More because the lovely eohippus suggested more? And because this is ridiculously fun to write and I love building Mary's character and if the Mofftiss don't include her/make her more awesome than I can make her I'm going to be really angry with them and not angry at all because I forgive them always?
I also don't own things. I always hate writing that because don't be obvious.
Sherlock decides on his first full day awake that the hospital - under-stimulating, not even worth the time it takes to catalogue the varying degrees of boring, the end-all definition of "dull" - is his own personal hell, and that Moran has as good as killed him by sending him here, since he hadn't been able to get the proper shot from his angle.
Moran is part of the problem. Sherlock isn't supposed to be worrying about the Colonel because Mycroft is dealing with him, and he's worrying about the Colonel because Mycroft is supposed to be dealing with him. All he's really ever trusted Mycroft to do is shamelessly spy on people in ways that may or may not be effective in keeping them safe but will most certainly be effective in producing metric tons of blackmail and they clearly need to reevaluate Moran's intelligence or at least his level of guile. They've told Mrs. Hudson to stay at home in the hope that Moran hadn't noticed her or thought her important, and it would be more suspicious if she suddenly took off for the countryside or some such. There's nothing for Lestrade, but he's probably holed up in the Yard - or he should be, if he's got half as much sense as Sherlock thinks he has. At least he doesn't have to worry about John's safety.
John. He's out cold in as comfortable a chair - well, chairs - as the hospital can provide, catching up on his sleep while Sherlock's awake and not too addled, though that does come at the price of an uncomfortable amount of throbbing that doesn't hesitate to turn into outright pain if he breaths too deeply. He hadn't wanted Sherlock awake at first, doing something as silly as "keeping watch," but thankfully John is a practical man who can recognize the real danger that comes with having a persistent professional sniper trying to kill one or both of them and that if Sherlock wants to call it "keeping watch" instead of "making sure they're not going to have a surprise bullet to the temple," then let him, no matter how little good it will do if Moran is actually in the adjacent building, lining them up in his scopes. It's more understanding than Sherlock deserves.
He starts as the door opens, like he has every time in the past hour and a half that a nurse or a doctor has stopped by to look at his charts or check some levels or ask how he's feeling, which does uncomfortable things to the knot in his chest. He always gets back at them by being deeply offensive, naturally.
This time, it's Mary Morstan. Pale, blonde, five foot three, thirty four years old, raised in Edinburgh, undergraduate degree from the university there, English teacher, working on her doctorate, engaged to Dr. John H. Watson, living with him in central London, prefers coffee to tea one very cuddly cat used to play cello self-done manicures every Sunday night recent wardrobe upgrade a lot of grading long papers and a lot of typing doesn't like alcohol father on board with the marriage but mother doesn't like John summarily does not give a damn here to bring John a blanket and some clothes. Sherlock knows most of this already, but it helps to see it on her hands and in the nuances of her non-descript jeans, blouse and jacket.
She makes a bee-line for John, and Sherlock notices her eyes. They move in a quick, sure pattern that Sherlock recognizes from his experiments with his methods and a mirror: Cataloguing, or as close to it as ordinary people come. Specifically, she notes the window, the lack of a glass pane in the door, and him. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Sherlock appreciates the coldness there.
She puts John's clothes on the floor, removes the blanket from the top of the pile, and tucks him in. She's quick and economical about it, but tender, taking a moment when she's done to brush her fingers against the stubble that's formed on his face. Then she turns to Sherlock.
"I don't mind sharing him with you," she says. She's quiet, so as not to wake John, but there's nothing soft about her tone. "If you're worried about that. And I won't try to talk him out of forgiving you, either. That's his choice to make, not mine. I won't even try to talk him out of picking you first. But I don't forgive you for hurting him."
Sherlock wants to be disgusted by the display and criticize John's choice in women when he wakes up, but there's something so completely sincere and matter-of-fact and not at all inherently threatening that makes him hesitate a little when he says, "Don't be so dramatic."
She shrugs. She doesn't play that up either. That Mary Morstan is a very practical, honest woman goes on the list. "I just thought you should know. It's not a threat, or a promise of revenge or anything silly like that. But I've known him for three years and he's never been happier than he was yesterday on the phone, while you were in surgery and he didn't know if you were going to pull through, and I'll never forgive you for that."
"Understood," he says because he needs to have the last word, even when he knows that he hasn't really had the last word because how does even Sherlock Holmes follow that? He's wrong and he knows he's wrong and no amount of technicalities of the case will ever make him right because he has the words in his mind palace to prove it.
John wakes up because someone is hitting his shoe. He jerks up and his whole body is in a weird way because he's spread out over two plastic chairs, but at least he's warm because someone's draped a blanket over him. He takes a moment with that, because it's one of the nice plush ones that Mary likes to have on the sofa when they cuddle. Someone's come by - no, Mary's come by; who else would know that those are his favorite when they're normally in the closet so he can actually get to the bed before he falls asleep?
