Note: Wow, I have been really flattered by all the feedback and loving all the discussion the story's generation so far. Hopefully it's just the tip of the iceberg as we really start to take the plunge now. It took me longer than expected to get this chapter up because I had a lot of editing work erased by my computer. But in consolation, there' a short chapter on Sherlock's POV going up tomorrow. It didn't really fit to combine it with this one.
When Mary had left John at Santa Maria del Fiore, she'd expected to rush back to the hotel, grab her good camera (which she'd left in her rush to get out and see the sights), and head right back into a relaxing day of sightseeing. She most decidedly had notexpected to walk in on the sight (and sounds) of Sherlock rather fervently shagging some woman on the kitchen table.
At first it hadn't even computed. Oh, she'd got a very clear view of things: a dark-haired woman lying on her back, dress askew, leg hooked up over the arm of a dishevelled Sherlock, his fine shirt drenched in sweat, his tailored trousers down at his thighs as he thrust roughly into the woman. Mary had been so shocked that she was frozen to her spot by the door, unable to move or act as Sherlock and the mystery woman both climaxed rather loudly and collapsed in a heap on the table. An image Mary would very much like to bleach from her mind. In the six months they'd lived together, she'd come to think of Sherlock as something like a brother. Not only did the tableau she'd accidentally witnessed make her skin crawl with how improper it was for her to witness, it didn't fit at all with what she knew of Sherlock. It couldn't be. He didn't do that, did he?
Dear God, how she wished she'd remembered her camera the first time. And judging by the horrified look on Sherlock's face when his eyes connected with Mary's across the room, he was wishing this wasn't happening just as much as she was. Perhaps more, considering hewas the one now lying half-undressed atop a strange woman, his face going white as a sheet as he no doubt realised what all Mary must have witnessed. She didn't think she'd ever seen the detective look so completely still before.
And that woman. Who on earth could she be? Sherlock had been travelling the world on his own for a year and a half prior to their meeting, but based on his seeming lack of interest in all things romantic or sexual, Mary had never entertained the notion that he might have some secret lover stashed away in Italy. And Mary still didn't really feel like that was the case. There was something else about the woman's identity casting an uncomfortable mood over the room, but Mary couldn't quite put her finger on it. Sherlock certainly wasn't forthcoming with an introduction. He remained huddled against the woman, their bodies providing a bit of privacy at least.
The excruciating silence may have only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like hours. Finally, Mary averted her eyes and stammered, "I was just... I left my camera. Oh God, I'm so sorry..."
Mary glanced up cautiously when she heard the mystery woman murmur something to Sherlock in Italian. The detective stared down at the woman a moment, his brow furrowing ever so slightly before he nodded and gave some reply also in Italian. Then he looked down, shifting awkwardly on the table as he pulled his boxers and trousers back up, at which point Mary averted her eyes again to give him a bit of privacy as he collected himself. She could hear Sherlock and the woman both sliding off the table, but she didn't look up again until he cleared his throat and said in a somewhat raspy voice, "Take your camera. She's leaving-"
"Oh, no. She doesn't have to go on my account. I'm not staying," Mary interrupted quickly. But the other woman was already off the table and heading over to the kitchen. It was then that Mary saw the shattered glass on the ground, Sherlock's discarded suit jacket, and the mystery woman's lacy black underwear cast aside in the kitchen. Mary was fairly certain she didn't want to know what all had gone on in there. With an uncomfortable shudder, she made a mental note to ask housekeeping to thoroughly scrub down all food preparation surfaces before she used them.
The other woman somehow found her way around the glass to her shoes, which she slid on. She picked up her underwear but didn't seem to be planning to put it back on. She seemed remarkably casual about the whole affair. The woman turned to Sherlock and made some lazily impatient remark in Italian. Sherlock picked up his suit jacket rather hesitantly. The whole feel of the exchange was making Mary even more uncomfortable. In an odd way, she felt like watching this uncomfortable interaction was more an invasion of privacy than seeing them actually having sex had been.
