This is just a short one-shot birthday fic for my good friend Starrysummernights - happy birthday me lovely!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, wish I did!
Beep… Beep… Beep…
John closed his eyes. He hated that sound, despite the fact that its very presence in the room was proof of life.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Mary heard the sound as she talked quietly on her mobile to her distraught husband, hearing in his voice his belief of failure.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
In the depths of his mind palace the noise was the soundtrack to Sherlock's struggle as he examined the problem – let his friend stay ignorant of his wife's perfidy, or break his heart.
xXx
Eyes drooping with weariness, mind battling to stay awake, John feared if he slept now he would wake to find Sherlock gone and his life would be shattered once more.
He had only had him back for six months, six short, manic, fantastic months, and now because John had allowed himself to be distracted Sherlock had died, only to be dragged back from the edge of the precipice to this precarious existence.
But now past his limit of twenty four hours without sleep, John slowly let his head droop onto his hand, balancing insecurely, propped up on his elbow, while his other hand reached out to rest on his friend's chest, registering the movement of his chest as oxygen was pushed into his lungs, and stayed there as if to keep him from crossing the line and stepping into the Underworld.
xXx
Unbeknown to John, or indeed to the hospital staff, Mary Elizabeth Watson stood looking through the window set in the door to Sherlock's room, and what she saw terrified her. Sherlock clung to life, aided and abetted by her husband, and her life wouldn't be worth living if – no when – he recovered.
She had known they were close; after all, hadn't John visited the 'grave' on a regular basis? And she'd seen for herself the shock on his face when Sherlock revealed himself to be still alive – and his hurt at being the only one not to know about the deception – the real surprise was that not only had John forgiven him (over a ticking bomb that he truly believed would kill them both!) but that he'd followed once more where Sherlock led, and Mary knew then it was only a matter of time…..
xXx
It was a puzzle, but as much as Sherlock loved a good puzzle this was not how he liked to play.
A new area of his mind palace was set aside to store what little he knew about Mary Watson nee Morstan. That wasn't her real name he was sure, because anyone who could break into Magnusson's offices and knock out his secretary without raising the alarm had to be well trained in covert operations, and anyone with that amount of skill – no matter which side they fought on –would have been known to Mycroft, and therefore to him.
As if watching a television he replayed over and over the moment she revealed herself to him. She could have killed him and yet she didn't; she could have finished the job she had started out to do and yet she hadn't.
So, no ordinary hard hearted killer then, for she clearly loved her husband enough not to put him through both the loss of his friend (again) and having to prove himself innocent of the murder of Magnusson.
That of course would have been the sensible option – complete the job in hand and with both threats neutralised she could have supported John through his grief and they could have started afresh.
It didn't make sense.
xXx
Beep… Beep… Beep…
John watched as the nurse smiled – Sherlock was responding favourably. They had removed the endotracheal tube and were easing off the medication that was keeping him unconscious.
The monitor no longer sounded like a warning – a threat to take the genius away from his friend once more – now it was a promise, something warm to hold to as he read the clear signs of improvement.
So great was his relief that he had even taken five minutes out of his vigil, a welcome break to get a decent cup of tea from a nearby Costa and to telephone his wife.
He was surprised yet touched to hear her cry, she sounded genuinely pleased that Sherlock would recover – he knew he had truly found the 'right one' in his Mary, the only one who had ever accepted and liked his eccentric friend.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Walking through the hospital corridors Mary felt like her heart was pounding in time to the monitor's beat. John wanted her here, and she would rather be anywhere else on earth, but to say so would be to raise her husband's suspicions.
It would be too much to believe that Sherlock would forget what had happened, at best she hoped he wouldn't say anything to John before she had a chance to talk to him – beg him if necessary – persuade him that telling her husband would only hurt them all.
It seemed above all that she had to pray John was kidding when he said Sherlock didn't understand feelings or sentiment.
Approaching the stairs to the private ICU suite where Sherlock had been transferred from the operating theatre Mary was sure that everyone around her could hear it now, that pounding beat that declared her culpability, and see the sheen of sweat on her forehead that had nothing to do with her rushing through the overheated building and everything to do with guilt and fear.
Now she glanced up apprehension viciously smothered by a mask of hopeful pleasure as she plastered a smile on her face. John would never know the truth from her, and with that vow she placed her foot on the bottom stair, closing the gap between herself and her fate.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Then the monitor stuttered…..b-beep… beepbeepbeep… beep… beep…
Sherlock drew in a deep breath, held, let it out. Again in, hold, out.
At his bedside John rose and looked down into his friend's face. He'd seen these signs before and he smiled.
Long dark lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, then eyelids peeled back to reveal silver grey eyes.
Sherlock drew another deep breath, peered up at his only true friend and spoke a single word.
"Mary."