Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. No infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, Poodle warriors, coloradoandcolorado1, Katya Jade, Bucky5 and Rocking the Redhead. (seriously, I was very worried about the last chapter so thanks). Hope you enjoy this: Darkness continues, but there's some of the promised kink appearing here as well, so be aware...
- BREATHLESS -
"Are you the good cop?" Sherlock asks mildly.
He's sitting in the car, the lights of London twinkling in front of him. They've parked in front of Sunny Hill Park, and he is quite astonished he's alive, considering the driving he has just had foisted on him.
He's also quite relieved that Mary couldn't actually interrogate him while engaged in the motorized game of tag with an apparently suicidal taxi-driver. And an ice-cream van. And a nun.
The person who drove him here, and coincidentally the only person to have ever shot Sherlock Holmes without wanting to kill him, is sitting beside him, that professional, hawk-like gaze trained on him like a sniper's rifle. He knows that she heard his question, he just suspects she's not going to answer.
This has not been a comfortable day, Sherlock muses. And something tells him it's far from over yet.
Mary however gives a small smile. Fiddles with her seat-belt and releases it, popping the driver's door open. "There's a great set of swings in here," she says. "Evie's too small for them yet and John's not the sort, but do you want to give them a go?"
Her smile widens as she steps out, blowing onto her hands in the cold night air and stamping. Sherlock looks at her suspiciously but she's the very model of innocence, waiting for him to give his consent. He closes his eyes, however briefly, and as he does so he feels it, feels that wanting, needy, manic hunger inside him twist and claw. He's gone too long without a fix and now he's regretting it- Just something to take the edge off, he thinks, aware of the desperation just beneath the surface of that statement. Just something to help navigate what John said about addiction, what John said about Molly-
But he cannot give in. He knows he can't. Or shouldn't. Or, or something. So, rather than concentrate on the hunger he nods. Opens his own seatbelt and follows her into the park. The wind is cutting and he turns his coat-collar up against the cold until she notices and snorts.
"What?"
Mary shakes her head. "I just didn't believe John that you actually did that," she says, but before he can retort she's through the park gates and into the darkness.
Sherlock can't help but notice that she assumes he'll blithely follow along.
Given how much he thinks this conversation might help him though, he supposes he'll play nicely for now: After all, Mary is a woman, and may thus be better able to give advice than John on the subject of apologising to Molly. It's this thought which keeps him moving, following the red blur of Mary's coat through the darkness, listening to the sound of her tread against the tarmac of the path.
He's surprised how easily she finds her way, even on a moonless night, but then he supposes, given who she is, that he shouldn't be.
Getting to the playground doesn't take long and once they get there she hops easily over the fence, giving a huffing little laugh of pleasure as she does. Sherlock, being Sherlock, takes a run and swings himself over easily, earning himself more laughter and a joking little clap. It's a strange feeling, laughing when for so long he's been on edge, craving something or other and not knowing what. Craving the desire to laugh that isn't tied into a desire to sneer- or to hide. It's the thing about being around loved ones when they know you've been abusing a substance, they don't laugh around you, they don't do anything around you except scowl or worry. As if their abandoning their own joy is yet another crime they wish to make you guilty off-
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sherlock," Mary calls. "Come and have a go on the swings instead!"
She's made her way over to the swing-set and she's swaying, ever so slightly, her arms wrapped around the swing's chains. Her golden hair shines like a platinum halo in the pale, white safety lamp at the swings' base.
Like Molly, she's really rather beautiful when she looks so much like herself.
Sherlock blinks- sometimes he forgets how irritating he finds her ability to see straight inside him- but he's come this far so he joins her. Manages to fold his lank frame into one of the swings, the tightness of the fit constraining. He suspects he looks like an idiot; he certainly feels like one. He suddenly realises that Mycroft never allowed him to do this when he was younger, and he has thus no idea what he's doing-
Mary stands, pushing the seat back and tightens her hands on the chains.
"Like this," she says, and she pushes with her knees before bringing her feet directly up in front of her and swinging out.
She moves in a beautiful, gracefully curving arc, giving a whoop of laughter as she goes.
For a moment it's hard to believe that she was ever the woman he knows she was, when she's looking as carefree as that.
Sherlock is well aware that he probably shouldn't but he follows her example. He, however, pushes a bit too hard and is nearly jolted out of his seat, his attempt to compensate forcing him backwards so that for a moment he fears he'll tumble out of the swing and crack his skull open. But he rights himself, just in the nick of time, and, since his feet went out from under him he has plenty of momentum to carry him forward, a little higher than Mary's gone.
He wouldn't be who he is if he didn't feel a thrill of satisfaction in that.
"Oh, you think you're clever, do you?" Mary says. "Well, watch this…"
And she swings her feet forward harder, forcing the swing to arc until she's damn near vertical with the ground. Her shoulders and head are tilted downwards, and she has to tighten her grip on the chains to make sure she doesn't fall off. She swings back with ever greater force though and Sherlock joins her, their movements beginning to synch up- Their swings' arcs matching one another-
"This is what it feels like, when it starts," Mary calls. She sounds so carefree.
