Chapter Three: I had to regain my self respect
John awoke to soft brown eyes peering at him. He nuzzled closer to Mary's soft body. "Morning, Ratch."
"Mm-hmm, morning." Mary kissed him on the forehead.
Seeing this as a sign of encouragement, John turned his face up to hers. "We could still...you know...if you want?"
"Oh, Thumper," Mary sighed, "I think you need to get your head straight first." And then she grinned wickedly. "The head that's up here," as she plonked him on the forehead she just kissed. "And then the little head will follow."
"Hey!" John admonished her. "It's anything but little! And, I still don't think I'm gay. There is just this weird thing about Sherlock, I don't know what it is...well, maybe I do...but I've been ignoring it, to be honest."
"What about him?" Mary extricated herself from John's grasp and started to scrounge around the floor for something to wear. She settled on John's wife-beater undershirt and his boxers.
John shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know really. He's said that women aren't his area, but there was this woman recently, but I think it was more her mind than the physical attraction of her body. And as for blokes, I really wouldn't know."
Mary smirked at him. "Sock puppets?"
"Ha-ha." John threw his pillow at her which she dodged easily. "He certainly doesn't go out on dates, at least not since I've known him. Whenever he does got out anywhere...it's only with...me." He looked sheepishly down at his hands.
Mary 'oh she could have the Devil in her sometimes' Morstan decided to help out. "Do you want me to find out?"
John shot out of the bed. "No Ratched. Just...NO!"
She grinned at him. "Oh come on Thumper. I won't be obvious. And, it's not like your gaydar is working anyway."
John gripped his face in his hands and shook his head from side to side. "Ratched!"
"Besides," she walked over and took his hands away from his face. "You need to take care of that before you're in proper company.
He followed her gaze down his torso, and then a bit further to stare at his morning wood. "Oh dear Lord!"
"I'm pretty sure I heard somewhere that blue balls are painful. So, why don't you sort yourself out while I go make us some breakfast." She criss-crossed her heart and held up her right hand, palm out. "And, I swear I'll be good."
John flomped back down on the bed. What other choice did he have? "Oh...go on." He waved her away exasperatedly.
Ratched moved silently down the steps, pausing to toss articles of hers and John's clothing back up towards his bedroom door*. She rooted around her handbag for her phone, which she found and tucked into the waistband of the borrowed boxers.
She poked her head into the siting room to see Sherlock asleep on the sofa. He was still clothed in his dress shirt and trousers, but he had kicked off his shoes and socks. He had his hands balled into fists and his arms curled tightly to his body.
Ratched spied a throw across the back of one of the chairs, and gingerly began to drape it over Sherlock's sleeping form. The soft clink of her dog tags as she bent over to tuck the blanket around him, woke him instantly.
Sandalwood. John's cheap deodorant. Beer...lots of beer. Something musky. John. A hint of tea. Sherlock breathed in deeply. John. Something else...something not. Not John.
Sherlock's eyes sprang open.
"Morning, Sunshine." Mary smiled sweetly at him.
"Sherlock, not Sunshine. Ratched is it?" He appraised her up and down. Not much to go on. She was only wearing John's underclothes and a bracelet from which three small pearls dangled like charms encased in silver wire. Known facts. Served with John in Afghanistan. Face and hands more freckled than tan. Concerned eyes. Served with John. Doctor. Glance at hands and well toned arms. No...nurse. Dog tags...Lt. M. Morstan. QARANC...definitely nurse. Hair shoulder length, straight...no thought to styling...needs to be tied back readily. Mother hen of the group that included John. John. He frowned. She smells like John. Why should I care why she smells like John?
"Why did you say that you would get 'Thumps' to tell you 'what yours is'..." He made exaggerated air quotes around 'Thumps'. "...Lt. Morstan?"
Mary looked startled until he pointed at her dangling tags. "Sorry, what?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Last evening in the text, you said John would tell you what 'mine' was. What exactly were you referring to?"
