Diary of a Doctor's Wife is my new catchall. I am working on a couple multi-chapter tales now, but I find small bits wanting to come out, and so here we are. I must give a general warning of fluffiness, and since the "Doctor's Wife" of title is the Mary Morstan in the 2009 movie, all these will be resident on the Movie fiction site. Two things to remember about my stuff. Often, there will be hurt/comfort, and there will be no 'shipping but the obvious canon-supported relationships.
Six Months
Six months, now, and I was growing concerned.
We had been married for six months, I was growing accustomed to being Mrs. John Watson – the house was shaping up nicely, John's practice was growing and becoming established. Sherlock was an occasional visitor, but in the blur of settling in as a married couple it wasn't until one night – John sleeping deeply beside me – that I realized he and Sherlock hadn't had a single case together since our marriage. Not one.
It wasn't as if the consulting detective had been idle. There had been two fairly public issues he had brought to a close satisfactorily, and John had read of them in the papers, sent congratulatory wires to Baker Street – though I had urged him to deliver the felicitations in person – and retired to his study afterward.
It was puzzling. John had alluded to ceasing his work with his friend once or twice before our marriage, but I thought I had been clear that it wasn't needed. Evidently, my dear husband did not believe me. And yet I knew they still appreciated each others company, for the visits always ended the same way – I would retire to bed and come down the next day to find them both still in the study, with John asleep on the settee and Sherlock wrapped in a blanket making our best easy chair his bed. The room would smell of their tobaccos, the port bottle would be depleted and the wood box empty. I did not have to be a world famous detective to know they had talked all night. But Sherlock had never asked John to accompany him back to Baker Street, or to bring his revolver and join him on some quest.
I would be a poor wife indeed if I had not noticed that. And so, by the end of the winter, it was apparent that something needed to be done, and that I had to do it.
I, too, sent a wire to Baker Street.
The evening was warm for Spring, and we were in the sitting room before supper, reading the post and the paper. I was becoming fond of these times, and learning to be resigned to the interruptions occasioned by the fact I had married a doctor and a good one.
This interruption was welcome, though. Annie knocked at the door.
"Your guest has arrived, m'am."
"Guest?" John looked up, curious.
"Yes, dear. We haven't seen Sherlock in so long, I asked if he'd care to join us for dinner this evening." I was quite casual, as if I hadn't already laid out extra blankets on the settee in his study, set out a bottle of port and made certain there was wood enough for a night's worth of talk.
Let me be clear. I know no other may read this diary but I, however in case I lose my touch with reality in my dotage, I must state now that I was never jealous of Sherlock Holmes' place in my husband's affection. I went to some pains to assure him of the fact, but he was a bachelor with no female relatives to set example, and Holmes was – well – Holmes, and I had the certain knowledge that neither of them truly understood how it was I would not be possessive of John Watson.
Were it another woman that held my husband's affection – ah, that would have been different.
But I loved John, and for me the only requirement of a friend of his was that he love John as well, and I say truly I was content that Holmes did. I sometimes went in memory to that night while they were battling Blackwood, that awful night when I had to fly to John's bedside, hearing Sherlock was wanted for arrest…hearing of the terrible explosion and finding him attended by a white haired doctor with impossibly gentle hands. Sherlock's whole being had radiated concern. He had let me see his face, though, and though I knew I must conceal his identity there were words I had to say to him. And I had made certain he knew my mind.
I was pleased and content to see the eagerness in John's face, and the warm smile on his lips as he greeted Sherlock with pleasure.
"Good to see you, old man!" he said, shaking the damp coat. "Foggy out there?"
"Your deductive powers are coming on apace, Watson," he said, and there was a broad smile upon his face as well. "Ah, Mrs. Watson! Unexpected invitations are often the most pleasing." He came to me and took my hands, regarding me. "You are spending too much time on the upper floor, dear heart. Take more time in the garden, with the warmth coming!"
I had changed my dress, and my shoes. "I'm not asking how you know, you old ferret," I said with affection. "I've learned better. I'd just be embarrassed!"
He let my hands go and gave me a quick grin.
Johns' study was his own preserve. The time in the sitting room was ours, but was gladly shared with Sherlock. This pleasant tradition had developed over his visits, and we have had several lively conversations, the three of us.
"I own I am glad that you married someone an equal to yourself in intellect," Sherlock said at one point to John, it was an offhand compliment but one I have kept to my heart.
Supper was a merry affair as well. Pudding was served and eaten, and then the men were retiring to the study – but this time I asked if I could join them for a few moments. John nodded, slightly surprised. He gestured me in and I took a seat on the settee, moving the blankets off to one side. John noted them and quirked a grin at me.
"Sherlock," I started, smoothing my skirt over my knees "I note that you have not asked John to join you on your recent cases."
I had been planning my approach for some time, deciding that directness was the best option, and this was the best start. I was gratified to see I was right, as Sherlock simply looked at me, face blank. Good. He was listening.
"And John, I don't know where you ever got the idea that marrying me meant leaving your life of intrigue behind."
Oh, my dearest John, he appeared so shocked. I carefully did not smile.
"Now that you are both listening to me, I would like you to hear me out. John, I married you knowing you were a doctor and a detective. Ah…" I forestalled his objection to the term detective with a raised hand. "You are! You may have previously only detected illnesses, but your work with Mr. Holmes has given you skills beyond. Sherlock, I have never insisted that John cease work with you. I admire you for extending to me your courtesy, though you have always felt that I was stealing your friend from you. Know that it was never my intent. I know what it means to John to have you as a friend. I know he counts his work with you as an honour and a privilege."
I saw John smiling at me faintly. Men were always so chary of sharing themselves, or putting words to the emotions that drove them. Sherlock, though, still held his face expressionless, his eyes deep and shadowed. He had looked so at John's bedside, I realized.
"Sherlock, we had a conversation in the hall at Veterans. You must know that I understand equally, my dear sir, what it means to you to have a friend such as John," I had, very briefly, considered saying 'my John'; but that was not my point here and I was glad, seeing his face, that I had not. I left that comment there, but his body relaxed into the chair, shoulders drooped just the slightest, and I knew he understood.
"In conclusion, Sherlock, I would take it as an insult if you were not to come to the door at three in the morning, upon occasion, and require John's presence. And John, I would be concerned for you and for Sherlock – and your friendship - if you did not rise and go with him."
I stood and went to my husband. "John, dear, I married you – all of you, all of your life, and this man is so much part of you, I can't bear for you to lose that. Please, please join him on the hunt again." I turned to Sherlock, who was beginning to smile, perceiving my earnestness. "Sherlock, know that you have here a second home with your brother in bond, at any time. He will join you, when you need your good right arm and a dab shot. Do no longer see me as rival, but as a sister."
I felt myself becoming too emotional, and from the looks the two were exchanging I knew the fire would be burning brightly tonight and the room would require a through airing of tobacco smoke the next day. I bid them both good night, holding Sherlock's hand in both of mine and daring a chaste kiss on his pale cheek, then turned and embraced and kissed my dear husband.
"I love you," he whispered in my ear, holding me, and I tried to quell my fear of losing him to some dark alley or villain with a knife. I had thought long about taking this step, knowing the anguish I would feel were my husband to be badly hurt or killed. I had prevaricated, he was my husband, after all…but I couldn't ask John to be less than he was, and the fear diminished when I remembered the expression in Sherlock's eyes and knew that he would protect my husband with his life if needed. I could not ask more. "I love you too" I said, and left them to their evening.
