Plus ça change
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
- Alphonse Karr
22:32
"Oh God," John groaned, reaching into his jacket for his gun. He gripped the cool, solid handle and pulled it out, flipping off the safety in a well-practised motion. "If I knew we'd be running across London, I wouldn't have brought the nappy bag with me." He huffed, shifting the strap of the outrageously pink bag that was slung over his right shoulder. "Why's it so heavy?"
Mary, crouching next to him in the shadow of the alley, rubbed her nose guiltily. "Ah. Well. I might've put in a couple jars of baby food. Blended peas, carrots, avocado – you know how fussy she is – and some formula..." She paused. "And there's about five packs of wipes in there too, just in case."
John grinned. "Just a couple jars, you say?" He ducked a punch – well, as much as one could while holding a gun in one hand, grasping the strap of a nappy bag in the other, and kneeling in close proximity to the puncher. The bag rattled with unidentifiable clangs.
"Shut up," she grumbled. "You know I don't quite trust 221b's kitchen – and don't you look at me like that. You were the one complaining again about the head in the fridge just last night. For all we know, he might accidentally feed our baby with a bowl coated in ammonia from that previous experiment."
"The one with the cat bogeys?"
"That's the one."
John sighed and shook his head with faint humour. "I think he's even more careful with our daughter than we are, if that's possible."
"Well," Mary said, scrunching her nose, "he's not the one getting chased by three men who want to kill him, so I'll give him credit for that." Silently, she unstrapped a small black handgun from her thigh and checked the cartridge, ignoring the frown on John's face.
For a moment, they sat in silence, adrenaline racing through their veins in a familiar race – until faint, but unmistakably angry, voices reached their well-trained ears. With an quick, soundless exchange of looks, John and Mary and the guns and the bursting nappy bag were traversing across London once more.
20:02
Sherlock Holmes was not pacing impatiently because he was waiting for somebody to show up. Sherlock Holmes did not wait for people to show up; people came to him. He didn't do something as trivial and sentimental as waiting for someone to show up at the door. He wasn't eager. He wasn't excited to see –
No. He was pacing impatiently simply because he was thinking. Because that's what Sherlock Holmes did: think. And of course he didn't get distracted by thoughts of chubby, blonde, curious-eyed, babbling babies that were approximately five months and ten days old.
Elizabeth Mary Watson. Elizabeth Mary Watson. Elizabeth. Biblical. The oath of God. Mary. Biblical. Rebellion. Elizabeth Mary. Common. Ordinary. Extraordinary.
He smoothed out the plaid blanket in the crib by the couch and adjusted the soft teddy bear on the armrest to sit at a perfect ninety-degree angle. As he made his way back to the centre of the room, he spotted an inconspicuous car grey pulling up at the curb and felt his heart leap.
Which was, Sherlock deduced wisely, due to the caffeine. Only possible explanation.
20:05
After a couple minutes of Mrs Hudson's cooing and awwing, the Watsons made their way gingerly up the stairs. The father cradled a sleepy baby over his right shoulder, an inevitable wet spot staining his ironed suit jacket; the mother adjusted the belt on her dress and impulsively felt for the gun strapped to her thigh. She giggled as her husband's ears flushed red at her hands making sure he had also brought his illegal firearm along.
The baby mumbled incoherently, unaware of everything except for the warmth of her father's embrace and the faint smell of something comforting. She opened her eyes.
The first thing John saw when he entered the flat was the stiff, slender figure of Sherlock Holmes in his usual chair, hands resting neatly on the armrests. "Sherlock," he greeted, pretending not to notice his best friend's eagerness – fingers drumming, feet tapping, a cold, untouched cup of coffee on the table – and instead preoccupying himself with keeping a good grip on the suddenly fussy baby.
How utterly transparent he was to John. How utterly oblivious the genius was to his transparency.
"John," Sherlock returned, then leapt out of his chair to press a kiss onto Mary's cheek. "And Mary." Before he could walk away, Mary reached out and grabbed him in a tight hug. She sighed dramatically into his chest as John hid a smile in Elizabeth's soft curls.
"How good it feels to hug people without having an enormous, fragile balloon blocking my way!" Mary exclaimed, winking at John.
John rolled his eyes and patted his daughter's back as she squirmed. "It's been five months."