Mary had to get out of here. She finally moved into action, scanning the living room until she spotted her camera on the coffee table. She made a beeline for it, picking it up. "Really," she insisted, "This is all I needed."
Not heeding (or perhaps even understanding) Mary's comment, the Italian woman interjected something, staring at Sherlock pointedly. There was definitely something off about all of this. Well, more off than walking in on Sherlock having sex with someone. The woman gave Sherlock an impatient look, snapped her fingers, and held her hand out, palm up. Sherlock's face remained impassive but his eyes lowered for the briefest of moments. As both a psychologist and his friend, Mary could detect Sherlock's particular brand of deeply buried pain as he pulled something out of his suit jacket pocket. He stared at the woman and posed some question in Italian. She replied shortly.
Finally, Mary saw what Sherlock had taken from his jacket pocket: his wallet. He looked extremely uneasy and very intentionally avoided any glance in Mary's direction as he pulled out several large Euro bills, then handed them to the mystery woman, who tucked the money into her dress and gave Sherlock a smile and a flirtatious "ciao" before heading out the front door.
Oh, Mary realised. Oh.
Suddenly, Sherlock's high (even for Sherlock) level of awkwardness made much more sense. Mary's immediate reaction was one of revulsion, but that was quickly replaced with an intense empathy and concern for her friend. What on earth had driven him - a man who, to her knowledge, had never been in or had a desire for any kind of physical relationship before - to sleep with a prostitute? He obviously had no intention of answering that unspoken question. Sherlock didn't look at Mary, instead impassively slipping his wallet back in his jacket, then starting towards the exit.
"Sherlock, wait," Mary said, setting down her camera and stepping in front of her friend. She stared up at him, his sweat-soaked curls, still-askew dress shirt, tight-lipped expression but with a wealth of tumultuous feelings behind those steel-grey eyes. Most people might not have noticed the subtle expressions there, but Mary had lived with Sherlock long enough, observed him carefully enough to start a reasonable catalogue of her reserved friend's supposedly non-existent emotional states. She could read him the way he read a crime scene. And right now his anxiety, pain, and desperation were evident in his eyes if not in his face. He was out of sorts in every possible way. Something immutable within Mary had a strong need to understand those feelings, attempt to assuage them. Still, she knew leading with thatwouldn't get her very far with Sherlock. Instead, she suggested gently, "I know you've got to get to the lab, but you might think of changing first."
The self-preserving, stony crease of Sherlock's brow faded in the face of a logical suggestion. He sighed, seeming to concede the point with a small nod, then turned and headed back into his room, closing the door behind him without a word.
Mary let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, and immediately sank down onto the sofa. She closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead. She'd bought a bit of time to collect herself. Because she hadn't really wanted to talk with Sherlock while still feeling so shocked and awkward and frankly vaguely horrified. She didn't want to make things worse by coming across as judgemental. But she couldn't simply let him leave without talking to him about this. She wished she didn't have to, but it wasn't simply going to go away. She wasn't going to go through the rest of this holiday avoiding eye contact with Sherlock and awkwardly pretending nothing had happened until they finally had to talk about it anyway.
Not to mention, there were some very real and practical things to be worried about. As much as Mary had tried notto pay attention as Sherlock had collected himself, she hadn't been able to help but notice he hadn't disposed of any... prophylactic measures. Dear God, she could hardly even thinkthe words to herself. How was she going to have this conversation? Nothing in all of Mary's training as a child psychologist had quite prepared her for the task of being Sherlock Holmes' sex ed teacher. Something she was sure he would try to avoid.
Mary very much would have liked a stiff drink right about then, but had no desire to go into the kitchen right now. Or possibly ever. Instead, she breathed deeply, collecting herself as best she could. She realised when Sherlock came back out, she'd better start with the most straightforward issues so as not to spook him any more than she already had. The practical questions were the necessary part, but her desire to understand whywas, as always, the thing she knew she'd be driven to in the end, and by far the most difficult to get Sherlock to discuss. Really, it wasn't necessary to discuss it. And perhaps she ought to steer clear of that territory entirely if she didn't want to lose him. But she couldn't promise she'd be able to do that...
