A/N: Here be the past Mary!lock referenced in my tags.
He looks good, and, much like Janine, he knows it. He's wearing expensive leather shoes, an obviously bespoke suit, and a sinfully tight button-up - aubergine - but the wind ruffling his hair gives him a more relaxed air than the clothing would otherwise imply. "It disrupts the Work," he goes on in response to her encouragement, that last word clearly capitalized. "Dating distracts him and makes him, oddly enough, more snappish rather than less. You'd think a man getting a leg over would be happier in his conquests but apparently…" he glances at Mary, "none of them seem to quite come up to his standards."
He shrugs as if he's completely baffled but Mary knows exactly what he's getting at. Before she can make up her mind as to whether to be annoyed or pleased at the implication that John isn't over her, he offers Molly a brief greeting and flicks his eyes over Janine in that dismissive way he has of summing people up. Good to know some things haven't changed, Mary reflects, even as she bristles at him for whatever deductions he's made and is doubtlessly about to share with the group.
"This is Janine," Molly blurts out before Sherlock can say anything - keeping him, Mary notes with rising interest, from voicing those deductions out loud. "We've been friends with Mary since she was pregnant with Rosie, but of course you've already deduced that." She gives a nervous titter, which Sherlock frowns at, but he remains silent. Which is even more interesting, since it's obvious (to Mary, at least) that he has quite a lot he wants to say.
"Pleasure to meet you," is all he does say (obviously not meaning it, at least to Mary's ears). He accepts Janine's extended hand and gives it a firm, but brief, shake before returning his attention to Mary. "Might I have a moment to catch up with an old friend of my own?"
Janine and Molly both look at her; Mary nods and the two rise reluctantly to their feet, Janine ostentatiously downing the last of her drink before setting the glass back on the table. Molly gives hers a quick swipe around the rim with a napkin she's fished from her pocket-book, then sets it unobtrusively next to the half-empty bottle of Ouzo.
Mary's eyebrows rise as Sherlock settles himself into Molly's abandoned chair and reaches out for the bottle, pouring a splash of the Ouzo into the glass she cleaned and then sipping from it. He grimaces and sets it down, but Mary senses that it's important that he'd made the effort, and wonders if he's nearly as oblivious to Molly's charms as her friend seems to think he is.
Abruptly, without preamble, Sherlock speaks. "I've spent a very interesting half-hour with your front desk clerk. He was quite happy to show me pictures of you and Rosamund over the years." Not surprising, that; Ajay's been with her ever since she purchased the place with the money her aunt had left her after her passing ten years ago, and Rosie's had him wrapped around her little finger since their first meeting.
"Judging by the physical evidence of Rosamund's appearance, it's unlikely that I'm the father," Sherlock goes on, "but of course I'll submit to a DNA test." He raises his mobile. "I've already asked Mycroft - you remember my insufferable brother, yes? - to get Molly Hooper access to the local hospital to perform the tests. I should hear back from him soon."
"Tests, plural?" Mary inquires with a raised eyebrow. She wonders if the note of wistfulness in his voice at his dismissal of himself as a candidate for Rosie's father is real or imagined, but she is absolutely not fooled by the stiff formality with which he pronounces Molly's full name. She's important to him, and not just as some kind of asset to 'The Work'. She may not have spoken to this man in over twenty years, but she still recognizes an attempt at hiding deeper emotions when she sees them.
(If only Janine weren't as good at that as she was, then her friends would remain none the wiser about her own hidden 'deeper emotions' for a certain hot-headed, cheating, lying little hobbit of a man…)
As if reading her thoughts (or, more likely, her microexpressions), Sherlock says blandly, "Of course John will submit to a DNA test as well, and the over-eager Dickie has already made his willingness obv -"
"David," Mary corrects him, concealing a smile behind her stern tone. "His name is David and you know it, Sherlock. Stop being so passive-aggressive. He's a very nice man and I treated him very badly." She shrugs. "But then, I guess I treated you all very badly by not letting any of you know about Rosie or ever trying to find out which one of you is her father. But I had no interest in being a burden to anyone," she adds firmly.
"And of course you didn't exactly have the best role model when it comes to parenting," Sherlock says.
She simply nods her agreement, but can't help but be impressed that he's remembered that much about her. "I was determined to raise Rosie on my own, true, but I was also determined to do a better job of it than my mum had." She offers him a wry smile. "Not sure how well I've fared in that area."
"She's obviously well taken care of, feels confident enough of your continued love for her to search out her father on her own even against your own expressed disinterest in learning that truth at this late date. And she's a very clever young lady," he adds with something that sounds suspiciously like admiration. "Sending out the invitations without your knowing about it, using a coded name in the return address so we wouldn't know the name of the bride-to-be until opening the envelopes...clever enough," he muses, "that I question my original assertion that she couldn't be mine based on specious physical dissimilarities."
