Okay, I was feeling generous. The cliffhanger is resolved in this chapter. Sort of :) Please do the usual and I will be most grateful :D xx
Nine months previously
"I apologise if I'm speaking out of turn, but you look fucking shattered."
John couldn't help the slight chuckle that escaped his lips, and glanced up at the blonde woman towering over his desk. He vaguely recognised her as the new nurse who had joined the practice last week, and his eyes flickered down to the badge pinned neatly to her chest.
"Sleep has been... eluding me somewhat, I'm afraid... Mary," he said, rubbing a tired hand over his face.
"For about 15 months?" she asked, a small smile on her face.
John raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her. "Am I part of the induction at this surgery?" he said, somewhat light-heartedly. "Here's where you have your tea break, this is the patient intercom, and Doctor Watson has been severely depressed for the last year and a bit since his best mate killed himself?"
"Hmm, not quite." Her smile became more gentle. "I knew who you were anyway, John. I used to read your blog from time to time. I was gutted when Sherlock... you know. I can't believe everything the media said about him."
"Yeah, well, don't," John said gruffly, closing the textbook he had been perusing before Mary had entered the room with a thump. "The investigation will be over in a few months, and the truth will come out - Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud." He fixed her with a sharp stare. "I can guarantee that."
She nodded solemnly, and, to his surprise, placed a hesitant hand on top of his. "If you ever want to talk..." she said, and raised her eyebrows. "To someone who wasn't directly involved. You know." She bit her lip, clearly nervous she'd overstepped the mark, but John crinkled a genuine smile at her and stood, removing his hand and nodding slightly.
"Thanks," he whispered. She grabbed some notes that she'd needed from his desk, and shot him another faint smile before departing. John watched her leave, and then sat back down heavily in his seat, forgetting her existence almost instantly as his thoughts returned to his dead friend.
The pub was busy, and John slid between a few bodies to reach the table where Greg and Molly were sat, deep in conversation. Molly cast a concerned eye over him, and he smiled weakly at her, before settling down opposite them.
"How's it going, mate?" Lestrade asked, indicating the pint he'd already bought for him. John nodded in thanks, wrapping a hand around the glass but not yet picking it up.
"Yeah, fine actually..."
"Honestly?"
"Horrible." He raised his eyes up to meet Greg. "I'm not getting anywhere. I get up, shower, have breakfast, go to work, come home, go to sleep. Repeat. Sometimes with the odd..." he waved his hand to signal their meeting up, and Molly nodded in understanding. "That is literally all I do, and my thoughts are constantly clouded with Sherlock." He bit his lip, before bringing the pint to his lips and taking a quick sip. "I must be doing something right - haven't had any patient complaints, so I must be able to distract myself while I'm working. But that's the only thing that seems to be going well in my life."
Greg raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised at John's mild outburst, and John could tell he was trying to assemble a concerned look on his face, while hastily trying to think of something wise or profound to say. Molly was staring at the table, looking absolutely devastated. Not that John was surprised - she was probably hurting just as much as he was. She'd loved Sherlock too.
Wait. Love? Hang-
A frown suddenly creased Greg's brow, and he turned to John, looking a little confused. "Here, are you aware you've got an admirer?"
John turned in the direction that Greg was indicating and clapped eyes with Mary, sitting with a group of friends at the bar. She smiled over at him and waved. He returned the smile but didn't wave, turning back round to his friends. Greg raised his eyebrows and Molly smirked, a look that John had never noticed her give before.
"Well, that's one way of picking things up a little."
John frowned. "Eh?"
Greg leaned forward a little. "Come on John, she's clearly into you. I can use my vague deductive powers to discern that she must work with you, given the nurses outfit, and she's been staring at your back for quite some time - in fact, she still is, despite chatting to her mates." John resisted the temptation to turn and look, trusting his friend.
"I dunno," John said, taking another swig from his beer. "I'm not sure I'm ready-"
"John," Greg said, sighing. "It's been over a year. Sherlock's gone, mate, and he's not coming back. And he certainly wouldn't want you wallowing in grief - you reckon he'd do the same if the tables were turned?"
