"I miss you," she whispered to the dear, familiar image on the screen of her laptop. John smiled.
"I miss you, too," he murmured. "I'll be home in two days' time, though. We'll do something special when I get back." Mary was thankful for modern technology which allowed her to communicate with her absent husband. But seeing him on Skype was no substitute for personal contact. If anything, it made the persistent ache of missing him even more poignant.
She sighed. "Let's lock ourselves in the flat for the weekend and not leave 'til Monday."
"Sounds perfect," John agreed.
"Why didn't I just come with you?" she lamented. She had finished telling him of her escape from the reporters that afternoon, and of Sherlock's plan for dealing with them. A stodgy medical conference sounded like heaven compared to what she was facing on the morrow. "If I hadn't gone to Cornwall, I could have avoided this whole mess!"
"And leave Sherlock without a minder?" John protested. "Anyway, you know you had the time of your life, helping him on that murder case. You wouldn't have missed it for the world. You'd be bored to tears sitting through these sessions here."
"Oh, I don't know about that. There's a write-up in the papers of your talk yesterday. It says you had your audience on the edge of their seats with your exciting stories. I'm so proud of you, Captain." Mary caressed the screen of her laptop with her fingertips, frustrated by its cool aloofness.
John looked down with a shy smile. His complete loss at knowing how to respond to praise was endearing. He was the most exceptional human being Mary had ever known, and he had no idea how extraordinary he was.
He changed the subject. "I read the article on your exploits in Cornwall. You did an amazing job down there, love. Keeping Sherlock in line is no picnic, I know, but you handle him like no one else can."
Mary glanced over her shoulder to see Sherlock glowering at them and giggled. "His nibs takes exception to your comments, Captain," she informed him. "Anyway, back to the plan. What do you think?"
"I think a general press conference would be a mistake," John told her, sobering. "You'd get every kind of tabloid reporter there asking the most ridiculous and insidious questions. You'd have to expect inquiries that range from what you take in your coffee to when you plan to have Sherlock's baby."
Mary frowned. "You're right, of course. And I don't even drink coffee anymore. I don't have babies, either, apparently," she added with a lingering hint of bitterness. John smiled comfortingly, now touching the screen in his turn, sharing her feelings of dread at the potential intrusion on this most private part of their lives. Losing their baby earlier that year had been difficult, but they were healing; and the shared experience had solidified their relationship even further, if that were possible. "Do you think they'll find out about that?" she asked softly.
"Be prepared for anything, love," John told her gently. "They'll dig up all they can, and it's no use trying to hide things that are on public record. But instead of inviting all and sundry, just call one of the papers and invite one reporter for an exclusive interview. It will be easier to deal with one person than to try to field questions from dozens."
"I'll call in the morning and get it done over lunch," Mary decided.
"I expect we'll still have to give them a joint interview with the three of us," John went on. "They'll want to see us together at some point. But this should hold them for now, and perhaps put to rest your "mysterious" appellation."
"I'm nervous as hell," she admitted.
He chuckled sympathetically. "I'd tell you to just be yourself, but since the whole idea is for you to appear dull and ordinary, you'll obviously have to be someone else entirely," he told her.
"You say the sweetest things," she smiled.
000
"Well, Dr Watson, let's start with how you met . . . Dr Watson," the reporter began, pushing the record button on the machine in her hand. The brisk, young woman had arrived promptly at one o'clock and made herself at home at once in the chair in front of Mary's desk. The young doctor hoped that the office setting and desk between them would help set a business-like tone that would thwart nonsensical and overly-personal questions. It was a vain hope.
"Why don't you call me Mary, to avoid the confusion of two Doctors Watson?" she suggested, trying to be as affable as possible. She must present herself as boring but friendly and forthcoming. It wouldn't do to antagonize the Press or to seem as if she were hiding anything. "And we met at work. Not this clinic, of course; I changed jobs about a year ago. It was an office romance. How commonplace can you get, really?"
"But isn't it true," the reporter persisted, "that your husband and Sherlock Holmes solved the mystery of your father's disappearance? Something the government had failed to do over ten years ago?"
Damn. The girl had done her homework. "Well, yes, they did a bit," she admitted reluctantly. "But John and I had already known each other for about a year at the time. It isn't as if we met on a case."
"And you've been helping them solve cases ever since," the reporter concluded, looking at her notes.
