This chapter has been posted before, as the original 10th chapter, but it wasn't right so I withdrew it and replaced it with 'A Courteous Kidnapping'. Now I've had some time to look at this properly and do some serious re-writing, I'm ready for Sherlock to address how he is going to cope with Mary.
Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.
Set during 'Watersheds' chapter 4 and expanding on events mentioned in 'Trefoil' chapter 24. Set in January 2014.
Italics with quotation marks indicate internal dialogue.
Trigger warnings: mentions of past drug use
The driver rolled to a stop immediately outside 221B. He didn't bother to open the door for his passenger. In fact he didn't say a word. The only contact Sherlock had with the man the entire journey was the occasional glance in the rear view mirror and the terse order to do up his "Seatbelt, sir."
He was quite sure that none of Mycroft's staff were so poorly trained or discourteous, so the man was acting on orders. Mycroft asserting his dominance again, just as he'd done all day. Dragging Sherlock off a mere four days after his return to be scolded by Mummy and Daddy for being so stupid. Having to confess that no, he had not used drugs while he was away, no honestly. After all, Mycroft had checked even as John was held at Moran's mercy, his physician pointedly examining his forearms and between fingers and toes for track marks, whilst treating the wounds still healing on his body.
Mummy's relief at his safe return was tempered by her disappointment that he'd allowed himself to be placed in such a position as having to fake his suicide. It had raised spectres from years before when he had been missing, living on the streets without contact with his family. She praised Mycroft for his support in helping Sherlock fake his death, and to remain alive during his time away, unaware that the brothers had conspired to bring Moriarty down, Sherlock's leap from the roof of Bart's being merely one painful move in the middle of a protracted game of strategy and subterfuge. As usual, Sherlock bore the brunt of the blame. Mummy treated those twenty eight months of hell as though he'd been on some gap year adventure, instead of tracking down and destroying, sometimes literally, some of the worst criminals on earth.
He'd left his parent's home as quickly as possible vowing never to return. If he had looked over his shoulder as he strode down the path to the waiting car, he would have observed the pride and love that burned in his father's eyes.
Now he was back at Baker Street. His home. His sanctuary.
Damn, John was on a late shift, his first day back at A&E after the abduction. He'd been supposed to have a week off, but they were short staffed and needed his help. As John said, he wasn't really injured and he'd been in the same position before so he'd not sustained any trauma worth mentioning. Yes, of course he'd go where he was needed. That meant Sherlock was all alone with Mary.
Sherlock had never really got along with women. Other than Mummy and Mrs Hudson they'd all seemed quite vacuous to him, or they hated him for his direct manner. As a gender they seemed to prefer false compliments and flattery to his truthful observations. Irene had been an exception, thinking she was luring him in with her naked body, apparently declaring her honesty through her nudity when in truth it was just another obfuscation, used to distract and confuse. It was her misfortune that he was merely enjoying the puzzle she was presenting.
So now he had to deal with Mary. He couldn't drive her away. As John's fiancée she had every right to be in the flat. And John loved her. He would have to accept her because he would not hurt John. John who'd only last night told him he loved him. Sherlock was now convinced that the feeling in his chest, in his mind, in his very blood was his love for John in return. Even if he was mistaken in this new interpretation of these long held emotions, he knew that this feeling for John was something essential that he could not bear the thought of losing.
-0-0-0-
It should have felt strange having this third person in their life. It should be an adjustment. Sherlock had always found new encounters problematic. It could take months to tolerate the mere presence of someone for more than a few minutes, if he ever did. He had no problem collecting acquaintances, members of his homeless network or people who would do him favours; perfunctory encounters of limited usefulness beyond the moment. Used and then filed away until next required, or deleted as irrelevant. Despite the few who more regularly invaded his consciousness, he'd never been able to make the step forward into what he assumed was friendship. It was John who'd finally made it clear only two days ago. John had suggested Sherlock was demiromantic; that he required a strong emotional link to bond with someone, to feel close to someone, even to love someone. He'd spent some of the night investigating on his laptop before exhaustion finally took him. Perhaps this explained his forbearance of the small circle of long term acquaintances whose presence he could tolerate and even seek out: Wiggins, Lestrade, Mike Stamford and, of course, Molly. However, knowing this about himself made it no clearer why he got this feeling of comfort when he thought of Mary, a feeling his logical mind refused to accept. It was an anomaly. She was a stranger, an interloper he needed to deal with. He knew this, yet his emotional response was one of acceptance.