The tapping starts again, moving up to his ankle. Sherlock is saying something. "Wake up, John, for God's sake." His voice is wrong; too high pitched and too tense and... Jesus.
John almost falls to the floor trying to get up because humans more graceful than he have been baffled by the conundrum of getting out of a makeshift bed of two plastic chairs without looking like an idiot. Sherlock's white as a sheet and shaking and why the hell hasn't anyone come to make sure there was still morphine in the drip? Thank God there's sterile equipment and bottles of medication sitting on the cart.
"Easy," John says while he loads a needle. "You'll pull your stitches, and then where will we be?"
"John," Sherlock moans, and he's as good as straight complaining of the pain.
"I. Know. Shot. In. Afghanistan. Where I was lucky if I got any morphine before they shipped me home." That wasn't quite true; he'd been drugged into a stupor and kept there when they'd gotten to base, but there was the matter of the hours it took to get there with only the mild drugs in his field kit and that had been hell. John unclips the glucose drip and trades it for the needle.
"Not all of it," Sherlock warns in the same pained voice.
John rolls his eyes. He hasn't even got enough there to knock anyone out properly, and certainly not Sherlock Holmes, who shouldn't even really be awake as it is. But he stops three quarters of the way and reconnects the drip, then pries Sherlock's hand open so he can hold it in both of his.
Gradually, Sherlock loosens up and starts to breath normally again, and John doesn't feel quite so guilty about asking, "Why did your pain medication wear off? There should have been seventeen people in here before it got that bad. Why weren't there?"
A frustrated look comes over his face; frustrated and righteous, but knowing that he's been unreasonable. "Because," he says, "I told as many of them as I could that they are irritating, useless, and redundant when a medical doctor is already a full time occupant of this room, and that they should spread the word. What are you laughing at?"
The words themselves are as arrogant and sharp as ever, but Sherlock's having trouble getting decent lungfuls of air - he will be for weeks - and the result sounds like someone trying to imitate Sherlock's mannerisms and being not quite clever enough and somehow it's hilarious. "Sorry," John gasps as soon as he can manage. "But that's the first properly dickish thing you've said since I've seen you. Christ, it's good to have you back."
Sherlock is trying to look irritated and it makes John laugh all the harder. It takes him a while to calm down, and by that time, Sherlock has prepared a statement. "Mary was here." He gets it in one breath, which is good, because otherwise it might have set John off again and he's not ashamed to admit it.
"Yeah, I know. I noticed," he adds cheekily.
"Oh did you."
"Yep. Brought me a blanket. Lovely warm thing," he says, grabbing it off the chair and holding it up. "You can have it, if you're cold at all, I know hospital blankets are rubbish. Made of tissue paper." Then, because he's curious, "Did you... talk to her at all?"
"A bit. She's lovely, John."
"Lovely" makes him suspicious. It's not a word that Sherlock uses to describe... well, anything. John in fact recalls an in depth conversation - i.e. Sherlock rant - about it's meaning after a few too many episodes of "A Bit of Fry and Laurie." "You don't have to say that if you don't mean it, Sherlock, I don't care. I'm marrying her. I don't need your approval."
"I know that." He sounds offended. "I don't always lie, not to you. I think she'll be good for you. I think she has been already. Am I right?"
She has, really, but it's so strange to hear Sherlock - Sherlock! - talking about it. Maybe things really have changed. Or maybe he's just trying to be a little more sensitive to John and talking about it and it's actually working this time? John's not sure what this means and he's not so sure he likes it. For one, it's awkward as all hell. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, she has. She's my rock. Never minds that sometimes I don't actually need to talk."
"Unlike now, it seems."
"Oh, sod off, that's all I was going to say. I'm glad you seem to think you'll get on, at least. One problem I won't have to deal with again."
"Again?"
"Yeah, didn't you... no, never mind, of course not."
"What?"
John used to cherish moments when Sherlock looked confused. Now, not in pain but no less pale and frail looking, he can't. At all. "Relationship crap," he says with a shrug. "Not your area. Don't worry about it."
"I want to know."
He laughs. That's got to be a joke. "No you don't, Sherlock, I know you. You don't care."
"I'm trying to, John!"
Ah. So that's what this is about. He thinks he needs to care about everything now, the way a normal person would because... because he thinks that's what John needs. Or wants. John feels... betrayed. This isn't how things with Sherlock are supposed to go. He's supposed to be able to come back to the flat after a fight and not be asked questions because there was something much more interesting going on. Or nothing interesting on, and it's still not important. He's supposed to not have to defend his choice of women and their choice of John Watson unless Sherlock's in some sort of mood to deduce the hell out of them and probably get his arse out of a relationship he doesn't want to be in anyway. And with Mary... Mary's supposed to not mind that he goes over when he gets a text at half three in the morning to come and fill in for the skull. And she won't. He knows she won't, because Mary doesn't lie to him or try too hard.