At the gentle creaking sound of a door, Mary looked up, her expression one of a psychologist's inviting ease. Sherlock, now looking a bit more himself in his crisp clean clothing and with a less pained expression on his face, must have recognised that look, because he immediately let out an irritated sigh. "You want to talk, don't you?" he said, sounding exasperated but resigned.
Mary knew how deftly Sherlock could dodge around personal conversations, but she'd also shown herself so persistent on certain occasions that he'd learned it was sometimes easier just to sit through it. Though she didn't think they'd ever had a conversation as uncomfortable as this was sure to be. "I dislike this as much as you do," Mary said.
"Doubtful," Sherlock replied tightly, but he sat down across from her anyway, unbuttoning his suit jacket and gripping the armrests of his chair. "Well?" he asked in a rather defensive tone that he clearly thought hid his anxiety from her.
"First of all, while I know that was rather uncomfortable for us both, I don't want you to feel too embarrassed. About me seeing you doing... that," Mary said. Of course, it was something she would have preferred to never, ever see. But considering she'd just now learned that Sherlock was sexually active at all, the last thing she wanted was for him to be so traumatized by the incident that he swore off this area of life entirely. Though she hoped to God she could steer him away from prostitutes. Mary continued, feeling a bit like she was addressing a teenager, "It's a natural, normal thing."
"Of course it is. I'm not embarrassed," Sherlock replied, as if the concept were genuinely ludicrous to him. "You and John are the ones with delicate English sensibilities about it. If you recall, I was the one who was just telling you both not to bother being coy about it."
Well, that was true. In spite of his (previously assumed) inexperience in the area, Sherlock had always been as frank about sex and nudity as he was about anything else. Mary recalled the stern conversation John had had early on with Sherlock about it being inappropriate for him to wander round the flat in only a thin sheet now that he had Mary for a flatmate as well. That had indeed surprised her and rankled her English sensibilities a bit, and they'd managed to persuade Sherlock to wear pyjama bottoms instead. Most of the time. So yes, she supposed it made sense that Sherlock wasn't scarred for life over that bit of the incident. At least there was that.
"Good. I only wanted to make sure," she said, though she was far from relaxed yet. Sherlock had still clearly been mortified by the whole situation, and if it hadn't been because of modesty, that pointed to other, deeper sources of embarrassment. Which both the friend and therapist in Mary wanted desperately to examine. But for now, she thought perhaps she'd work up her nerve better if she focused on the practical. "But I'm a bit more concerned about something else," Mary began.
Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow, impatient as always with long pauses when he felt someone ought to be conveying information verbally. "Yes?" he prompted.
Mary shifted in her seat, then said, "I don't want to sound like a health lecture, but I was surprised and fairly concerned..." Shit. There was no delicate way to approach this subject. She found herself desperately wishing John had been the one to come back for the camera, because this seemed like a topic that belonged between men. Mary sighed, turning up her palms in surrender and abandoning all coyness. "There's no other way to put this: you need to wear a condom." There, that was said. Frankly, she'd been a bit alarmed to notice that lapse in judgement from Sherlock. He may be new to this arena, but he was well acquainted with medicine.
But she could have chalked it up to his being a novice not thinking clearly, caught up in the moment, had Sherlock not replied matter-of-factly, "We didn't need one. She's on birth control."
Mary stared back, now dumbfounded. Sherlock had some very unusual areas of common sense missing from his brain, but this was simple medical science. Sherlock knew an enormous amount about anatomy, physiology, diseases. The man spent half his time in the lab of a hospital, for God's sakes. There was no way he was thisignorant of the risks he was opening himself up to. Mary countered, once she was finally able to manage the words, "Sherlock, she's a prostitute.Birth control ought to be the least of your worries. She could have a whole host of diseases, including HIV for all you know. In fact she most likely does have some kind of STD since she obviously she has no qualms about having unprotected sex with her clients. Do you think that's just for you? She could have done that with dozens of other men... hundreds!" Mary couldn't contain her repulsion any longer.
