Missing Mary
Post "The Six Thatchers"
(Completed)
- ~ - ~ -
The week has been crazy. Filled with a puzzling string of murders that despite appearing to have no connection, were demanded (by Sherlock) to be the work of a serial killer.
They hadn't caught him yet. Sherlock felt like he was close to identifying the correct suspect.
Between chasing suspects, hunting down leads, hosting stake outs, collecting crime scene evidence, and visiting the morgue, John had completely lost track of time.
Mrs. Hudson had volunteered to watch Rosie while they were busy, so the house is relatively quiet when he wakes up.
He rolls out of bed, tucking in his sheet corners like he does every morning. He slips on his slippers, and then heads downstairs to the kitchen to make himself some tea. He stretches after he sets the kettle to boil, covering his mouth as he yawns. He slowly pads down the stairs to pick up the days paper at the front door. He tucks it under his arm, and then checks in on Rosie before going back upstairs to catch the kettle just before it starts piping. He pours himself a cup, and then another for Sherlock, adding some sugar.
He carefully carries it to his room, nudging the door open just enough to peek in. Thankfully he's covered. (There's been a few times where John stopped by to give him his morning tea and Sherlock had completely kicked the sheets off the bed- meaning everything was on display.) He pushes his way in, setting the cup down on his night stand and then closes the door behind him on his way out.
He picks up his tea off the counter, and then settles into his chair, opening up the paper.
His stomach drops when he sees the date, and he nearly spills the tea all over himself.
He shakily sets the cup down on the chair-side table, running a hand over his face.
It's May the 26th.
Does Sherlock know?
John wants to say that it's something he would probably remember, (it had devastated them both) but he can't be certain. Perhaps Sherlock had erased it from his memory.
He stares at the small print.
Friday, May 26th, 2017
Almost mocking him.
To anyone else, it's just a normal day. An average Friday. For many, they might be getting paid today. End of the work week. Enjoy the weekend.
But today is quite possibly the worst day.
Today is the day that Mary died.
It breaks his heart just to think about it.
Just a year ago, he lost the woman he loved. The woman he was certain he was going to spend the rest of his life with. The woman who had his child.
She had a complicated backstory, and it had become troubling at times, but in the end it didn't matter.
She was incredibly intelligent, almost able to outwit Sherlock himself. She had a great sense of humor. She was kind and caring, but could be a ruthless badass if need-be. She was gorgeous, and her smile could brighten even the darkest room. She was understanding. She was loving. She was selfless.
In the end, if was her great qualities that got her killed.
It's so devastating that John can't even react. It's so incredibly heart wrenching that tears refuse to form.
All he can do is sit there in shock.
How could he have forgotten? Even with the busy week, he should've know. He should've felt it.
The loss is insurmountable.
He's not sure how long he sits there, his tea growing cold and the sunlight filtering in through the windows.
Sherlock gets up at some point, blabbering endlessly about something. (Probably the case) But he becomes white noise. His frantic movements across the flat grow undetected. And then he's gone completely.
John eventually finds himself making his way upstairs. And then he's pulling back the covers of his bed, ruining the tight military-tucked corners, and crawling back in.
He stares at the peeling wallpaper, unable to fall asleep.
He wishes he could just sleep the day away. To not have to deal with the grief that this day brings.
He jumps when a hand touches him. He turns, sighing in a relief when he sees Sherlock.
"John. It's past noon."
His statement holds many questions: Why are you still in bed? I swear I saw you up this morning. Where have you been? I thought you were with me up until I got to the crime scene.
John doesn't bother to answer any of them.
Sherlock is silent. His hand gently squeezes his arm, and then he disappears.
For a moment it hurts; his absence. John wishes he would stay. Comfort him. Make him feel better, maybe.
Maybe even force him out of bed and drag him across London on some wild goose chase just to get his mind off it.
He quickly fades back into a stupor, loosing track of time as he replays the memories.
It hurts to know she's gone, and he'll never get her back. He'll never be able to replace her. Never be able to find anyone that's anything like Mary was.
It hurts to know that she left them; that now all Rosie has is him. She'll never have a mother, or at least she'll never get one like her real one. It's a shame that she'll never get to know her.
Mary won't be there to show Rosie the ropes. She won't be there to teach her how to live in this world. Mary won't be there to show her that just because she's a girl, doesn't mean she can't achieve greatness.
He's once again jerked from his thoughts when the bed dips behind him. He doesn't bother checking to see who it is.
Rosie is carefully placed in front of him, and he gently pulls her sleeping form to his chest, breathing in her hair. He places a kiss to her head.
The comforter is pulled up, and John glances over his shoulder, watching as Sherlock joins him under the covers. He's changed clothes since John last saw him; instead of his usual suit, he now wears his pajamas.
