Title: A Promise
Chapter: 2/5
Rating: T
Warnings: Discussion of difficult topics such as shooting someone. lying, and historical drug use, minor alcohol consumption, discussions of pregnancy, discussion of an affair
Pairings: John/Mary
Spoilers: For all seasons of Sherlock, especially "His Last Vow"
Summary: "Love is patient; love is kind..." But John and Mary Watson have some serious martial issues to work out. So love might not be enough. A companion piece to "Baby Makes Three" and "His Last Vow".
Author's Note: One of the things I wanted to explore in this story was if John and Mary would have turned to spiritual help during this extremely taxing time in their marriage. I apologize if anyone is offended by talking about the Christian faith, but it was a theme I wanted to explore since I am a Christ follower.
I hope you enjoy!
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
She should have been happy. Honestly, this moment should have been exhilarating. Even her best attempts to be fell flat though. She just was not happy, and it took every ounce of her will-power to keep up the charade that she was.
"There's the heartbeat," Janice indicated, tapping the screen slightly with her knuckle of the free hand. "See it?"
Mary turned her head slightly to get a better view of the monitor. Even though the image seemed a bit grainy, Mary could still see the outline. It was very obvious, the rhythmic fluttering of a tiny heart.
"Your baby has a strong heart," Janice pronounced when she concluded her checks and smiled. Mary attempted to return it, but her heart was just not in it.
"Is something wrong, Mrs. Watson?"
"Oh, no. I'm fine," she lied flatly.
"Wishing your husband could be here?"
More than you know...
"We'll try to schedule your next scan for an afternoon. Maybe he'll be able to get away. What a busy doctor he must be."
"Yeah," Mary half-heartedly agreed.
Janice adjusted the settings as she moved the cool paddle across Mary's exposed belly. "Are you sure you don't want me to tell you the sex?"
"No," Mary said quickly. Perhaps a bit too quickly; Janice grimaced. Mary immediately attempted to retain her charade. "Oh, are those fingers?" she asked, turning her full attention to the screen. Janice was only willing to oblige her curiosity.
Mary Watson left twenty minutes later with another appointment and a few sonogram photographs in her bag and a heaviness in her heart. She stepped out into a dreary, autumn London morning that reflected her mood perfectly. It was September – three months since the domestic in Baker Street – and John still had made no attempt to talk to her about that night.
She supposed it served her right. She was the former trained intelligence agent who shot his best friend and continued to lie to him even after their marriage and her pregnancy. She deserved the anger and mistrust directed towards her. That still did not ease her heartache though.
He should have been there today. He would have wanted to be. The child was as much his as it was hers. She retained a small glimmer of hope that he had been thinking about her today. Sherlock must have told him. Unfortunately, her youthful optimism was starting to wear-thin as September was rapidly progressing into October. And he still had not talked to her about that night.
One choice had been all she needed to make. One choice to ensure the lives of the man she loved and her precious unborn child would be safe. She had never envisioned that night the choice she would be making would not be deciding whether or not Magnussen should continue to live. Instead, she was deciding how to best escape the corner in which she had become trapped. She had chosen poorly.
Mary had been almost as surprised as Sherlock had been when he stumbled upon her that night; but she did a better job at keeping it hidden.
"Is John with you?" she had instantly queried, her mind racing to do damage control.
Gobsmacked, Sherlock had been too slow in answering.
"Is John here?" she had asserted again.
She had known the answer though. Rapidly, she had concluded that John was with Janine. Therefore, she only had moments to act.
"He-he's downstairs."
"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen had spoken up from behind her upon Sherlock's pronouncement, making the predicament quite clear.
It had been a perplexing quandary, one that she had not been prepared to face. Sherlock could not be allowed to leave without being in her strictest confidence. John could not be allowed to find her here. This scene could not play out here in Magnussen's office. Already the vile man had appeared to be reaching for something - his phone more than likely. If she had allowed things to play out naturally, Magnussen would have had her husband arrested for burglary and possible assault, and her ignoble past would have been exposed. She had no choice but to act on her own accord.
