This story takes place immediately following my story "John and Mary Go Out to Dinner". There is also a reference "One to Spare" in the flashback.
000
She had never been kidnapped before and was unsure of how she was to react to the experience. Home at last after John and Sherlock's daring rescue of her, Mary tried to eat her dinner with the nonchalance that she believed would be the proper response to her ordeal. In truth, in spite of the threat of the gunman to shoot her, the blows she's endured to her face, and the rope burns on her arms and legs, the only part of her arduous day that lingered in her mind was the terror of knowing John had been in danger because of her. That, and the grievous knowledge that he had been forced to kill a man to save her.
When he and Sherlock had kicked in the door of the restaurant pantry and found her, tied to a chair with a gun to her temple, John had been completely cool-headed and controlled and his hands as steady as a rock. After it was all over, he still had remained calm, comforting her, checking her out and treating her injuries. But now they were home; the adrenaline that had kept them going all that long day was wearing off, leaving them limp with exhaustion and allowing their bodies to react at last to the horror of what had nearly happened to them. Sherlock dealt with the situation by shutting down, sitting in complete quiet without moving a muscle. John, on the other hand, was busying himself with tasks, constantly moving around the flat. His limp had returned, and she noticed with grief that the tremor in his left hand was growing increasingly evident. Mary noticed Sherlock watching John surreptitiously through slitted eyes.
"I'm making more tea," John announced, taking his jittery self into the kitchen to perform yet another unnecessary task. When he was out of sight, Mary went to Sherlock's chair and crouched down beside him.
"This is what you were warning me of, that day you told me about his condition," she murmured, and Sherlock nodded. She sighed. "This is my fault. He shot that man because of me."
"No." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at her. "You didn't ask to be kidnapped. Lay the blame at the kidnapper's door. As for John, he knows he did the right thing, and he will reconcile himself to it eventually as he always does. Just be prepared—tonight will be a danger night."
Mary took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. "Yes, I know. I'm glad you're here, Sweetheart." She knew the detective would spend the night with them, as he always did after a particularly violent case. It was an unspoken agreement between the two men that they stay within shouting distance of each other for a time after a close call. Mary was now naturally included in this arrangement and was grateful for it. It was important to her, as well, to know that both her boys were near and safe at times like this.
Even so, she had never yet experienced John's PTSD symptoms first-hand. Although close calls abounded in their line of work, John had not been in the position of having to use deadly force on a case since he and Mary had begun to see each other. But now, after seven months of marriage, it seemed she was being initiated into this aspect of his life at last.
She went into the kitchen, careful to make her presence known so as not to startle her husband, and put her arms around him. "I'm going to take a shower, Captain. I smell like a restaurant and that monster's after-shave. I wonder if I'll ever feel clean again!" she joked gently.
He nodded, looking at her with worried eyes. "It will help you relax and ease the ache in your muscles," he agreed. "You must feel stiff as a post after being tied in one position most of the day. Take your time, love, and call me if you need me."
She kissed him and went into the bedroom to carefully peel off her clothes and step into the warm spray. The water hurt her raw wrists and ankles and made her cut lip sting, but it felt good on her bruises and aching muscles and joints. She sighed and gave herself up to the feeling for a moment, and to the remarkable knowledge of being so cherished and cared for. John and Sherlock, with Greg and Mycroft, had torn the city apart that day looking for her; and they had both been willing to give up their lives to save hers. Never in her young life had she been loved so well, and she did not take it lightly.
But now her mind turned back to nine months earlier, when Sherlock had first told her of John's affliction.
000
It was the morning after John had proposed to her. They had spent all that night dancing and talking about the future, and much of that talk had centred on Sherlock. They were both determined to assure the detective that John would continue to work with him as usual and that his life would be disrupted as little as possible. And so, when John had been called into work that morning, it seemed natural for Mary to go to Sherlock's flat and tell him of their decisions.
She had cooked breakfast and they had eaten together and talked quite pleasantly all morning. And then, as she was preparing to leave, Sherlock had said, "Mary, may I be frank?"
"I hope you'll always be frank with me, Sherlock," Mary had replied earnestly.
He had escorted her to the sofa and sat beside her, looking as uncertain as she'd ever seen him. After all, he'd really only known her a few months, and while she knew he liked her well enough and they got on quite well, they were hardly confidants as yet.
"You know, I suppose, that John suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder," he began slowly.
She nodded. "He's told me as much, but I've rarely seen any symptoms of it. He told me it presents with phantom pain to his old shrapnel wounds in his leg and a tremor in his left hand, a result of nerve damage from being shot in the shoulder."
Sherlock's mouth hung open in surprise. "Wait, shrapnel wounds?" he demanded impatiently. "He never told me he'd taken shrapnel in his leg. He admitted his limp was psychosomatic."
"Well, it was, rather," Mary smiled at his confusion. "It's well healed up and there's no physical reason for pain or for a limp anymore."
"But," Sherlock seemed stuck on this point. "But, he never said. . . . Are you sure?"
Her dimples deepened in amusement. "Quite sure. Seen the scars myself. Upper right thigh."