What else did she have in those notes? It was alarming to think about. "Ah, no, no. I don't work with them. Occasionally I tag along and watch, that's all," Mary tried to keep her tone monotonous and boring. "I have a full-time job of my own. I love being a doctor, and I enjoy working here. I would be quite willing to tell you some stories about my work in the clinic, although I expect you'll find me quite tedious."
The reporter completely ignored this offer. "There's a case someone at NSY told me about in which you not only 'tagged along' to a murder scene, but discovered the cause of death, built a replica of the murder weapon from common household items, and demonstrated how the murder took place by shooting a dart through a second story window," the reporter read from the notes in her lap. She then looked up to see Mary's reaction.
She thought fast. "Well, that was rather a fluke. John and I were on our way out to dinner when he was called in on the case, so I just went with him. It was purely coincidental that I happened to have some experience with the weapon involved. It isn't something that happens frequently at all. Most of my time is spent here in the clinic, or at home waiting for them to finish a case." Mary tried to look as unexciting as possible. She was finding "ordinary" to be a difficult target for her to hit.
"Which brings us to my next question: what is it like, living with Sherlock Holmes? It must be incredibly interesting," the reported transitioned smoothly. Mary mentally rolled her eyes and tried not to lose her smile.
"I wouldn't really know, would I?" she said carefully. "I don't live with him. John and I have our own flat." She hesitated, then added. ". . . in an undisclosed location."
"But you've been seen entering and exiting Mr. Holmes' flat at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Watson," the reporter insisted suggestively. "On numerous occasions."
Well, this was annoying. Here she had carefully taken Alternate Route F (because of the rain) all the way in to work that morning to avoid being seen. Perhaps Alternate Route D with Amendment 2 would have worked? "I visit him, of course," Mary sighed a bit impatiently. "He's a good friend of mine, after all. He visits us, as well. That's what friends do, isn't it?"
The reporter was a bit taken aback by Mary's tone, but didn't let it stop her. "And your involvement in this case in Cornwall? You were Mr. Holmes' travelling companion and assisted him at the crime scenes," the persistent woman went on.
Mary took a deep breath and tried a verbal barrage. "John is out of town at an important medical conference. Sherlock knows that I am as capable of offering medical opinions as my husband and asked me if I would do him the favour of helping him out. As I said, he is a good friend. And that is what friends do, isn't it? Friends help each other, don't they?" She paused for greater impact, then continued. "But speaking of the medical conference, there's a story worthy of newsprint. I feel this medical conference should have a good deal more press than it's been getting," she deflected.
The two women's eyes met and did battle for several breathless seconds, neither wanting to back down. At last, the reporter's eyes returned to her notebook, her lips tight.
"So you deny taking part in your husband's detective work?"
"Unequivocally. I am an ordinary doctor and I work in this clinic," Mary said firmly, "and that's all I am." And there it was. Her first outright lie. It was obvious the reporter was not buying it, but they were now at an impasse. A change of subject was called for.
And so the reporter took a deep breath and plunged on. "There has been a good deal of speculation over the years as to your husband's relationship to Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Watson. So what my readers would really like to know is this: how did you come to realize that John Watson isn't really gay?"
That brought an end to Mary's composure. After a second of surprise, she dropped her head into her hand and couldn't stop laughing for a full minute. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped at last, regaining control. "I realize this is . . . significant to some people. It's just that, my worry when I was first getting to know John was his rakish reputation as a womanizer."
The reporter, who had at first been alarmed by Mary's excessive amusement, now simply looked disappointed. "So Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are just. . . ."
"Friends. I'm sorry if that's not exciting enough for your public," Mary smiled, forgetting to be dull. "But you know, friendship is every bit as important and significant and necessary to life as romance. Good friends are hard to come by in this world, and when you find one, you should cherish him or her and be properly grateful."
000
"I'm afraid you weren't very successful in convincing this reporter that you're dull and ordinary," John said on the phone the next morning. "This article makes you appear quite like your charming self."
"Yes, well," Mary sighed. "I gave it my best shot. I'm just not very good at being boring, I suppose. And all the information she dug up from some source in Scotland Yard worked against me."
"Never mind, love. You can't help being fascinating, can you?" John smiled affectionately.
"It's my curse," Mary agreed, resigned.
To read about how John and Mary lost their baby, read "Making Friends and Forming Alliances", chapter entitled "A Price Too High". To read about how John, Mary, and Sherlock taught Scotland Yard a lesson for rumour-mongering, read the chapter called "Vicious Rumours", also in "Making Friends and Forming Alliances."