"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help," Sherlock had offered as he attempted to step forward. He might have been moving forward to reassure her; but Mary had read his intention otherwise. Presumably, he was going to take the gun from her; he was going to stop her and make her comply - to solve the problem on his terms. She had refused to handle things his way though. She had to figure out a solution that kept everything together until she could work out the best course of action. Above all, John could not find out about her, about A.G.R.A., about her past. Thus, hastily, she had chosen to employ what she considered her best asset.
"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."
The shock-value of her threat and the gun-barrel aiming at his chest were lost to him.
"No, Mrs. Watson. You won't."
So confident, so smug in his assessment of her psychology, so sure of himself. Mary had steeled herself as she assessed her position.
1.8 meters. 60-70 odd kilos. A considerable amount of that weight muscle. Incredible agility. Reflexes like a cat.
Mary had known she stood no chance overpowering Sherlock Holmes. But she needed to keep him silent to buy herself more time. In that split second, she had felt trapped and, as her training dictated, reacted rashly.
Seconds after the pop, she had been unsure if she had actually pulled the trigger. Sherlock's expression had immediately confirmed otherwise. Then suddenly the white of his shirt had begun to stain crimson - a small bullet-shaped hole in the right upper quadrant of his abdomen - and Mary Watson felt the horror of what she had done.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly I am," she said, not without a hint of tearful regret.
The deed had been done though; there was no choice but to follow it through. It felt like an eternity until he hit the floor, him presumably unconscious, his face waxy and ashen. Mary had instantly stunned Magnussen with a powerful blow and called an ambulance.
She thought she had been cautious, aiming pointedly for Sherlock's liver. There was a ninety-two percent survival rate for shots to the liver*.
That was if the bullet did not nick the inferior vena cava.
Which it did.
And that was if the shooting victim was of a solid mental state to fight for life.
Which he was not. She had just betrayed his trust, after all.
When John called her later from the hospital, Mary realised the depth of her miscalculation. He had been talking very fast, she only catching snippets of his logic, but it was enough to cause her to sink helplessly to the titled bathroom floor.
Massive blood loss.
Cardiac arrest.
Flatline.
Restart his heart.
Mary had trouble keeping her voice calm and steady, but luckily John Watson had not been in a state to recognize her own symptoms of guilt. She had never meant to kill Sherlock. Only silence him for the time being. Everything had gone horribly wrong.
John would not let her come to the hospital until there was some more definite news on Sherlock's condition. So that night had stretched out before her like a dry and weary land with no water in sight. She had felt ill as well, though she was unsure if it was pregnancy-related or her own insurmountable guilt. John had called sometime before the sun rose. Sherlock's pulse and vitals had stabilized. But he was not out of danger yet.
Now, knowing it was inevitable to go to the hospital, Mary had dressed. She had no plan. She had only wanted to assess the situation before deciding the best course of action. When she arrived, John had met her with the glorious, yet devastating, news.
"His first word when he woke up?"
She had shrugged as naturally as possible.
"Mary."
He had remembered.
Mary Watson knew her life was never going to be the same.
She had attempted to utilise her former manipulative techniques to keep Sherlock quiet for just a little while longer. But the consulting detective had always had a mind of his own. She should have foreseen he would never intentionally keep something from John ever again, not after fallout of his unexpected return. She should have also anticipated that Sherlock would have offered his services; she was a problem which needed to be solved. Of course, solving her case meant John must know it.
And know he did.
Mary Watson had been devastated that night. She had been ravaged. Her soul had been crushed. Her hopes dashed. Yet, she still could not bring herself to cry even weeks afterward. She kept a tight rein on her emotions.
"People don't need to be lied to," Sherlock had observed a couple days after the interview in Baker Street as she sat with him in the hospital.
"Not even if it protects them?" Mary had voiced quietly and thoughtfully.
Sherlock had considered her words for a moment, no doubt weighing them against his own experience. "No," he had finally decided. "Not even then."
And ever since Mary had been attempting to put right what she had grievously done wrong.
