Catharsis
The Lying Detective gave us one of the series most powerful scenes as Sherlock comforted John on the loss of Mary. This fills in the gap between then and when the boys went off to celebrate Sherlock's birthday.
John's flow of tears was beginning to slow. Except for a stuffy nose, he felt lighter somehow. He mentally took a step back from his flood of sorrow to check in with his environment.
The surface his face was resting on? Slightly damp, but otherwise crisp. Smell was of cotton and something else…cigarette smoke, perhaps? No, it was sharper than that…dry cleaning fluid, then.
Suddenly the weight of arms around him became palpable. Awkwardness bubbled up in him like a fizzy drink and he moved back involuntarily.
Sherlock dropped his hands, his expression morphing from concern into something far more stilted. The men had hugged only once before, at John's wedding. Even then, it had been more of a unreciprocated grab on John's part, during which Sherlock stood stiffly, as if pinned in place. This time it had been Sherlock who initiated contact in what was one of his most physical expressions of friendship of the men's acquaintance.
"Well, er, yeah, thanks," muttered John.
"Don't mention it," Sherlock said. His tone suggested that the sentiment was more heartfelt than the saying usually merited.
They stepped apart, eyes carefully focused on points just past each other's shoulders.
"Better?" asked Sherlock.
"Yeah," John's eyes raised to meet his. "Yeah, it is. I mean, it isn't and won't be okay ever, really, but that…helped. It did. Thanks, um, mate." He reached a hand out to pat Sherlock's arm, but pulled it away at the last second. Both men cleared their throats and retreated another step.
"Sit?" asked Sherlock, his vocabulary apparently having become monosyllabic in the wake of his emotional effort.
John considered for a second, then nodded. "Yeah," he answered, crossing to "his" chair next to the fireplace at 221B. Sherlock started for his opposing seat, then stopped. He turned instead for the kitchen, pulling down a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a cabinet over the stove.
He showed them to John somewhat shyly.
"Seems like the occasion calls for something a bit stronger than tea," he ventured.
"Your birthday, or…?" John waved a hand to where he'd broken down a few minutes before. The storm had been preceded by a one-sided imaginary but audible conversation with his dead wife's vision during which John confessed his flirtation with another woman before Mary's death.
"Both," said Sherlock with a smile. Once both men were settled in their seats with drinks in hand, the atmosphere of awkwardness in the room subsided. An air of companionability took its place as they sipped.
"Mycroft?" asked John with a gesture to the whiskey bottle. "Never known you to spend money on alcohol when you can get him to give it to you."
"Just so," answered Sherlock. "He does insist on observing the formalities at my birthday and the holidays. I suspect Anthea does the buying, possibly without Mycroft's knowledge. But no matter. So long as his wallet gets cracked open twice a year on my behalf, I'm satisfied."
"So you exchange gifts then?" John asked, with a note of incredulity.
"Oh, no. I never give him a thing." Sherlock's smile widened. "Except heartburn. The gift that keeps on giving."
John grinned back and took another sip of his whiskey. For a moment, Mary's smiling face seemed to appear behind Sherlock, but it faded quickly. Looking at the space where his mind's eye had placed her, John's tone shifted.
"When did you first know?" he asked.
In response, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't necessary for him to ask what John meant, they were both aware that he'd understood the question. But John clarified anyway.
"That Mary wasn't what she appeared to be. That she'd been a paid assassin, an intelligence operative, whatever the hell she was."
"That she wasn't being entirely truthful about herself? When we first met. That she'd been a killer? Not until…" Sherlock trailed off.
"Until she tried to kill you," John filled in, referring to a moment nearly a year before when Mary had shot Sherlock in an effort to keep him from revealing her attempted assassination of a newspaper magnate to John.
"Yes, then," Sherlock agreed. John sighed.
"I wish you'd said something sooner. About her being untruthful, I mean."
"Do you?" Sherlock asked.
"Maybe not, I don't know," John shook his head.
"No," Sherlock leaned forward for emphasis. "You loved her, John. What difference would it have made? You were happy, why would I take that away from you?"
"We were, weren't we?" John said quietly. "It wasn't perfect, but we were happy in the main."
"Yes," said Sherlock simply. They returned to their drinks for a moment, listening to the sounds of music from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's radio was tuned as usual to a classic rock station, a fact which never failed to amuse John. He'd come across her once, dancing across the floor to the sounds of Queen, singing into a duster. It wasn't a sight he'd soon forget.
