Title: A Promise
Chapter: 4/5
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: I apologize in advance for the length and significant amount of internal dialogue in this chapter. It asks tough questions; not all questions are completely answered - those are for future events to work out. But I hope it helps to give a fresh perspective. I definitely enjoyed writing it.
Enjoy!
"Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better."
William Shakespeare
John Watson was not sure if he had the correct address. The tiny cottage seemed far too ordinary to be in the possession of the Holmes family. He climbed out of his rental car, examining the little maroon house curiously. Everything seemed quiet inside and out. No doubt he had been the first to arrive; it was still early. That had been what he wanted. He had no way of anticipating the events of the day. Mary would be here, and he would have to talk to her. He needed time to prepare.
Pocketing his keys, John hurried to the door, lest Mr. and Mrs. Holmes think he was loitering in the drive. He raised his knuckles to knock, but the door unexpectedly flung open.
"Oh," Mr. Holmes greeted in a mixture of bemusement and surprise. "You're here." He opened the door a bit wider and called into the interior. "John's here!"
"Oh, let him in, Siger. Don't dawdle on the doorstep," Mrs. Holmes voiced drifted out.
Mr. Holmes stepped aside and bid John enter with a smile. John nodded appreciatively as he stepped into the warmth of the cottage. Mr. Holmes, wearing a bright red bowtie, showed John wear to hang his coat in the mud room while Mrs. Holmes appeared with a hug and kiss for him. "You're early," she exclaimed. "No one's here yet. Where's Martha?"
"I think you mean 'Mary', dear."
"Oh, yes," her momentary confusion followed by a frown disappearing. "Of course. Mary. Where is she, the dear thing? How many months along is she now?"
John pressed his shoulders back and cleared his throat. "She should be…eight months now."
It suddenly occurred to him he had not seen Mary in a few months and her figure must be drastically altered now by the child – his child – growing inside her.
"Eight months. Bless her heart. Is she having cravings?"
John really could not say. Thankfully, Mrs. Holmes continued without as much as a pause for an answer. "I had the most horrendous cravings with one of them. Sherlock, wasn't it?"
"I think so," Mr. Holmes agreed sagely.
"I ate the most ridiculous food combinations – things that would turn your stomach to even think about."
And John silently started to wonder if epigenetic influences in the womb could very well regulate one's food choices later in life.
Mrs. Holmes touched his hands. "Good Lord, you're freezing," she exclaimed. "Come in here and get warm. Siger was just about to start the fire. Weren't you, Siger?" Mrs. Holmes led John into the adjoining room while Mr. Holmes disappeared out the front door to apparently collect some firewood.
"No one's here yet," Mrs. Holmes stated again. "Sherlock and Mycie are on their way, though." John caught his breath as he attempted to repress a grin at Mycroft's family name. "Do you want something to drink? Of course, you do – after that long ride from London." Mrs. Holmes started down another hallway that must have led towards the kitchen. Suddenly, she ducked her head back in again.
"Where's Mary?"
John bit his lip as he considered what was best to say. "She was held up in London," he finally decided. "She's coming with Sherlock."
"Oh, that's nice." Mrs. Holmes disappeared into the kitchen, and John was allowed a bit of breathing room.
He made a circle for a moment around the sitting room, imagining this would be the backdrop for his conversation with Mary. Little over a month ago, he could not have imagined it. He would have not put himself in a position where he had to be under the same roof, let alone the same room, as her. But as weeks melted into months, he started to wonder if his righteous anger was worth it, or even justified. She had lied to him, yes. She had shot Sherlock and nearly killed him. Yes, again. But he had not exactly given her the opportunity to explain herself fully. Neither had he been the least bit understanding. He found it hard to grasp the concept of being sympathetic to her plight. Taking on an entirely new identity was a dangerous thing; but it would have been unnecessary in the first place if she had not fallen in with whatever agency that wanted to harness her skills.
Intelligence agent
A.G.R.A.
Liar.
She was all of those, or had been.
His wife.
Mary Watson.
Mother of his child.
She was also all of those as well. The duality of her nature seemed perplexing. The fun-loving, sunny, compassionate Mary Morstan who had charmed him, made him laugh again, and brought him out of the one of the darkest periods of his life simply could not be the adrenaline seeking, high stakes, former secret agent who shot his best friend all in the name of protection – his protection. It seemed so wrong; but now…
John sighed as he looked at the Christmas lights draping the mantle, reminding him of the season for tidings of goodwill and joy, forgiveness and peace. The irony his and Mary's meeting would have been arranged for today. He would not have even been here if not for Sherlock.
The best and wisest man he had ever known, indeed.
Somehow John had managed to be present during one of the Holmes parents' visits. Then things had escalated very quickly without his consent. No one could ever say a Holmes was the least bit overbearing.