"She isn't some common street whore," Sherlock countered sharply, surprising Mary with his defensiveness. It was almost as if he were standing up for this woman's honour, bizarre as that seemed. Sherlock must have realised that he'd tipped his hand, revealed at least some emotional involvement, because he quickly sat back and forced a more casual air. Mary felt an uncomfortable realisation settle over the room. She tried very hard to deny it. He was just irritated, she reasoned. He wasn't actually invested in this woman."And I put myself at risk constantly in my work,"Sherlock reasoned dismissively.
"With elements that are out of your control," Mary countered. She really could not believe Sherlock was being so blasé about the dangers he was exposing himself to. It simply didn't make sense. "This is an entirely unnecessary risk. I'd suggest you steer clear of prostitutes entirely, but for God's sake, if you're going to sleep with a sex worker you should at least protect yourself." Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair tighter, his eyes narrowing in warning. That uncomfortable unspoken tension in the air had increased tenfold. And Mary was becoming more and more worried that Sherlock may have confused a good actress for the real thing, which was unlike him.
But then this was all fairly new to him, Mary realised with a pang of sympathy. Still, it was frustrating, trying to convey to Sherlock something that would have been perfectly obvious to anyone else on the outside. Mary gave a small sigh, practised at modulating her own feelings when speaking to someone about theirs. She leaned forward a little, her tone warmer now. "I know it's easier to pretend that you're actually in a real, meaningful relationship if you don't use protection, but that's no reason..."
Mary trailed off. Sherlock had gone from looking irritable to hurt rather quickly, and it was only after a moment's confusion that Mary realised just how badly that had come out. Even though it was true, she knew it was unkind. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly, though she had meant it. God, she was rubbish with adults. Though this was reminding her much more of dealing with a teenage boy than anything. Mary opened her mouth as she searched futilely for a way to rephrase her comment, even as she saw the hurt in Sherlock's eyes settle in over his whole face and down onto his shoulders. He sank a little ways back in his chair under the weight of it.
Sherlock held up a hand, relieving Mary of her attempts to back-pedal. His eyes drifted off down and to the side somewhere. It was a moment before he spoke, though he didn't look back at her. "No, you're right. Obviously I'm aware that she'd paid to act a certain way, to pretend to feel a certain way. She's... a professional. I'm aware that it's not..." he seemed to turn inward, as if having an uncomfortable revelation. Then his features reset themselves in a stony configuration. His now calmed, slightly resigned eyes turned back to Mary. "I have no illusions," he asserted without discernible emotion.
She wasn't sure that was true. After all, what was the point of a prostitute if not the illusion of someone caring about you? Unless it was an entirely, purely sexual pursuit. In that case, the lack of protection may have had more to do with sensation than romance. And Sherlock, with what Mary had always thought of as his likely Aspergers, did seem potentially prone to being enthralled by new sensations and situations even if he didn't quite understand the greater social implication of his actions.
Mary shifted uncomfortably on the couch. This certainly wasn't a line of thinking she wanted to dwell on, and it was deeply in the realm of Sherlock Information That is None of My Business. She really, really didn't need or want to know what excited or motivated him sexually. Just that thought sent an uncomfortable shudder through Mary. Once again, she found herself wondering why she'd left John at the church instead of making him retrieve her camera like a dutiful fiancée. It would have solved a great deal. Still, she was the one here now, and the recklessness of Sherlock's behaviour concerned her; as his friend she couldn't simply leave it alone. Clearing her throat, Mary asked, "Is this something you've done before?"
He eyed her tentatively. "Had sex?" he asked, uncertain.
"With a prostitute," she clarified, though dear God, she hadn't thought of that possibility. If on top of everything else it turned out she'd just witnessed Sherlock losing his virginity, Mary thought she might put her fist through something.
Sherlock's features remained impassive as he took a moment to consider his response. Which was somewhat odd, since that ought to be a yes or no question. But now he seemed to be mulling over more than just this one question. He gave her a leery look. "You're really determined to know everything, aren't you?" he asked, exasperated.
