At his next date with Mary, John couldn't help thinking of his argument with Mycroft. He tried to stay in the moment, but his mind kept wandering. (What if Mycroft is right? What am I doing? Maybe there's a reason the Holmeses want to run off all my girlfriends.)
"Something's bothering you," Mary said as John absently picked at his Pad Thai.
The doctor feigned innocence. "What makes you say that?"
"We've been here fifteen minutes and you've hardly touched your food. Either you've suddenly lost your appetite – and I don't think you're capable of losing your appetite – or something's bothering you."
John continued to sullenly poke his noodles. Mary held his hand across the table and said, "Talk to me."
"It's Mycroft," he grumbled, not looking up.
"Sherlock's brother? What about him?"
John sighed and tossed his napkin onto the table. "He doesn't trust you."
She shrugged. "So what? From what you've said, he doesn't trust anybody."
"He thinks… well, he thinks you're hiding something from me. We had a huge row about it the other night. I told him I didn't believe him, of course, and I got him to back off."
She surveyed John's expression. "But the man is the British Government and in the back of your mind you think I really can't be trusted."
Guilt written on his face, John protested, "No! It's not like that!"
Mary rubbed her temples. "John, there's something I need to tell you, and I understand if you don't want to see me anymore. I was hoping I could keep this a secret, but I'd rather you heard this from me than from Mycroft."
A thousand possibilities raced through John's mind, each worse than the last. (She's on the run from the Mafia. She's a drug dealer. She's…)
"In 2003, I was arrested for protesting the war in Iraq."
"What?"
Red-faced, Mary continued. "I was in Uni and protesting on the campus. Things got a bit out of hand and I punched a police officer that was harassing my friend. Spent a night in jail since Mum and Dad wouldn't bail me out."
John blinked. "That's it? You got arrested at a war protest?"
Still not looking up, Mary said, "Yes. I was afraid to tell you since you're a veteran…"
John glanced over his shoulders then leaned in conspiratorially. "I was never in favor of the Iraq War either. I thought America made up the rationale out of whole cloth and Blair was just being a lapdog to the Yankees. But," he said, straightening, "If they'd ordered me to go to Iraq, I'd have done my duty and gone."
"You were against the Iraq War? Then why did you join the army?"
"I joined years before the Iraq War. There's been a Watson in every war Britain's fought for the last 250 years, and I grew up listening to my dad tell stories about all of them. I couldn't allow the tradition to end with me."
The two sat quietly for a moment and then John took her hand and asked, "So, really, that's it? No other Earth-shattering secrets?"
"No," she said with a smile.
"Good. For a minute there I was worried you'd had Jimmy Hoffa under your bed or something," John said. Both of them snickered, and then he continued, "This is excellent Pad Thai. Want a bite?"
The next morning, John awoke tangled up in bedsheets and Mary's arms. As he lay watching her sleep, Sherlock crept into his mind. John thought of how the detective had insulted so many of his dates, how he had never understood the point of sex or romance and tried to keep John away from both as much as he could. John wondered what Sherlock would think of Mary. If he were still alive, would he try to scare her off like he did the others? Would she allow him to scare her off? Or would she take it in stride? Would he be able to keep them both?
As Mary dozed, John sighed wistfully and tried to fight off the sadness swelling in his chest. She was everything he'd ever wanted. He imagined the two of them moving to the countryside, having a couple of adorable children, and growing old together. A part of him wished that Sherlock were here to wreck that future, and he hated himself for it.
After his girlfriend went home, John sat going over his e-mail. The volume of messages he'd received from Sherlock's supporters and former clients had been overwhelming. Between ferreting out the truth about Rich Brook, his job, and the occasional date, it had taken him the better part of a month to read all of his e-mails. He had almost all the information he needed about Moriarty's alter ego, but it wasn't enough to speak against Moriarty; he needed to find people who could speak in favor of Sherlock.
Dear Dr. Watson,
I'll always be grateful to you and Sherlock Holmes for solving the mystery surrounding my father's death. If there's anything I can do to assist you in clearing his name, please let me know.