As a child, Sherlock had always struggled with a hypersensitivity to stimuli, finding sounds, sensations, and even other people's emotions overwhelming, like a flood surge blanking out the stronger impulses of logical thought in waves of mediocrity. His own emotions were the worst as they were internal and could not easily be ignored. His own emotional response to excessive external stimuli exacerbating an already intolerable situation. His nanny had not understood his agony, spanking him for his temper tantrums, until Mummy caught her one day and stopped her. He'd been taken to hospitals and doctors for tests. No medical cause and therefore no cure could be found. Medication had been suggested, but Daddy declined, refusing to feed his young son a cocktail of drugs when they had no clear diagnosis. When he had an episode, his parents would be forced to put him to bed in total darkness and isolation until he calmed and finally slept. Especially once his younger brother, Linley, was born and he was often overwhelmed by the incessant screaming of the infant. His own screams as he struggled to process the torrents of stimuli that assailed his mind only adding to the chaos in the household.
To give himself some sense of control, the young Sherlock began devising strategies to suppress his emotional responses, including ways of discouraging close contact with others. Mycroft had also helped, teaching his younger brother to manage the near constant flow of data. The day Mycroft began teaching him to control his mind was a day of great excitement. His brother was presenting him with a new experiment and a way to stop the terrible headaches that left him screaming and crying in torment as over-stimulation spiralled into pain. At first he'd wanted to base the logical construct on a pirate ship, but Mycroft managed to persuade his over ambitious sibling to start simple with somewhere he knew well, perhaps using his bedroom as a model. As Sherlock became more adept, his need for more space prompted a redesign. He would have preferred a ship, but Mycroft had stipulated a need for firm foundations and solid walls. Mycroft had suggested his own model, a castle. Sherlock wanted nothing as staid as a crumbly old castle. He wanted a building befitting a pirate king. The foundations of his Mind Palace were soon in place.
Now he wondered how he'd ever managed before. The cocaine was only a tool to bring isolation to his mind, and speed of processing to his thoughts. He almost shuddered to remember when he occasionally took a weakened dose before going to cases, not enough to isolate him completely, but sufficient to block out the white noise of the city and its denizens so he could focus on a crime scene. Purity of thought was his goal, his method of achieving that he now acknowledged was imbecilic. What he really needed, he now knew, was John, at his side asking him what he was observing, looking at him with pride in his eyes, telling him he was being brilliant and amazing. John's presence enabled him to focus outside of himself. Before he'd learnt to rely solely on his own mind. Now, when John wasn't physically there, he carried a version of John in his Mind Palace. A near perfect likeness who thought nothing of calling him an idiot, telling him to eat, to sleep, or to watch out for that git with the baseball bat ready to swing at your head. Mind Palace John had kept him alive while he was away. Without his counsel Sherlock would surely have died of his own carelessness or starvation.
No matter what, John had to remain. He was essential, both in his Mind Palace, but especially in the real world. If it meant keeping John then he would accept the situation with Mary and do the best he could. If needs be, he could spend most of his time in flat C with his experiments and his clients. After all, his sofa was down there. He'd slept on it more often than his own bed, so it would be no great hardship to move down to flat C.
He opened the door of the flat, removing his coat and scarf to hang on the hook.
"Hi Sherlock. Tea? I've just put the kettle on." Mary called from the kitchen.
"Please." Please! Please? When did he ever answer John with please? This was ridiculous. She was changing him already. And why was it so natural, so spontaneous to respond in such a way?
"I always tell you to say please. It's polite. It shows those that do things for you that you are grateful and encourages them to repeat the action in the future." Mind Palace Mary's voice whispered.
He shook his head, as though the action would somehow dislodge the figment. Mary was a virtual stranger. He never behaved like this with strangers. After all, he'd only known her in person for four days, although he'd known of her since Mycroft imparted the news of John's entanglement with the woman, complete with photo, eighteen months previously.
-0-0-0-
He'd been in Chicago at the time, bored out of his brain as he gathered the final pieces of evidence to bring down a drug cartel that in turn helped finance once of Moriarty's weapons smuggling operations. He was contemplating the suicidal step of shooting the wall, just to alleviate the tedium, when Mycroft's message arrived. The news had hit him hard, although he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd always known John would find a woman, marry, have children, buy a dog, and leave him. But John knew he was alive. Mycroft had told him John had worked it all out. So why would he run off with some woman when he knew Sherlock was making his way back to him, back to Baker Street and the life they'd had before? Perhaps he didn't trust that Sherlock would survive, or perhaps he no longer trusted Sherlock at all. Perhaps Sherlock's betrayal was too much. It made no difference and speculation without data was futile. Sherlock had a job to do. Even if John had no place in his life for him anymore, Sherlock would still protect the man he cared deeply for.
"Oh come on Sherlock, use the word. Say 'love' because that's what it is and you know it. Protect the man you love."
