Saving Grace
By Navigatio
Chapter 14: erm. . . sad, I suppose
Sherlock was already sitting on the river bank, perched on the driest rock he could find, when John showed up. He heard the footsteps, first quick and sure, then slowing, hesitant. So John had spotted him then. He didn't turn to confirm the deduction, but he did slide over a bit to make room for John to sit next to him.
The footsteps halted a few steps behind him, and for a long moment he just waited. He found himself uncertain, after the first forty-two seconds, that John would sit and not bolt, but finally he felt John's sleeve brush against his. When he turned his head to look, he found that John was staring out at the water, hands jammed into his pockets, face scrunched up against the wind.
This was the very rock, Sherlock realized, where he had found John in this exact same position two months ago, staring out through the rain at the muddy Cherwell. The tyre tracks were gone now, along with most of the little bits of colorful broken plastic and metal, but Sherlock could still picture the black Audi A3 hatchback, covered in grayish brown muck, with its roof caved in and windscreen crushed.
John's voice interrupted his runaway train of thought. "I'm sorry," he said simply.
"Why didn't you tell me about the fight?" Sherlock asked. "All this time you've been blaming yourself and you never told me."
"I don't deal well with emotions. Never have. Ella says I learnt it from my family. Harry got the alcoholism and I got the inability to express my feelings and the intermittent explosions. Lucky me."
"But if you had just told me what happened, I could have—could have—" Sherlock shrugged helplessly. What would he have done if John had hold him? What could he possibly have done to change anything?
John shook his head, although his eyes never left the river, still muddy but quieter now, not rushing and roaring as it had been on that day Mary's car went into the water. "You wanted everything to be fine. Whenever I got close to telling you, you would change the subject."
Sherlock considered. Had he done that? Yes, of course he had. That was his answer to all tricky emotional situations. Deflect. Avoid. Ignore. He had to admit that strategy hadn't worked so well in this situation.
"I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do. I was trying my best." Sherlock knew his voice sounded whiny, but he couldn't seem to control it. "I didn't know what to do," he finished lamely.
"I know. It's not your fault."
Sherlock studied John's face. Brows pulled down, corners of the mouth tipped downward, causing a little pouch to appear below the ends of the lower lip. Corrugator supercili. Depressor anguli oris. He could feel the same muscles contracted on his own face, despite his attempts to relax them. He felt a ghost of Molly's hand on his back. Tell him, her voice whispered in his ear.
"I'm feeling. . ." he trailed off. Were there words for this feeling, this tightness in his chest? Fear might be the closest. But overlaying everything, coloring it all in shades of gray, was the patina of grief. ". . . sad. John, how are you. . . feeling?" Oh, he was rubbish at this. John deserved to have someone who actually knew what they were doing to talk to.
John made a noise through his nose. "You say that like there's only one answer," he said in a strained voice. He turned his head toward Sherlock for the first time, studied his face for a moment: starting with his eyebrows, traveling down to Sherlock's mouth. His lips twisted, and he said with a sigh, "All right."
John swallowed hard and turned back toward the water. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them on his knees, tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket. "All right. . . Sad, yes."
A pause. Sherlock didn't dare breathe.
"Guilty." His hands balled up into fists. Another long pause, then John ground out, "Angry," through clenched teeth.
Sherlock's hand reached out of its own volition toward John, who grabbed it and squeezed it hard enough to hurt. John was breathing harshly through his nose now. His other hand came up to cover his face, fingers curled around the end of his eyebrow.
Oh. John was crying.
Oh. Was this what it meant to be supportive? Holding John's hand while he cried? He could do that, although he wasn't sure of the use of it. He sat quietly for what felt like a long time. Excruciatingly long. His mind began to wander to more helpful uses of his time. For example, this fight that John had mentioned—it seemed awfully convenient, considering he had never said anything about it before. He had worked a case with John only a few weeks before Mary's death, and everything had seemed just ducky.
"John," he said, after he felt an appropriate amount of time for crying had passed. "When did you and Mary start fighting?"
"What does it matter?" John said harshly from behind his hand.
"I need to know. I haven't got enough information."
"Married people fight. . ."
"Yes, you said that before, but she hadn't ever threatened to leave before, had she?"
"Well, no. It was never that bad before." A deep sniffle, then John disengaged their hands to pull out a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket to swipe at his face.
"Then when did it start getting 'that bad'? Was it just out of the blue?" Sherlock persisted.
Another sigh from John, then he said in a shaky voice, "I suppose it had been getting worse for a few weeks."
"A few weeks?" Sherlock latched onto the information hungrily. There had to be more to the story! "Was there something specific that made her angry?"
"Well, one night—"
"What night?" Sherlock interrupted excitedly.
"I don't know." Another sigh, an eye roll, then John pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his calendar. After scrolling back for a few seconds, he said, "I suppose it was. . . the 7th of July." (Sherlock smoothly covered his recognition of the date) "We went on a date that night. During dinner she was tense. I tried to get her to relax, but she kept getting more and more annoyed with me."