"You should come have Christmas dinner with us," Mrs. Holmes had offered. "You and your wife – what's her name again? Sherlock?"
"Mary," Sherlock answered when John remained silent.
"Yes, John and Mary, both of you, should come," she had encouraged pleasantly. "And bring the baby, of course."
John attempted an answer. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. Really. But I don't…"
"They don't have a baby…yet," Sherlock had cut across him in offering his clarification.
"I thought you said they were having a baby, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes chided.
"Not now. I meant in the new year."
John had found the conversation uncomfortable, considering his position with Mary these days.
"Well, now, no need to be smart, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes had reprimanded. Then she had turned graciously to John, placing a maternal hand warmly on his arm. "You really must. You and Mary would be a lovely addition to our celebrations."
John flashed a tight smile, resigned that this Christmas meeting was now inevitable.
"Don't you know having a baby typically takes nine months?" Sherlock had quipped, taking the tension away from John.
"Yes, I do, thank you," Mrs. Holmes huffed, affronted. "I had two of them myself. You'll do well to remember that."
"I'd rather not," Sherlock had replied drolly, a comment which quickly produced an expression of heated admonishment across Mrs. Holmes's features.
If looks could kill…
John raised his head as Mrs. Holmes entered with a glass in hand. "I've brought out the brandy just for you, dear," she informed him, pressing the glass into his hand. "I usually keep it hidden. Mycroft has a particular fondness for this particular vintage, and he has been known to overindulge. He mustn't, you know. His weight."
John masked a snigger by taking a rather large gulp from his glass. Mr. Holmes reentered with several logs in hand, and Mrs. Holmes immediately began to direct the placement of them accordingly. She was not rude or condescending but rather meticulous in her habits; and Mr. Holmes only seemed too happy to indulge. A marriage of minds, it seemed.
Had that been what he had seen in Mary?
You did see that and you married me.
Had it been a marriage of minds, or rather of two broken people who had found each other in the most unlikely of circumstances and learned to trust one another? Well, that least one of them had learned how to trust.
He had been trying to come at this mess from Mary's perspective, but the same issue kept causing him to stumble. He had trouble envisioning the Mary who had held him and comforted him after the most vivid of PTSD-linked dreams would be willing to pull a gun and shoot someone in cold blood, walking over their cold corpse as if she had just given them the time of day. Then what was she? Had her lies been a heartfelt attempt to protect him from baggage that would do him more harm than good? Had her shooting of Sherlock been done with the best intentions, though it had been a gross miscalculation on her part? Could he accept that? Could he forgive her of those terrible mistakes she had committed out of fear in fullness of love? Could he live again, with her, knowing that there was a time in her life she had been less than honorable, and, though she now had left it behind for a life that included him and a baby, it would always be a part of who she was?
"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life," she had said.
Could he live not knowing why?
"Everything about who I was is on there," she had said of the drive now sitting snugly in his pocket. "If you love me, don't read it in front of me."
"Why?" he had quipped none-to-kindly.
Her voice had broken.
"Because you won't love me when you've finished…"
Because you won't love me when you've finished.
He had maliciously thought to himself that night, "What makes you think I love you now?" He knew he had been wrong though. He had loved her and would continue loving her. Sherlock had been right. He had chosen her. Mary Elizabeth Watson. The woman she was, the woman knew loved and married, and the woman she was that night at Baker Street were not three different people. They were one. Mary Elizabeth Watson.
"Mary, when I say you deserve, this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable," Sherlock had said of her during the wedding back in May. John was certain Sherlock had not known of Mary's identity during the wedding speech. The Best Man had complimented her then and continued to do so, even after her actions had sent him to the hospital for nearly six agonizing months. The best and wisest man John Watson knew was he not? Should that not have been prerequisite enough for him to trust him completely?
Upon further reflection, John realised how little he knew about Sherlock Holmes's past either. There had been the issue of drugs. That had only really been relevant when they had shared a flat. Sherlock had never elaborated; John had never asked. John did not even know if it had been a full addiction to the substance and the thrill it provided or a tantalizing experimentation when boredom became too much. All he cared about was now the drugs never happened again. There had been danger nights and the little incident in the drug den at the start of all this madness, but right now Sherlock Holmes's previous drug addiction was not an issue for him.
Neither was the previous life experiences that had shaped him into becoming the world's only consulting detective in the first place. He had not even known the Holmes parents were even alive until a year ago. Now, he stood in their sitting room, watching them lay the fireplace, surrounded by family memorabilia and sentiments that highlighted Mycroft's brilliant and dutiful progression to Oxford and into government service and Sherlock's unconventional one with a dash of violin, chemistry at Cambridge, and childhood adventures with a glossy red dog thrown in.
So why did Mary's former intelligence work continue to be an issue for him?
And why Sherlock's deception and lies following the infamous Reinchenbach fall continue to hold him back?
