I can never ever say sorry enough for how long it has taken me to update. I know that it is utterly inexcusable, and thank you so much for your patience and your continued support during the hiatus...it seems I am just as bad as the BBC in making you wait for more Baker Street adventures. I assure you that the next hiatus will not be anywhere near as long - it will be two weeks at most. Thank you again beyond words. Happy reading!
Mary was sitting in the corner of the coffee shop admiring a watercolour picture of a sunset over a tranquil lake when her peace was disrupted by the sound of spilling liquid. Then came shocked voices and the stomping of feet. She averted her gaze from the painting just in time to see that John Watson had carelessly dumped his coffee across the once-clean floor, and was now crashing through the door of the café and dashing down the street without so much as a glance at her. Mary stood and stepped forward to follow him – but, though she was curious and concerned about the cause of his sudden departure, she was, admittedly, also upset. Upset by John's foul mood, his distracted manners, at the way that he (and it made her heart ache to admit it) seemed to wish all afternoon that she would simply disappear.
It had been clear to Mary that lately John was growing increasingly tense, agitated, and withdrawn. He still kissed her with passion and care, he still held her protectively, he still laughed and smiled in ways that revealed Mary brought him joy. Yet his voice was sharper than usual, his jaw set more firmly than before, his lips tighter than ever. It seemed that John's distress stemmed from Sherlock for, whenever the detective's name was uttered, John's nose would crinkle very slightly but very perceptibly and his voice would take on such a clipped tone that it almost sounded otherworldly. The fact that it seemed to be Sherlock who was the cause of John's distress perplexed Mary. She knew they were best friends and she feared that something had split their relationship asunder, especially considering how rarely the doctor returned to 221B now and that he had all but forgotten his recent dinner plans with the detective. John would never forget about his best friend – never before, at least. Mary tried to reach out, to open her sweet and steady self up to John so that he knew that he could share his vulnerabilities, his pains, his fears, and his insecurities with her. She was happy to be his foundation. Yet the more that she tried to offer a gentle but assuring hand, the more that he seemed to stiffen and resist her. He was shutting Mary out, and it was downright unfair when all she longed for and all she should be as his significant other was his rock and anchor.
As the army doctor turned down a side street out of view, Mary found she in turn was pulled away from him towards the tranquil watercolour sunset and lake. This discomfort she was feeling, this distress and agitation, was so akin to a very unpleasant memory that she had tried vehemently to push from her mind but that still tickled her thoughts from time to time. Mary rubbed at her wedding ring finger, at the spot where she had once worn a diamond band around it – and, for the first time in a very long while, she thought about the moment she had fearfully fled from her once-planned nuptials because the man she was supposed to spend her life with had started to avoid her at a time when he should have been drawing nearer to her. Then her thoughts turned to the moment she had smelled perfume other than her own deep in the recesses of his dirty clothing. She had set herself free from the horrid uncertainties because she knew that she deserved better. And surely here and now she deserved better too…yes, she devoured John's caring looks and steamy kisses, but she also deserved for John to let her in, not for him to shut her out and withdraw into himself, not for him to run away down the street without so much as a passing glance.
After Sherlock had blurted the secret of Mary's engagement during their disaster of a dinner together, John hadn't asked her about the matter and she had been too nervous to bring it up. Initially Mary had assumed it was because John had been so upset over Sherlock that he had completely forgotten the little tidbit of news about her past. Then she had considered perhaps it was because John so highly valued what she and he had that he did not feel the need to hear about her past. But, as she stood abandoned in the little coffee shop, she started to have more unpleasant thoughts. She couldn't help but think, given John's recent withdrawal, that perhaps his lack of interest in her past was simply a sign that he couldn't bother to care enough about her. Not this again. Please not this again. Things have been good. We have been good. The kisses he has given me have been filled with affection. He has been good to me and we have been happy. He has chosen to spend time with me above anyone else and surely that is telling. We laugh together. We love together. I have been happy and this time surely it is different. His sweet, sweet kisses are honest. I am only insecure from old memories. Mary's hands shook and she found herself frozen to the spot, suddenly terrified.
In that moment of fear and insecurity, she directed her breathing, her spirit, her beating heart, her very core towards the painted lake scene, the artificial snapshot of peace - and everything around her seemed to melt and blend and blur into the blue, silver, red, pink, and orange hues of the watercolour until the storm waging within her was a distant image falling from her memory to a remote place beyond the watercolour lake, far far beyond the warmth of the painted sun, far far beyond her and John and reality and time itself. And as Mary's breathing slowed, as she inhaled the colourful fumes of the watercolour lake and its little painted sky, she exhaled the stresses that she had not realized she had been holding so tightly within her bones. Her eyes gently closed and the sounds of London were lost to her, the honking of horns as traffic sped by outside the café, the clicking of hurried feet on concrete, all of it was lost to her. She was an infant again, new to the world, captivated by its beautiful colours, unaware of its harsh edges, and she felt fresh and invigorated...but she also felt so incredibly lonely. And suddenly the reds and pinks and oranges of the painted sunset turned into fire that made her hot around the edges, and her eyes burned wet and salty fire and –
"It's a beautiful painting, isn't it?"