"I'm only trying to understand better so that maybe I can be of some help," Mary said carefully.
Sherlock gave her a doubtful look at that prospect, but tapped his fingers thoughtfully, anxiously on his chair. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with this whole situation, but he was also growing more particularly reticent. He hesitated before starting slowly, evenly, "I'll tell you about it if you do something for me."
That got Mary's attention. If he was willing to ask her for something, even something small, it was an inroad of sorts. She leaned forward, listening. "If I can," she agreed.
Sherlock fixed her with a nervous expression, and she saw in his eyes the first sign that he actually registered the gravity of any of this since the moment Mary had first walked in on him. Sherlock swallowed, his voice thicker as he said, "Don't tell John."
Mary's stomach churned uncomfortably. Normally her inclination, particularly as a psychologist, was to hold everything in confidence. But John was her fiancé, and Sherlock his best friend. Keeping something of this magnitude a secret seemed unduly deceptive. And John would have been able to approach this topic with Sherlock much better than she had, Mary was sure. She really did feel Sherlock ought to talk to him. Still, the detective was looking at her gravely, and that was hard to ignore. "If you're certain. But I do think if you told him-"
"No," Sherlock cut in sharply. His eyes were slightly widened, and his tone grew more intense as he leaned forward. "You can't tell him. I don't want him to know about any of this." He paused a moment, then added a surprisingly desperate and sincere, "Please."
Mary was taken aback by the sudden earnestness. Sherlock hadn't seemed all that embarrassed about the incident when speaking with her. In fact, she was far more worried he wasn't taking it seriously enough. But now she recognised that perhaps he'd seen her discovery and probing questions as nothing in comparison with the possibility of John finding out. That Sherlock was more ashamed and conflicted about this than he had first attested to be didn't surprise Mary, but it did reinforce her supposition that this was a complicated issue, even from Sherlock's perspective. Mary desperately wanted to find the heart of the matter, but suppressed that desire once again. Instead she regarded her friend, observed the desperation in his voice and eyes. She knew how private Sherlock was. The last thing he needed, doing as well as he was in his drug recovery, were added stressors. And John finding out would evidently be a major stressor to Sherlock. She realised she couldn't refuse his request.
Finally, Mary replied, "All right."
"Thank you," he said quietly. Then, sitting back he settled into his usual bizarrely straightforward and impassive manner as he continued, "Yes, I've had sex with a prostitute before."
Hearing that her friend had slept with prostitutes more than once shouldn't have carried any measure of relief with it, but Mary couldn't help feeling slightly better knowing at least she hadn't interrupted his first sexual experience. She remained focused on the issue at hand, though."Unprotected?" she asked tentatively, not having great hope for the answer.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, still matter-of-fact. Evidently he'd pushed through whatever emotional connection he had and was sticking to the facts. But at least, Mary reasoned, her was still talking to her.
Still, Mary shuddered a little as she contemplated the implications of Sherlock's response. She was still reeling from the revelation that Sherlock had had sex with anyone, let alone engaged in such risky sexual behaviour, and that he'd gone out of his way to find and pay a prostitute to come to their suite and sleep with him. She was just starting to realise that he had got rid of her and John this afternoon for this specific purpose, and was beginning to wonder just how much planning had gone into this, when a different disturbing thought occurred to her. She might not have known Sherlock to engage in thiskind of risky behaviour, but the dangerous thrill-seeking itself certainly had precedent. She gave Sherlock a concerned stare and her voice softened. "And in addition to calling this woman here, have you been looking for any... chemical thrills?"
Sherlock's icy demeanour thawed a little. This was a subject they all took very seriously. His tone was devoid of his usual prickliness as he replied earnestly, "I'm not using drugs again. I have no desire to. You know that."
She wanted to believe him. He looked very sincere and a bit concerned, most likely aware that she might doubt him. "I thought I knew a lot of things about what you would or wouldn't do, Sherlock," Mary pointed out, more worried than accusatory. "But what am I supposed to think when suddenly you're sleeping with God knows how many prostitutes?"
