Title: A Promise
Chapter: 3/5
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".
"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins."
1 Peter 4:8 (NIV)
"Why do you do that?"
John muttered his accusation so low that Sherlock did not even hear him properly as Mrs. Hudson retreated wearily back downstairs. "What?" the consulting detective asked lackadaisically as he reclined lazily in his armchair. In his defense, the man had just been discharged from a nearly six-month hospital stay only an hour before and even returning to Baker Street had been extremely taxing. However, for some reason, seeing him sitting there in his inside-out t-shirt, checkered pajama bottoms, and dressing gown, wiggling his toes happily in his socks and treating life so nonchalantly as if no problems existed, pissed John Watson off.
"Why do you do that?" John repeated firmly with a jerk of his head in the direction of Mrs. Hudson's departure. "Why do you treat her like that?"
He paused but only for a beat.
"She's not your housekeeper," he chided. "She's your landlady. No, she isn't just that. She's your friend. She's your carer. She's someone who loves you. For God's sake, Sherlock, she's like your own mother."
John's voice had steadily built as he let his observations be heard.
"She's not your plaything to be exploited each time you feel like taking the piss out of somebody or need something to fuel your stupid transport. She's a person too. With feelings, Sherlock - though I doubt even understand what those are. You can't just make demands of her and expect her to bring you tea like it's her job. So why don't you –"
He was shouting now and realised it with a horror.
"I'm sorry," he immediately said. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry. Sherlock..."
He trailed off, covering his face with his hands and groaning into them. It took a few moments regain his composure. Sherlock had watched him steadily as he had vented with an expression of shock; but when John finally sat back in his chair, the detective's face was only lined with deep-felt concern.
He probably thinks I've finally lost it.
John cleared his throat. "Sorry."
Sherlock gave a short nod and then clasp the arms of the chair firmly, drumming his fingers against them. John lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.
"Have you talked with her?" Sherlock suddenly inquired apathetically as he picked a piece of lint from the cuff of his dressing gown.
It was John's turn to play ignorant.
"Who?"
Sherlock stopped only to give him a "Really, must we?" glare before continuing to remove the lint from sleeves of his gown.
John swallowed evenly. "No."
"Why?"
"You know why."
"You know," Sherlock considered for a moment, "really, I don't?"
John felt a deep-seeded rage boiling in his belly, the same rage that had fueled him that infamous night at Baker Street. He swallowed it down this time though and tread cautiously.
"You should," John said curtly.
"Because she shot me?" Sherlock suggested, his hand moving subconsciously to feel the tiny scar on his chest.
"That's good. There's one."
"And the other?"
John pressed his lips firmly together. He did not want to say it; it too should have been obvious. She had lied to him about who she was, what she had done, and for everything she had stood. That alone was reason enough never to trust her again.
"You should talk to her," Sherlock offered gently.
"So you've been telling me," John pointed out, feeling as if this was going to be a rehash of the same conversation that had played out repetitively since that night.
"And have you done it?" The detective seemed to be intentionally prodding John in the still festering wound, and the doctor did not appreciate the stimulation.
"No."
"Why?" he demanded yet again.
"You know why," John spat again, his voice picking up volume.
"And yet you refuse to do anything about it."
"What is there to do?" John asked, suppressing a half-laugh. "What's done is done."
"You'll be spending Christmas with her," Sherlock pointed out.
"I'm spending Christmas with your parents, Sherlock. And you. The only reason Mary is going to be there is because we're still a couple by name only." John sighed before continuing. "I don't see why she has to come though. They haven't even met her."
"She is staying here - at Baker Street - with me - in case you've forgotten," Sherlock admonished. "She is my guest and has nowhere else to go for Christmas.*"
"I didn't kick her out, Sherlock...if that's what you're trying to imply," John retorted. "She left."
"She needed someone to go with her to her appointments, checkups, ultrasounds. To help her manage things. And a man that isn't even the father of her child cannot be relegated to oversee all that. Therefore, Mrs. Hudson was more than obliging as a stand in."
"What? For me?" John snapped, a righteous anger building again. "Don't put this on me. Or I swear –"
"Oh?"
Sherlock seemed innocently oblivious to his anger – or perhaps acting to only infuriate him further.
"Arguing isn't going to get us anywhere," John admitted.
"I agree."
"Then...fine. Let's stop."
John grew quiet again. Sherlock sat calmly across from him, staring intently as if attempting to deduce all he could. John watched curiously as apparently the data returned inconclusive. Sherlock's expression flickered from intense concentration to one of extreme pity. In fact, John thought he looked almost sad, a good proper, heart-wrenching sad. Never had John seen such an intense emotion on his friend's face, and it made him extremely uncomfortable.
"Why? Why do you persist on getting me to talk to her?" John wanted to know. "She shot you."
"Yes."
"You almost died."
"Yes."
"Then why?"
"I think I have made my position quite clear, John. Mary is not the enemy here. The real enemy is Magneussen. Your efforts and energy for anger should have been concerted upon him, which they have not. And all the while he continues to prey upon the weak and defenseless, ruining lives, marriages, families, all in the name of power, corruption, and greed - all because Charles Augustus Magneussen wants a new little plaything to exploit to do his bidding. Because he can."
After such an extreme transition from sadness to anger, John began to wonder if Sherlock was truly alright. Perhaps it was the fact that he suddenly appeared completely exhausted; this could factor in to the manic mood swings.
