A/N: Hellooooo my lovelies. I think I'm going to stop putting the spoiler warning, if you're dumb enough to not know there's spoilers in here, I can't be bothered. Here we have the scene where Mary tells Sherlock not to tell John. I actually meant for it to be the scene where Sherlock wakes up and talks with John for the first time, but then upon rewatching it, I decided that this was Sherlock's first time being conscious. I guess the next one will be when John talks with him. I dunno.
It starts from John's POV and about halfway through switches to Mary's, it's set pretty much right after the scene in the episode where John meets Mary in the hospital. Mary's section has a lot of character study. I've never written for her character before, so I really hope it's IC. I don't have a mental image of her personality yet, this is a test run. Please give me lots of feedback, I need every iota I can get. So leave me review, please. And enjoy!
Dr. and Mrs. John Watson walked quickly down the hallway, the instructions of the receptionist echoing in John's head: "Down that hall, take a right, Room 221." They had both laughed, what were the chances? John was willing to bet that Mycroft had something to do with it. Mid-morning light streamed in through the windows; John hadn't even noticed the night passing. The rays of sunlight were a good omen, he thought. Night had passed, now it was clear sailing.
"Here it is," Mary said, pointing at the door with '221' on an adjacent plaque.
John opened the door and pushed it open, stepping inside.
There he was.
Sherlock was absolutely still, lying on a hospital bed with an IV in his arm and a nasal cannula in his nostrils. His top half was exposed, with a blanket covering him waist down. There was a perfectly white bandage over his bullet wound, proudly boasting of stopped bleeding. He was still too pale, and he looked so tiny and vulnerable, exposed and young. Gently, his chest rose and fell, setting a slow and even rhythm that testified to the danger having passed.
John felt further relief coursing through him at the sight; Sherlock was really going to be okay. Mary was suddenly right next to him, and entwined her fingers in his. He squeezed her hand in thanks and walked the both of them over to a chair, where he was tempted to stay until Sherlock woke up. The curtains and blinds were closed, letting in only a warm yellow glow that kept the room in relative darkness.
"I'm going to kill him," John said suddenly, making Mary laugh.
"Well that's hardly fair," she said, her voice low with humour.
"He shot my best friend. Whoever he is, wherever he is, I'll find him." John said solemnly. Mary's face froze for a second before dissolving into a relaxed smile.
"Oh, I thought you meant Sherlock." said the nurse, a wry grin working it's way onto her face. Now it was the doctor's turn to laugh.
"Yeah, him too. The stupid git is supposed to be a genius or something." he said, wrapping his arm around his wife's shoulder.
"Have you eaten?" Mary asked, placing her other hand on John's arm, worry flashing in her eyes. John shook his head. The dissolved tension allowed him to feel his own body's needs again, instead of Sherlock's.
He was exhausted. He took a deep breath, and seemed to suck more weariness into his lungs.
"We can go home. He won't be awake for a few hours, and he'll be too weak and drugged to miss us," Mary urged.
John stayed silent, weighing his options. If he stayed, it would be more a maybe minute long conversation with Sherlock, who would be completely out of sorts and probably too weak to talk anyway. Besides, John was so tired he might just fall asleep in his chair and sleep through whatever window to consciousness Sherlock might find, in addition to getting a crick in his neck and a general feeling of misery. Mary was right, as always. He nodded, coming to a decision.
"Okay. Let's go," said John, and rose to his feet with a slight grunt. Mary stayed right next to him, her hands remaining on his hand and arm, supporting him. John paused at the door, taking a good long look at his best friend, a bit of sadness beginning to weigh on him. He didn't want to leave Sherlock to wake to an empty room, but staying here wasn't really an option. His wife tugged light on his arm.
"He'll be fine," she said comfortingly. John nodded assuringly to the both of them before walking out, and gently closed the door behind him. They were almost to the parking lot when Mary suddenly stopped, and John turned with a questioning expression on her face.
"I've got to use the ladies' room," she said with a sheepish smile. John smiled back and kissed her, during which time she passed him the keys.
"Go ahead, I'll be waiting in the car," John said with a tired look, glancing at the parking lot.
"Thanks. It's right over there," she said, pointing him toward their little four-door car. He nodded and took off in that direction, prudently looking both ways for cars as he crossed the street. Mary couldn't resist a little chuckle, he was so hunky, the way he leaned forward slightly as he glanced right and then left, and swung his arms as he walked. He was everything she had ever wanted, and then some.
That was why she had to go back inside.
Mary turned and walked straight back in, making her way up to Sherlock's room. He was still as motionless as a statue, but since they had gone a bit more colour had returned to his face.
"Sherlock." she said loudly. Obediently, the detective began to stir, meaning his eyelids fluttered slightly and his fingertips twitched.
Slowly, lazily, his eyes opened, looking blankly at her. It didn't really look like anybody was home for a while, but after a while his eyes focused on her, and there was a gleam of recognition.
"You don't tell him." Mary stated, as an order, standing stock-still. Sherlock's eyes glazed over a bit, and she feared he'd lose consciousness again, and her opportunity would be missed.
"Sherlock..." she said in a sing-song voice, and she could see him frowning, trying to comprehend.
"You don't tell John." she repeated, trying to beat the message into that brilliant head through the cloud of morphine. He didn't move, too weak to do anything if he wanted to. She moved closer, leaning over him.
"Look at me," she said, and he made eye contact. "Now tell me you're not gonna tell him," she said one last time, her tone being the kind you'd use on a naughty child.
She could she a flash of understanding in the bright eyes, before they closed and he fell under the blanket of drugs again. She stepped back, and hoped that Sherlock would do as she said. It seemed to her that he had understood. Mission accomplished.
He'd always had a soft spot for her, not to mention a lot of respect. She was sure the only other person who had warmed to him so quickly was John. Mary had liked him from the start, before she had even met him, just listening to the few comments John would drop now and then. When she'd pulled her then-fiancee off of him in the restaurant, she couldn't help but notice how calm he was, and she could also see a bit of sadness in those big puppy eyes that John had missed in his anger. When Sherlock told them about how he had been acting under threat, she began to sympathize with him immediately. Her entire life was constantly under threat from Magnussen. It had been for a very long while, and she knew what it was like to have no choice, other than between two evils.
That was what happened when she shot him, after all. What choice did she have?
So from the first day she had liked him, and loved to see him and John enjoy each other's company. They just clicked, into a unique bond that was deep and tender, hidden in glances, gestures and words that only she and a few others could see. Her and Sherlock got on incredibly well too, and she loved him like a brother, because that's what he was to her; she could see his protective glances and affectionate smiles shining out of that sociopath facade.
It was incredible, really, since she had sort of stolen his best friend. Not like he and John didn't spend loads of time together, but they just didn't solidify into the single unit that she knew they were before. Now she had to do this; to protect herself from death and heartbreak, yes, but her main concern was John. He'd lived through the loss of a soul mate before, and it had almost killed him; the unmasking of the lie was just as catastrophic. To put him through both crises at the same time was unthinkable.
"And I really am sorry," she added sadly.
Sherlock deserved none of what he had gone through, what he was going through, and was he was going to go through. But she knew one thing united them, and that was the miracle that was John Hamish Watson. Together they would protect him. Even though Mary sacrificed a friendship with a sweet and charming man, she couldn't let herself regret it. Never look back.
That's exactly what she did, and walked straight out of the hospital to find John waiting in the car for her on the kerb.
"That took a while," he said a bit drily, and released the break, carefully maneuvering out of the parking lot.
"Sorry. Had to take care of business," she said, drawing a small smile from her husband.
It was the truth, after all.