didn't happen that way. She'd IM him to see if he wanted to have a coffee or beer after work. Sometimes he did, other times not. A couple of times he initiate the meet. She'd talk about the day at the desk, he might go on about something a doctor did or said, but he'd rarely offered a Sherlock story, he'd talk about Afghanistan before Sherlock and he certainly didn't bang on about war stories. If he did speak of the war, he'd mainly speak about what he learned about emergency treatment during his medical service there. When he did speak about Sherlock, is was usually something about his character which made him see the world in a different way, or made him see Sherlock different.
But this meet was different.
First, he texted her. Now, she had never made an actual promise, but she didn't mention to anyone at work that they would meet. She considered herself "one of the chosen few" and didn't want to betray that. She had this feeling he might disappear in that mist of his again, maybe even completely disappear, and she didn't want to risk that.
Second, he had a look to his face all day at work. Sort of like the day he helped the man in the waiting area of the clinic. There was something that needed to said. When she got there, he had her standard beverage waiting at the table for her.
"Wow. Thank you," she said as she sat and smiled. She took a sip to cover the very real disconcerting vibe she was picking up from him.
"How was your day?" He started.
"Good. Good. And yours?"
"Okay. It was…okay." He nodded and drifting into a silence that grew more awkward by the second.
"John?"
"Yes? Oh, yes, right. Umm, is you drink cold enough? I ordered it when I arrived, but I was sitting here a while—it didn't go warm on you did it?"
"John my drink is fine. You're beginning (beginning?) to worry me. What is this all about?"
He fidgeted with his nails and looked at them while he swallowed. His face bloomed into a rosy hue and he took another drink of his beer—which probably didn't help the heat of his face, but it did seem to calm him.
"I've really appreciated the time we spent together. I-I really think of you as a friend."
"I think of you as a friend too."
"Really? Good. Good. Well, what I'm trying to say is—", he blew out a breath, "I was wondering, would you like to go on a…a proper date...with me?"
Mary eyes grew round, then much to John's consternation, she laughed. But then quickly tried to control it as she saw the expression of horror on his face, "No, no, no," She reached out and took both his hands in her own, still giggling a little, "Oh dear sweet John, don't be like that! It was just so—you were so serious. I thought you were going to tell me you had quit. I laughed from relief. Oh dear John, you really must stop scaring people like that!
He was still embarrassed, but having her hold his hands was not without its charm, "It's not easy for me to say things like this. I've always had trouble with it. Now, get me angry—." Even he had to start smiling. "So you'd like to go on a date with me?"
"Since the day I asked you out on the bus stop."
It was only after they became a couple that she really understood how much Sherlock was still a part of his life.
One evening on a whim, they dressed up to go out to dinner. The restaurant that Mary had always wanted to go to usually saved open places for walk-ins. But just as they were walking up the street towards it, they saw another couple being turned away. It appeared as though the entire restaurant had been booked for a private party. John looked as Mary's face fell in disappointment. He watched the couple walk away then reached down and grabbed ahold of her hand.
"Follow my lead," was all he said and he walked confidently up to the man at the door before he let go of it.
"There's an event being held here tonight?"
"Yes."
"I'm Dr. Watson. This is my assistant. We were asked to look in at a man named 'David.' We were on our way elsewhere when we got the call and didn't get details. Is it possible that we could step inside? Something about someone feeling faint."
The young man seemed a bit disconcerted. John's face tightened.
"Really, can we go in or not?"
"Yes, yes, it should be okay."
"Thank you," And without so much as a break in his expression he turned to her, "Come on, we'll start in the back—"
"There's a private dining area in the back," the young man offered.
"Thanks, that helps." He gave him a nod of approval.
They walked in to what seemed to be a corporate event, so much the better because they weren't really interested in every face. John went up to a buffet table and handed her a plate.
"I don't believe you just did that!" She said under her breath, she was desperately trying to look mad, but couldn't, her face was breaking into a wide grin.
"Well I don't think we should stay very long, but at least we get to try the food and see if we'd like to come back on another night." They filled their plates and then John moved them towards the back.
"Where are we going?"
"Going to see about the private dining room," They found it empty. They slipped inside and shut the door.
"Dear God in heaven, what made you think you could get off with that!" was the first thing Mary said as they sat down.
"You don't travel with the world's only consulting detective and not learn a thing or two." He held a hand up and began to tick off with his fingers, "One, move with confidence. Two, act like you're supposed to be there. There's also a three—don't wear out your welcome. I'd say we have 20 minutes to a half-hour before anyone starts to ask about us. Say, did I ever tell you about Baskerville?"