Sherlock took a deep breath and steepled in fingers beneath his chin.
"'Love covers a multitude of sins'," he said after a few minutes time.
"I'm sorry?"
"You asked for a reason why you should talk to Mary. This is my advice. 'Love covers a multitude of sins'."
John blinked readily at the man's words, completely affronted.
"Oh, so now you're telling me I should talk to Mary because 'my love' should be enough to erase her past?" he spewed, attempting to keep from laughing. "What happened to 'all emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things'?"
"I never said what type of love stands opposed to logic, now did I?" Sherlock observed confidently.
John gave a small laugh of disbelief and actually began to relax. "Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?" he asked, not angrily, but wearily.
Sherlock smirked. "The point I'm trying to make, John, is this. You may not esteem Mary Watson with the same respect and blind trust that you once did. Nevertheless, she is still the woman you've chosen to be your wife. The woman you love. She is Mary Watson.
"'The two people I love and care about most in this world'?" Sherlock quoted quizzically and John felt a sudden urge to turn about and look towards the kitchen where he had said those words so many months ago. "I would hope that sentiment still remains fixed – unless it was not genuinely expressed in the first place. 'Love covers a multitude of sins'. I like to think 'it' covered mine. Or – at least – that's what I've been led to believe."
John laughed. The statement seemed ridiculous. But as Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow, he realised the detective was not joshing. Sherlock waved in his direction. "You're still here, aren't you?"
John's smile rapidly faded. He had forgiven Sherlock months ago. He had allowed Sherlock back into his life. He had put to rest the fact that Sherlock Holmes willfully led him to believe he committed suicide by toppling off a rooftop, left for two years, and then pranced right back into his life, eager for acceptance, dismissive of the undue pain his deception had caused. John sat comfortably in his chair unable to speak. Did Sherlock really think he had not – that he had never truly forgiven him? Surely not…
"Sherlock, I – "
"Yes, I know."
That seemed to be confirmation enough, but John still felt ashamed that he had even let his best friend carry the weight of doubt. Of course he had forgiven him.
"Then, how are Mary and I any different?" Sherlock voiced, seemingly reflecting John's own thoughts.
The best and the wisest man I have ever known...
John swallowed thickly and raised his head, meeting Sherlock's piercing gaze with one of equal intensity. It was Sherlock who broke first, heaving a heavy sigh. "You want to get me something for Christmas, John?" he ventured. "Talk to Mary. Or at least reasonably consider it."
John let out the air from his cheeks.
"Okay," he said, his mind rebelling against the need to concede; but his heart spoke differently.
Sherlock seemed pleased, or at least, content for the time being with this admission, and revealed an easy smile.
"So. 'Love covers a multitude of sins'?" John mused aloud. "Who said that? Aristotle?"
"Saint Peter, apparently," the detective confessed. "It's in the Bible."
"I didn't know you were religious."
"I'm not," Sherlock said quickly. "But you don't venture to the reaches of the earth without coming into contact with a smorgasbord of thoughts and ideas."
Sherlock had been tight-lipped on his time away from London. John had not been quite sure if it had something to do with his involvement with MI6 in dismantling Moriarty's network or Sherlock's own personal disdain for bringing up the chemical defect of the losing side. He did know, though, Sherlock had apparently spent quite some time in a Buddhist Monastery tucked away in the mountains somewhere.
"What do you think? About the Bible, I mean?" John ventured.
Sherlock gravely considered the question. "Inconclusive, for the time being" he finally admitted. "But I'll let you know when I reach a final decision."
"Yeah. Do."
Because if there was a God, He certainly did not feel very real right now.
Mrs. Hudson chose an opportune moment to return with the ill-gotten biscuits and tea. "Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock announced cheerily, "just the woman I need."
Suddenly springing to his feet, Sherlock promptly snatched the tray from Mrs. Hudson's hands. Depositing it on the side table, he turned quickly to the central table and began fiddling with his IPod deck.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Don't. You'll hurt yourself again."
"Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson," he exclaimed as loud, lively music began to play. "I've been cooped up in a dark, dank hospital for nearly six months. I need to 'get up and dance', as they say on the telly."
Sherlock nearly whisked Mrs. Hudson off her feet as they begun waltzing about the room at a breakneck pace, the woman fretting and protesting as she attempted to keep up with the consulting detective who seemed as agile and limber as ever. John chuckled from his chair as he watched the spectacle - a natural, easy chuckle, unlike anything he had done in months.
Sherlock was right. He still loved that woman. Reconciliation seemed the furthest thing from reality, though. It seemed impossible that his love could be enough to ensure it.
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Then maybe - just maybe - that love could enough. Maybe love could not necessarily cover sins - but instead help bring about healing from them. His logic was still quite jumbled in his brain, but this thread of thoughts was something to consider, at any rate.
Mrs. Hudson lamented the boxstep. Meanwhile, Sherlock attempted to quicken his pace as the tempo steadily increased. John leaned forward and snatched up a biscuit. Mrs. Hudson had gone through the trouble of bringing them. Best not let them go to waste.
* My sister and I have the headcanon that Mary came to stay at Baker Street while Sherlock was still at the hospital. I highly doubt Sherlock would have let Mary handle those months of pregnancy alone. To us, it seemed to make more sense based on the way things play out at Christmas.
Thanks for reading!