"Why . . . why would he kill his own brother but let the wife live?" Sherlock paced furiously about the room, while John sat in his chair typing up their latest case for his blog.
"Maybe the wife really wasn't there?" John offered, glancing up from his laptop.
"No, impossible, of course she was there – didn't you see her fingernails? But a smart man like Daren King, if he wanted to get away with a murder with no witnesses then he would. But –" He stopped abruptly, staring ahead at something John couldn't see. "Oh."
"What?"
"Oh." Sherlock grinned madly, oblivious of John's presence. He raced towards the mirror where he had attached several photographs of the crime scene, the supposed killer, and the victim. "She was in on it. Obvious."
"In on it . . . Sherlock! It was her husband!" John protested.
But Sherlock was on a roll now, walking the length of the room with renewed vigor. "Why else would she claim to be somewhere else at the time? She obviously assisted the murder in some aspect. Perhaps it was even her idea in the first place." He jumped up in the air, looking very much like a little boy on Christmas day. "She's less stupid than I originally thought."
John shook his head in disapproval. "You enjoy this far too much." But there was an underlying tone of affection.
Sherlock smirked, pulling out his phone. His brain was working feverishly on the puzzle and his blood was pumping. "What's not to enjoy?" He was about to text the DI Dimmok when, abruptly, fatigue grabbed him. The blood rushed from his head sickeningly and his body suddenly felt as though it weighed a million pounds. He felt himself tip forward.
"John." He managed to croak, before crashing to the floor.
"Christ, Sherlock!" John was immediately by his side. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock blinked blurrily up at him, feeling ill. "I –" He started, and then stopped abruptly as the room spun.
Steely faced, John went into doctor mode as realization hit him. "When was the last time you ate?" He demanded as he helped Sherlock into a sitting position.
Sherlock gave an incoherent grunt as he attempted to stand.
"Oh, no you don't. Sit, or you'll fall again and crack your head open." John pulled him back down gently but firmly. "Now, when was the last time you ate?"
"I ate just yesterday . . . Wednesday. You made me eat a piece toast. I was sick for nearly an hour. Now if you would just let me . . . ." He tried to stand again but John held him down.
"Wednesday! Sherlock, that was four day ago!" John proclaimed thunderously. "Have you slept at all?"
"I took a nap that same day." He said indignantly, not seeing the point. He was feeling better and he had a case to complete.
"A nap." John muttered and then louder. "You are an idiot." He pulled out his phone.
"Who are you texting?"
John shot him a pointed glance. "Deduce it yourself."
Sherlock grimaced. "You're going to tell Mary on me."
John sent the text and stood up, Sherlock followed in suit but swayed on his feet, another wave of sickness hitting him. John grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the couch.
"You're not moving from that spot 'till you've got a decent meal in you and had at least an hour of sleep."
"But the case John-"
"I don't give a shit about the case. Text Dimmok the theory if you want, but you are going to stay here." John said sternly.
"It's not a theory." Sherlock grumbled but sent Dimmok the text all the same.
John made his way into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "I'm making tea."
"I don't want any." Sherlock responded petulantly.
He responded darkly. "You don't have a choice."
Sherlock grumbled a swear and refused to look up as Mary Watson came into the flat carrying a tray of food. After getting married, John and Mary had moved into 221c. Neither had enough money to buy a real house and Mrs. Hudson had been generous with the rent. She even put in a good word for them to her nephew (who now owned 221 Baker Street) so that even after she had passed away, John and Mary still had a cheap place to stay. It was convenient for John who was able to maintain a good relationship with his wife and keep his part time job as Sherlock Holmes blogger. John hardly spent any time in his own flat anyhow except to sleep (and other related activities), and usually could be found in 221b.
"I've heard you've been neglecting yourself again, Sherlock." Mary said placing the tray down on the coffee table and sitting next to him.
"Or so John says." Sherlock sulked. "I've gone weeks without food or rest before, what's so different about it now?"
Mary faced him and waited until he did the same before speaking. "Sherlock, it's never a good thing for a person to go that long without nutrition and restoration but you could get away with it before. Not many people can but of course not many people are Sherlock Holmes." She gave him an indulgent smile and glanced quickly to the kitchen where John was tending to the kettle, making sure he couldn't hear them. "But here's the thing, Sherlock, you're sixty. Neither you nor John want to admit it but you're both getting older. You can't keep on like this-"
"On like what?" Sherlock snapped angrily, but Mary remained calm keeping a small sad smile on her face.
"Chasing armed criminals, neglecting your body's needs, throwing yourself into immediate danger." She continued quietly. "We all have our limit. It's miraculous John and you are still at it."
Sherlock glared. "What are you implying?"
"I'm saying what I've been saying for twenty years: take better care of yourself."
He shook his head. "No, it's more than that."
Mary sighed and placed a hand on Sherlock's arm while he stared sulkily at the cooling food in front of him. "We all have our limit. Sherlock, John and I spoke about it. When you're ready, we're both willing to retire with-"
"Retire?" Sherlock's head snapped up to meet Mary's eyes. "Retire?" He said louder and stood up sharply. He instantly regretted it; his vision went black for a moment and he was very close to dry heaving. Mary stood up and grabbed his shoulders securely, he shook her off.
"Sherlock, please-"
John came into the room, hearing the noise. "Sherlock, I told you sit-"
Sherlock glared icily. "Retire? Honestly John."
John shot Mary a look. "You told him?"
"I'm trying to." She stared helplessly at John.
"Is this what you two do in your free time? Talk about my mortality? How dull." With that Sherlock stomped to his room and slammed the door shut behind him.
He paced the room furiously but soon felt ill again and sat down on the edge of his bed; heard his knees pop as he bent. Retirement. What a thought! Never had he even considered – or if he had he'd no doubt deleted the thought.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror across the room. Attached to it were old photographs used in previous cases. He stared between the pictures and looked at himself, really looked at himself; something he hadn't done in years.
My hair used to be completely black, he thought feeling as close to nostalgic as Sherlock Holmes could, now look at it: there's as much gray as black. And my face, Jesus, look at my face. All those lines.
He touched the lines across his forehead, tracing them with one finger. Frown lines. No surprise there.
Then he traced the ones around his mouth. Smile lines. Those are from John, he thought staring at himself in defeat, all because of John.
John sighed. "He'll come to his senses eventually."
Mary shook her head. "He already is. If he really thought he was fine he would have left the flat, he went to his room. If we leave he might come out and nibble on some food."
"He's right, you know." John commented as they left for their own flat.
"What's that?"
"You'd think we'd have better things to talk about than Sherlock Holmes' retirement."
A/N: A word on my Mary Morstan.
So here's the thing: I wanted to as close as possible to canon for this fic. Which meant (forgive me) no Johnlock, and yes JohnXMary. I also didn't want to do the ambigous "JohnAndMaryWereMarriedButThenMaryDiedAndJohnWasSadForAWhile" routine that a lot of people do.
What I did was take Arthur Conan Doyle's Mary Morstan (kind, brave, and intelligent) and took away any oppression that she might have endured as a woman in that age. Then, ta-da! This is what I got and to be honest I've sort of fallen in love with the character.
But of course this was written pre-season 3. Although I must say my Mary and the real Mary share some actually quite shocking resemblance of each other there are some . . . glaring differences (*cough* bad-ass assassin *cough*). I hope you enjoy this portrayal anyway (perhaps you strict canon lovers could just squint a little?) (edited on 2/2)