"When what starts?"
Sherlock can't help it, he's... he's nearly breathless with delight.
Nothing has been this simple in aaaaaaages.
"All of it," Mary answers. "Noticing the other person. Realising they notice you. Realising that's what you want from them, that they're the person to give it-"
Sherlock frowns. "Whatever are you nattering on about?" he asks, swinging his legs harder.
She will not swing better than he does, his pride won't tolerate it.
"I'm talking about you and Molly," Mary calls. Her tone is utterly serene. "I'm talking about the fact that every time you're high you demand her presence the way the average pothead demands reruns of The Magic Roundabout. I know John has himself convinced that you're hell-bent on scaring her but we both know that's not really what this is about, don't we?"
And she swings herself further up, humming happily at her own prowess.
Sherlock digs his toes into the playground's wood-chip floor though, forcing his swing to a sudden halt.
Mary keeps going, regardless.
"I do not crave Molly Hooper's company when I'm stoned," he bites out.
He's glaring at Mary now, painfully aware that yes, he has been hoodwinked by the Watsons' Good Cop.
He should have known he wouldn't be allowed to enjoy himself.
He should have known that their détente, her understanding, couldn't possibly last.
Mary comes to a halt just as suddenly however and smiles at him. The smile isn't teasing or mocking, it's understanding.
He remembers what she said about not being born Mary Morstan and despite himself he feels his anger ease a little.
"You're right," she says matter-of-factly. "I don't think you crave Molly Hooper's company when you're stoned, I think you crave it all the time. I think you can't help yourself."
Sherlock opens his mouth to correct her but she holds up an admonishing finger, speaks over him with nary a pause.
"I was there, Sherlock, that first day when she slapped you," she says. "I saw your reaction."
Horror and shame well up inside him and Sherlock deflects them as he always does- By summoning up his best look of contempt. "I've already apologised for what I said," he says stiffly. "If you think I'm going to-"
"I don't think, I know." Her tone is so unruffled, it's bloody maddening. Sherlock can feel his hunger for a fix beginning to stretch, to grow. An addiction can be an awfully easy place to hide. But Mary carries on, regardless. "I know that you insulted her," she's saying, "that you picked on the one thing which would hurt and enrage her, and I know why you did it."
Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly over his chest. "Oh, really?"
The hunger for a fix is getting worse, it's like his annoyance feeds it. Doesn't Mary know that?
Apparently she doesn't. Or she just doesn't care.
Because she leans into him and now her voice is soft, now she's understanding. A night long ago flashes through his memory- I'll talk him 'round- and for some reason he wants to push the memory completely away, though he knows he can't.
"Yes, really," she's saying, and she's looking at him, very steadily, as she says it. There's something very… intent in her gaze now. "That first time when she slapped you in St. Bart's, I saw it. I saw you. I saw how you reacted when she hit you. It was like a light went on inside, wasn't it? Like suddenly… Suddenly the world had focus. Edges. A boundary, and Jesus but that's attractive when you're in the middle of an addiction." Again, she smiles.
"At least, for people like us."
Sherlock's jaw works. He doesn't- He doesn't like hearing someone else speak his experiences as if they were her own. He doesn't like somebody knowing the shame of what he wanted from Molly that day. He is alone in his skin. He always has been. He always will be.
He figured that out long ago, and he has Mycroft to prove it.
So he rallies. "That's nonsense," he snaps, though even he wouldn't believe the tone of voice he uses.
"That's the truth," Mary says quietly. "We both know it is. You enjoyed it. You needed it. And you said the most vicious, hurtful thing you could think of because you wanted her to slap you again-"
The words hit Sherlock like a physical blow, though she smiles, kicks off again on her swing as she says them. This time she barely moves.
The silence stretches out, too much emotion in Sherlock, too much feeling, and no idea at all how to express it. She can't be right- She can't- And yet… He knows she is.
Though he's damn well not admitting that out loud.
Not that it matters. She's not going to shut up about it. "I'd ask if I'm right but I know I am," she's saying now, "so the question becomes what are you going to do about it?" His eyes, quite without his meaning them to, flash up to hers. "I mean, you know you have to do something about it, don't you, Sherlock?"
He goes to shake his head and this time she reaches out. Touches his shoulder. He has to fight the urge to throw her hand off.
He can't begin to imagine what to do about Molly Hooper and the mess he's made of their relationship, he doesn't know how to.
So he admits defeat. "There's nothing I can do," he says, letting go of the swings' chains and folding his arms across his chest. A grown man on a swing is ridiculous, in anyways. "She's already made it clear what she wants-"
"I'd say she has, but not in the way you think."
And Mary goes sailing by him again, her tone once again infuriatingly serene, her legs kicking out against the air.
Sherlock reaches out and grabs her swing. Halts it. "Do stop speaking in riddles, Mrs. Watson," he says.
He's enough riddles in his head already, without her adding to their number.