Henry Knight
Dear Dr. Watson,
Several years ago, Sherlock saved me from a stalker when the police refused to do anything. I am happy to lend a hand in spreading the truth about him.
Violet (Smith) Morton
John read several dozen similar messages. It might not be feasible to get every one of these people to participate in a press conference, but maybe that wasn't necessary. He could take a few to the press conference with Mary and Angela and then post the e-mails from the rest on his blog. Hopefully that would get reporters interested in their stories and get a little more exposure.
Now, who should go to the press conference? Henry Knight, certainly; he'd been in front of the camera before and could handle himself. The young men from the Geek Interpreter case had agreed to come forward, but two of the three were a bit socially awkward. Still, any awkwardness on their part might prove that the conference wasn't staged. Since he hadn't been present for Violet Morton's case, John decided to ring her up and see what she was like.
After introducing himself, John asked Violet about Sherlock. "You said Sherlock saved you from a stalker?"
"Yes, every day I'd be out riding my bike, and every day, when I rode by the same spot, there was the same bloke. At first I didn't think anything of it, but after a week or so, I noticed him trying to follow me on his bike."
"Trying to follow you?"
Violet smiled as she said, "Yes. I was training for the Ironman Triathlon, so he could never catch up to me. That's why the police dragged their feet in the investigation; they figured that since I could out-pedal him, I wasn't in any danger."
"Idiots."
"That's what Sherlock said. He found out more about the bloke and it turned out he was a right nutter; he'd recently been released from a mental hospital and had a reputation round the neighborhood for torturing small animals. Sherlock had one of his homeless friends disguise herself as me to trap him. The nutter planned to kill me if he ever caught me! Sherlock saved me and God knows how many other women by putting him away."
"That's amazing! Do you think you could tell that story at a press conference?"
"I'd be thrilled. Just give me a few days' notice; I'll need a babysitter."
After e-mailing Henry Knight and the Geek Interpreter boys, John stretched out on the couch and was about to read a medical journal when the phone rang. He recognized Chris Stamper's number immediately.
"Mr. Stamper! What can I do for you?"
"John, I have some new information," he said, his voice sounding lighter. "I'd like to help you clear Sherlock Holmes' name."
John stammered, "That's, that's wonderful! Mary Morstan and several of Sherlock's old clients have agreed to speak on Sherlock's behalf, and if we can get them all together and call a press conference, I think we can put this thing to bed."
"Agreed. How does the second Friday in December look for everyone? Fridays are good days for human interest stories, especially at Christmastime. Everybody wants to see something happy."
"Sounds grand! I'll call the others."
John was about to start dialing when his phone rang. (Mycroft? What's he want?)
Mycroft said, "I see I was able to convince Mr. Stamper to assist us."
John growled, "If you have cameras in the flat, so help me God I will smash them to bits and feed them to you!"
"Your flat? No. Stamper's office? Yes."
"Lying to me will only increase the number of metal bits I put in your cupcakes," the ex-soldier warned.
The posh man rolled his eyes. "I'm on a diet, thank you. But threats aside, I have a question. Does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?"
John thought for a moment and then replied, "Yes. I only knew him by reputation; we were never properly introduced. One of the medics said that just before my third tour started, Moran tore through the field hospital slapping men with PTSD and calling them cowards, even if they were wounded. He tried dragging a few back to the battlefield, too! I heard he was dishonourably discharged for that."
"I saw the report in his file. So you're familiar with what he's capable of?"
"More or less."
"Good. He's Moriarty's successor."
John blinked. "How did you find that out?"
"By interrogating the man he hired to frame Sherlock. Watch the news tonight; the man's identity may surprise you."
After Mycroft hung up, John turned on the telly. Within a few minutes of flipping around, he found the press conference in which Scotland Yard announced that Tim Nabors had been charged with the kidnapping and all charges against Sherlock Holmes had been dropped.
Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, he murmured, "I told you we'd solve the puzzle, Sherlock."
A/N: The incident that got Moran discharged is a gross exaggeration of something General Patton did during World War II.