They stayed long enough for him to finish his story and to decide the restaurant had been overrated. John even patted the doorman's arm on the way out, thanking him again for his cooperation. Mary waited until they got out his sight and boxed his arm. She felt young and free and like they were part of the night. She looked over at John and he was looking at the night sky. He wanted to go somewhere they could see the stars better, and they wound their way to the water to a dark patch. It wasn't the country, but it only needed a patch of dark to make stars shine.
John said, "Do you mind?" as he went to put his arm around her waist. Mary smiled and responded by putting hers around his.
"It was a night like this that Sherlock and I hunted an assassin who called himself Golem. A poor night watchman washed up along the way, amateur astronomer, killed by this Golem because he knew a supernova in a painting couldn't be correct. He ended up blowing a 30 million pound sale of a painting.
"I remember hearing something about that. That was you?"
"That was Sherlock. I was helping. But I did find out that he was an astronomer, which helped Sherlock piece together the reason he had been killed."
"By the Golem."
"Yes," he smiled at her. "You got that name quickly. Most people can't get their mouths around it the first time."
Mary looked away, as though embarrassed, "I guess I must have heard it somewhere before."
"It's supposed to be a folktale name."
"Yeah, maybe that's where I heard it."
They got quiet, staring at the stars. Then she felt rather that heard a catch in his breathing. She looked at him. He took a deep breath. His eyes fidgeted, seeing something he didn't want to see.
"Yes?"
"It was just around a year after that…" he looked at her and looked away, "I saw him jump."
"Jump?"
"From St. Bart's."
"Oh—Oh!" Now understanding what he was saying, "I had heard from the people in the clinic that he killed himself, but I never knew how. I guess they assumed I did. Oh John—"
"If I had stayed with him like I should have—"
"You didn't know—"
No I didn't know, but I should have known that something was wrong. I was lured away by a phone call, probably Moriarty, he lured me away and Sherlock was left alone. I think a lifetime of being hated was finally too much. He talked about it, the night before he died, how the truth was used against him to make the lie easier to swallow. He was never a fraud, but because he wasn't sunshine and rainbows it had to mean there was nothing good about him. Between Moriarty and his brother he didn't stand a chance." He wiped his eyes and coughed, "I didn't bring you here to cry about this again, but I do need to tell you something. I can't be a part of his life anymore, but he's always going to be a part of mine. So—I do go see him. You don't have to be a part of that, but just know that I will do that."
"Actually, I would like to come, at least sometimes. He's your best friend."
The present tense. His heart swelled a bit and he leaned over and kissed her temple, "Let's get out of here."
Not too long thereafter, he took her to the black granite monument. From the time they neared the gates his demeanor changed. He seemed to walk between worlds. He brought no flowers or trinkets, just the fullness of his heart. "This is Mary." He said simply, reaching out to hold her hand. "I haven't met anyone who has meant more to me since that day. I hope someday she'll do me a very great honor, but for now, I wanted her to meet you."
Mary has a rush of emotions. Fear, happiness, astonishment, love, so full it made her dizzy. He said nothing else. He was lost in thought.
"Shall I wait for you over there?"
He nodded without comment.
He came back a while later, still quiet. It was only after they were well past the gates that he came back to her.
"I know he's dead." He began, "It's just the thought of never talking to him again isn't one I've been able to reconcile to myself."
Those words never fully left her. She thought of them when John gave a small glimpse into those last days including how Sherlock's own brother gave Moriarty information about his life, things that were twisted to turn the world against him. How a supposed genius could throw his brother into the mouth of a beast in the name of the greater good.
"Did you confront him?"
"Once, before it happened I went to Mycroft to have it out with him, but I was too worried about trying to save the situation. I had to go looking for Sherlock. And—"
"And what?"
He looked sheepish, "I may or may not have tried to pound him when he showed up at the cemetery for the burial."
"John—"
"I warned him at the funeral service," he came back with bluntly, "he didn't have the right. He helped put him there. Seeing him stand over the grave he put him in—I regret nothing."
And she remembered those words again when then they were leaving the clinic and half way across the lot when John froze. Mary followed his gaze to a gleaming limousine; it looked as if it had just driven off the car lot.
"What is it?
"Anthea."
Mary was shocked. "The Anthea? Mycroft's Anthea?"
John nodded, taking deep breaths, steeling himself to walk up the car. But he never got a chance. Mary was crossing the distance. He barely had time to call to her before she was knocking on the glass. Not fast enough, she knocked again.