"Well you've swallowed a thesaurus or two since we last met," Mary laughs, feeling a bit uncomfortable now that her suspicions regarding his hopes that he might be Rosie's father have been confirmed. "You used to be a lot more informal, Sherlock - or should I call you William?"
He offers her a lop-sided grin and one-shouldered shrug, as if needing to balance one asymmetry with another. "Only if you want me to call you Rose. But," he leans back in his chair, visibly (deliberately?) relaxing his posture, "that would imply we were interested in a return to a past relationship we both know ran its course long ago."
"Yeah." They share a reminiscent smile, and Mary lets go of any lingering doubts as to her feelings for this man - or his for her. "We had fun, though, didn't we?"
"We did," he confirms, with a distant look in his eyes that tells her he's remembering that fun just as fondly as she is…
1997
Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight
Won't somebody help me chase the shadows away
Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight
Take me through the darkness to the break of the day
- Abba, Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)
They meet outside the London Blackfriars train stop, or rather, almost literally run into one another there; she steps into the street without looking and he nearly hits her with his motorbike. Luckily for them both they share quick reflexes and keen eyesight; he yells at her, she yells back at him, and the next thing he knows she's riding behind him, her arms around his waist as he takes her on a tour of a city she's only visited once or twice.
She tells him about the man who broke her heart; he pretends he doesn't care but in the few hours since he's met Rose he's reluctantly felt an affinity for her. She waves away the joint he offers at the pub where they've stopped for a drink and bite to eat, but doesn't stop him from lighting it or give any signs of disapproval as he smokes it. Point one in her favor; he has enough people in his life lecturing him and telling him what he's doing wrong and isn't interested in adding another to the list.
Point two is that she doesn't go on and on about the arsehole with the secret fiancée, just mentions it as her reason for being in London when she's supposed to be getting ready for a visit with some distant relations at some location he immediately deletes. Relatives are boring, holidays are boring, but Rose is...interesting. So he deduces her, as much to gauge her reaction as because it's almost an instinct for him to do so. Tells her about her absent mother and unknown father (offhandedly offers to find either of them if she wants, which offer she politely but firmly declines) and the older relative who'd taken her in. (Aunt rather than grandparent but that's just details.)
She tells him he's an arse; he nods agreement and takes another long, slow inhale of his joint. "Aren't you worried about being kicked out?" she asks, as he's taken no pains to hide what he's smoking.
He shakes his head. "Nah, the owner's a - well, not a friend, but someone who owes me a favor or two so he pretty much lets me do what I want. Within reason," he concedes, remembering the time he tried to shoot up at this very table before being dragged into a storeroom to 'poison y'self in private, y'daft bugger'.
He leans forward, planting both elbows on the beat-up wooden table top. "Do you know what you need, Rose?"
She mimics his pose. "What's that, William?"
Only half-seriously he replies, "A good shag to get over the wanker you followed here. Then, when you've been properly rogered by someone who knows what they're doing, then you find him and confront him. Or not," he adds with a careless shrug.
He's less than shocked when she looks him dead in the eyes and asks if he's offering or just observing.
He shrugs again, but his heart is pounding a bit harder at her challenging expression. "Personally if I was you I'd just bugger off to Finland or wherever it is you said you were supposed to be going and find another bloke to shag there but yeah, if you're interested, I'm offering." He gives her his most devil-may-care grin and she grins it right back at him.
"Got a place of your own, Posh Boy, or are you still living at home with Mummy and Daddy?" she asks, showing off her own impressive deductive skills.
So they end up in his dingy flat on Montague Street, and spend the rest of the night and most of the next day making love, eating leftover takeaway and just...talking. She's fascinating for someone who's lived her entire life in a boring place like Brighton Beach, working at a hotel and attending school and apparently making a habit of picking up the wrong types of men.
He counts himself in that category and is frank about telling her so. "Then who should I be picking up?" she asks idly as she sits back in her chair and sips her coffee. They're back at the pub he'd taken her to after that motorbike ride through London's most interesting (to him) sections, waiting for their fish and chips. The one fancy drink the place offers is a strawberry daiquiri, and he notes the way she recoils when the waiter offers it to her.
He orders a couple of pints of lager for them instead but for once refrains from commenting on her reaction, despite the way his mind is racing through the possible reasons for said reaction.
The first and most obvious is that it's a drink she shared with Arsehole Ex, but he can't rule any of the other possibilities out without asking her to confirm them and before he can do so… "Fuck!" he exclaims as the door to the pub opens.