"Mary really liked you, you know. Hell, for a time I thought you two were better suited to one another than she and I were. Even after you interrupted my proposal, when any woman would have had the right to be pissed, it was the first thing she said to me when we were alone. That she liked you."
"A rare woman," Sherlock snarked. "I liked her too. Certainly a much better choice on your part than the blog-chasers."
"Blog-chasers? What does that mean?"
"Sherry, Janice, the one with the big hair, they all liked the fame of being with you. The notorious Dr. Watson who might put them in his blog someday."
"Why didn't you tell me? Not saying anything about Mary, I can see, but letting me think a string of women liked me when they really just wanted me to write about them?" John was exasperated.
"No need. They'd all burn out on their own, and did. But I knew, and that's why they didn't like me."
"They didn't like you because you're an arse."
"That too," Sherlock laughed. He winced, putting a hand to his side. John watched with a frown.
"Your ribs?" he asked. A short time before, Sherlock had been in the hospital due in part to injuries inflicted by John in a fight. Suppressed grief and anger on John's part over Sherlock's role in Mary's death had erupted into violence, leaving bruised ribs and barely healed scars across Sherlock's face.
"If I ever do that again," began John.
"You mean when you do that again," Sherlock said. "I'm known to be annoying and, by my count, this is the third time you've punched me since we met. Can't imagine we'll go too long without you giving into the temptation again."
John caught the question buried beneath Sherlock's light tone.
"Yeah, well, we'll have plenty of time for that," he said. Sherlock relaxed perceptibly.
Although John had said that he no longer blamed Sherlock for provoking the woman who had shot Mary, their relationship had been strained to the breaking point by the outcome. John had been distant to the point of absence in the time since their confrontation. Sherlock was hoping for confirmation that they were ok, despite being incapable of raising such an emotionally potent issue directly.
"But promise me this," John said. "When I do go off on you again, and it will happen, fight back, will you?" He looked over at Sherlock's bruised and battered face. "I'll feel a lot better about you looking like that if you land a few punches yourself."
Believing himself at least partly responsible for Mary's demise, Sherlock hadn't done anything to defend himself against John's attack. He nodded, agreeing to take a swing or two of his own in the future.
"Be careful what you wish for," Sherlock warned. "I have a mean right hook. Might mess up that face of yours."
"You wish," John countered. Smiling, the men each finished their drinks to the ending strains of "We Are the Champions" from Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Shall we go meet Molly?" asked John as he rose from his chair.
"Yes," affirmed Sherlock. As he stood up, he paused. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?" asked John.
"For forgiving me," Sherlock said.
John looked at him for a long moment. "You know how you said that Mary saving your life gave it a currency you don't know how to spend?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. "Spend it," demanded John. "Don't waste a moment and find yourself someone to love while you're at it." He held up a hand to forestall Sherlock's objections. "If it has to be The Woman, so be it. I don't even care if it's human, so long as you have love in your life. This monastic lifestyle of yours is nothing but sheer stubbornness—stubbornness and fear."
"I'm not afraid," Sherlock demurred.
"Yes, you are. And it stops now. That's how you can honor Mary's sacrifice. Do that, and we're even. Okay?"
Sherlock stared at the floor, then nodded.
"Right, then," said John.
"So Molly's going to meet us at this "cake place"?" asked Sherlock.
"Well, it's your birthday. Cake is obligatory," answered John.
"Oh, well. Guess a sugar high is some sort of substitute," muttered Sherlock.
"Behave," growled John.
"Right then. It's not my place to say…but, it was just texting." Sherlock said in reference to John's flirtation with his mystery woman before Mary's death.
John just looked away.
"People text," insisted Sherlock. John sighed. "Even I text. Her, I mean. The Woman. Bad idea, try not to, but you know, sometimes…". He pulled in a breath. "It's not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human."
"Even you?" asked John.
"No," said Sherlock. "Even you."
"Cake?" asked John after pausing to take Sherlock's observation in.
"Cake," affirmed Sherlock.
"Oh, um…" Sherlock stopped and crossed the room to his desk, pulling open a drawer.
"What's wrong?" asked John.
Sherlock turned, holding his deerstalker hat in his hand.
"Seriously?" John laughed.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat." Sherlock kicked the drawer closed behind him. As the two men left the room, he called back over his shoulder, "Isn't that right, Mary?"
John looked behind himself at the empty room, and smiled.
Many thanks to Ariane Devere for the transcript of the last scene.