The window came down and the most beautiful, and beautifully manicured, dark-haired woman appeared. John was going to have to explain to her why he hadn't told her that bit before. But for now:
"Anthea, is it?"
The woman said nothing.
"Tell your boss when John told him to leave him alone he meant all of you. Don't meet him outside of his work or his house or outside the cemetery. If you happen to be on the same street, find another way to go. You will not be dragging him off to the boys club or some abandoned warehouse." John had reached them and was trying to bring her away, but she wasn't finished and she got louder as he pulled her from the car, "This is the only time I will tell you! I don't care who Mycroft is and I certainly don't care you who are! You will answer to me if I find out you've done otherwise!"
John put himself between his lioness and her prey, "Look at me. Look. At. Me. I'm fine. I'm okay. And if I wasn't I'm glad you here." She looked at him and then he smiled, "I really need to hear more about this misspent youth of yours," that made her give a nervous laugh. Only then did he put his arms around her. "Oh Mary, what would I have done without you?"
It was only two weeks later they stood outside of a tiny restaurant on a cool, crisp night. John in a state, looking for a cab, refusing to rub his head or admit that he'd given himself headache, she, who should have been bitter and disappointed but instead had this what amounted to glee growing in her, threatening to get her in trouble with John, and a very confused and bloodied-nose Sherlock Holmes.
From that very hour, even in his angry state, something improved in John. The ever present mist, that had faded much with her coming into his life, had completely disappeared. His eyes were clearer, he stood taller. He had Sherlock back—even if he was furious with him.
So why wasn't she jealous?
Why hadn't he left him behind at the first restaurant? Or the second? Or chased him away as they stood outside the third? Why did he start posting on his blog again? Or the mustache (thank goodness!) get shaved off? Because he was so happy that he was alive, and when she saw them, heard them together the final pieces fell in place. Sherlock wasn't just his friend the warrior in him needed to slay dragons with, or a patient to him, someone whom he made sure he took care of himself, he was family, brother or—dare she say it—son. He was the one who watched as Sherlock started to slowly get up and progress in life, taking baby steps into the world.
No parent wants to die before their child.
And so she did indeed love him. He was a part of John's heart and she loved John's heart. He came through John to her and she received him as he truly was—family.
So she watched in good humor on the sofa at 221b, legs crossed, steaming cup of coffee in her hand. Sherlock sat on the back of his chair, feet in the seat, looking at a stack of documents his brother had sent over (two years worth), casually looking them over then allowing them to float their way to the floor as John poured the kettle for his own tea and fussed and carried on regarding Sherlock's horrible joke regarding the parliament bomb.
"I thought you didn't want anyone else to know?" was Sherlock's reply, never looking up from his task.
"My fiancé isn't anyone, you miserable tool! Parliament bombs and bonfires, isn't anything simple for you? You can't just call a mate and say "'Hi,' back from the dead, how about a pint?" No—you have scare people while they're trying to propose!"
"Well it's a good thing, seeing as you were making a hash of it. The ring is a good choice, but you'd have done better with a picnic in the park with flowers. Mary loves flowers."
Mary quickly began drinking her coffee, to cover her giggle.
"Well when it's your turn you can do it anyway you like." John opens the refrigerator door, "and already you have body parts in here. How can you find time to get—what is it—a liver? And not find time to get something you can actually eat."
"Theoretically speaking I could eat the liver—"
"Sherlock!"
"—but Molly brought me that as a welcome home present. I want to see if I can—"
"No, I don't want to hear it. Get your coat. You too Mary, we're leaving."
"Where are we going?"
"You have got to do shopping. Mrs. Hudson can't always be expected to do it."
"Why not?"
"Because she's your landlady, not your housekeeper."
"She doesn't mind."
"Yes she does. Now get up and get your wallet. Or do you want me have Mycroft handle it?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then made a face and huffed off to his bedroom, letting papers scatter everywhere. Mary put her cup down, and stood while John got their jackets from the pegs and hands hers to her.
"Would you really call Mycroft over shopping?"
"Sherlock is good at reading tells," was his reply, "but I think I'm going to call him anyway. Something's not right with the way he's moving, something with his back. I think Mycroft is the only who'll tell me what's going on there."
"You're willing to talk to him then?"
"In this instance yes."
Sherlock came back and got his coat, "let's get this over with," he said as he put his coat and went down the stairs, followed by John and herself. Sherlock held the door open for them and as she went by she reached up and disarranged his curls a bit, a little more than they already were anyway. She smiled at him and he scowled, until she looked away, then the side of his lip curled.
He was with them because she loved him and he was family, what other reason could there be?