"You try being pregnant, John Watson."
Sherlock untangled himself from Mary's arms. "Still carrying around the gun, I see," he interrupted as John opened his mouth with a retort. At his friend's remark, John stopped short and turned to gape at his wife.
"Old habits," she shrugged unashamedly. "And it matches the dress."
"You said you wouldn't be taking it along today," John said, staring at Mary with a serious expression while swaying from side to side. She couldn't bring herself to say that he looked rather silly. "We were supposed to have a nice evening at a nice restaurant without any firearms attached to our bodies."
Mary raised her eyebrows. "I believe you said the same thing, Captain I-Have-An-Illegal-SIG Watson."
Elizabeth let out a shrieking cry.
"... Touché."
"But it is a tiny bit sexy."
"Talking about nice evenings and nice restaurants," Sherlock said with great delicacy, "why don't you two get going? You've a reservation at nine, I believe." He gazed at the skull on the mantelpiece with a bored expression, looking at everywhere except the tiny figure in John's arms. The perfect image of a man who harboured as much excitement in his body as a hard-boiled egg.
"Yeah, we better get going," John said amusedly, pressing a tender kiss on Elizabeth's forehead and handing her to Mary. "Say bye-bye to Mummy, Liz."
Elizabeth gargled and beat her hands against Mary's dress.
"Thanks darling," Mary teased, and kissed her on the nose. "You be good with Uncle Sherlock, here. Sherlock, would you...?" And as if he'd been waiting for his cue, Uncle Sherlock swept up Elizabeth in his arms – eliciting a surprised giggle from the baby – and were pushing the couple out the door.
22:37
"Peas, peas," Mary hissed at John as they sprinted through the narrow alleyways of London.
Immediately understanding, he skidded to a stop and unzipped the nappy bag. He reached in and pulled out a large jar of peas, eyes briefly widening in awe at its size, and placed it in the shadow of the building – the perfect spot for someone turning the corner in haste to potentially trip over unexpected items, such as a jar of baby food.
John glanced at the building wall. "Mary – a ladder!"
20:08
Sherlock poised his fingers under his chin, palms pressed together. He stared solemnly at the baby on the couch who stared solemnly back at the tall man sitting on the coffee table.
"Elizabeth Watson," Sherlock said, holding out a finger for her to grasp. Elizabeth grabbed it tightly and proceeded to put it in her mouth to gnaw on. "Would you like to help me solve some murders?"
Elizabeth bit down hard, the sharp edges of her first tooth causing Sherlock to wince (though he quickly schooled his expression back into one that saved his dignity). The consulting detective took the bite as an affirmation. "Right," he stated, removing his finger from her mouth. He scooped Elizabeth off the couch and settled her in the crook of his arm. "To the laptop!"
Delighted giggles filled the flat for the next half-hour as they sat in front of the open laptop, screen long gone black, playing peek-a-boo.
22:41
Mere minutes ago, Mary and John had found themselves clambering up the side of a building with her in the lead and John just a second behind. The three men, armed with handguns themselves, were right at their heels. One of them, untrained and unintelligent – a deadly combination – clumsily tripped over an innocuous jar of peas; while falling forwards, he panicked, pressed the trigger on his gun, and found himself with a hole in his stomach before he reached the ground.
And once he reached the ground, he had a broken nose to accompany it. Not that he could feel it, of course.
John paused his climb and winced in sympathy as he heard the gun go off; a shriek of pain pierced the cool evening air. Mary, having reached the top of the building, leaned over to look with a stony expression. When John reached her side, she gave him a small smile. "Thought that only happened in films."
He shrugged and said simply, "Stupidity kills. Especially when armed with firearms." Then, adjusting the slightly-less heavy nappy bag and zipping it up again, he added, "And I'd rather that bullet hit him than us."
"Good point."
Barely a second later, they heard a faint exclamation; their pursuers had discovered the ladder.
Mary sighed. "Damn it. No chance of that happening again, is there? Here come his mates."
The two other men had abandoned their fallen partner without a backward glance, leaving him to bleed out on the pavement below. With surprising speed, they conquered the ladder to find themselves face-to-face with a completely unassuming couple: a polite-looking man, dressed in suit and tie, his hands hidden behind him in parade rest, a pink nappy bag slung over his shoulder; and a petite woman, steely-eyed, dress muddy and torn, hands relaxed at her sides.