Yes, yes, alright. Sherlock would protect the man he loves to his dying breath. And so Sherlock had. Returning to save John from Moran's bullet, and meeting the curiously intriguing Mary Morstan.
It was only now, as he lay in the long grass of his imagination, with Redbeard's head resting on his stomach, panting and slobbering as always, his fingers caressing the setter's long, silken ears, that he realised, he had been in a relationship of sorts with Mary ever since Mycroft broke the news. He'd had her image linked to John's radiant expression in his mind ever since he'd seen that photo. She'd been there whenever he'd consulted John in his Mind Palace. He'd grown accustomed to her presence. At first she'd said nothing, just lingered whenever he needed John. Before long she was talking, a strange, muted voice that somehow combined John and Mrs Hudson. She'd intervene when John and he disagreed, John insisting on caution and safety so he could get back home, when Sherlock wanted to rush so he could get home sooner. Mary would say "quiet boys", John would stand with his hands on his hips, and Sherlock would surrender to John's demands, reviewing his plan to make it safer. Soon she was reminding him to smile, tip the waiter, be polite, hold the door open, help the old man across the street. All the sage advice that Mummy and then Mrs Hudson used to impart to encourage him to behave more graciously towards his fellow human beings. Mary's advice came at what he thought were inopportune moments, but he followed her words automatically. Only later, once he was back in his safe house, tending his wounds or texting Mycroft's people, would he realise that the little voice had guided him out of harm, or helped him in some way. He'd come to trust Mind Palace Mary almost as much as Mind Palace John.
-0-0-0-
"Here you go Sherlock."
Sherlock roused from his reverie to find himself sat on the sofa, a mug of tea being waved under his nose by a female hand. Without thought Sherlock's hands reached up to grasp the mug, brushing Mary's fingers as he did so. He heard his voice say "Thank you Mary." When Mary asked if she could sit beside him he automatically responded "Of course."
She sat close by him, her mug clasped in both hands as she pulled up her knees and tucked bare feet into the cushions. Sherlock noticed her happy and, yes, mischievous smile, as she blew on her tea and said "This is nice."
He hummed in agreement and took a sip of his own perfectly brewed mug of tea. How could it be perfectly brewed? Only John could make tea perfectly.
"I taught him. When we first met in digs he made the most atrocious tea. It took me a couple of months to finally get it into his thick head how to brew the perfect cuppa. We couldn't go through nights of studying with only me able to make drinkable tea. I'd never have found the time to graduate."
A noise, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh escaped Sherlock. Mary seemed to appreciate it. He continued to sip his tea in silence as he contemplated the woman beside him. She made no attempt to disturb him or engage him in conversation. She just sat quietly, her only movement the sipping of her tea and the occasional wiggle of her toes on the leather of the sofa.
He had touched her fingers when he took the mug and had felt no revulsion, no need to recoil. Usually he could not bear the touch of another unless it was someone he knew very well, like Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. John, of course, was the exception, had always been the exception. John's touch had never caused him to shy away, even after they'd caught a pick pocket on only their second day together. The youth had swung the stolen bag at Sherlock's head after being cornered in a back alley. John had taken the youngster down and sat on him until the police arrived. Just Uniforms, pickpockets not being Lestrade's division. As soon as the cuffs were on, John had come over to Sherlock, deft fingers running pleasingly across his scalp, and gently brushing the slight redness to his left cheekbone.
"No significant damage and no broken skin. Just a little bruising. I saw a corner shop up the street. We'll pick up a bag of something frozen for that cheek to keep the swelling down. They want us to give a statement before we leave. Is that OK?"
Sherlock had looked at John with some bemusement. No-one had ever behaved towards him that way, and, more significantly, he'd never responded to another person in such a manner. He should have been annoyed, fractious. Instead he'd been calm, allowing John to take over, knowing he could trust this man with his care.
And now he had a similar sense of calm with Mary. Mary who taught John to make tea. Mary who willingly accepted him into her home and her relationship before she'd even met him. Mary who had been keeping John company in his Mind Palace ever since Mycroft had sent that image. Mary who John trusted not only with his own life but also with Sherlock's. Mary who had trusted Sherlock to walk into an obvious trap to bring John out safely. Calming, accepting, trusting Mary.