So Mary nods. "Okay, no more riddles. I'll tell you nice and plain." She looks him straight in the eye and he has to fight that old, long-suppressed urge to flinch. "I think you should make sure you're sober and then go to Molly and explain to her that you liked her slapping you," she's saying. "That all of your subsequent behaviour has been about trying to get her to do it again- Which I suspect, it has been."
And she shrugs, as nonchalant as if they were discussing the weather. Sherlock stares at her aghast. How did she-? How could she-?
Other people being right about you is always so bloody mortifying.
"And then," she's saying, "you tell her that you're sorry for not being honest and see where she takes it." Mary's smile turns practically predatory. "You'll like that, I'm sure; She's already proved she knows how to handle you-"
"You think Molly Hooper can handle me?" he asks, rather than look at the images her words conjure up. Oh, they are tempting. "That's preposterous-"
"That's what you want, Sherlock."
"Don't presume to tell me what I want, Mrs. Watson," he snaps. He can feel his anger rising.
"Someone has to tell you," she retorts. "Since you're too chicken-shit to own up to it yourself."
And with a speed and agility he doesn't expect, Mary's out of the swing and on her feet in seconds, reaching forward and yanking him out of his seat. She digs her nails into his nape as she does it, anchoring her grip with another on his bicep and using her own momentum and his weight to swing him downwards and leverage him towards the ground.
Sherlock can handle himself but the speed and unexpectedness of the attack catch him by surprise- And he's very aware that hitting your best friend's wife and the mother of your goddaughter is a Bit Not Good. Besides, the impact of the ground smashing into his body knocks the air out of him, his head smacking into the ground with equal force. Within seconds Mary's on top of him, her knees on the arms she's pressed to his sides, the small, blocky heel of her boots digging, quite painfully and purposefully into his side. The upper swell of his backside.
She really has him pinned but he could fight to get up if he truly wanted to.
If… If… If…
She reaches down so that her hands are on either side of his head, one hand snaking into his hair to tug, very, very sharply, and he lets out an unexpected, undignified little sigh. He can feel his body's reaction to her actions and he feels a little ashamed of himself-
This is John's wife.
But though she has him on his back and she must be able to feel him hardening beneath her, she stares at him with a look which is as far from lust as he can imagine. Nor does she arouse, caress, stroke or otherwise stimulate. This is not sexual to her, he realises. Or rather, he thinks, the pieces finally slotting together in his head, this is not sexual for her because it is with him.
Just as, though this feels arousing, it is nowhere near as distracting as what he felt with Molly that day in St. Bart's, or even this morning when he kissed her.
A beat stretches of silence stretches out as he ponders this rather surprising new fact.
As is so often the case, it feels more like his remembering something than an entirely new thing in his head.
"Does John know?" he asks quietly then, because he thinks this would be a great deal easier if he wasn't the only one thinking these things and feeling these things and- he forces himself to think it- getting turned on by these things.
Mary merely shakes her head. Her expression is… accepting. Fond. Resigned, more than anything.
"John's about as far from this stuff as you can imagine," she says quietly.
"But you are-"
"I was." Her eyes are focussed inwards, seeing a time and a place which resolutely is not here. "I can live without it," she says eventually, "and I would rather do that than try and convert John to it… He's old-fashioned, in his own way, and I'm not sure he'd like to admit this might be something he enjoys." She snorts. "I'm not sure it's something he even could enjoy."
Sherlock finds that he can absolutely understand.
"But you think that I-?" she shoots him a look and he corrects himself- "you say that I should tell Molly that I, um, enjoy this? Because you think she, well, she might enjoy it too?"
He tries to picture his pathologist manhandling him as Mary just has and yes, that feels a great deal more arousing. A great deal.
The image of her on top of him burns behind his eyes.
Mary smiles and rolls off him, coming to rest a couple of meters away and tucking her knees up to her chest. It makes her look surprisingly young, but not very vulnerable. Suddenly she is the woman he knows again- Though some tiny part of him wonders whether he knows her at all.
"When Molly slapped you and you insulted her, what happened?" she asks conversationally.
She's rested her chin on her knees and she's once again grinning playfully at him.
Sherlock can feel his cheeks heating up but he forces himself to answer the question.
"She marched as far away from me as possible, and she refused to come near me for the rest of the day-"
Mary nods. "Exactly. You tried to control her, to force her to do something you wanted, and she refused you. In fact, she completely removed herself from you and left you to stew in your own juices, so to speak."
Sherlock nods, not seeing where this is going.
"And that's why she'll be good at this," Mary tells him. "She already instinctively knows how to handle you- Even when you're being a brat. Particularly then." Her grin widens, turns almost obscenely suggestive. "Aren't you a lucky boy, Sherlock?" she says, "to have found someone who turns you on that much?"
He wants to deny it- The needs of the body are embarrassing. Animal. It is his mind he has always been tolerated for.
But just then his phone rings. It's Molly.
It feels as panic-inducing as if it were Moriarty.
He looks at Mary in horror but she just grins. "Answer it," she points out sweetly. "After all, you're the one who texted her-"
Sherlock puts the phone to his ear and takes the call, but he has absolutely no idea what he's going to say.