This is a John-centric chapter, and it's got Mary Morstan in it. Actually, her name is Mary Misra in this incarnation. I'm positively sick of all of the white people in all of these fanfictions, and this is London after all. How could there possibly not be an Indian person in the cast?
I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to update this little thing! I'm very pleased with the number of you who have subscribed or added this to your favorites, so thanks! Feel free to leave me any tips or comments, as the honest truth is that I don't entirely know where all of the story is going. I've got the main points fixed, and there will eventually be a mystery (I'll have to base it on an existing canon since I have no experience writing mysteries. Maybe the empty house, although that's not much of a mystery). I'm trying to stick to some important canon details, and unfortunately that means that this won't be an entirely happy story. Sorry about that.
John was at the Wallace Collection when Harry phoned. He had never been one for museums; for whatever reason he had always been the kid on school trips who found one or two paintings to mindlessly stare at and not be bothered. He was more than making up for it now. Maybe one a week or so he had been finding a new museum to traipse through. He never lingered on any particular work for long, but rather absorbed them as he wandered. It was a distraction, a sad little coping mechanism (he was fully aware of this), but it was easier than sitting through tightly wound lunches with his coworkers at the clinic. They had welcomed him at first, but the atmosphere had grown chilly when he consistently declined their invitations to the pub and excused himself from their conversations.
Ah well, he thought, things will change eventually. It's going to get easier.
He had been listening to his therapist for once, and had begun picking himself up with little mantras. It seemed to be helping. Although more than anything, it seemed to be his relationship with Mary that was edging him towards contentment. She could make him smile, something that Mrs. Hudson and Greg and Molly hadn't managed for the past three years. He had given them obligatory ones, faking it for their sakes, but Mary was making him laugh. Genuine laughs, including his rather embarrassing giggle. When he caught himself, he occasionally fell silent immediately, but that was happening less and less.
It's the guilt stopping me, but that's ridiculous. Sherlock would have wanted me to laugh! I think. God knows what I've been attributing to him, he might have actually resented me for laughing. I wouldn't past him. Wouldn't have.
He had met Mary at this particular museum; she was just an office worker, but had been filling in for a tour guide one rainy Wednesday that September. It being the middle of the week, John had ended up being the only person in her 12:30 tour, and it had just taken a few minutes before they were walking straight past the masterpieces and chatting about other things entirely. Like politics, and hobbies, and how oh my what a coincidence they were both single and yes Saturday was free. She didn't take sugar in her coffee either.
Coffee. God. He had only recently stopped making two cups, as cliche as it was. I always thought it takes three weeks to break a habit…certainly not three years.
She didn't know he was at the museum yet. He had been planning to surprise her for lunch, but he found himself picturing a quiet cuppa at Speedy's instead. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy her company, but he hadn't needed as much space as he did now since after Afghanistan.
He jumped when his phone began ringing, and earned himself disgruntled looks from the rest of the patrons- he caught the stink eye of a seven-year-old with her grandmother. Yeah, just wait until you get a mobile, you'll be texting while you drive and all that, I'll bet my life.
"John Watson."
Harry's voice came in shrill and tight, the way it always was when she felt guilty about something, "Hi, hi hi! It's Harry. Listen, are you free for lunch this afternoon? Or tea, whichever. About two-ish?" It all came out like one sentence.
"Yesss," he hesitated, "but, er, aren't you in Cork? Why aren't you? I was going to come out for a visit, remember?"
"Oh, that. Well, I'm in London, at the airport. Last minute, but I've got an old university friend coming in from Hong Kong."
"Old university friend? You still have those?"
"Yes! Jesus," her outrage had him holding the phone away from his ear. "Why are you whispering?"
"I'm at a museum, Harry! Can we make this brief?"
She snorted. "You?"
John could only sigh at that. "Okay, yeah. I'm free. You can come by the flat, I'm not going to inflict you on the café. It's never done anything to deserve that."
"I was thinking a pub first. Just to catch up."
"Oh, Harry!" he groaned, "you were really doing well!"
"I wasn't going to drink," she cried, "have a little faith!"
"…..right."
"Anyway, by 'your flat' you couldn't possibly mean the Baker Street one," she took on a mockingly concerned tone, "I mean, that would be dangerously unhealthy."
"Yeah, I get it. Enough." A thought occurred to him. "hang on, do you mean you want to talk with me other than catch up? How uncharacteristic of you."
"Er, it's just that there was something I wanted to let you know about in person."
"Yeah? What about then?"