"Oh that!" Mary smiled. "Your nickname. I figured he must have given you one, but he said to you're just Sherlock, as Daft Bugger and Stupid Git have already been bestowed upon others."
Sherlock gazed up at her quizzically. "And, Thumper?"
"He got that nickname for more than one reason." Mary's smile grew broader.
Sherlock prodded. "And those reasons are?"
"Well, let's just say if you ever go into cardiac arrest, John Watson will never give up on you. They will have to drag him away by force." Mary blinked away a memory and changed the subject. "Hungry?"
Sherlock tersely answered. "I do not eat while on a case."
Mary looked over his face and the bones at his wrists. "Do you have an eating disorder?"
Sherlock sighed. Definitely a nurse. "No."
"Lactose intolerance? Allergic to gluten?" She continued.
"No and No!" Sherlock was becoming rapidly weary of this.
"Crohns or IBS?"
Sherlock looked away and started to pout. She was a good nurse.
Mary toned down her smile, becoming very professional. "Okay. Some dry toast then, and maybe an egg?"
Sherlock sighed. She really was a mother hen.
Mary turned and started to walk towards the kitchen when she heard Sherlock quietly say 'soft boiled'.
He observed her as she walked away, the gears in his head ratcheting, no pun intended, up to high speed. What does 'M' stand for? Mary...too dull. Matilda...too old. Meghan...too cute. Madison...too American. Merriweather...too preten- . He was interrupted in his thoughts by John entering the room.
After John had 'sorted things out', he gave himself a poor man's shower of reapplied deodorant and a wet flannel run under the tap of the tiny sink in the loo next to his bedroom. He dug out a fresh pair of pants and his pajama bottoms, snagging a threadbare t-shirt before heading down to the second floor with some trepidation.
As he approached the sitting room door, he saw Sherlock all but tucked in on the sofa, his shark-like gaze drawn to Mary moving about in the kitchen. When Sherlock turned that gaze towards him, John froze momentarily. He cleared his throat and stepped into the sitting room. "Don't you look cozy?"
Sherlock flushed and bounded off the sofa, managing to get himself tangled in the blanket and face planted so fast, that John didn't even have time to grab him.
Mary who heard the commotion came running in from the kitchen. "That's IT!" The wicked smile had returned to her face. "Thumper, you've found your Bambi!"
"Mary, leave it be." John admonished her.
Mary, how dull. Sherlock righted and stood himself back up in no time, smoothed out his clothes while affecting a whole 'I meant to do that' air, walked towards the kitchen. "I heard you mention something about toast?"
"I've started on the pancakes and bacon for us. Your egg should be ready in a moment, Bamb-Sunsh-Sherlock." John and Sherlock glared at her before she spit out his proper name.
"I'll get the tea started." John edged cautiously into the kitchen.
Sherlock sat quietly at the table and observed them. Disjointed at first, but slowly settling into a tandem rhythm that spoke of time and closeness. His face held a slight frown that was pulled even further down when he heard the pompous tread on the stair outside the flat.
Mary found an egg cup and the plates. She was setting down Sherlock's breakfast when she took in his frown, and followed his gaze to the kitchen door. A man dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit with an umbrella crooked over one arm stood silently taking them all in with a glance. "You must be Mycroft." Mary stated plainly.
Mycroft quirked up an eyebrow at Mary, showing no hint of surprise. "Oh, must I be?"
"I'm afraid you must." Mary unleashed her dazzling 'men drop dead in her presence' megawatt smile in his direction. "John said you were a posh git-er-gentleman."
Sherlock snorted as he cracked the top of his egg with a spoon. Perhaps not so dull after all.
"He didn't say you were all John Steed though." Mary eyed him from head to toe. God, she needed to get off. "Would you care for some breakfast?"
"No!" Barked Sherlock.
"No, thank you, Miss...?" Mycroft countered politely.