"John told me about you, you know. Right from the start it was obvious. If I wanted John then I had to accept you. At first I thought it would be so hard. From everything John said you sounded an impossible handful, but the more he spoke of you the more it was obvious just how much he loves you, just how important you are to him. And the more I heard the more I realised that you were important to me too. I think I fell a little bit in love with you, with the idea of you anyway. You saved him. You gave him purpose and a home, something he thought he'd lost for good. You nearly destroyed him when you jumped. I think, if I hadn't come along and we'd been able to work out what had happened you'd have returned to an empty flat and a full grave. I'm not berating you. We worked out the why and a bit of the how. You made an unimaginable sacrifice. If I thought you'd been left any other choice we wouldn't be here now. But you were a fool to underestimate him. He kept your secret,we kept your secret, for over two years. He'd do anything to keep you safe. But now you're back and he wants you to stay. He needs you in his life, and I think you need him too. And, truth be told, I want you to stay too. I know women aren't your thing, and I know you're demiromantic so you may never bond with me, but know this. I'm not going anywhere. You make John happy, and what makes John happy makes me happy. He's told you he loves you and you love him. We love each other too. And that fondness I have for phantom you is likely to become something more now I've met you, and you've saved John's life, again. Strange as it may seem there are some of us who find you a compelling proposition. I know it's an odd sort of love triangle, but, I hope you can accept me in your life. Don't push me away Sherlock. Let's at least try to be friends. Please."
Sherlock drained his tea cup and leant forward to place it on the coffee table. He turned and removed Mary's now more-or-less empty mug from her grasp, placing it beside his own. He then turned and did something that caused Mary to gasp with surprise. He reached forward and gently took her right hand between his own.
"Mary, I can never thank you enough for keeping John safe while I was away. And for teaching him how to make tea." She gave a happy little giggle, causing Sherlock to twitch a little smile before he continued. "When Mycroft first told me of your presence in John's life I thought I had lost him for good. My fear had always been that he would find someone worthy of him and marry, leaving me to return to my solitary existence. To return to my home and find it barely changed, to find John so happy, and to be accepted back with open arms is beyond anything I could have expected. You are an exceptional woman Mary Morstan, and I will do my best to make this life of ours work. Not just for John, but for all of us."
Mary smiled, her eyes moist with emotion. "Thank you. That means everything."
They spent the evening talking, eating, and sitting in comfortable silence, Mary reading and Sherlock in his Mind Palace. Mary had spoken of their life while Sherlock was away. Sherlock had told of his time with John before he'd had to leave. They made each other tea and shared a Thai takeaway, a different restaurant than had been used before the fall. Sherlock had tasted genuine Thai cooking while away, as had Mary when she was based in Viet Nam. She knew of an authentic restaurant that delivered and had been using it since moving into Baker Street. Sherlock agreed that, whilst not entirely authentic, it was the best he'd tasted, happily clearing his plate and getting seconds.
John returned shortly before midnight, tired, but happy to have got back to work. He found Mary sat on the sofa, reading, with Sherlock laid out, head in Mary's lap, her fingers stroking his hair.
"Evening love. Did it go alright?"
"Good, yeah good. It was all fine. What did I miss?"
"Nothing much. Sherlock's in his Mind Palace I think. He just lay back and put his head in my lap. He's been like this for a couple of hours. I think he called me John at one point." She shrugged and looked fondly at the dark head resting peacefully in her lap. "There's some Thai in the fridge if you're hungry."
"Starving. Are you two OK?"
She looked up and smiled. "Yeah, we're fine. Had a talk. Yeah, I think we're all good."
John smiled, his relief evident. "I'm glad. I'll just get a plate and I'll join you."
As he dished up, he thanked any deity that was listening for his good fortune. Despite wanting nothing more in this world than Sherlock's safe return, he'd also dreaded the prospect that on that day he may have had to make a choice between the man and the woman he loved. Mary had accepted that possibility and had said she was willing to stand aside, Sherlock having the 'prior claim' as she put it, though he doubted he would have let her. Now he was hopeful that the day would never arise. Smiling, he took his plate of heated food from the microwave and joined his loves on the sofa.
-0-0-0-
Sherlock lay in his bed, contemplating Mary, as he slowly drifted towards sleep. Since he'd met her he'd discovered she was so much more exceptional than his Mind Palace creation. He'd already begun updating and adding to the data he held on her, changing her voice and her mannerisms to match the original. He'd surprised himself when he'd taken her hand, but it had felt comfortable, right. Trusting her while he was in his Mind Palace and allowing her to stroke his head had felt natural. Perhaps caring for Mary Morstan would not be a hardship. She obviously had no qualms about caring for him. She might at least become a trusted friend. Or perhaps Mary would prove to be as meaningful in his life as John. Now, that would be a very interesting experiment.
I don't think Sherlock understands women, how their minds work, how many have been taught to behave in this society. He has a hard enough time understanding most men, even though he has the advantage of being one. Women add a level of complexity to an already difficult communication.
Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciate. Follows and favorites are adored.