John stiffens when he tentatively hooks an arm around his waist, his body sliding up behind him.
John wants to say something, or at least ask what the hell he's doing, but he can't find the will to do so.
They lay in silence for awhile, both deathly still.
"I bought you your favorite Banoffee Pie." Sherlock whispers, breath hot against the back of his neck. It sends shivers up his spine.
John only hums, distracted by the arm that Sherlock has looped around his waist. His shirt has ridden up his stomach slightly, allowing Sherlock's cold wrist to touch the skin of his lower abdomen. And that one point of contact is completely distracting.
"It's down in the kitchen. I put it in the fridge. Next to the rotting swine hoof."
John can't help but scoff, and he knows Sherlock is smiling. He shifts closer, his body pressed up against John's.
John catches his breath when Sherlock's arm tightens around his waist, hand further slipping under his t-shirt; fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of his abdominal muscles.
It's quite for another moment. And then: "I'm sorry, John."
For a moment John thinks he might be apologizing for being so incredibly close, but then he realizes that he's apologizing for Mary.
For the pain that John still feels. For not having done anything when it happened. For not saving her.
There's not much to say in response.
"I miss her too."
John has to take a large breath, squeezing his eyes closed and burying his head in Rosie's hair. The tears are so close to falling.
"I miss her a lot, actually."
They break free, and he can't stop them. His shoulders shake, sobs racking his body.
Sherlock hugs him closer, nuzzling his head over his shoulder. "I'm so sorry John."
He can't help but allow himself to be cradled; craving to just be held and comforted. For someone to just tell him that's it's okay: it's okay for him to still be sad, it's okay for him to cry, it's okay for him to need a hug.
He twists, turning to face him. Sherlock wraps him in his arms, clutching him closer. John burrows his head in his chest, trying to muffle his sobs as to not wake up Rosie. Sherlock hushes him, his hands comfortingly rubbing his back. The hem of his shirt rides up, but this time the electrifying contact of his hands occasionally brushing with the skin of his back goes unnoticed. Almost welcomed, even.
"It's alright," he says.
Those words makes him choke, the flood gates crashing opening. He cries harder, his body shaking.
Sherlock's not usually this comforting. He doesn't show a lot of affection; he doesn't touch people. But today must be different. And John can't help but be grateful.
Sherlock intertwines their legs, placing a kiss to the top of John's head. He almost doesn't register it- but it makes him pause. He pulls away, looking up at him.
Sherlock's own eyes are rimmed with red, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He gives him a sad smile, shifting to wipe away John's tears.
John can only lay there, blown away by his intimacy. This is almost too much- too much to be considered just friendly.
But he can't complain. He's actually... fine with it.
Sherlock's light blue eyes scan his face, and then suddenly he's leaning in, just milliliters from him. John takes a shaky breath, his proximity throwing him for a loop. Sherlock presses in, capturing his lips and simultaneously stealing his breath away.
John's heart beats like wild, completely unsure of how to respond. He's not quite disgusted, but definitely confused. Confused because it's not terrible, and he can't seem to make himself pull away.
Sherlock cups his face, pulling him in. His lips are soft, and move compellingly against his, hypnotic and, surprisingly, smooth. John finds himself kissing him back, mesmerized by just how delicate he is.
Sherlock's the one to pull away first, pressing their foreheads together. It's silent as they breath each other's air.
John is speechless, his heart racing in his chest. He just kissed his best mate. And he...enjoyed it?
More importantly- all thoughts of Mary have left his mind.
John doesn't know what to say.
The initial absence of his lips made his stomach drop like he'd fallen over the edge of a roller coaster. He almost finds himself yearning for more. He feels compelled to drag him back in and kiss him till he can't breath.
What the bloody hell is happening?
"I'm sorry," Sherlock gasps, pulling away.
John grasps his shirt, pulling him back. He searches his wide eyes, trying to figure out what the hell is going on through that giant brain of his.
"Sorry for what?" He breaths, meeting his pale blue eyes.
Sherlock scans his face, confused. "For...that,"
John's heart is racing. How the hell had he never realized that he felt this way about him? For years, people always assumed they were a couple, and John was always adamant about informing them that they were not. Why? Why did he care? What was so wrong about this?
"Don't be."
Everything about this moment seems right; it feels right. To be wrapped in his arms, legs entwined. Snuggled up under the sheets. It's almost desirable, preferred.
Sherlock's eyes are obviously scanning, desperately trying to read the situation. But John knows he's not good at social cues.
So John gently captures his chin, momentarily biting his lip out of nervousness and anticipation. He takes one glance up at his eyes, and then presses in.
This time it's Sherlock who freezes up in shock. But he rebounds far quicker; cold hands immediately moving to grab his face and pull him closer.