Sherlock sighed, gritting his teeth a moment. Clearly, he didn't want to go into motives, but he also must have recognised the source of Mary's concerns. He hung his head in contemplation. "One," he ground out finally, catching Mary off guard. "It was the same one. And it only happened once before," he said, head still down for a moment. Then he looked up with a thin-lipped sneer, "And not in Baker Street, in case you were worried about your home being spoiled by my indiscretions. It was while I was away. You needn't be concerned with it."
Mary gave him a sceptical look, indicating that quite obviously she was concerned with this. In fact, hearing that this prostitute was the same woman he'd slept with before, evidently the only woman he'd ever slept with only made her much more intrigued. Whether he'd tried to hide it or not, Mary had absolutely seen that Sherlock had some degree of sentimental attachment to this woman. How could he not, really, given the unique place she held for him. Mary desperately wanted to ask him how it had started in the first place. Then a thought occurred to her. If this woman was Italian, and he'd wanted to have another encounter with her, had he picked this case simply so he could... no, that was going too far, even for Sherlock, wasn't it? Mary hoped so. She was reeling from all this, trying to find a way to put a question into words when Sherlock pressed the other point. "Do you believe me about the drugs?" he asked, a bit anxiously.
Mary studied him a moment. She'd begun to abandon the notion that she could actually tell when he was lying. But where the cocaine was regarded, there was still her experience watching him almost die from an overdose six months ago and observing how seriously he'd taken his rehab, in spite of his loathing for therapists. For all that he'd kept secret, he'd never seemed to waver on that subject. Finally, she said, "Yes, I do actually." The detective relaxed a little, as did Mary. Still, knowing this was not a chronic or drug-related behaviour almost made the situation more confusing. "But then why seek out this woman again? Even if you wanted... that sort of contact. With that sort of person. Why go to the trouble of finding the same person?"
"I knew she was here already. It was convenient, that's all," Sherlock replied, almost too casually.
"Does she at least have a name?" Mary ventured. She didn't buy for a second that there was absolutely no sentiment involved at all, but knew addressing the subject too directly would just cause Sherlock to fold in on himself. She had to be careful.
"She's a prostitute, Mary. Not a date I've brought round for dinner," Sherlock replied thinly. "I've given you the information you required, but it's not good enough, is it?" he said, shifting irritably in his chair. "You want the reasons, is that it? It's not that you have actual concerns for your safety or property. You feel that you're owed a bit of emotional payoff, after having sat here suffering through this. As if you're the one for whom this is difficult," he grumbled.
Now Mary could hear warning bells going off, could sense they were sliding towards one of Sherlock's snowballing, sharp-tongued moods. His shock and even pain seemed to have worn thin, giving way to irritation. Once that got going, he'd be gone. Mary tried to soften her tone a bit. "I don't require anything, Sherlock. But you've just told me you knew this woman from before. Then as soon as we got here you got rid of John and I and called her in to see you again. It seemed like there might be some... extra incentive. And frankly you've not told me anything to counter that."
Sherlock stared back evenly. Finally, he started, quite evenly, "I was hunting down Moriarty's network, but there was a lull. I was stuck here in Florence a while. I was very high and very bored most of the time. I started considering that sex was a sort of bodily-induced natural high that I'd never tried before. I'd never been particularly interested, but it was something new. I ran into this prostitute near the Arno River. She was very beautiful, with an attractive figure as well. She seemed as good a choice as any. And turned out to be quite good at her job, at least as far as I could tell, though I admit to having nothing to compare it to. But it was an interesting and rather pleasurable experience."
Mary wasn't sure she'd ever heard someone describe losing their virginity in quite such a nonchalant fashion. But then, she'd also never known someone to lose their virginity at the age of 37 to a prostitute. That thought sobered Mary and sent a small pang through her chest. She was trying very hard not to seem too openly sympathetic, lest she annoy Sherlock. But the more he spoke, inevitably the more she felt for him. Even if he himself seemed rather casual about the whole thing, at least outwardly. He continued, "So when we wound up back here for the case, I realised I still had her mobile number. Thought I might run an experiment, try the experience sober and make a comparison. Perhaps I was a bit too zealous and careless."