Mary's eyes shot open and she was once again standing in the quaint little café, trembling and with tears that she hadn't known she'd shed tumbling down her cheeks. Next to her was a soft-haired young woman with a kind face, gentle countenance, and warm smile who was holding a fresh cuppa in one hand and looking up at the watercolour painting that had captivated Mary's soul mere seconds before.
Mary blushed furiously. "Yes, it's a lovely painting," she replied to the young woman before quickly wiping her cheeks to try to cover her emotional display.
The young woman looked at Mary now and concern lit her features. "Oh goodness, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you…um…I wouldn't have come over if…if I'd known…that is…is everything okay? Is there anything I can do…to…to help you?" And then her soft hair was swinging as she rushed to gather up napkins from a nearby table. "Here…" she held them out to Mary.
Mary took the napkins and quickly wiped away the tear stains marking her face. "Thank you," she told the young woman gratefully. "I don't know what happened. I just…life has been kind of stressful lately but I didn't realize just how much so and I was trying to forget about old memories for a moment and…sorry, listen to me blubbering on." She took a shaky laugh and ran a hand through her golden hair. "I'm Mary."
The young woman with the soft hair and the truly warm eyes (come to think of it, Mary didn't know if she'd ever seen such warm eyes before) flashed one of her lovely smiles again. "It's okay. I know what it's like to want to forget things. There are things that I've wanted to forget…people and the painful memories that they have caused…but I've found that it's impossible to forget important things and oftentimes the people and memories you want to forget are important in some way or another…they teach you and they make you stronger and they help you grow and they better you, so you can't really forget about them nor should you really want to. They are important for a reason, after all, aren't they?...Oh goodness, now listen to me blubbering on. Sorry. That's embarrassing…silly me. Mary, you said? That's a lovely name and it'll be quite easy for me to remember right now. Someone very...important in my life has had some…well, let's just say a Mary has stolen his heart…in a sense. Sorry, blubbering again, oh dear. I'm Molly," and Molly offered her free hand to Mary for a shake.
"Molly! Well, that name will be easy for me to remember too. My partner and his friend speak very highly of someone with the exact same name."
Molly's hand was soft but strong in Mary's and somehow the golden-haired woman was filled with peace at this small but very human contact. However, when the noise of a cell phone erupted from Molly's coat pocket, the soft-haired woman's hand drew away to reach for it. Mary was surprised by how cold and empty she felt at the loss of touch. Yet Mary felt even colder when she noticed the distraught look that settled over Molly's features.
"What is it, what's wrong?" Mary asked.
Molly shook her head determinedly, her eyes on the screen of her cell phone. "Oh…it's nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing," Mary said, her tone revealing her evident concern.
"Oh…it's just…my date for the afternoon had to cancel. We were going to meet here, but...well, he's had to stay at work later than expected."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Where does he work that's kept him?" Mary asked curiously.
"St. Bart's. He's a nurse. Working at a hospital, it can be a bit of an iffy schedule…people always need a hospital after all, it's not like you can open and close as you please. I know. I work at St. Bart's too. That's how he and I met." Molly gave a light smile at that, as if recalling the moment that the nurse and her had placed eyes on each other and sparks had flown.
For a second, Mary considered asking if this Molly knew a John or Sherlock; she remembered that John and Sherlock's friend Molly worked at St. Bart's too. But then Mary pushed the idea aside, for surely Molly was quite a common name. There must be quite a few Mollys in London, after all.
"It's fine…he says we will reschedule…it's just…it was supposed to be our first date and I was so looking forward to it. Anyway, there's no point in my being here now…I guess I'll just be off. Nice to meet you, Mary." And then her soft hair was flying over her shoulder as she made for the door.
Something within Mary's stomach recoiled. "Wait!" she cried out before she knew what she was doing.
Molly halted.
The golden-haired woman ran her hand through her hair nervously again before continuing. "My date…I guess you could say he cancelled last minute too. I have a latte and you have a cuppa and it's really lovely here…we could sit by the window, enjoy our drinks, and watch the sun set over London."
Molly beamed and Mary took another moment to admire how beautiful the young woman in front of her was. "Sure. I'd like that very much…I adore your scarf by the way, it's just lovely and it's my favourite colour." The soft-haired woman reached out to touch the sunshine yellow fabric wrapped around Mary's neck.
"Really? You're kidding! It's my favourite colour too, but I've never met anyone else who fancied it."
"Mm-hmm. I've loved this shade of yellow since I was a child. It makes me think of summer. And I must say, it's a particularly nice shade on you," Molly replied, her eyes appreciatively scrutinizing the scarf.
Mary flushed with pride at that. "I…um…I actually made it myself."
"Did you? Oh goodness, I've always wished that I could make pretty things!" Molly cried, looking at Mary with a mixture of admiration and envy.
"It's quite simple really. Let's sit and I can tell you how."
So the two women chatted the afternoon away as the sky turned hues more vibrant than any watercolour painting could ever capture. And that night, as Mary headed home with Molly's phone number freshly saved in her cell phone, she thought that she'd never ever seen a more beautiful London night in her entire life. She had just discarded her coat and settled on the couch for some telly when her cell phone vibrated nearby and lit up with a text message:
Thanks for a great evening! Sweet dreams, and talk very very soon. Oxox! ~Molly