An Unexpected Party

John walked slowly up the stairs at 221B. It had been a long day at the office, and he could feel the familiar ache creeping into his leg. As he neared the flat, he saw the door was ajar—but any apprehension this may have caused was assuaged by the violin heard within. John sighed; Sherlock would doubtless be a pain in the ass if he emerged tonight. Rubbing his neck, he opened the door and closed it quietly behind him. The flat seemed relatively intact; another burn mark on the floor, but it didn't seem to smell.

What he could smell, however, was the tea sitting on the counter…Mrs. Hudson was far too good to them. John walked into the kitchen, if such it could be called, and picked up a teacup and the stack of mail. Bills, shitty advertisements—one letter caught his eye. He ripped it open, only to find a homoerotic drawing of himself and Sherlock. Disgusted, John picked up a match by the microscope and burned the thing. There was a brief pause in the fiddling behind the door, as—John presumed—Sherlock smelled the match, but it resumed after the git ascertained there were no cigarettes.

It had been a week since the last case, and the genius was locked away playing Irene's song. Of course, if you asked he'd tell you it was a concerto or some such rubbish; but John knew better. He looked down at the charred remains of the drawing and sighed again. He'd like to say this was the first, but as their fame (notoriety?) had grown, so had this sort of fan material. He glanced back at Sherlock's door, then walked over to his laptop in the main room. Things simply weren't that way between them. John loved Sherlock–loved him more than he'd loved any woman save his sister, for that matter. Sherlock was his best friend, his brother, almost a son on his off days. Not his brother, perhaps, Sherlock didn't seem to do too well with those. But that was irrelevant—John would give the man his life willingly and without a second thought.

He listened a moment further. No, it was not like that. Sherlock was Irene's, much as he might insist it was the other way around. Well, theoretically Irene was dead; but John remained unconvinced. A woman like that was not so easily killed, and any woman backed by Sherlock was nigh on impossible to end.

But as he burned his tongue on the tea, the inevitable question arose. What of John Watson? He'd begun to feel it in his bones, the need for a companion. It's not that he couldn't get women; for a man his age he was something of a serial dater. He just…how could he really connect with a woman? Who could truly understand what he did and why he did it? And accept his friendship with Sherlock for what it was, to boot?

A thump out in the hallway startled him out of his reverie. John narrowly avoided scalding himself as he launched himself out of the chair and towards the door. As he reached for the handle, however, he stopped. More than likely the noise had been nothing—the neighbors, perhaps, or Mrs. Hudson moving furniture again. He had obviously spent too much time around Sherlock of late. Calmly now, he opened the door to find a woman and two men: one of whom was out cold on the floor and the other who was advancing upon the woman, who appeared to be fending him off with an umbrella. After a moment's evaluation, John reached into his own umbrella stand, pulled out a pistol, and cracked the remaining man across the back of the neck with it. There was another thump as the man hit the floor.

In the ensuing pause John looked over at the woman. She was youngish, prettyish, and regarding his pistol with a faintly bemused expression.

"That does seem to be a better use for a stand," she said ruefully, looking at her now-battered umbrella. "I'm Mary. Mary Morston," she added, "and very grateful for your assistance."

"The pleasure is mine," John managed to get out. After a second, he continued, "And I suppose you know who I am?"

"No, I just thought I'd show up on your doorstep for the kicks," she replied primly.

John gave a rather exaggerated bow. "Then allow me to take you into our humble abode," he said, with a sweeping gesture.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Is this really such an ordinary occurrence?" She seemed slightly nonplussed at his composure, but continued right on. "Actually, I'd rather not go in. I'd prefer that Mr. Holmes not divine my whereabouts during the past twenty-four hours, not to mention my life's story or everything there is to know about me."

At that, John couldn't help but smile. He closed the door behind him. "If you really want our help, you're going to have to meet him sooner or later. But in the meantime, as a doctor, I strongly recommend a drink for that shock you've had…"

The woman—Mary—smiled disarmingly at him. Setting down the umbrella, she accepted his arm in her own. "Lead the way, Doctor."

Explanations

As they reached the landing, Mary looked back at the unconscious figures near the door.

"So you just leave them there?" She gave John a sidelong look.

"Well," he replied, "I give Sherlock another three minutes before he gives in and comes to look. He's more than capable of taking care of a couple of unconscious men."

"In what way?" she asked, busying herself with an innocent face.

"In all the ways he doesn't take care of me."

"Now, is that jealousy I hear there?"

"Not at all," said John as he opened the door. "I am perfectly content to leave them to him. Although, I must say it's usually my job—healing hands and all."

"Good to know," she said, smiling politely at a passerby and then less so at him.

John cleared his throat. "So where would you like to go?"

She looked mildly surprised. "But I thought—;"and her countenance changed. "Ah. You don't want Sherlock knowing?"

She was quick. "Well, I thought you didn't."

Mary shrugged. "Fair enough. Let's head down to the tube—if I remember correctly, there's a café in this station…?"

"Ah, a romantic."

"Well," she said defensively, "it's loud and busy. Nobody will notice us, much less bother to overhear us."