"That's one way to put it," Mary grumbled. Whether or not this woman was a prostitute, he'd evidently put a fair amount of passion into things this time anyway. A reminder of her suspicions that there was more to this for him than simple experimentation. And something else had occurred to her. He'd said he just happened to realise he had this woman's number still, but Mary recalled that he hadn't had a mobile when he'd returned to London from being on the run. Any mobile numbers, names, addresses, or other personal information he knew from that time he'd have to have specifically committee to memory.
That was the final piece of evidence as far as Mary was concerned. She knew without a doubt that Sherlock had at least some feelings for this prostitute. Which obviously would not be reciprocated. But how could she tell him that? He'd been through quite enough emotional and mental anguish for the moment. Mary was not unaware of just how stressful this whole situation must be to him. Perhaps it was time she gave him a bit of a break from her emotional spelunking. She studied her friend carefully, then shook her head slightly. In a lighter tone, she said, "I mean, good God, Sherlock, you couldn't have at leastgone into your room?"
Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "W- I got a little carried away." His eyes flicked to hers as tiniest ghost of suspicion floated through Mary's mind. Because she's thought at first he was about to say 'wegot a little carried away'. She couldn't help remembering the look on his face when she'd made the comment about a substitute for a real relationship. And in spite of his story, in spite of how straightforward and expertly nonchalant he'd become now in his retelling, in spite of how almost oddly calm he was about it, Mary's mind kept playing that image of him slumping back into his chair and averting his eyes towards the ground over and over. Because that had been a real, natural reaction of the kind Sherlock rarely let out on display. Mary had struck a chord there, in one way or another.
Now things had quieted and sobered down considerably. And as the silence stretched between them, so too did the discomfort. Sherlock for one quickly started to seem about ready to leap from his chair. He looked across at Mary and said, tightly, "Now I've listened to your concerns for my health and well-being. I've given you the facts you've asked for, which were much more than I would have liked to share. So if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about this any more. Now or ever again."
That last part she wasn't sure she could agree to. "I'll do my best."
"You promised not to bring it up," Sherlock countered.
"With John," Mary reminded him. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, I won't say anything to you. But you can't ask me to just pretend it never happened and erase all knowledge of these things from my memory. These things have serious implications. I'm not like you, I can't just ignore or suppress a major shift in how I view a good friend." Sherlock looked antsy, so Mary held up a hand in reassurance. "But I won't say anything, either. But please, please come to me if you want to talk about it." She paused for a beat, not sure whether she wanted to know the answer to her next question. "Are you going to be … seeing this woman again while we're here?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her in slight warning. "I fail to see how that's your business."
"It is when you 'see' her in the kitchen of the suite we share," Mary pointed out. "I was just going to say, it's your business, and I know it's not illegal either. But please at least protect yourself. That's all."
Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine," he replied. "I'll do that. Now will you leave me alone?"
That did make her feel slightly better. Though it didn't stop her head from reeling with the radical paradigm change that the last thirty or so minutes had brought to her world. "Yes," Mary replied, just now starting to feel emotionally exhausted, a bit like a runner after a marathon.
Sherlock looked equally haggard, but was not going to miss his chance to escape just because he was worn out. He immediately stood, buttoning his jacket and heading for the door. "I'll take the samples to the lab and let John know once I've reached a conclusion," he said. Sherlock stopped at the door, turning back to Mary. He opened his mouth, but took a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, "I hope you and John enjoy your holiday." With that, he was out the door.
Mary let out a long sigh, closed her eyes, and rubbed at a forming tension headache around her forehead. This was an incredibly surprising and unsettling revelation, and now she had to keep it to herself. Pretend it never happened. Mary had rarely felt so powerless in wanting to aid someone who clearly needed it but wouldn't accept it. Sherlock had been open with both her and John about his drug use. Why was this so different?
Opening her eyes, Mary was reminded of the broken glass on the floor. That at least was something that could be set right. She crossed to the phone and rang housekeeping.