"But she didn't say why she was tense?" Sherlock pressed. John shook his head.
"She was upset with me, but I couldn't figure out what I had done wrong. When we got home, she didn't want to. . .um. . . you know."
Sherlock wrinkled his brow. John was looking away, cheeks turning red. Embarrassed? Why? "No, I don't know," he snapped, and waited impatiently for John to enlighten him.
Finally John gave an exasperated snort. "Have sex. She didn't want to have sex. God, I can't believe I'm telling you this."
Sherlock waved away John's embarrassment. "Was this unusual?" he demanded.
"Well, yes, I suppose. She said I wasn't 'being supportive'. She went around the house pointing out all the things I had done wrong, or hadn't done, all the ways I had. . . failed."
"She was angry over housework?" That sounded unlikely to Sherlock, especially given the timing, the same date she had met up with "Star" for the first time. He felt a duty to tell that to John, but then he would have to explain his reasoning, which might lead to some tricky territory, considering John had specifically asked him not to investigate.
John shook his head. "Not just that. It was. . . everything. She said I wasn't emotionally available, which I know is true, by the way."
Sherlock didn't even know what "emotionally available" might mean, but it seemed an unlikely reason for a person to decide to leave. And there had been no overnight bag among Mary's effects. "Did she take a bag with her, the day she left?" he asked abruptly.
"No, we had been shouting at each other all morning, and she just said she was leaving and took off. She texted me that evening, that she needed time to sort things out. Now I think she probably sent that text just before. . ." John made a half-hearted gesture toward the river.
"But doesn't it seem odd—"
"Sherlock, please," John interrupted. "I'm done being interrogated," he said firmly.
Sherlock clamped his lips together. Mustn't tell John what he had found. Better to simply carry on quietly. If and when his investigation led to a conclusion, then he could tell him.
While he was thinking through this, he looked up and discovered John was watching him curiously. Oh, shit. Was his face giving him away? "What—" he started off innocently, but John shushed him.
"Don't talk. Just breathe," John said shortly.
It seemed an odd request, but Sherlock complied. John leaned in and tipped his head to the side, and after a few seconds Sherlock realized what he was listening for. Oh, that.
"You're wheezing," John said with a frown. "Has that been happening for long?"
"A while," Sherlock admitted. "It's nothing serious."
"I never noticed before. Time to quit smoking."
"I did. Weeks ago."
John's eyebrows went up. "Oh? I'm sorry, I suppose I haven't been paying attention."
Another few seconds of John listening and Sherlock trying to control his breathing, then John said, in a much gentler tone, "I scared you today, didn't I?"
"Um. . . a bit, with the alcohol and the gun."
"Hm. I noticed the gun went missing. Tell me you didn't chuck it into the Thames."
Sherlock shook his head. "It's somewhere safe."
"Good. I'd rather it were out of the house for a while. You should come into the surgery tomorrow and let me do a proper exam. It's probably asthma."
"I'll do it if you go talk to someone."
"I've talked to you," he said with a shrug.
"John, I'm rubbish at this. You need to talk to someone who knows what to say back. A. . . counselor, or therapist or something," Sherlock insisted.
"That didn't work out so well for me last time," John said ruefully.
"Then find someone else. Please. I'll pa—Mycroft will pay for a private therapist for you."
John's rueful expression turned into a wry smile. "He will, will he? That's terribly thoughtful of him." He stood, brushed off the seat of his trousers, and held out a hand to Sherlock. "Ready to go home?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock responded, taking the offered hand but mostly clambering to his feet on his own. Things would be much better now, he was sure of it.
Card #7
Mary was leaving John
Reason? Housework?
First fight same date as meeting with Star
Sherlock leaned over his bed with the new card in his hand, unsure of where to put it. Mary leaving John didn't make sense. Why would she pick a fight about the washing up? It was obvious that she was being blackmailed by the mysterious man who had obtained the photo from Wood. Was she trying to protect John and Gracie by bowing out of their lives? In a puzzle filled with wrong pieces, this was the most wrong one of them all.
He stumbles down the slick embankment to find Mary sitting on the rock in her red coat, which is stained and muddy at the hem. She greets him with a bright smile, and he starts running, over the uneven rocks and sand toward her. As he gets closer, the mud climbs up the front of her coat, over her shoulders, until her neck and chin are grey-brown and dripping. Just as he is almost within arms' reach, her smile drops. She stands abruptly and turns away from him, starts walking slowly toward the churning water. "Mary!" he cries, but she only walks faster. He wants to catch her, but his feet feel like they are mired in cement.
When she reaches the edge of the river, she turns and says simply, "Goodbye, Sherlock." Then she steps into the tumbling water and is instantly swept away.
"Mary!" he screams. "MARY!"