This chapter takes place immediately after the events of the chapter entitled "Mary and Molly" in the story "Making Friends and Forming Alliances." This might make more sense if you read that story first.

000

"And please say to me

You'll let me hold your hand.

I want to hold your hand."

Lennon/McCartney

000

During the taxi ride back to her flat from St. Bart's, Mary could not bring herself to let go of John's hand. He was describing his and Sherlock's evening activities to her, and during the course of his narrative, she came to understand why they had had to keep her and Molly waiting at St. Bart's for three hours without a word. She just hoped that he had not noticed how frightened she had been. He had not seemed to. He was talking to her in a perfectly normal, casual manner. "I just have to get used to this," she told herself firmly. "This is his job. He does dangerous work, and sometimes he'll be out of contact, maybe for days, maybe even weeks. If I want to be part of his life, I'll just have to learn to deal with it."

He had texted her, asking her to meet him and Sherlock at Bart's after work, but then they had been held up. "It's okay. They know I'll wait here for them as long as it takes," Molly had said, unconcerned. The young pathologist was used to their chaotic life and was also brave and trusting and didn't indulge herself in pointless worry. Mary wished acutely that she could be more like the tranquil Molly. Instead, she had grown more and more anxious as the hours had stretched on, imagining all sorts of horrible things that might explain the delay.

"You and Molly were certainly not idle while we were gone," John now observed cheerfully. "Sherlock seemed quite impressed with your analysis of that body."

"It was Molly's work. I just helped," Mary told him, amazed that her voice sounded perfectly normal. "I liked working with her, though. I hope we get to do more things together."

They had now arrived at her block of flats. She had to let go of his hand so that he could get out of the taxi and walk around to hold her door for her. He paid the fare and then she snagged his hand again as they approached the front of the building. "He's going to know something's wrong," she thought, frowning a bit. "He's going to know. What will he do when he finds out what a useless coward I am?"

He took her key and unlocked her door for her, holding it for her to enter before him. After four months of dating this man, it still filled her with wonder that he did these little, caring things for her. Was he the last man in England with these beautifully chivalrous manners? Perhaps that was why this was only the first time since they had started seeing each other that he had not let her know when he was going to be late.

"I'll put the kettle on," she offered, and wandered into the kitchen, leaving him in the sitting room to start a fire in the fireplace. The act of making tea calmed her nerves immensely, and the sound of a crackling fire greeting her as she carried the tray in to him was comforting. She sat beside him on the sofa and poured his cuppa just as he liked it.

"So now we're alone, Mary," he said tentatively, after taking his first sip. "Will you tell me what's bothering you?"

She set her cup down and looked into its depths. "What makes you think anything's bothering me?"

He sighed. "Did I do something to upset you? No, don't answer that," he retracted quickly. "I know I did something to upset you. It's because we kept you waiting so long, isn't it? I ought to have texted you, but since we were undercover it would have raised suspicions, and I thought. . . ."

"John, stop," she interrupted. "I'm not upset with you about anything. I'm upset with myself, that's all. It's nothing to do with you. I'll work it out myself."

He set his teacup down and ran a hand over his face. "Mary, I . . . look, I know I've no right to say this, but. . . . anything that upsets you upsets me, as well. I'd like to help, if you'll let me."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "It's really nothing. Honestly, it's just trivial. Not worth talking about." She resolutely drank her tea, trying to ignore his concerned expression. He thought she was perfect. He'd said as much many times in the past several weeks. How could she let him see this weakness in her?

An uncharacteristic silence stretched out between them. In the past four months, they had talked freely about everything. It was hard to keep this from him now. And he was looking at her with almost Sherlockian intensity. "You're not upset, are you? You're . . . worried about something. Mary, what is it? Please, let me help."