If he had always been apt accept those he cared about at their face value so readily, why could he not seem to apply it to his new predicament?
"I'll go put dinner on, then," Mrs. Holmes announced, pulling John from his heavy contemplation. "I've got to get the bird in the oven and the potatoes roasting or we'll never eat. And you know how cranky Mycie can get when he hasn't eaten."
John reminded himself to be kind. "Can I help, Mrs. Holmes?"
"No, John. Be a dear and sit in here with Siger. I can manage for now at least."
With a whirl of her shawl, she disappeared for the kitchen, and John was left with a very practical-looking Mr. Holmes. "That's my wife," he commented. "Always on the move."
John allowed himself to laugh this time. "Sounds like someone else I know."
"Shall we?" he motioned towards the couch. John readily complied. Mr. Holmes clasped his hands and crossed his hands with all the dignity of Mycroft but looked as languished as Sherlock did when pottering around Baker Street without a case. John sipped his brandy, awaiting a suitable conversation topic to arise. Mr. Holmes apparently thought it best to continue his train of thought. "She's really quite lovely. People think she's hasty, brash, even a little snarky – which she is sometimes," he whispered confidentially, "but she really only has one's best interests at heart."
Mr. Holmes struck John as a very private sort of man, a man who kept mostly to himself. So to hear him talk with such open admiration of his wife surprised him. John adjusted his position on the couch. "You two must get on then," John addressed Mr. Holmes earnestly.
"Oh, yes," Mr. Holmes agreed. "We've had our little spats over the years though. One time it got so bad she locked me out of the house for a week. I doubt Sherlock remembers that. He was only a baby then."
"A week?"
"Yes," Mr. Holmes nodded. "You know, I don't even remember what it was about. Probably something silly. Dora seems to take issue with the nonsensical from time to time. But I do remember how we made up."
John shifted uncomfortably. Had Sherlock told them? Did they know he and Mary were having martial issues? The conversation seemed to begin out of the blue and had taken an awkward turn. John was not sure if he wanted to hear the rest. Quickly, he finished the rest of his brandy.
"She loves music, my Dora. I think it's the art in her blood; her grandfather was a French painter. But, anyway, I went out and had music box made for her. It played our song – Bach's first cello suite; it's a song they played at the concert where I first met her. I had the music box custom made to play it and sent it to her. Three days later, I received a phone call from her, asking me to come home. Apparently, she had run out of milk in the ice box, and Mycroft could not be fully relied upon the watch Sherlock while she went to the market. It was only later she told me if had all been a ploy. The music box had really prompted the call. Personally, I think the inscription brought her around."
Now John was curious. "And what was the inscription?"
"'Love is patient'."
John blinked, his chest tightening a bit.
Mr. Holmes continued. "'Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"
"We might have had our differences," he concluded. "But I still loved her. And she still loved me. Nothing could take that away from us. I just think – from time to time – we needed to be reminded of it."
John nodded knowingly, his breathing coming easier now. "Those were…good words," he remarked.
"I came across that one day in reading and stored it away," Mr. Holmes explained, tapping the side of his head. "I thought I may need it one day to get back in Dora's good graces. I was right."
John chuckled, actually amused.
"Siger, you aren't telling one of your insect stories again, are you?" Mrs. Holmes suddenly called from the kitchen. "The last one about the pin worms had Reverend Foundry squirming the rest of the evening; I'm sure he received a proper chaffing. No need to traumatize John on the first visit."
"First visit?" John questioned, turning to Mr. Holmes.
"My wife has taken it into her head to attempt to adopt your child as her grandchild. She isn't getting any younger. We've given up hope on Mycroft, and honestly marriage and Sherlock seem the antithesis of one another. So unless we adopt one…"
"I see," John nodded thoughtfully with a rueful smile.
Mr. Holmes leaned a bit closer. "I suggest you ward her off while you still have a chance," he advised. "Else, you'll never have a moment's peace. She's bound to be the overindulgent type."
"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."
Mr. Holmes rose, and John followed suit. "Would you mind if I went for a walk?" John asked. "I could use a bit of fresh air and your property looks wonderful."
"Be my guest."
John excused himself and exited through the backdoor into the cool morning air. He started out determinedly; his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his left hand rolling about the pin drive between his fingers. He knew what he must do now. It had been apparent to him all along, but he just could not put it into words. Mr. Holmes had helped with that. Now, he only needed to be certain what he was going to say to Mary.
He had to prepare the right words.
He loved her. And though he still did not know how to go about trusting her again or understanding her actions completely, he knew he needed to make amends.
He had to start making steps in the right directions to repair the relationships he had unforgivably abused.
He laughed to himself, the ridiculous coincidences in his interview with the Holmes parents too glaring to be planned.
He supposed that God had a sense of humor.
And He sometimes moved in mysterious ways.