Still Talking When You're Not There- Chapter Twelve
"So, tell me about him."
"About who?" John tried to say it nonchalantly, as if he didn't really know to whom she was referring.
She looked down at the glass of wine in her hand, and then back up to his eyes. Hers were gentle. "You know who. Your friend. The one who died. The person you've been grieving for."
So many things came into John's mind at once. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock- not to anybody. Not even friends who knew them both. The doctor found it almost impossible to talk to Mrs Hudson, or Molly, who looked at him and just wanted him to tell them why. As if he was somehow privy to the man's thinking and could make the inexplicable easier for them to understand. He'd had a shouting match with Lestrade, and stormed off raging at Sherlock: Why didn't you tell me, you bloody wanker? They all think I knew you better than they did, enough that somehow I should have seen something, done something. I can see it in their eyes- they blame me for not stopping you. As a result, he started avoiding them- not returning calls, and then he moved from Baker Street, and didn't pass on his new details.
What little socialising he'd had done since then would founder at this point in the conversation. In fact, when he thought about it, he'd made no new friends at all since Sherlock died. The blog and the newspaper coverage had made him famous by association- people would suddenly realise that he was that John Watson. When curiosity overcame their reluctance to raise the topic, they'd ask about him- the fake detective. He'd come to expect it. But this time, looking at Mary Morstan, he wished it hadn't, really, really wished it hadn't. Because he liked her, a lot. Could be more, if only this topic of conversation hadn't come up, didn't make him remember the pain all over again.
She must have seen his struggle. She was perceptive like that- more than any other woman he'd known. Then she clinched it for him by saying, "You know what? Forget I asked that question. It's none of my business."
Oddly enough, just as soon as she said it, he realised that it was her business. The others who had asked got a polite but empty answer and then the relationship would end, because he could predict the questions that would follow, and his increasingly evasive answers. No friendship in its early stages could deal with that kind of pressure. He had hoped Mary was different.
So, he found himself asking her the question. "Why do you think it's not your business?" He needed to know. If this, the growing connection he felt, wasn't important to her, then she'd shrug off the questions that she must have been thinking of asking. Had asked, or at least started to ask. She'd run for cover. But, if she did care for him, then it was her business, and she had a right to ask. And he should answer. Maybe it's time I stopped being a coward, Sherlock. I've used you as an excuse for too long.
That thought made him have to suppress a giggle. God, even NOW you just can't stop getting in the way, can you?
He looked up into a bemused set of blue eyes. "What's going on? What's so funny?"
He stalled by pouring himself another glass of wine, and offering her some.
"No thanks, I'm good."
That was half the problem. She was good, good for him. Her eyes didn't release him from her latest question, a half smile already on her mouth, in anticipation of something they could both laugh about. Strange thing was, she probably would laugh. That's part of the reason why he connected so well with her. They shared a sense of humour, a way of looking at things.
John would never know if it was the second glass of wine that loosened his tongue, and eased his inhibitions. "It's just funny… you see, when we shared a flat, he was just…toxic to any kind of dating or socialising I did. He'd demand that I drop everything in the middle of a date or a pub session, to come help him on a case. Nothing was more important than me helping him. He was totally egocentric in that way. Then he'd see things in the women I was going out with, and with his total insensitivity, just come out with the truth. He was like that. he didn't understand relationships. Unfiltered. Excruciatingly honest. Hard as hell to live with."
"Then why did you?"
"Because he was…" He stuttered to a halt for a moment, before continuing, "...magnificent. Amazing. An utter wanker. Socially inept, painfully rude without realising it. A self-confessed sociopath who either scared or irritated the hell out of most people, and a genius. I…" he ran out of steam, so he ended the way he had once to Mycroft. "I was never bored."
She smiled. "Thank you for telling me that. It's enough. I thought I should ask."
"Why?" Now he was the curious one.
"Because I wasn't in the country at the time when he died. Out in Africa, news was what you might hear on the BBC World Service. I couldn't be bothered- seemed light years away from what was going on in the camps, or in the surrounding countryside. So, I didn't know anything about him, at all, until one of the other nurses at the practice saw me making moon eyes at you and tried to warn me off."
That annoyed him. "Warn you? About what? Who was it?"
"Nope, not going there. I don't gossip about fellow employees, or with them either. That's what I told her, too. Trouble was, she got on her high horse and decided it was her duty to tell me that you were too 'damaged' by the whole thing, so I should just stay away from you if I knew what was good for me. I told her to piss off. I know damage when I see it and you, John Watson, are not damaged. I also know what is good for me, and you are good for me." She smiled and then stuck her tongue out at him.
He raised his glass in a mock salute. "And you, Mary Morstan, are good for me."
oOo
Even so, it took him a while to open up. Something he'd see, something she'd do, would bring a half suppressed smirk to the surface. She was tentative at first but eventually got braver. This time, they were at a restaurant, and the waiter was apologising profusely that the credit card machine was rejecting his card, and did he want to have another go?
This time, he was more deliberate in his touch on the key pad, and the transaction went through. That's when she saw the smirk.
"Okay, what's it this time?"
He looked at her, trying not to giggle. "I had a row with a chip and pin machine one time, in a supermarket when I was buying groceries. I stormed off back to Baker Street, leaving everything behind at the self-service check-out after shouting at the bloody machine. Sherlock found my confession amusing. He deduced immediately that it wasn't my ineptitude or the machine, but rather my low bank balance that caused it. And that I was seriously pissed off about it all. He didn't say a thing, just gave me his card and his pin number and told me to use it. Later, he did the same for just about everything- bills, taxi fares, whatever."
"That's…remarkably generous." Mary's forehead wrinkled a bit as she thought it through. "Doesn't really fit with the self-confessed sociopath label you mentioned."
"Yeah, well that's the whole point. That's what makes me smile. He wasn't, you see. It was an act. Oh, sure, he didn't get social interaction as a rule, he was convinced that he had no friends- but he said he was willing to make an exception in my case."
She sniggered. "How kind."
"Yeah, well, the guy elevated rudeness to an art form. But in a weird way he could also be…amazingly supportive. I was such a mess after getting back from Afghanistan. I'd moan about having to do all the shopping, the bills, the, you know, stuff- because he'd never get off his aristocratic butt to help out. But, in a way, because he didn't do any of that, maybe he really couldn't because of who he was, it made me get on with it and do it all myself. Now I realise it was sort of rehabilitation by stealth."
He looked down at the table, as if afraid to let the pain of his loss be seen. "He knew me better than anyone, better than even I knew myself. He healed me. And, I didn't understand that until it was…too late." He decided not to hide his distress, and he knew that she would see it.
She reached across and just laid her hand on top of his. "Hey. It happens. We don't always appreciate people until, well, after the fact. There is an answer to that, you know. Honour him now. Draw on what was good in your relationship. Knowing what you do now, because of him, what will you do differently?"
He looked up at her, startled by the question. "What do you suggest?"
"Carpe diem, John. Don't waste any more time. Your friend taught you that. Now put it to good use." She smiled, and John knew that was when he loved her.
