My very first time publishing here. Obviously, I own nothing and everything belongs to Moffat, the BBC, and Sir ACD. I'm just playing around...
It began with Mary Morstan. Doctor Mary Morstan who headed the psychiatric department at St. Barts. Mary Morstan who had waltzed into 221B, with her designer clothes, and requested help finding her father. She'd not asked Sherlock to find him for her; she'd simply asked for his assistance. Even then, before John had made the very John-like decision of falling in "love" with her, Sherlock could tell Mary Morstan was different.
He could tell by the way she met Sherlock quip for quip, having an answer on the tip of her tongue almost before Sherlock had even finished speaking. He could tell by the way she sat up straight, poised and dignified and so very different from the ones before her; those dull and simple girls. Mary Morstan was not one of them; she was a woman. A clever and interesting woman.
It was all these things that made Sherlock sit back in his arm chair, fingers to his laptop keyboard, and a smirk on his face as Dr. Morstan sauntered around the flat, expensive heels clicking on the wooden floors, quietly observing the small things anyone else would have overlooked.
"You've moved in quite a few new things." She stated, looking around at the boxes Sherlock had hauled up a few days before. Amongst all the regular clutter of the flat, not even John had noticed the new additions. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but didn't look up from his laptop.
"Mrs. Hudson had removed some of my things from the flat while I was dead. Put them in storage."
Mary chuckled. "It's not every day you hear someone say the were dead. Anyway you've been back for a while now. And you've only just found the need for your...skull?" She asked, peeking into one of the boxes where a human skull was sitting on top.
"I didn't have the time before."
"Or you've just now anticipated that you'll soon have a few new shelves available to your disposal."
Sherlock stopped typing for only a second but it was enough to let the psychiatrist know she was right.
"How odd that these new things appeared on the week John and I told you we've found a flat."
"Yes, well, seeing that I won't have a flatmate soon, I figure I could go back to talking to my skull. As much as Mrs. Hudson doesn't like it."
Mary tutted and sat on the coffee table in front of him.
"John will always be around when you need him, Sherlock." She sighed and gave him a small smile. "I'm willing to bet he'll spend more time here than at our place anyway."
Sherlock met her icy blue eyes with some added cynicism in his own.
"Really Dr. Morstan, when I find myself in need of a therapy session, I'll call you."
For all of her intelligence, Mary was, after all, a psychiatrist. She had this unshakable need to comfort and care for people and while her perceptiveness of others sometimes impressed even Sherlock, he was often let down by her ability to care so much. He'd once told her she could be brilliant if she removed all of the unnecessary emotions that cluttered up her mind.
"Brilliance is overrated." She had simply answered, with a small smirk on her lips and Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at her, not fully convinced there wasn't an alternate meaning to her answer.
"I wasn't trying to comfort you. I was just stating a fact. I'm afraid I've come to terms with the fact that I will come in second to you, Sherlock Holmes. Even to my own husband."
"Oh settle down Mary, he's not your husband yet!"
Brilliant as she might be, Sherlock had yet to completely forgive her for coming between him and his colleague. Alright, friend. John Watson was his friend; his best friend. One of the only meaningful relationships he had in his life was about to be taken from him and he couldn't help but resent the fact that he had been powerless to stop it.
Oh he'd tried.
He'd told John about the way she dressed: designers and labels too sophisticated for a woman to learn overnight once she makes a decent wage as a psychiatrist. No. Her fine taste was not taught; it was engrained from childhood. She came from money; and quite a lot of it. He'd told John about the lack of successful relationships in her life: not because men didn't want her, but because men bored her and she found them disposable. Much to John's annoyance, Sherlock had remarked that if anyone could bore Mary out of her skull it would certainly be John Watson. Much to Sherlock's own annoyance, he'd been wrong.
Most importantly however, he'd reminded John of the first thing he'd noticed about Mary Morstan: the fact that she had an almost sociopathic ability to manipulate those around her, and her being a psychiatrist was mostly a matter of chance. She could have just as easily been a hit-woman or a spy.