"Morstan...call me Mary." She plated up pancakes and bacon for John and herself. "Are you sure you don't care for any?"
"Quite" Mycroft eyed Sherlock. "I just popped in to give my younger brother some information."
"Can't it wait Mycroft?" Sherlock spat as he dipped the corner of his toast in the gooey center of the egg yolk. Cut in triangles, edges cut off. He could actually manage to like this one. Maybe.
"It's nothing really." Mycroft peered down his nose at Sherlock. Oh yes it was. "Just a minor irritation..." A rather large one and we both know it. "...that is beginning to fester." We let him go.
Sherlock flicked his gaze to John, who was resolutely ignoring the bickering brothers and tucking in to his breakfast like a man who hadn't eaten for weeks, and back up to his brother's steady one. "I'm sure it's none of my concern." Message received, now leave!
Mycroft sighed inwardly. "Yes, well, I will leave you to your breakfast. Dear Brother, Dr. Watson, Miss Morstan."
John and Sherlock grunted out some kind of response, while Mary spoke softly. "Have a good day at work."
"Thank you Miss Morstan." Mycroft smiled wistfully, turned on his heel and left.
He had made it to the front door when he heard clattering on the steps behind him. Mary stood with a broken carnation in her hand which she placed in the buttonhole of his suit. "John Steed needs his flower." With a quick grin she darted back up the stairs.
Mycroft followed her steps until she disappeared around the landing. Mary Morstan...must have Anthea gather the pertinent information. He left 221b with a real smile.
Mary sat back down at the table and reached across for the butter while John and Sherlock stared at her like she had grown a second head.
Once John managed to swallow his bite of pancake, he asked Mary. "What was that all about?"
Mary shrugged. "He looked sad, is all. Damn!" She held up her wrist where she had dragged her bracelet through the syrup on her plate.
John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You've got another one!"
"What? Oh yeah." She held up one of the pearls between her thumb and index finger. "Got it shortly after you went home."
"Still no idea who's sending them?" John asked before he bit into his piece of bacon.
"No, not really. Although I'm starting to think it may be one of the creeper twins." Mary toyed with her bracelet. "And speaking if the twins, Tripper is coming 'round in a bit. Dee never showed at the crash pad, and Dum is about out of his mind since he's not answering his mobile."
Sherlock gave John a look. How many are there, and must they all come to our home? "Tripper and the twins?" he mock politely asked.
John looked sheepishly at Sherlock. "Tripper is Bill Murray, excellent field medic. Without him, yours truly would not be sitting at this table."
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"And Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, that's the Sholto twins, Bart and Taddy." John continued.
"John!" Sherlock practically shouted across the table while Mary's mobile started to ring.
"Speak of the devil, it's Tripper." Mary brought the phone to her ear.
"No, that's not possible." John's voice strained in reply to Sherlock.
"How long had it been since you last saw him?" Sherlock asked carefully.
John ran his hand through his short hair pulling at the ends. "At least two years...but Sherlock!"
Sherlock tread carefully. "He was face down. It was raining. Did you ever get a good look at him?"
John's voice was choking now. "No, I took off after you and when I got back they had already loaded the body...oh God!"
Mary was shaking her head vehemently from the news on the phone plus the snippets of conversation flowing around her. "No, no NO!" she screamed. "He just got home. HE. WAS. HOME. He was safe!"
John grabbed Mary and held her while she cried, looking desperately at Sherlock. "What happened? What the hell happened?"
A/N: *About the bedroom upstairs. I know they haven't shown anything on the series yet, but come on, it's a four-story building. I'll give you the top floor, saying it's attic space. Mrs. Hudson's all cramped downstairs on the first floor, while Sherlock's bedroom and the main part of the flat are on the second floor. By rights, John's bedroom on the third floor should be huge, or at least have another one or two bedrooms up there. This stuff bothers me, I don't know why. I'm still trying to figure out where the door in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen leads out to.