A/N.Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended.
It is a two-chapter story, which focuses on the development of Sherlock/Mary relationship. This chapter represents the beginning of their journey, and the next one will mark its final destination.
It is always about Sherlock. Indeed, it is.
At first, she is torn between amusement and a bit of irritation. Then she is impatient. And after that, she likes him. And this is by far the greatest self-made trap she'd ever gotten herself into. She is sure Sherlock would agree. If he knew her reasons, that is. If he knew her.
That would make for a nice scene, Mary thinks. And she'd always been fond of scenes. She imagines, Sherlock is the same way, if his dramatic "not-dead" appearance is anything to go by.
She is remotely sympathetic of John, but it fades in comparison to another feeling. Something exciting. Something new. Somehow, she knows: they are up for the game, and she's played enough in her lifetime to recognize that this one is going to be different. Probably disastrous as well. But she can not resist the temptation. She never can. For someone whose job consisted of avoiding trouble at all costs this might seem a bit excessive, if not downright "asking for it". But Mary never asked, not really. She just took what she wanted and never looked back. Now she wanted John. And, surprisingly, Sherlock. The last bit is definitely not good, as John is fond of saying but the increased beating of her heart tells her that she won't listen to the voice of reason. Not this time. Anyway, Sherlock's voice is too loud for others to have any meaning whatsoever.
'So, what do you think, Sherlock?'
'Definitely the book.'
John sends him a confused glance and Mary smiles.
'A bit kindergarden-ish, don't you think?'
'Not at all. People tend to place value on some things, and then these things…'
'Become their life.'
'Well, I meant become their idee-fix, but your version is acceptable.'
Mary doesn't want to admit it, but she is pleased. To be praised by Sherlock Holmes. She could see why John was crazy about it. She shakes her head, though.
'Not just "acceptable", is it, Sherlock?'
His expression is just a bit indignant and she finds herself genuinely enjoying it.
'You never settle for anything than-'
'Yes.'
Evidently, Sherlock doesn't appreciate interruptions but it makes it even more fun.
Mary glances at John. His eyes are amused, with a bit of subdued irritation. She can handle both, she thinks. Can Sherlock?
'Book, jealousy, murder, then?
'You left out the most important part, Mary.'
She likes how he says her name. Like there is nothing unnatural about them sitting here and discussing - solving - cases. Like she belongs. It's an exquisite feeling. She drinks it in and lets it cover her in the bliss of denial. For a flicker of a second, she is almost satisfied.
She'd always been trying things on. So many identities. So many masks. She liked to grow into them and see where it led her. Some fitted her well. Some were ridiculously different. Some taught her something. Others were an enormous waste of time.
The mask of Mary Morstan, though... so similar yet different at the same time. Too delicious to pass on.
Playing Mary Morstan. Being Mary. At some point, she realized that she didn't have to pretend: Mary fit her so naturally. It fact, she fit her like nothing had ever before.
Rosamund could've been the furthest thing from Mary possible, and yet, she felt a kinship here. A common ground, and a common battlefield.
Was she Mary all the time?
She was Mary when she smiled at Sherlock and indulged into a bit of teasing. She was Mary when she acted as if she liked their neighbors. She was Mary when she hugged John and finally let go.
Falling in love with him, however… it was Rosamund all over and Mary could never find it in herself to be sorry about that.
'Mayhem?'
Sherlock snorts at her, and she lifts her eyebrows at John.
John bites his lips in a failed attempt not to burst into laughter. Mary is compelled to follow his example.
"Too many crime novels, Mary?'
Suddenly, she feels like playing. A little game can't hurt, can it?
'Deduce it?'
Sherlock looks a bit surprised at the invitation. Yes, she'd definitely cautious surprise, with a bit of hunger. She can recognize the signs only too well.
'You're a reader. You enjoy novels that make you think. A strong urge to be intellectually stimulated. But you do not like overly stiff and self-righteous things, so definitely not a snob. Picky in your own way. You know what you like, but you're also capable of thoroughly analyzing texts you feel indifferent about."
Something of a sparkle flutters in Mary's chest. She struggles to let air out.
Captivating is by far a serious understatement. It's genius.
'So yes, you do like an occasional crime novel. You don't read for the sake of it, though, You have to be really into it, you have to enjoy it. Otherwise, you just get bored and throw it away.'
'Excellent, Sherlock. What else?'
Now, she is hungry as well. She wants to know more, to see where he'd go and where he'd stop. If he'd stop. The thrill, the danger of it is overwhelming. She is half-tempted to give him some clues on purpose, to see if he'd figure it out.
But then she smiles and takes what is coming. There seems to be enough of it. For now.
'Then there is your writing style. You text like everyone else, short and perfectly simple when needed. No redundant marks. You're not particularly fond of commas, though. Not your style. Dashes held much more appeal, and sometimes you can not resist. You like your texts to be dynamic, fast, and commas slow you down. You're always spot-on. I'd say, facts with a touch of drama. John's style is somewhere between realism and romantism, yours… yours is far more modern. You don't describe things because they are there, you only describe them because they serve a purpose. So no, crime novel doesn't quite cover it. It has to be something psychological as well. Something with an edge to it. Something more than an unsolved murder with ten suspects.'
Mary hears John snort in background.
'Are you still sulking about that one? I thought we… found the common ground.'
Sherlock shifts his attention to the new challenge an Mary uses this time to catch her breath.
She shouldn't be affected by this. And yet, he is so close that it makes her heart beat stronger, and faster. If John took her pulse now…
Well, actually that could be easily arranged.
Mary tells herself to shut up and gets busy with her phone. Responding to messages is delightfully calming.
Free tomorrow? Maybe we could…
Shoot something? That would be nice. But she doubts that Janine would appreciate the humor.
She is definitely not your typical quiet-housewife type but Mary doesn't think she can handle the real pressure.
The pressure of a gun.
Yeah, responding to messages is a bad idea as well. Mary puts the phone away and looks at Sherlock. No - Sherlock and John.
Despite the unbearable itch in her mind, she doesn't want to interrupt. Doesn't want to see John's half-amused-but-more-annoyed look. He always gets those when Sherlock pays no mind to him. Which is often enough.
"Does it bother you?"
"What?"
"Him? Him not talking for hours. Pretending like you're not there. But basically just him."
"No. Why would it?"
"John."
"I guess I got used to it. And Sherlock doesn't pretend not to listen. He simply doesn't listen. Or he listens but chooses not to say anything. More often the later."
"Of course."
Yes, pretending was never for Sherlock. It is her eparchy,
She doesn't have the heart to tell John that Sherlock could - and can - pretend extremely well. It's evident that John doesn't want to acknowledge it. He is pained by it. He wants to escape.
Sometimes, Mary feels like helping him. Other times, she feels like there is no purpose in any escape. Not as long as Sherlock is walking the same earth.
In all honesty, though, John's irritated looks are more cute than anything else. Sherlock seems to agree. In fact, he's annoying John right now and getting these. Mary thinks it's good not to be the only one for a change.
She can't help a subtle spark of jealously, though. And it is so trivial she could puke.
Thankfully, their relationship is nothing but.
Jealousy isn't even the right word for it, if she's being frank.
She is not even sure there is any right word at all. If there is, she is still searching.
And finding is the furthest thing from her mind. Where would be fun in that?