It's like a never ending surge of warmth crashing through him in waves. The jittery butterflies that it upheaves in his stomach make him feel like a teenager again; the adrenaline of experiencing his first kiss reoccurring all for a second time. The excitement and passion of his first love.
It's that exact moment, as they're lip-locked, bodies entwined under the covers, just as the significance of his thought hits him, that there's suddenly a babbling above them.
They jolt away from each other like they've both been electrocuted.
Rosie stands behind him, leaning up against his back to look at them.
And parent of the year award goes to none other than John Hamish Watson, for snogging his best mate in the same bed that his 1 year old daughter was sleeping in.
John nearly curses out loud at just how stupid he is, when Rosie speaks up.
"Da-da," she says, clapping her hands.
John looks at Sherlock just to make sure that he heard that correctly. Sherlock's eyes are wide.
"Did she just-"
"Yes, yes she did."
And then celebration ensues. He twists to grab her into a bear hug, tickling her and showering her in kisses. She giggles as he praises her, trying to get her to say it again.
"Dada, can you say Dada? One more time? Da-da?"
Rosie laughs as if he's just made the most ridiculous joke in the world, face scrunching up as she bounces on his chest.
John can't help but smile. He couldn't be happier.
That is until he glances over at Sherlock, expecting it to be Mary laying next to him, thrilled to hear their daughter saying her first words.
Sherlock has a huge grin on his face, and he reaches out to Rosie, who climbs over to tackle him in a hug. The world becomes white noise as John watches them.
He wishes Mary could be here to witness this. She should be here. It's not fair that she isn't. She should be here to hear their daughter say her first word.
Suddenly that giant gaping hole inside of him is back, and it's bigger than ever. He feels empty, numb, bottomless.
And he shouldn't feel numb or empty, not right now, when Rosie's chanting 'Dada' over and over. This should be the single most exciting moment in his life. He should be overjoyed; so incredibly happy that he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Sherlock looks over at him in excitement, but his face falls when he sees that John's been swallowed by the void. He reaches out past Rosie to grasp his hand, squeezing hard. He must say something to her, because she plops down on top of John, trying her hardest to give him a hug.
The tears are instant and immediate. He can't help but wrap her close to his chest and squeeze, burring his face in her thin blond mess of hair. The sobs are uncontrollable.
She's all that he has left anymore. Mary's gone. All he has is Rosie.
He feels a hand brush his arm, and he glances over to see Sherlock sending him a sympathetic smile.
No. He has Sherlock. He has Rosie and he has Sherlock. His best mate, the one and only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes. At John's service, 24/7. And it hits him like a punch to the gut; leaving him momentarily breathless and empty in his chest, starving to be filled.
He reaches out and grasps him by the arm, and the sound of the world comes crashing back down on him as he says these words.
"I love you." He chokes out, squeezing hard, looking him in the eyes.
He doesn't care how Sherlock interprets it; be it John's talking to Rosie, or maybe Mary, or he is talking to him, but he means it as or friend, as family, or actually in the romantic sense. Because the truth is, John loves Sherlock in every way possible. No matter the interpretation, it's correct.
Perhaps that revelation should be world shattering. Perhaps the very fabric of time around him should be crumbling. He should be questioning his very existence, within this universe where he has managed to fall in love with his best mate.
But it doesn't. Somehow it just seems right. As if he's always known this; like it's not life changing. Like he isn't completely and utterly lost as to what any of it means, or how they go from here. It just, feels right, to say it; to feel it.
"Dada!" Rosie cries, and John releases her. She pops up, a frown on her face. She babbles some nonsense, tiny hands grasping his tear-streaked face. She sounds sad as she tries to wipe his tears, babbling endlessly.
"Sur-wok," she shouts, turning to look at Sherlock.
John cocks an eyebrow at him. He grins.
So she says his name too?
Sherlock scoots closer, shifting to embrace them both. Rosie squeals in excitement, bending down to give Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. She claps her hands at her achievement, bouncing as she giggles.
Suddenly there's a crash that shakes the whole room, and Sherlock and Rosie both jump at the sound. It's quickly followed by pouring rain hitting the roof in heavy sheets.
John can't help but smile and laugh at how much Sherlock jumped. Despite initially seeming like she was about to cry, Rosie begins to laugh as well, following suit.
Sherlock shakes his head, burying his face in John's neck. His closeness causes butterflies in John's stomach, and it sends his heart racing in response.
"There's still Banoffee pie in the fridge." He whispers, and John's stomach growls as if on cue.
"That sounds perfect."
Sherlock releases him, and for a brief moment John misses the feeling of being cradled by his body. Sherlock picks up Rosie, and John slowly gets out of bed, head swirling from the lack of exercise and food. It takes a moment for his legs to work, but he manages to follow them out the door and down the stairs.
