When John Watson first saw Mary Morstan, she took his breath away. He liked the sound of her voice on the phone, but he hadn't expected her to be beautiful. She was in her early thirties with wavy red hair extending halfway down her back, sparkling green eyes and just the right amount of freckles. She was pleasingly curvy and knew how to dress to play up her assets. John had to keep reminding himself to look at her face.
"Dr. Watson, I presume?" Mary said from the corner booth.
"Please, call me John," he said, shaking her hand. John eased into the booth and they made small talk about the restaurant, the weather and movies being released that weekend. After their pizza arrived, John brought the conversation around to business.
"So how long was your dad on The Storyteller?" John asked, sprinkling parmesan cheese to his slice.
"Fifteen years. He figured that was a good place to stop and he wanted to retire while he was still healthy enough to enjoy retirement."
"Did the show have another host after him?"
Mary shook her head, swallowing a large bite of pizza. "No, when he announced his retirement, the BBC decided the show wouldn't be the same without him, so it went off the air."
John clenched his fists and half-growled, "Why didn't you go to the media with any of this before?"
Mary's eyes watered. She spoke softly, struggling to stay calm. "My dad was so ill last spring. He'd had cancer for some time, but in March he really started going downhill, and by the time of Moriarty's trial, he was a dead man walking. I'm an only child and my mum has Alzheimer's so there was no one to care for him but me. Most days I didn't have a minute to myself. I didn't even know about Sherlock until after my dad passed away." She paused and then looked up at John with mascara running down her cheeks. "I wish I had said something. Maybe I could have…"
Bloody hell. Sherlock, I know you'd want me to berate her but I just can't stand to see women cry. John flipped a switch in his brain and went into Doctor Mode, using the "professional with a creamy centre" tone he took with irate patients and their families. "It's all right, Mary. You didn't push him."
"You're not angry with me?" She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.
Not as long as you keep crying, damn you. "I'm angry at the whole world," he said honestly. Pulling back, he looked her in the eye and continued, "I'm trying to prove that Rich Brook was a fraud, and to do that I need to take this information to the media. If I do, you're going to be hounded for interviews and tabloids might make up rumours about you. I'll do my best to shield you, but I can't protect you from everything. Do you think you're up for it?"
Mary sighed. "If it was just me, I would. But I'm worried about my mum; some days she doesn't even remember that my dad's passed on. I can't have reporters badgering her."
John thought for a moment. "I have a friend who might be able to protect your mum. If he agrees to keep the media away from her, will you help?"
"Yes. I don't want the world to forget about my dad," she said, looking him in the eye.
"All right, I'll talk it over with my friend."
The two sat in silence for a moment. Then Mary spoke. "John, I hate to pry, and this might not be my business, but I've been wanting to ask you something about you and Sherlock…"
"We weren't a couple," John said, mildly exasperated.
"Actually, I was just wondering how on Earth did you become the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes?" Mary said with a twinkle in her eye.
John gave a relieved smile and began, "A month after I was invalided home from Afghanistan, I ran into my friend Mike…" then launched into the story of how Mike had introduced the two of them, how he'd thought Sherlock was an infuriating git, but he'd stuck around because, "Believe it or not, he could be charming once in awhile, and whatever else he was, he was definitely not dull."
When John finished his story, Mary told him about her father. "Everybody thought he was sweet and grandfatherly, like on the show – and he was – but he also had a mischievous streak," she said. "My dad was not fond of the press and he used to put on funny accents when reporters called. Last February, one of them called three times in the space of an hour. The first time she called, he pretended he was Irish, the second, he pretended he was Scottish, and the third time, he had her convinced he was a cattle rancher in Texas! I don't think the poor thing ever caught on!"
The two of them continued to exchange stories and John found himself laughing more than he had since Sherlock jumped. God, I feel like I'm drunk, and I haven't touched a drop. With the bill settled – John insisted on paying – they walked out together.
"So, erm, I have next Friday off," John said. "Maybe we could get together for coffee and I could let you know what my friend says about protecting your mum?"
Mary smiled. "That sounds lovely. Even if he can't help, I'd like to see more of you."
John watched Mary walk away, not caring a toss if anyone saw the goofy expression on his face. Then his phone buzzed, dragging him back to Earth.
I need to speak with you. -MH
OK. Should I come to your office? –JW
Get in the car. – MH
The last text arrived just as a black car pulled up next to John. John rolled his eyes. Not the bloody power complex again!