John thought about that, and couldn't say for sure what Sherlock would do. He felt that Sherlock had formed a bond with him unlike any he'd ever had with anyone else, yet he'd lied to John (John was utterly convinced it was a lie) and then killed himself for seemingly no purpose whatsoever. It didn't make any sense, and certainly didn't seem like the sort of thing a friend would do.
"I have no idea," he said honestly. "So, what do you think I should do?"
Greg inhaled, glancing at Molly, before turning back to John. "Well, ultimately it's your call," he said. "But I can't see her turning down dinner and a film with you." He grinned, glancing again at the spot behind John, and the doctor knew that Mary's eyes were still burning into him.
"I haven't been here in ages," John confessed, watching as Mary eyed the dark gravestone, the gold lettering of the two words engraved on it seeming to almost sparkle in the sunshine. "It could do with a bit of tidying up."
Mary slipped her hand into his. "He'd probably call it sentimental rubbish anyway," she said softly, and John was once again struck at how intuitive Mary seemed to be about the dead detective. "I doubt he'd mind."
John breathed in the lingering smell of the countryside around them, and tried to concentrate on how he felt about this lovely, sweet woman, who'd willingly trekked down to the grave of a friend she'd never known, and who had sat with him for hours, listening to him talk about everything and nothing, who had held him when he sobbed for Sherlock and who had comforted him. He had been beyond lucky, he knew that, and he should feel more than grateful for everything.
He was grateful. And he was... content. It had been nice to have someone else to talk to. And he definitely felt far stronger about Mary than he had about Sarah, or any of his other girlfriends.
Maybe this was it, he thought to himself, staring at the grave. Maybe this was as good as it got. Everything in his life had calmed down, everything was 'nice'. Greg, Molly, even Harriet had all told him, in various ways, to "keep hold of this one". Maybe they were right.
No. That was not as good as it got. He knew that the second he raised his eyes to that insufferable face, who, as if he had known exactly what he was doing (and let's face it, John thought, he probably had), had interrupted them right on cue, just as John was about to propose to his girlfriend of eight or nine months. He had immediately banished the thought to the back of his mind as intense rage overcame him. The git. The absolute cock. What the hell had he done?
Which was exactly the thought Mary voiced as John rose out of his chair. He punched the table. Hard. That shut the stupid smug bastard up.
"Two years," he muttered into the table. "Two years."
At least Sherlock had the good grace to look suitably ashamed.
"I thought... you were dead. Now you let me grieve, hmm? Why would you do that?"
John was waiting, genuinely waiting for a response, waiting for some clear, obvious explanation as to why Sherlock would have put his best friend through that. He figured he was owed that much.
When Sherlock dared make a joke about his moustache, it was the final straw.
Present Day
John blinked, once, twice, three times. His eyes were blurry, his cheeks were wet, and he realised that tears had fallen, the memories that had flooded over him reducing him to a wreck in the street. He tried hard to concentrate on what Mary had just asked... marry her?... and stared at her smiling, hopeful face.
"Mary... not now, Mary," he said hurriedly, turning round and seeing Sherlock stood right behind him, his face even whiter than usual, a look of apology (presumably for his earlier outburst) and terror on his face. A look that told him so much, but a look that he couldn't process at that minute. He almost knew how Sherlock felt - too much emotion, too much to handle - and returned to his... to Mary.
"I'm sorry, Mary," he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. "You've caught me at a dreadful time. I... I need to walk, I need to be alone for a bit." He dropped her hand as suddenly as he'd grabbed it, took one last, nervous look at Sherlock, and then pulled his jacket tighter around himself, before walking off, leaving Mary and Sherlock staring at each other.
She took one step towards him, a sneer on her face. "You weren't there for him, Sherlock," she whispered. "You didn't see him the way I did. I brought him back to life, and I will get him back. You wait."
She turned on her heel and walked off in the opposite direction to the one John had taken. Sherlock watched her go, before retiring back to his flat. He climbed the stairs thoughtfully, returned to his armchair, and steepled his fingers under his chin, staring into the middle distance.
A smile spread slowly across his face. Mary was wrong, he was sure. She would not 'win back' John Watson. He hadn't missed the look on John's face, the horror in his eyes at the sudden prospect, the realisation of the reality of living out his days with her. And whilst he knew that he would have his work cut out to win John back himself, he also knew that he had not lost. Not yet, anyway.
Mary could try as hard as she liked, but she would not succeed.