She did not begin her penance looking for redemption. But as John grew increasingly distant and visits to the hospital were daily reminders of the suffering she had needlessly inflicted, she started to long for forgiveness.
Mary felt somehow her view of morality had been skewed. Perhaps all those years of distinguishing right from wrong on her own terms had coloured the way she dealt with the world presently. In those days, survival had been her only prerogative. Now, though, she had no need to survive; she could live. Unfortunately, she had failed to acclimate to this different lifestyle.
An unanticipated shower forced Mary Watson to take refuge in the last place she expected to find herself. Reverently, she entered the church, proceeding to take a seat in the back of a nonexistent congregation. No one seemed to mind her presence. There were only a well-dressed gentleman and elderly woman, both of whom seemed to be doing business with God, and a fellow whom she assumed had to be the custodian who moved around the sanctuary.
For several minutes she felt uncomfortable. She had not thought about religion or God in earnest in a very long time. It had been even longer since she had been inside a church. Her mother - God rest her soul - had attempted to instill lessons from the good Book in her. But with her death came an end to that tutelage.
The atmosphere inside the church felt so tranquil and holy that her ugly, stained soul could not possibly have no place here. The roar of rain on the roof only increased though, until Mary felt it was best to put on pretense and give the appearance of a woman in prayer.
Not that she even deserved to feign communication with the God of the Universe, if He was really who people claimed He was. But as she sat on the hard-backed pew and considered, she began to wonder.
Five years before, she had acquired the name "Mary Morstan" from the graveyard in Chiswick. A.G.R.A. had ceased to exist. She had embraced her new life wholeheartedly. She pursued her dream profession. She lived the settled life for which she had always longed. She met and fell in love with a wonderful man. And now she was months away from having her first child. It seemed far too idyllic. Perhaps that was how she had destroyed it all with one little bullet...why she was willing to use one little bullet to preserve one of the most precious seasons of her life...
The past five years had been an attempt to atone for her sins, but she had not done anything to assuage that debt. In fact, she had committed one to continue presently atoning for them. Was her current predicament judgment? Or a grave reminder that she did not have to remain unchanged? Perhaps, all along, she had been pursuing atonement through the wrong channels...
She did not know how to pray, or if it would do her any good; but anything seemed worth a try. She prayed clumsily. She was crude and unpolished, but she was honest. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, this seemingly distant God felt very real. All she had ever wanted since leaving her life of moral ambiguity was to find redemption and forgiveness. Even, now, she desired rest for her weary soul.
"'Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest**,'" was a verse she had heard somewhere in her travels. It seemed aptly applicable now.
When she finished, her eyes were wet with unshed tears but her heart felt much lighter than it had been in months. She still was not certain what she believed about God; nevertheless, she felt He was worth further her further consideration. She was alone now, except for the custodian who still piddled about making the sanctuary warm and inviting.
"May the Lord bless you, ma'am," he offered to her as she exited, causing Mary to smile softly. She was sure He already had.
Mary arrived to visit her patient just in time for Countdown. The program was blaring from the telly, and she could hear its opening cacophony before she even opened the door.
"Five days," Sherlock greeted her with little ceremony from his supine position on the bed. "Five days in a row I've watched this program. And not once has anyone commented on the fact that this woman is clearly having an affair."
"Well, hello, to you too, Sherlock."
"Look at her," Sherlock commanded with a grandiose wave towards the television set mounted sleekly on the wall. "There are at least seven visual cues that indicate she's suffering from repressed sexual urges and is eying that unfortunate fellow for her next bedmate. She talks superfluously about her husband, her kids, her dog; but she's obviously looking for a bit of spice in her life. On more than one occasion, she's mentioned another male by the name of Gary who is of no evident relation to her. And she's admitted to having more men than women in her contacts. I could go on –"
"Oh, please do," Mary sniggered.
Sherlock cast her a penetrating look, evidently assessing whether or not she was truly mocking him; but he became distracted.
"May I see them?"