Casually swinging his gun around on his finger, the taller of the two men stepped forward. Neither the wife nor the husband flinched at the movement, although the blond man seemed to roll his eyes a little. This annoyed the gunman, so he pointed his gun at the harmless nappy-carrying husband.
The woman narrowed her eyes. Ah, he had hit a nerve. Time to begin.
"We've been looking for you for a long time," the man said, and as if on cue, his partner brought his gun to aim at the wife. "You've caused a lot of problems for us... Mary Morstan. That's what you go by now, isn't it?"
"Mary Watson, actually," she corrected, not seeming at all bothered by the weapon pointed at her head.
"Do we look like we care?" the other gunman growled. "You should be worried about getting your head blown apart in front of your date, here. Maybe your dress would look less ugly if a corpse wore it."
The husband cleared his throat, looking irritated. "If we could stop with the rubbish insults and get on with it. We're already a bit ticked off about having missed dinner reservations. Now, who exactly are you?"
"I'm sure she can answer that," the tall gunman said, gesturing at Mary, who clenched her jaw and shifted a little on her feet – the first sign that her composure had been shaken. Seconds later, the familiar mask she loathed to wear returned quickly into place. She looked cold, unaffected, impassive. "After all, she's the one who killed our father."
John blinked in surprise. "Oh, is that so?"
Without giving a chance for either gunman to speak again, Mary gave John a resigned smile and started to talk, drawing herself up. Her past had caught up with her yet again. She didn't let herself despair; for now, she had to be strong.
"You're the Henley boys, yeah?" Mary asked steadily; the two men nodded. "Really shows the bond between you three that you left the youngest to die alone."
They bristled. "He would have been proud to die while avenging our father."
"He tripped over a jar of peas," she said, tilting her head in a mocking manner. "How honourable."
"Mary," John murmured. He noticed the shorter one's grip tightening on his gun.
"As a matter of fact," Mary continued, tapping her chin with an index finger, "why don't we get to know each other a bit better? I'll start. I'm Mary Watson. And around... nine years ago now, was it? I wasn't Mary Watson."
She took a deep breath, lines of stress appearing at her eyes. Her next words came out as quickly and methodically as if she were making a report. "A woman hired me to kill your father because he had raped and killed her 15-year-old daughter. She was the only one who knew, and nobody believed her because your father was a respected copper in your neighbourhood. She was told to contact me – the free-lance, CIA-trained assassin who would do anything for a couple hundred pounds. A bargain." She smiled bitterly. "The client showed me substantial evidence, evidence that Robert Henley, 36, the single father of three young boys, had tried so hard to cover up. So I shot the bastard through the head while he was napping in his patrol car."
After a pause, she muttered, "In fact, that kill may have been the only kill I don't regret to this day."
The air seemed to thicken with tension as Mary recounted her story. John was observing her, expression unreadable. She, in turn, averted her eyes from his, and stared instead at the Henley sons.
"Well," the taller one said, his hand shaking in fury, "I'm Liam Henley, the oldest son of the man you shot dead. And I don't believe you. My father would never do such a thing."
"Never," the other agreed, "ever. I'm Simon. I was eight when you shot my dad. Eight. He was a good man." Simon was shaking his head vehemently as he spoke, gun bobbing up and down at the movement. "We trained so hard, you know. For this moment. To kill you. We trained every day. And now we get to kill your husband too."
At that thought, a smirk slowly bloomed on Liam's face. "I've an idea. You killed my dad. Now I'll enjoy your face as I blow up your husband's –"
Clunk! A pink bag connected with Liam's head and he crumpled to the ground, utterly unprepared for jars of baby food to establish contact with his skull. John had ducked and lunged for Liam's arm the moment he threw the nappy bag, skillfully plucking the gun from his grasp; Mary acted on instinct, swinging her leg up in a roundhouse kick and sending Simon's gun off flying as soon as John made his first move.
When she looked up a second later, Simon was throwing hard punches at John's torso; but John Watson had faced way too many hardened criminals to be phased by a 17-year-old – even one that had been training for more than half his life. He brought his hand, in which he had been holding Liam's gun, down on Simon's temple. The teen went limp, falling onto the surface of the roof just a few metres away from his unconscious brother.