"Hmm." He frowned, hating to be wrong even in the smallest point. "There's always something. Ah, well, that's hardly the point, though, it is?" He turned his remarkable gaze upon her seriously and studied her for a moment. She endured it, knowing that he needed to process things in his own way.
"You and John are determined, then, to continue this relationship?" he said at last.
"Until death do us part," Mary smiled gently. She so wanted to reassure him that all would be well.
"All right, then, assuming that is true, I feel it only right and proper that you should be fully informed about John's condition. Unlike most persons with PTSD, John's isn't triggered by danger or stress. What brings on the symptoms are feelings of uselessness or purposelessness. That is why you have never seen it manifested. He feels quite useful and purposeful working with me."
Mary agreed enthusiastically. "Yes, he's told me as much. We're both quite thankful for you and The Work," she assured him.
"But there's more," he went on. "When events occur in which his only recourse is to resort to deadly force, it triggers nightmares. No, night terrors would be a more appropriate term. I first experienced this the night he moved in, the night he shot the cabbie to save my life. He woke me up with his shouting, and I was unable to rouse him out of that state for some time."
"That's all right, I can endure a bit of shouting and tossing about," Mary began, but Sherlock was not finished and held up an imperious hand.
"Mary, I've told you that John is one of the most dangerous men you've ever met," he reminded her soberly. "He is every bit as dangerous when he's asleep as he is when he is awake." The detective looked her over carefully and nodded to himself. "You are a small person. He could easily snap your neck without ever being aware of what he was doing."
She gaped at him as she realized what he was saying. "You know this from experience, don't you? He hurt you when you tried to wake him from his dream. Oh, how dreadful! He must have felt wretched when he woke up and realized what he'd done to you!"
If Sherlock noticed that all of Mary's sympathies seemed to be with John and not with John's victim, he didn't seem to resent it. In fact, if anything, he seemed to agree with her sentiments. "I never told him. He had me in a choke hold, but I managed to get out of it without too much damage to myself or to him. By the time he was himself again, I was recovered and able to hide the bruises. It helps to always wear a scarf, you know."
Mary was stunned. "You never told him? Sherlock, he throttles people in his sleep. Isn't that something he should be made aware of?"
"Why?" Sherlock looked honestly confounded. "It would only serve to make him feel needless guilt and to lose sleep, which he apparently needs. Knowing about it won't help him to stop." He thought a moment, then continued. "He is aware of this condition enough to entrust his weapon to me on danger nights. He just doesn't realize the full extent of his nocturnal behaviour."
"But, Sherlock, what if he'd harmed someone else? He would have felt horrible about it!" Mary, exasperated, insisted. "How could you never tell him?"
"You misunderstand," he replied calmly. "The night terrors only occur after John has been forced to cause someone's death to save someone else's life. Obviously, this is not a frequent state of affairs. I mean really, Mary, how many people do you think John has killed in the past few years? On the extremely rare occasions it has been necessary to take precautions, I've always found it easy to control events to ascertain that I be present and awake."
She sighed, "You're right, of course. You're a good friend, Sherlock. Thank you for looking after him." She smiled at him affectionately. "Is there anything else I should know about John before I make my vows?"
"Actually, speaking of sleep, he seems to require an inordinate amount: five or six hours a night, sometimes more. And he eats constantly, two or three, or even four times a day. It's like living with an infant sometimes," Sherlock complained.
When Mary was able to stop laughing, she gasped out, "I'm sure I can cope with that! Oh, Sherlock, you're a wonder! You put up with all of John's little foibles with such grace. You know, most people would object to their flatmate trying to kill them, but you just brush it off as if it were nothing!"
"He's not boring," Sherlock explained, smirking. "And apparently we are two of kind, then, as I can see that you have no intention of breaking your engagement to him, even though I've just explained to you that you're taking your life in your hands every time you sleep with him."
Mary smirked right back. "You're quite right. He isn't boring. I can't bear boring people," she grinned.
000
And so now she stepped out of the shower and gingerly dried herself off, trying to avoid aggravating the bruises and abraded areas, and pulled on loose pyjamas and her dressing gown. She was so tired she could hardly move. It had been such a very long day.
"I'm having a last cuppa and heading to bed," she announced to her boys as she re-entered the sitting room. They had been sitting in companionable silence, sipping their own tea, and she filled her cup and joined them, staring into the fire. It was amazing to think that only that morning she had been taken at gunpoint and threatened with death. Now she felt entirely at peace, the cup warming her hands, her husband alive and at her side, their best friend stretched out on the couch in restful repose. Her life was perfect; completely worth the occasional kidnapping.
Eventually, John took himself off to get ready for bed, and Mary roused herself to gather bedding for Sherlock to kip on the couch. He disliked their guestroom, insisting the couch was more to his liking, and so she brought him some blankets and a pillow and proceeded to make him comfortable.
"Remember what I told you, Mary," he intoned seriously. "And if anything happens, you can call me; or if you cannot breath, bang on the wall and I'll be right there."
"I will," she promised, just as John re-entered the room, his service weapon in hand. Sherlock held out an expectant palm, and John relinquished the gun with a willingness that would have astonished Mary under any other circumstances.
"Good-night, Sweetheart." She kissed Sherlock's cheek and swept off to bed at last, ready to face whatever might come.