If he were being honest, Sherlock found it refreshing to be kept on his toes by someone; to not be able to anticipate or understand someone's motivations every single time. She would never be able to best him of course, but it was amusing to see her try. She was a bit like The Woman, but much more interested in John Watson and a lot less interested in playing games she didn't know the rules of. No, perhaps Mary was not like The Woman. Mary was not foolish; she never did anything unless she was absolutely certain of the outcome.
It was with that thought that Sherlock realized he should have been more wary of the conversation that followed that night, as Mary perched on his coffee table while he typed away a new blog entry.
"Have you thought of the wedding?" She asked him.
Without missing a beat, he responded, "It's your wedding Mary, I don't see why I should concern myself with it."
"Of course not. But John and I were wondering if you'd be attending alone." Sherlock was about to respond, when she added, "Well, John was wondering really."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But you weren't. Either because you have a ridiculous romantic notion that I'll suddenly develop the urge to ask someone or because you're hoping I'll go alone, and you'll sit me next to your perpetually single cousin, Hattie. Don't bother, Mary, she's not interested in men." He settled back into his armchair with a smirk, satisfied for only a moment before he realized that Mary wore an unfazed expression.
"Actually," she began slowly, as if she were talking to a child. Her therapist voice, to be sure. "I was only not curious because I knew you would go alone."
"Oh did you?" Sherlock countered. It wasn't an awfully brilliant assumption to make, given his lack of dating history, but it bothered Sherlock to give Mary the impression that she had him figured out; which she most certainly didn't.
"Well, it's not exactly as if you know many women. Especially any that would accept going to a wedding with you. I imagine it'll be a fun-filled evening of you complaining over the farce that is marriage and the amount of money spent on such a spectacle."
"Oh, you know me so well, Dr. Morstan." Sherlock replied sourly. "You think I'm not capable of behaving, what you psychiatrists deem, "normally" and interacting with a woman for one night. I know how to do it: you show up, you lie through your teeth and give a compliment about her hair or the over-the-top dress she's wearing, you comment on the guests, the dinner, the happy couple. Just because I chose not to fill my time with something as trivial as dating doesn't mean the notions are lost on me."
"Of course they're not." Mary gave him another smile that went with her therapist voice. "But then, theory and practice are two different things."
Sherlock opened his mouth give a witty retort but was interrupted when the door to the living room flung open.
"Sorry I took so long, darling. Ready to go?"
Mary lifted herself from the table, designer purse in hand, and made her way over to where John stood.
"Of course I am. Are you sure you won't come to dinner with us, Sherlock?" She asked and Sherlock only rolled his eyes and continued typing, staying silent through John's goodbye and only looking up when he heard the front door slam shut.
"I wish you wouldn't push his buttons like that." John told his fiancé when she told him of her exchange with his best friend. "Sherlock can be hurtful when he's challenged."
"Oh I know not to take his insults to heart. But he needs a push; he needs to go out and find someone for himself; build meaningful relationships with other people. And not just you; because you, Doctor Watson, are mine." Mary tugged playfully at John's hand to bring him closer and pecked him on the cheek.
"And you think he'll go for it?"
"Oh, a little old fashioned reverse psychology never fails. Especially with someone who acts like a petulant 9 year old, like Sherlock does. I just can't possibly imagine what poor soul he's going to pick to prove me wrong. Exactly how many women does Sherlock know?"
"Women that don't want to punch him in the face?...not many." John said grimly. It would not be an easy task for Sherlock to prove to Mary that he was capable of acquiring a date to their wedding, there weren't exactly too many women all that eager or brave to take on Sherlock Holmes. Well, John thought suddenly, there was one...
A few blocks away, St. Bart's head of pathology was locking up the lab. She tugged her cherry-covered cardigan on and buttoned it wrong but she hardly cared; it had been a long day and all she wanted to do was get home, feed Toby and climb into bed.
She had just waved goodbye to the security guard, Jeff, and walked towards the hospital's main exit when her cellphone beeped and she found herself standing in the middle of the revolving door, staring down at the text on her screen in confusion.
Molly, coffee tomorrow? -SH