"Sorry, kid," the former soldier grunted as he pocketed the gun and stood up. The confrontation and attack had taken a mere four minutes.
Mary was crouching beside Liam, checking his pulse. John watched silently as she reached into the nappy bag and pulled out a folded blanket, placing it under his feet for elevation. Once she was done, he walked over and handed her a pair of handcuffs. "I nicked them from Sherlock," he said by way of explanation at her raised eyebrow. She clipped them on Liam's wrists with a frown, looking as if a thousand thoughts were running through her head at once.
John reasoned that they probably were. He snapped on a pair on Simon, then sent a brief text to Mycroft.
"You know," he quipped as he returned to Mary's side, "one really shouldn't tell the victims what they're planning to do before they do it." He pursed his lips and added as an afterthought, "It's one way to get a nappy bag to your skull before you finish your sentence."
"Yeah," Mary said quietly. "Who has time to listen to an evil tirade? Just go for the kill. That's what I learned."
John's face fell. "Mary..."
She sighed, rubbing her hand across her face. Then, with a grim smile, she gestured to the least dirty spot on the ground beside the rooftop wall. "So, shall we go sit and wait for Mycroft? I know you've already sent a text." Without waiting for an answer, Mary took John's hand, and together, they made their way over to sit.
20:09
Mary paused, one hand on the car handle. "Shite."
John quirked an eyebrow in her direction.
"We forgot the nappy bag."
"... Shite."
20:25
"Er, Mary?"
"Yeah?"
"Those men over there look a little off to you?"
"... Shite."
"I think those are guns."
"I think you're right, yeah."
"Run!"
22:53
"Well," Mary said, "that was an unexpected way to end the evening." Her dress, a lovely dark-blue cocktail she had bought second hand at her favourite shop, was now showing the wear and tear of their previous two hours. John, who had collapsed beside her, fruitlessly tried to rub some grime off its hem as they leaned shoulder to shoulder, backs against the edge of the rooftop. She caught his hand and pressed it to her mouth, all of the sudden doubling over in muffled laughter.
John snorted at her unexpected mirth, settling his head back against the brick fence. "Now there's a tactic I've never used before," he joked, gesturing at the nappy bag. "Guess being a parent has its advantages." Mary burst out in loud laughter, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. John wiped them away.
After they had both finished giggling about – well, they weren't too sure – they remained sitting, surrounded by the darkness and the chill and the smell of dust.
Mary spoke up, voice soft. "I've done things I'm not proud of."
"I know," John replied easily. "So have I."
She shook her head, a nervous fingernail tapping at the handgun back on her thigh. "No, It's... I'm different from you. You fought for Queen and Country. You heal people; you never killed – no, let me say it – you never killed for money. You never felt satisfaction – God, I hate it that I felt good for killing those people."
"They deserved it," John said, eyes gazing out into the darkness. "Well, at least that man did. That Henley bloke."
Mary spun around to face him. "But how can you say that? Does anyone deserve to die with a bullet in their brain or a blade to their throat?" She sat back again with a deep breath and felt John's hand squeeze hers.
"You know what I told Sherlock after I shot that cabbie dead, the night we became friends? He thought that I'd be affected by having 'just killed a man'." John smiled tightly. "I said, 'He wasn't a very nice man.' And you know what? I wasn't remorseful. Maybe a better man would have been, you know. But I wasn't."
"But John," Mary said in a quiet voice. "You were trying to save a friend. I didn't have any of those intentions. I just killed and got paid – that was it. Hit after hit. And I orphaned those poor boys. They had a good life with their dad – an oblivious one is still good, isn't it? – and I took it away. I took their childhood away. They spent it training to kill me... How could I do that to them?"
He turned to look into her eyes. "I know you regret it, Mary. I won't lie and say I approve of what you used to do. I won't pretend to know what your intentions were and why you started doing what you did, because that's not my business. But what I know is this: You want to leave it all behind you. You're remorseful – that makes you a hell of a better person than I am, most of the time. And I know who you are now, and that's the woman I love. The mother of my child." He winked. "The best baker I know."
She giggled, leaning into his shoulder.