Her voice had gone all queer and tight again. "Just, ah, don't make a fuss or anything. I know it's sort of weird but…to prepare you, I suppose you should know that it's to do with Sherlock."
"What?" he was nearly shouting. A guard started walking towards him, and he cupped a hand over the phone. "Hang on, it's important!"
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the gallery space."
"You're not going to have to ask me, you're asking me!" He knew it was a ridiculous point, but he was mildly hysterical. Certainly baffled- why on Earth would Harry have anything to say about Sherlock?
"Sir," the guard was holding his shoulder and steering him towards the exit, "Please leave immediately."
"Yeah, fine!" he shrugged him off and stumbled into the main hall. He uncovered the mouth piece and hissed at his sister, "what can you possibly mean?"
"What was all that about?"
"Jesus, Harry, pay attention! What d'you mean, 'it's to do with Sherlock'? Are you going to come nag me about getting out more and meeting new people? Again?" There was a long silence, and he took a moment to reign himself in with a deep breath.
"It's not that- " she allowed, "I'll see you soon, so let's just hold off. I've still got the spare key, I can let myself in."
"What spare key?" Now that he would have remembered giving her.
Another pause.
"Mrs. Hudson had one made for me right…after. Just in case."
John dragged a hand down his face and groaned inhumanely. "Yeah. Got it. I'll see you there."
He could hear Harry deliberating; she would make little false starts when she did.
"Hmm. Y- Ah. How are you doing? I mean, have you made any new…"
She broke off, and he gave a dry laugh. "Friends? What am I, seven?"
"Well?"
"I have, actually, not that it's your business," John said smugly, "I've got a new girlfriend. I might be able to bring her 'round, if you like."
There was another uncomfortable silence. "Oh."
"Oh? I thought you'd be thrilled!"
"No, I- I am! Of course I am. I'm just a little surprised."
"Thanks for that."
"You know what I mean! I…well, I have to go. We'll get to that later. Bye, bye bye."
He hung up without replying. I can't stand that she does that. Who closes a phone call with three goodbyes? Exhausted, he slumped onto the staircase and put his head in his hands. It's fine. Get it together, it's just a visit from your sister. He drew his palms back slowly, and let out a hiss of air. Mary would know what to do about it. At the very least she could get his blood pressure down. He didn't know what it was about Harry that always set him on edge- it was like dealing with a time bomb. She had such a temper (admittedly, so did he) and he somehow felt like he was constantly driving her towards drinking. Again with the irrational guilt. It's got nothing to do with you.
He wiped his mind of the anxieties, something he had picked up on almost immediately after the fall. But when he drummed on Mary's counter with a small smile and she turned to greet him with one of her own, her face fell.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Nothing. I thought we could get a quick lunch."
She raised her eyebrows and looked up at him with disbelief. "When you walk in with that dead-eyed look, it's usually to tell me that you're canceling plans."
John managed his best amused confusion. "Dead-eyed? Is that an insult?"
"Oh, be that way. Give me a few minutes to wrap up this paperwork."
She stared at him from across the tiny round table, head unconsciously cocked slightly to the side. John tried to act as though he hadn't noticed, simply fascinated as he was by his chicken salad sandwich. He chewed slowly and glanced out the window, just cutting Mary off as she opened her mouth to say something.
"I took off work early."
"Again?" She was exasperated. "John, you should really be putting more time in at the clinic."
He slumped a little in his seat. "Why?" he muttered.
"Why? They could fire you. You're not infallible."
He scoffed. "They're not going to fire me. Look, Harry's coming in for a visit at my flat, and she wanted to meet you." It wasn't quite a lie.
Mary contemplated it. "I can do today. But only because I've still got nearly all my sick days. I thought your sister was in Ireland?"
"I dunno," he sighed, "did I mention that I'm going out there, to Skibbereen, in a bit?"
"I think you might've."
"I was thinking…well…if you didn't have plans for that week."
"Are you inviting me?" she put a hand to her cheek teasingly, "oh my, Dr. Watson!"
He grinned uncertainly. "The next step, right? Is it too soon for a joint vacation?"
"Absolutely not." She smiled sweetly and took his hand, "and someone's going to have to keep you from falling into the ocean."
"Mary, please. I'm perfectly capable."
She laughed at that. "You can't tell a Monet from a Renoir! You're like a little lost lamb."
He drew her across the table and gave her a peck. She raised her shoulders in pleasure and giggled into his mouth. John's heart seized a little, and he drew her in closer, knocking a fork to the floor as he kissed her full on the lips and stroked her dark hair from her face. She squeezed his hand and looked at him empathetically as he drew away.
"John...it's going to get better."