Still Talking When You're Not There

Chapter Ten

John started to empty the supermarket trolley onto the belt; Mary was talking to the check-out girl, and preparing to bag the groceries. It was the first time he'd gone shopping with her. Their relationship was still in the "getting to know you well" stage.

But, from the very beginning, the day she turned up as the agency nurse receptionist at the practice, his eye had been drawn to her. Not just because she was pretty, self-confident and funny. Nor was it because, for once, in her company he didn't feel too short. Too many women in too high heels made him self-conscious about his height. But, there was also something about Mary that intrigued him right at the start.

A couple of weeks later, he got the courage to ask her out. She gave him that look, the one he'd started to associate with her. He'd felt it before, of course he had. He was used to being read by Sherlock Holmes, after all. Mary's look was different. It was a bit more hidden, careful- even cautious. The first time she'd done it, he couldn't help but think, trust issues.

They'd dated casually for a few months. He didn't tell her that he stopped seeing anyone else. He didn't want to frighten her away. Because the more he got to know her, the more he liked her. She was different. Most British women were…he didn't know how to put it. A little too predictable? A little boring? Maybe that was it. Mary was special. She'd spent a lot of her life overseas. A nurse with various Medecins sans Frontieres missions. Africa, the Far East, even a few short tours in the Middle East and Latin America. As a result, she was more interesting than anyone he'd ever dated.

He recognised a kindred spirit. When he asked her why the travel, she'd just laughed. "I know I am an adrenaline junkie. Couldn't bear the thought of being trapped in the hierarchy of the NHS. Too boring for words."

"So, what brought you back to the UK?"

She smiled. "Tick, tock- I'm over forty, John. Time to stop acting like a globe-trotting backpacker."

He smirked into his beer. He had been pleased to discover that she liked a pint as much as he did. It made a casual drink after work easy, and they had slipped into a routine of a Friday night at the local, nearest to the practice. "So, are you bored now?"

She gave him one of her mischievous smiles that he had come to really appreciate. "Why do you think I'm an agency worker? It gives me the variety I need to keep sane."

"Uh oh, does that mean you're going to get bored with me and shove off to find someone more exciting?"

She raised her glass, and caught his blue eyes over the rim of her own. "To changing the habits of a life time. Maybe it is time to settle down. Do you think that the practice would like a full time permanent employee instead of an agency nurse?"

"I'm sure you could make a good case. Of course, I was thinking more about you and me than the work, but hey, it's a start if I know you aren't going to disappear one day because you've taken another position with a more interesting employer."

She was like that. Teasing, mischievous- a real firecracker. And clever, she certainly kept him on his toes. And as the good night kisses turned into something more serious, he knew he was falling in love. Occasionally, he caught her looking at him with something of a surprised, almost startled look. When he called her out on it, she smirked. "You do surprise me, Doctor John Watson. Unexpectedly. Delightfully." He'd been spending more and more time at her flat, even managing a sleep-over a few times when he was just too tired to go back to his own. So, here he was doing something as domestic as the weekly shop with her.

He reached into the trolley and pulled out a box of Waitrose Finest leaf tea- second flush Darjeeling. He stopped to read the box, and remembered another person who liked that sort of tea. He wondered what Sherlock would have made of Mary. No, on second thought, I don't want to imagine that. Sherlock, just SHUT UP. I don't want to hear your dozen reasons why she isn't the right woman for me. You never did anything other than sabotage my love life. That said, his flatmate's assessment of the women John had dated was almost unerringly correct. In hindsight, Sherlock's interruptions and criticisms had saved John more than once from making a mistake in a relationship.

"Hey, earth to John?- you're not finished."

Startled, he put the packet of tea on the check-out belt and looked back in the trolley. "Right, sorry," and resumed unloading.

oOo

He was making her a proper cup of tea- not the usual grab-the-nearest-teabag and stuff it into the cup kind of tea. It was Sunday morning, and he was in his bathrobe, over his pyjamas. They'd been living together more or less for a couple of weeks. Characteristically, she was the one to ask when his lease was up, and would he be moving in?

He'd smiled. "When's yours up?"

Her face said it all. "John, I love you to bits, but your bachelor digs are just so…basic. When my lease is up, we can get a new place that we both get to choose."

So this was a celebratory cup of tea. He got the proper tea pot out and the box of Darjeeling, measuring out the loose-leaf tea carefully. He put the kettle on, but turned it off just before it got to the boil. Sherlock had taught him that. John, don't cook the tea. Heat releases the aroma and flavour, but too much breaks down the leaf structure and releases more acids- makes it bitter. The biochemistry involved in tea apparently kept the consulting detective occupied when body parts were in short supply.

John brought the tea pot to the coffee table in front of the sofa where Mary was sat. As the tea steeped, he apologised. "Wish you had bought first flush, rather than this. It's not as good."

"Why?"

"Darjeeling is the leaf of a tea plant from a small district in West Bengal, but unlike all the other Indian teas, it's actually from the smaller leafed Chinese tea bush rather than the rest in India which are Assam species. It's called the Champagne of teas because it has to come from a small area of designated tea estates- no one else can call their tea that name. It's described as a black tea, but it isn't; it's less than 90% oxidised, so technically more of an oolong than a black tea. First flush means that the tiny new leaves are harvested first, in early March after the spring rains. It's delicate, special. This second flush version is harvested after the June rain, and it's fuller bodied, more robust because the leaves are older."

She looked at him with amazement. "Wow- you know a lot about tea."

He poured a thin stream of the amber coloured liquid into the first cup, holding the spout about six inches above the cup. "This lets the oxygen get to it." He looked down at the cup as it filled and said quietly, "I knew nothing about tea, even though I had been drinking it all my life. But I knew a man who did know a lot about tea, and he told me everything about it, including the actual chemistry involved in withering the leaves so they have just the right amount of moisture to make the very best tea in the world. Every time I use a tea bag now I can hear him telling me, 'John, you are using the crushed up powder and floor sweepings that no one should sell as tea, and that's why it tastes so disgusting.'" He mimicked an upper class posh voice that only he could hear in his head.

She giggled. "So, why do you keep using a tea bag?"

John shrugged and took his first sip. "Maybe because I want to be reminded of him lecturing me."

Mary sat back and drew in the aromas of her cup. John never ceased to surprise her.