She couldn't respond, and the silence built a wall between them. Unable to lift her eyes to his face, she gazed at his hands; his right hand was massaging his left, trying to hide the tremor, and it made her heart ache. Finally, it seemed he couldn't restrain himself any longer. He burst out, "Mary, you're the strongest, most fearless, most self-reliant person I've ever met; and I've spent a good part of my life in the military, so I've had a lot of experience with brave and self-assured people. I . . . I know you don't need anybody. You are more than capable of handling any situation by yourself. But I'd like you to know . . . you don't have to. I'm here for you, if you want me."

Was it true? Mary had never had anyone but herself to depend on since she was six years old. She had lived her life like a clenched fist, tightly closed in on herself. Could she really allow herself open her hand and let someone take care of her for a while? No, she couldn't. No one was trustworthy. No one was reliable. No one, except for John Watson. She drew a deep breath and took a chance.

"I told you my mother died when I was four. What I didn't tell you was that no one told me she had died. As far as I was concerned, she just vanished. Then my nanny walked out and never came back. I've never found out what happened to her. She was just gone."

John reached out and took her hands in his. "And then your father disappeared, too, with no explanation," he concluded, understanding.

She nodded. "I'd still not know what had happened to him if it weren't for you. Well, you and Sherlock," she added, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. It felt somehow good to talk about it. She'd never talked about her fears before, with anyone, and now that she'd got started, she found the words gushing out like water through a broken dike. "When I was six, my father sent me away to England to live with distant relatives. I'd always lived in India—it was hard, coming here alone to live with strangers. And no one kept me long. A few months here, a year to so there. Then I mostly lived in various boarding schools. Once, I came back for a break from school to the cousin who was meant to be looking after me, and found they'd left on holiday and hadn't bothered to tell me."

"That's outrageous! What on earth did you do?" John exclaimed, and she wondered why he sounded so angry.

"Oh, it was all right. I was twelve years old, hardly a baby. I just lived in their house and ate their food until it was time to go back to school. It was only a few weeks. Actually," Mary's mouth quirked in an ironic smile, "it was quite lovely, not having to deal with people for a while." She stopped, unable to get the point of the story she was telling.

And she didn't need to. "You were afraid I'd vanished, like everyone else," John stated gently.

She studied his hands, now both perfectly steady, which were gripping her own hands tightly. "Silly, isn't it?" she whispered, ashamed. "I just kept thinking of what might be happening to you; all the different reasons you might never come back."

"Not silly in the least," he declared. "I can't think of anything more reasonable."

Now at last, she felt she could lift her eyes to his, although she was afraid of what she might see there. She did not want his pity, and she feared his contempt. But what she saw on his face was a fierce affection. "I promise you, love, I will never leave you as long you want me around," he said softly. "I have a dangerous job and I can't always know what might happen; but I swear I will not just disappear without a word. I will do whatever it takes to let you know where I am, no matter what."

Now she was well and truly embarrassed. "No, John, don't be ridiculous. You don't have to cater to my childish fears. I can deal with it."

His eyes lit up with admiration. "Oh, I know you can. You're the strongest, most fearless, most extraordinary person I've ever known. You've coped with everything life's thrown you with courage and grace. But you don't have to cope with things alone anymore. We can deal with it together."

What an odd sensation, to not be alone; to have someone to rely on; someone who understood how she felt; someone who saw the real her, with all her fears and imperfections and still wanted her.

"And I'll tell you something else," John went on, now lost in his own indignation. "It's a good thing your father was murdered already, because if he were still alive I'd have to track him down and kill him myself! What the hell was he thinking, sending his baby daughter to be passed about among strangers? What kind of father leaves his child to cope on her own like that?"

And Mary laughed, because he cared enough to be angry on her behalf for sins committed against her which she had never even thought about. It was just her life and she had accepted it for what it was. It had never occurred to her that what had been done to her had been wrong, or that she had somehow been exceptional in overcoming her difficult circumstances. Seeing herself through John's eyes was a revelation, and it warmed her heart to know that he saw her for what she was and still thought she was perfect.

And so, she grabbed onto him with both hands and kissed him and never wanted to let him go.