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Their Best Man
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Part 2: Mary, Revealed
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At one point during that long, seemingly everlasting night, John Watson became aware that his left palm was bleeding. He had balled up his fist into a tight knot once too often and hadn't even realized when he had broken the skin, too distracted by the mercilessly reeling thoughts in his mind, the loud rhythm of his own heart in his ears.
It became slightly erratic when he thought of his wife, thrown off kilter by the unwelcome revelations about her past and what she had done to his best friend. Whose heart had been beating erratically as well when they arrived here - here being the private hospital Sherlock had escaped from earlier-, though in his case, the problem, if caused by the same person as John's, was much more serious. At least he had not, as predicted, flatlined in the ambulance, but it had been a close call.
And now John was left to wait again while Sherlock was in surgery, both of them put in the same situation they had been in only days earlier, and once more, it had all been caused by Mary. A fresh wave of red, hot anger surged through John as he saw her face in front of his inner eye, replayed the scenes in Leinster Gardens and 221B in his head.
How could he ever trust her again? How was he going to look forward to the child she was carrying, their child? An assassin's child, and his?
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It didn't matter now. With all the resolve he could muster, he forced his thoughts to return to Sherlock. Once John had been able to see through the haze of cold fury and disappointment he had felt when he had made Mary explain, he had for the first time that night truly taken in the sight of his friend who was being tended to by the paramedics, had consciously registered how wretched he looked, the sounds of pain he couldn't subdue any longer.
It had torn at his heart violently, much more so in fact than his wife's betrayal. Because Sherlock had deliberately taken the risk to release himself from hospital way too early and aggravate his injuries in order to make John see. He could have just told him who'd shot him, but he knew it'd have destroyed everything. Instead, he therefore staged a show-down, forcing husband and wife to face each other, to try and make John understand why Mary had done it.
He didn't want to understand, John thought stubbornly, digging his nails into his palm once more and then wincing at the pain, he didn't want Sherlock to protect Mary. And yet, the detective had been true to his vow, the vow he had made on a seemingly long-ago day, a happy day.
Could happiness be unmade in retrospect, John wondered, because all he felt when thinking of his wedding right then was a cold lump in his stomach.
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Think of Sherlock, he reminded himself. Sherlock, who had nearly given his life a second time, not counting his rooftop stunt, in order to preserve John's... what? Happiness? Sanity? Life as he knew it? No, John decided grimly, Sherlock didn't think like that. He'd probably had had the baby in mind.
Wrong, a small but distinctive voice in his head protested. He does care about your happiness, you know that.
With agonizingly slow movements, because anything else seemed impossible, John crouched down in one corner of the waiting room, scrunched up his face and wept.
Later, he was allowed to see Sherlock.
He had calmed down after a while, and the tears had had a rather cathartic effect. Yet when he entered Sherlock's room in the ICU, he immediately felt distraught again; it had been dreadful the first time and it was dreadful now. Sherlock's face was ashen, his lips seemed white. He looked... depleted, and John's stomach was churning for a moment.
A few nights ago, he'd at least had the reassuring thought in his mind that Mary was there, which had been strangely comforting. Now he felt shabby for even thinking that.
Human error, he thought bitterly. He looked down at his friend's motionless form and tried to blink the fresh tears away; back in 221B, a few hours earlier, he had been so furious, so mind-numbingly crestfallen, that he had failed to see what Sherlock was actually doing. He had yelled at the detective, for heaven's sake, had even threatened to knock him out, ignoring how his friend had swayed on his feet because he couldn't deal with that on top of everything else.
John still couldn't quite comprehend why Sherlock kept defending Mary after what she'd done, but even before the paramedics had arrived he had left the thin red line between hate and gratitude he had felt ever since Leinster Gardens. All of his resentment of Sherlock, of his knowing, had in fact melted away in the ambulance.
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He hadn't called Mycroft this time; he had been informed that Sherlock was stable for the time being, there was no need to give the older Holmes a scare at this time of night. He had been terrified enough the first time, had looked like a ghost while they were waiting, clutching the handle of his umbrella so hard his knuckles were white.
Now however it was only Sherlock and John. The detective looked exhausted even in his drug-induced sleep, and John felt ashamed about his earlier accusations; he couldn't have wished for a more loyal friend than this lunatic who called himself a high-functioning sociopath. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's more firmly, trying not to think of the fact that Mary hadn't shown any sign of remorse that it had been her doing, her fault that his friend was lying here, having nearly died twice.
John bit his lip; Sherlock had asked him to trust Mary. Clearly, he saw something in her which made him think she was worth it, after all.
He shook his head, briefly closing his eyes before returning his gaze to his unconscious friend who looked alarmingly frail right then: "You were wrong, Sherlock," he murmured, "all that matters right now are you. Not Magnussen, not... her." He didn't permit himself to think of the baby when it already hurt so much not to say Mary's name; her assumed name, chosen for her false identity. A faรงade, just like the two houses in Leinster gardens. A shattered reality.
John shook his head once more: "I'm sorry," he whispered, aware that his voice was trembling, "but I think you'll have to get used to the chair blocking your view of the kitchen again."
At least as long as he couldn't bear the thought of sharing the same bed with Mary. Moving back into 221B might provide a temporary solution; not without Sherlock though. Swallowing around the awfully persistent lump in his throat, John remembered how devastatingly empty the flat had been after Sherlock's alleged death.
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His eyes were brimming again as he blindly groped for Sherlock's hand, needing something to hold on to; if further complications arose and the detective didn't survive this, John'd not only lose his best friend but the one reliable element in his life that he had left.
Shakily, he exhaled, telling himself to buck up and that he was not going to lose Sherlock again.
"You promised," he said a few minutes later, somewhat more steady, "you made a vow that you'd always be there for me." He knew that Sherlock probably couldn't hear him, but he felt better for having said it.
Gently, he reinforced his grip around his friend's hand once more; he was determined to take Sherlock up on his word.
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To Be Continued
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