"See what?" Mary slipped out of her coat, folding it over the back of the visitor's chair. From the appearance of the burgundy dressing gown which Sherlock currently found himself wrapped in, the presence of a tin filled with baked goods, and bag full of woolen footies propped up at the bottom of the bed, she assumed John had been by that morning with Mrs. Hudson in tow. If nothing else could be said of Mrs. Hudson, she could never be faulted for not showering her boys with extravagant affection. Mary was sure if her baby had her as his or her honorary grandmother, the child would want for nothing.
"You've been to have another scan today," Sherlock clarified, winkling his nose. "You smell like gel. It's appalling."
"You always know how to compliment a woman."
He huffed and held out his expectant palm impatiently. "Pictures. I know you bought them."
Mary sighed as she opened her purse and riffled through its contents. She handed them over reluctantly and excused herself to use the loo. When she returned, Countdown was still blaring in the background, but Sherlock was far more focused on the grainy sonograms.
"So, Doctor Holmes...satisfied?" she asked.
Sherlock held one of the pictures at arm's length and squinted. "It's a boy," he finally pronounced, stacking the photographs together and lying them neatly on the bed.
Mary laughed incredulously, one hand moving protectively to her swollen belly as she took a seat. "You can't possibly tell that from those images."
"If I'm not mistaken, technicians determine a child's sex regularly using the same method."
"I told her not to look."
"Why?"
"You know why."
He grew quiet for a moment, and Mary straightened her spine. She had been careful not to let her emotional state over the past few months be so painstakingly apparent to him. That sentiment was easier kept in thought than in action; he saw everything. Thankfully, he never pitied her or condemned her. Instead, she was sure he felt with her; and here Mary had learned John's assessment of Sherlock Holmes as an emotionless machine had been wrongly applied.
"My parents have invited you for Christmas," Sherlock suddenly announced. Mary glanced up from stroking circles over her stomach, a new past-time when she grew thoughtful.
"They what?" she questioned, perplexed.
"John was here when my parents came to visit," he explained.
"You have parents?" she quipped.
"Yes. I know, hard to believe. I have to even remind myself of it occasionally," he groaned dramatically. "They want you to come for Christmas at our family cottage. I should be out of this wretched place by then, and they apparently want us to celebrate my miraculous recovery."
He paused. "Will you come?"
Mary swallowed. "Will John be there?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
Earlier this morning, Mary might have considered refusing such an outing which was an apparent attempt to throw her and John together. After her prayer in the church though, she knew avoiding the inevitable only did more damage. It might not be what she desired; and it might not end well; but things would work their way out in the end. She just had to keep moving forward.
"Then, yes, I'll come," Mary agreed.
"Siger."
"I'm sorry?" The train of conversation had apparently shifted.
"Siger," he repeated. "It means 'victory army'. It's father's name, and an excellent name for a boy."
"Sherlock...you're just guessing."
"I never guess," he said, affronted. Now, it was Mary's turn to give a pointed look.
"I still think it's a boy," he asserted, restlessly throwing off his covers and sitting up against his pillows. "The fridge. Look in and hand me a carton."
Mary leaned over, opening the small miniature fridge to find several cartons of ice cream. "Double chocolate? Vanilla bean? Are you sure you should be eating this?" she asked as she passed over a quart of double chocolate to him. He promptly retrieved spoons from a nearby bag and attempted to trade Mary a spoon for the carton.
"Yes, and so should you," he encouraged, prying off the top of the tub. "This is the fastest way to obtain the weight needed to leave this miserable place, and you're eating for two."
"That's a misconception."
"Cravings?"
"I haven't had any."
"You look like you could use some," he supplied sheepishly.
Mary grinned. Now she had no choice but to give in to temptation. She reached over and retrieved a carton of double chocolate for herself, accepting Sherlock's proffered spoon. Propping her aching feet gingerly up against the hospital bed, Mary reclined in her chair to watch Countdown with the man she had nearly killed. It was a cliché saying, she knew, and oftentimes used irreverently, but it seemed pertinent.
Sometimes God moved in mysterious ways.
*Special thanks to Wellingtongoose's brilliant analysis "Why Mary did not intend to kill Sherlock" for research on the medical analysis of the shooting. A recommended read!
**Matthew 11:28