He shakes his head. "Don't try, Sherlock, that's not what I want. Or what I need. Never. Not from you."
John sees Mycroft on his way out. The elder Holmes brother raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything, probably because John's dialing Mary's number and not looking at Mycroft because he doesn't want to hear anything he has to say.
"Ahoy," Mary says, and John grins like a loon. Over two years ago, when they'd just started dating, Mary had been reading about Alexander Gram Bell - Mary has made it her goal to have read about everything at some point, and it was just Alexander's turn - and along with the ever amusing fact that the first telephone call had consisted of, "Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you," the proposition that the telephone be answered with "ahoy" stuck with her. Unless there was a crisis, she never answered with anything else. He answers in kind and gets a strange look from a passing nurse and he couldn't give less of a damn.
"How is he?" she asks.
"A complete prick."
"Oh, good." He laughs. "And how are you?" She has the most casual, most beautiful "how are you?" of anyone in existence.
"I am... just fine." Which means he's really not, but he's got it sorted on his own.
"Good. What shall I plan? Another clothes run tomorrow? With or without Chinese?"
"Ha. Don't worry about it, I'm coming home. Right now, calling a cab." Which he isn't, but he's getting there.
"No, no, no, you've got to stay there another day or I'll have brought you clothes for nothing! Thrifty with my energy, John, I've got to be thrifty with my energy. Don't waste it!"
He laughs and snaps a salute that she can't see. He's glad it's so easy for her to talk him out of it with her joke to hide just how serious she is. Don't be stupid, she says behind it. You need to be there with him. Neither of you are ready yet and you know it.
"Yes'm. Understood. With Chinese, then, please. The best of Bart's cafeteria is godawful."
"I have no doubt. See you at two or so? That way, you can reasonably cover two meals in one go."
"Brilliant. You think of everything. As always."
"Love you too." She hangs up so there's no awkwardness as he wonders if he should say it back. He doesn't need to, that's what the click at the end of the line means. Saying that she's brilliant is good enough for her, just like he'd hoped it would be.
He wanders a bit, and he realizes he doesn't have his cane. Of course. He laughs to himself a bit. Really, he's surprised it took the full two days.
Mycroft can tell Sherlock thought - no, hoped... interesting - that he was John. He is quite pointedly looking away from his older brother. He closes the door but doesn't bother moving away from it. Sherlock will, as usual, be unreceptive and cold and does Mycroft really want so much evidence for his guilt staring him in the face any closer than it already is? No. Caring about Sherlock is not an advantage in this bitter dance of theirs. Caring about Sherlock hurts so much.
"I thought you might be interested to know that we've lost Colonel Moran's trace." He words it to make Sherlock think he hasn't had a trace on him since the shooting, which is all too easy since Sherlock likes to assume Mycroft is that incompetent anyway. That isn't true - he knows that he caught the first plane out of Heathrow that night, which happened to be headed to Washington DC, bought a cheap camera, a hot dog, and a metro smart-trip card that was scanned once at Farragut North, but not at an exit station, and there were no reports of anyone attempting to jump the barriers or ride the red line in an infinite loop. It's certainly not impossible for one man to accomplish all this, but it would certainly mean they have to upgrade Sebastian Moran from rather impressive henchman to graceful rival. The alternative is much easier, much more likely.
"Of course you have." He's weak, trying to be derisive and just coming off as pathetically childish. Which he's being also, without the bullet wound and the drugs.
"He's receiving help."
"Impossible."
"Please. Did you really think that you'd brought down a worldwide network decades old with a bit of crime fighting on the Continent?"
"Decades, Mycroft? Moriarty was barely thirty-five."
Ah. So he really doesn't know. "And somehow, he'd managed to set up a pervasive, global economy of criminals that answered only to him in fifteen years, perhaps less. I know you respect the man, Sherlock, but even for James Moriarty, that is absurd. He monopolized the industry. The criminal lords went to him to advance their own interests, and now they've simply returned to business before, "Dear Jim.""
"You didn't deem it important enough to tell me." He must have suspected. How else would he be so calm, even with everything considered? And how could he have not known, being as intimate with the scourge of the world as he had become? No, this is a trap. Mycroft decides to fall for it to simplify things. Sherlock amasses more evidence for his grudge on a daily basis anyway.
"I needed you out of my hair, baby brother," he says because Sherlock hates that. "And you were perfectly willing to go."
"And so you've waited until I was too weak to fight back to tell me."
"To be sure, this is quite convenient, this recent administration of strong pain medication."
"That's the Mycroft I know and loathe."
Mycroft lets the silence fall, when they've run out of information to share and jabs to make. He can't stop the irrational fears that flood his active mind, that the last time they moved to this stage Moran was waiting and for God's sake, he needs to stop it this instant because Moran's currently somewhere on the east coast of America and he's set up for a text alert the moment he gets back in the country and absolutely nothing is going to happen.
He leaves, because that's easier.