Sherlock drops Rosie in her high chair, opening the cupboards in search of plates.
"Left of the sink," John sighs, plopping down next to his daughter as Sherlock finally locates the dishes. He wouldn't know where they are, because he never serves himself or cleans the dishes.
Rosie claps her hands as Sherlock grabs the pie out of the fridge, shoving his experiments off to the side. John raises an eyebrow at this, but Sherlock either doesn't notice, or doesn't care. (Probably the latter) He sets the pie down in the middle of the dining table, a wide smile crossing his lips.
This is incredibly strange behavior for Sherlock. He never disregards an experiment, and he never willingly serves food. It's a trivial matter, and he wouldn't dare lower himself to that standard. The closest he gets is occasionally serving John some tea. But that is usually only after he's done something wrong.
And yet here he is, handing out plates and forks, cutting out slices. It almost worries John. What has he done?
Sherlock hands him a slice, and then serves a small slice to Rosie, excluding the hard toffee. Rosie immediately grabs it with her hands and shoves it in her mouth. John follows suit, stomach growling.
A moan slips his lips as the sweetness hits his pallet. This might just be the best Banoffee pie he's ever had.
"Good?"
He nods, shoveling in more.
Rosie chows down, whipped cream, caramel, and chocolate covering her face and hands. Her blue eyes are wide as she licks her fingers, and John can't help but smile.
He finishes his slice, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock has barely touched his. Instead he sits there, fingers steepled, studying him with his pale blue eyes.
John sends him a questioning glance, before thanking him for the pie. It seems to snap Sherlock from his trance, because he breaks away from his position, looking away.
"More?" He asks, grabbing the pan to cut him another slice.
John glances at his plate. "Are you eating yours?"
Sherlock looks at his plate. He drops the knife, scooting his plate over the table towards him.
John sends him a small smile, and then digs in.
Sherlock continues to study him, and John quickly finishes his slice, feeling uncomfortable under his stare.
He stands up from his chair, beginning to clean up. Sherlock cleans up Rosie, setting her in her play pen in the living room once she's clean.
John's washing the dishes when Sherlock comes up behind him, pausing and breathing over his shoulder.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't hover." John says, setting a clean plate onto the counter. Sherlock breaths a quiet "sorry" under his breath, once again surprising John. Sherlock only ever apologizes for big mistakes he's made; not small little mishaps.
What is going on today?
Sherlock breaths in like he's about to say something, but then he's silent.
Finally, there's a "John" from over his shoulder.
"Yes Sher."
He knows Sherlock hates the nickname.
"Did you mean it?"
John sighs, dropping what he's doing and grabbing the dish towel to wipe off his hands. He turns to face him.
"Mean what?"
Sherlock's pale blues flicker between his, scanning his face.
"All of it." He finally whispers.
John pauses, taking a moment to make sure he knows exactly what Sherlock's really asking.
That he meant to kiss him. He meant the passion he put it in it. He meant that he was attracted to him. That he liked him in that way.
But most importantly, that he did love him.
"Yes." He stumbles, "I meant it. All of it."
Sherlock studies him, and the look that crosses his face is one that John has never seen before. He's not sure what to call it.
His mouth pops open, as if he wants to say something, but instead a tear breaks free, quickly rolling down the curve of his high cheekbones. John automatically reaches forward to wipe it away.
Nervousness is suddenly eating him alive. Was that not what Sherlock wanted to hear? His answer must have been truly terrible if it has brought him to tears- the man who is often compared to a stone wall when it comes to expressing (genuine) emotion.
He's just about to apologize, when suddenly he's crushed into a breathtaking hug. He graciously returns it, the anxiety soothing in his stomach.
"You..." his voice cracks in his ear, "love me?"
"Yes," John breaths, squeezing him tight for emphasis.
Sherlock shutters. "No ones...ever said that."
John pulls away, meeting his eyes.
Surely that's not true? Surely Sherlock's parents have told him that they love him.
Sherlock's face says otherwise.
John wipes his tears, and before he can say anything, Sherlock has pulled him close, capturing his lips.
John's insides flutter, his heart throbbing. His kiss infuses thousands of warm, happy feelings throughout his body.
"I love you, John Hamish Watson." He breaths against his lips.
John never could have expected the amount of joy that those simple words could cause him, especially when they came from none other than the consulting detective himself, Sherlock Holmes.
Perhaps today wasn't so bad after all.
May 26th is the day for new beginnings. And new they shall be.
- - - - -
Playlist:
I'm With You (Vance Joy)
Alone With Me (Vance Joy)
The Wave (Colouring)
Meet Me In the Hallway (Harry Styles)