He turned to smile at her. "Lead the way."

They didn't talk much as they entered the noisy tube station, except to have a very polite dispute as to who was paying (in the end, they settled Dutch), and John had a good chance to observe her. She was rather more pretty upon a closer inspection; one of those whose beauty is largely in the expressions and movements. She was blonde and petite, a good deal shorter than even he, with a sort of abstract calm to her quick movements. Well, perhaps that was just the umbrella speaking.

Her most striking feature, however, was her eyes. They were regular in size and shape and grey-blue, with lashes that hinted at blonde where the mascara couldn't reach the roots. There was nothing at all remarkable about them, actually; but yet there was something in her expression that drew him in. She caught him staring with a slight smile and he hurried to point out a table in the corner.

They sat and he took a minute to brush the crumbs off the table, before looking up at her expectantly.

"I believe you owe me a story."

She matched his smile and adjusted her napkins. "Fair enough." She looked down briefly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, then plunged in.

"My mother died of lung cancer when I was quite young."

Mary waved away the beginning of John's condolences and continued, "I never knew her. I was raised by my father. He was great, he really was—but I went to a boarding school and rarely got to see him. He was military, you see." She gave John a piercing look. "Anyhow, about ten years ago I got a call from him. He was in the country rather unexpectedly and wanted me to meet him in London. It was December third and I was taking my semester finals at university, so I told him I'd be late. He said it was fine, that he had a few errands to run and if he wasn't there not to wait up. I asked where he was going, but he laughed and told me he'd fill me in tomorrow."

She looked down at the hands in her lap. "That was the last time I talked to him. I arrived at the hotel late and went to bed- but he wasn't there in the morning. I waited most of the day for him, left him messages, but late that afternoon I called the police. They searched for weeks. Nothing," she finished shakily.

"So you want us to help find your father?" asked John, gently.

She shook her head. "That's not all." She took a deep breath, and John saw something tighten at the back of her neck as she continued.
"About six years ago- on May fourth, actually—I received a strange package in the mail. It was small and light, and when I opened it it contained only a single pearl. There was nothing else, no word, no return address, no hint of any kind."

"At least not for us mortals," John murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Do you have the pearl with you?"

"No," she shook her head. "I had it appraised and…it appears to be rather valuable. I keep them in a safety deposit box."

"…them?"

"Still not done," she said, smiling. "On that date each year hence…"

"Hence?"

She stuck her knife beneath his nose. "Can it, Doctor Watson. I have a story, and you've money on the line." John sat back and put his hands in his lap, and she continued. "On that date each year, I've received another box. Still no information or word otherwise; just the pearls. Today, however, a letter arrived." She pulled an envelope from her purse. "Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre tomorrow night at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful bring a friend or two. You are a wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend."

"Tomorrow night," said John, leaning forward. He thought for a minute, then looked her in the eye. "I do believe, Ms. Morstan, it's time to bring in the expert."

"As long as there are no attack dogs this time," she smiled.

"Wait," he said, all good humour fading. "You never did tell that part of the story."
She shrugged. "There wasn't much to tell. I came to your flat to ask about the pearls, and those creeps were standing by your door. Seemed to think I knew something about some Incan ruin; I presumed it was one of Sherlock's projects."

John couldn't speak for a moment. It most certainly was one of Sherlock's projects—he hadn't seen the detective that excited about skulls in a long time. It had seemed like a relatively harmless endeavor at the time, but now…

He stood up abruptly. "I have to go. Come by the flat tomorrow morning with everything, the mastermind will want to see for himself."

She rose to follow him. "Is something wrong? Are you in danger?"

He forced a smile and held the door for her. "If I've got any say in it, Sherlock's about to be."

A Domestic

"Sherlock," said Watson as he flung the door open and closed, "what the hell was that?"

Sherlock ruffled his newspaper and without looking up, replied, "One might ask the same of you."

He did look up when John's index finger found itself an inch or so from his face.

"No," growled John. "What the hell?" You think it's okay to be dragging in assassins from all over the world to our flat? This is Baker Street, for God's sake. There are normal people with normal lives who live here. Did it ever cross your precious big brain that one of them might get hurt?"

John stared him down for another breath or two, then spun around, spitting out curses as he headed for his room

"John."

John slowed down as he reached his doorway. "Sherlock."

"Look at me."

John sighed, and then turned around to level him a glare. "What."

Holmes inspected him for a moment, then leaned back, fingers pointed and countenance thoughtful.

"You hardly know her, John. There's no need for this."
"And what would you know about it?" he snapped, gesticulating with his arm. "You think you know love just because you got to play games with Irene? Let— "

"Love?" asked Sherlock quietly.

"Well, no," said John, fumbling verbally, "you know what I mean, I just—"

"I'm afraid I don't."

They stared at each other from across the room—Sherlock was standing now—for several moments, but John broke it off first.

"I don't have to explain this to you," he said, and walked into his room, not quite slamming the door.

Sherlock stood there a second or two longer, then sat down slowly. He sat lost in thought—or at least as lost as he could ever be—for a while, and picked up his violin after several hours. John listened briefly, but it was no longer Irene's song that he played.