Rose cranes her neck around to see what's got him obviously upset, but he says nothing, simply rises to his feet and glowers at the be-suited, brolly-clasping, obnoxious, over-protective ponce strolling oh-so-casually toward them. He stops at the table, favoring Rose with a distant but polite nod before turning his attention to… "Sherlock," he says. "There you are. I suppose you know what comes next now that I've located you."
He nods jerkily, arms folded protectively across his chest, meeting Mycroft's supercilious look with a scowl. "Rose, Mycie, Mycie, Rose," he grinds out. "You have your arsehole, I have mine."
He realizes even as he says it that it doesn't come out nearly as sneering as he intends it to, but it's too late to take it back and Rose at least has the decency not to snicker at him. Mycroft's raised eyebrows are, however, as bad as any laughter would have been, and the git knows it.
"Say your goodbyes, little brother," Mycoft says. "The car is waiting outside. I've already informed our parents where you'll be spending the next ninety days. You'll enjoy it; it's on the Sussex Downs. I understand they have beehives or some such nonsense. Something you'll enjoy studying."
Rose gives him a long, considering look, then ostentatiously turns her back on him and rises to face Sherlock. "Sherlock's a good name, far more interesting than William," she says quietly. "Good luck at rehab." She rises on tip-toe and kisses him on the cheek.
He closes his eyes, not watching as she starts to walk away, then opens them in a flash as he hears the door open. "You already know the tells for a cheater," he calls after her, watching as she hesitates in the doorway. "Obviously you can also spot a reckless arse with no direction in life except getting high and having fun. Find someone the exact opposite of both and you'll avoid some of the mistakes you've made this summer."
She doesn't turn around, but she nods acceptance of his words and then she's gone, out of his life forever - or so he believes at the time.
The Present
"So, you mentioned Mycroft," Mary says, sipping the last of her Ouzo. "I guess that means the two of you aren't quite as, erm, at odds as you used to be?"
Sherlock shrugs and rolls his eyes. "I suppose," he says grudgingly. "And before you ask, it's three. Three times I went through rehab before it stuck. Then I found The Work -" there are those capital letters again, Mary thinks with amusement "- met Lestrade and eventually John…"
"And Molly," Mary interjects with a raised eyebrow. She notes the way his eyes flicker at the sound of her friend's name and she hides a quiet smile behind her hand under the pretense of rubbing her upper lip. "She never mentioned your name but I'm positive you're the arse who 'misunderstood' her when she tried to ask you out for coffee last year."
"Molly Hooper," Sherlock says, with immense dignity - and once again enunciating her full name as if invoking a deity - "is a useful contact at St. Barts, a colleague and occasional assistant in The Work and nothing more. The coffee thing was an actual misunderstanding," he adds with a glower. "No need for air quotes, Miss Morstan."
"Yet you trust her," Mary is swift to point out. "She says you had her text you test results, which means she has your mobile number and as I recall you weren't too keen on giving that out to anyone, at least not back in the day. Not only that, you said you'd have her run the DNA tests rather than just leaving it to the actual hospital staff here to do it."
Before Sherlock can protest her deductions, they're interrupted by the arrival of another of her past suitors - David, this time, looking apologetic. "Sorry to interrupt," he says, "but that chap at the bar, Ajay, I think his name tag said? He said you were out here and asked me to tell you that Detective Inspector Lestrade was asking after you."
He shakes his head and raises his hands apologetically as Mary starts to rise to her feet. "Oh, sorry! No, not you, Mary, him." He nods at Sherlock. "He said something about a case, I guess?"
Sherlock rises to his feet, giving Mary a lingering smile as he grasps her hand in (temporary) farewell. "Right, off to help your clueless soon-to-be in-law with whatever petty problem has cropped up here." But there's a sparkle in his eyes that belies his blasé tone, and Mary only has time to wonder if she should be worried about some kind of criminal case popping up on her sleepy little island home before he's turned on his heel and left.
Meanwhile, 3000 Miles Away In London
Mycroft reads the text a second time, then a third, reaching up to pinch at the flesh between his eyebrows. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he tuts, "how many times must I tell you that caring is not an advantage?" He sighs, opens up his laptop and does as his brother has requested, ensuring that this Doctor Molly Hooper is given access to the specified hospital and laboratory facilities, then presses "Send."
He hesitates, then opens a document he's had in his possession the past twenty years. He's not sure how his brother will feel when he discovers the truth Mycroft has known all along, but of one thing he's certain: After this, Sherlock's life will never be the same again.
End note: Once again many thanks to Quarto and Mouse9 for encouragement and reading over these chapters as I churn them out. And additional thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, of course!