"I just wish this would stop happening. I wish my past would stay in the past," she whispered. "I know you don't want to hear about it John, and I hate that you're always getting tangled up in my messes."
"We'll get through it together, Mary. And especially with our little one now, we have to keep fighting – for the future, you know what I mean?"
"Have you ever not been fighting, Captain Watson?"
"There's always another battle."
A beat of silence.
John rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. "So much for a nice evening out."
"Maybe another night," Mary yawned. "I'll have to get another dress. And on the bright side, we didn't need to use our guns after all."
John hummed, thinking. "We can go out for fish and chips before we pick up Liz. Sherlock loves it when they're left to their own devices, no matter how much he pretends not to be." He made a face. "I reckon our baby daughter's first word'll be 'Sherly' or 'murder' or 'shut-up-Anderson-I'm-trying-to-think'."
"That last one there's not a word, love."
"Cut me some slack, Mary. We've missed out on dinner reservations in a posh French restaurant, crouched in several dark alleys, scaled a building, and got held at gunpoint all within the last two hours."
She nudged him. "You know you enjoy it."
John gave a bark of laughter. "What are the chances of our Elizabeth turning out relatively ordinary?"
Mary snuggled into his side and said, "Between you and me and Sherlock and Umbrella-Man and Mrs Hudson and Billy and the entirety of New Scotland Yard? None whatsoever."
A gentle buzz interrupted their musings. John reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone, the glow illuminating his face. "He says his men will take care of it and that he has a car waiting for us below. God, he can be a righteous bastard but he's sure useful for keeping the coppers out of it."
She slapped his arm in half-hearted disapproval.
23:42
John and Mary trudged their way up the stairs to 221b, exhausted. From behind the closed door, they heard the faint sound of a violin and a low-voice humming quietly along.
Opening the door to the living room, they saw quite a comforting sight: Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, an unread book in one hand and another on the side of the crib, rocking it gently back and forth. Elizabeth was sprawled out on her back in the crib with a thumb in her mouth, nestled under a warm blanket. From the CD player came the detective's original violin compositions, gentle enough to not wake the sleeping baby, vibrant enough to fill the entire space. To John's great surprise, it appeared that Sherlock had gone shopping upon discovering the absence of the nappy bag. Several packs of nappies and jars of expensive, gourmet baby food rested on the table; evidence of taste-experimenting with the fussy baby was shown by the numerous spoons and bowls that littered the kitchen sink.
The moment the Watsons stepped fully into the room, the song switched to a familiar waltz. (Later, John would have the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had somehow timed it to match their arrival.)
John grinned tiredly at Sherlock and placed a take-out bag of fish and chips on the coffee table. "From your favourite place," he whispered. Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement of the gesture. Mary leaned over the crib, brushing Elizabeth's hair from her face with a soft touch of her hand. She gave Sherlock a smile, mouthing a 'thank you'.
"Get some rest," Sherlock murmured to the weary parents, eyes flicking from John's hand kneading his left shoulder to Mary's slightly blood-shot eyes. "I'll watch over her."
John rubbed a hand through his hair. "Thanks, Sherlock," he said in a low voice. Nothing more needed to be said out loud.
Thanks for taking care of our daughter. Thanks for not deducing out loud, though I know you know what happened. Thanks for being here, because God, after an evening like that, I needed to see that you were all right.
John walked over to the crib, pressed a kiss to his daughter's forehead, and grabbed Mary's hand, twirling her once in time with the music. Mary giggled and intertwined her arm with John's.
"Good night, Sherlock," she said, leaning into John's side. They climbed the second set of stairs where a bed, already made, was waiting for them. Extra clothes were in the closet for both John and Mary, for it wasn't the first time they had spent the night in 221b. Two cups of warm tea – one without sugar, one with two sugars and a splash of milk – rested on the bedside table.
When their door closed behind them, a dark figure got up from the couch downstairs and went over to the table. Leaning over, he pushed a button on the machine, humming along to the final notes of the waltz. He then returned to the couch to fire off a rapid text to his brother, his other hand rocking the crib in a well-practised motion.
Through the night, as the parents slept and the guardian kept watch, the waltz played in the background, looping continuously, unending.
The song of John, Mary, and Sherlock.
The End