A light rain was misting as they walked down the street. John cuddled Mary's hand in his right hand and held an umbrella over them with his left. She felt let out of prison after a week of living at Sherlock's. Other than going to the clinic each day, she had not stirred out of the Baker Street flat since the "incident". Poor John had not even had the diversion of an outside job but had been attending physician, chief cook, and housekeeper for the injured detective, constantly on call.
"He'll be okay by himself for a bit, won't he?" Mary worried.
"He's had concussion before. And he's had a week to recover. He'll be all right," John assured her.
"I don't mean that," Mary fussed. "Those two men who broke in and tried to kill him—Greg said they were hired by someone. What if that someone tries again? Sherlock easily subdued the first attack alone, but could he now, in his condition?"
"You know Mycroft's got someone watching the flat. He's being well looked-after. Let's try to enjoy our evening, shall we? I promised you we'd try to go out once a week, and here's our chance!"
In fact, Sherlock had practically thrown them out on their ears. "I can't stand any more of your tip-toeing about, being solicitous and feeling guilty!" he'd cried in exasperation. "This wasn't your fault. You don't need to keep trying to make it up to me. And I'm quite recovered; I don't need your nursemaiding. Go away and do . . . whatever it is married people do in the evenings. I have some experiments to work on. Can I never have a moment to myself?"
This odd mixture of magnanimity and selfishness sent them scurrying out into the drizzle, feeling an equally odd mixture of concern and elation themselves. They planned to walk the few blocks to Angelo's for dinner and then go back to check on Sherlock before heading home to their own flat.
"It will be nice to be home again, after a week," Mary was saying, and then gasped. Down the street ahead of them, they saw a young man shove an elderly woman down on the pavement and violently twist her handbag off her arm, then pelt off into the twilight. Immediately, the pair began to run. John thrust the umbrella into Mary's hand and sprinted on after the thief; Mary dropped to the wet pavement beside the frightened, sobbing victim.
"Someone call the police," she ordered the growing crowd of gawkers with an air of authority. Then, "Are you all right, dear?" she said soothingly to the old lady. "There, now. I'm a doctor. Where are you hurt?"
A middle-aged woman who had been walking with the victim offered to hold Mary's umbrella, freeing her hands to feel for broken bones. After a few minutes, Mary was satisfied that the victim was suffering from nothing more serious than bruises and scrapes and a great deal of fright. Pulling a small med kit out of her handbag, she quickly cleaned up the worst of the abrasions and covered them with gauze.
"My money. My pictures," the woman wept. "My babies' pictures. My phone." The middle-aged friend cried with her, no help at all.
"Did someone call for the police?" Mary demanded as she helped the woman off the pavement and led her gently to a bench. One onlooker indicated he had, and she smiled her thanks. "All right, now, it's going to be all right," she reassured the still-weeping victim. "My husband will recover your bag, safe and sound. He's an honest-to-God war hero, you know, and a crime-fighter as well. He's used to dealing with criminal types. Calm down, dear, it'll be all right."
Mary turned to the middle-aged friend. "I'm going to run up the street and find out what's happening. You wait here for the police. You can keep my umbrella—I'm sopping anyway. Just stay here and let her rest until the police come. Do you understand?"
The two women, both still in shock, nodded numbly. Mary sighed, not certain she should leave them in such a state. But she was desperate to find out what was happening to her husband. She took off down the pavement at a jog, looking for signs to tell her which way he might have gone.
A spilled display at a fruit stand; a knot of distressed-looking people at a bus stop; a woman chasing the contents of her shopping bag across the pavement: these clues led her just so far. Then the evidence stopped and she lost the trail. "Captain!" she called out, not really expecting a reply and receiving none.
She noticed a man at a taxi-stand looking her way curiously. "Did you see a lovely, military-looking chap chasing a juvenile delinquent down this way?" she asked him hopefully.
The man indicated an alley just down the street. "Need any help?" he asked.
Mary stared at him, incredulous. "I'm sure he could have used a hand, but it's rather too late now, isn't it?" she stated, and then trotted towards the alley entrance.
"Captain?" she called again, peering into the shadowy alley. It was now raining in earnest, and growing quite dark. She couldn't see a sign of him.
"Down here, love," came the familiar voice from behind a skip. John sounded a bit winded, but happy. These kinds of events always exhilarated him. Mary hurried to his side.
John was crouching over the young thief with his knee in the small of the perpetrator's back. The teenager, a hulking six-footer built like a footballer, had a split lip and a bloody nose and was struggling and hurling abuse at his captor. John, she was pleased to note, had not a mark on him and was calmly holding the boy's crossed wrists in his hands, barely noticing the struggle and completely ignoring the vitriol.
"Need a hand, Captain?" she asked, amused.
"Would you get one of the zip ties out of my pocket? My hands are a bit occupied at the moment," he smiled.
"I'd enjoy that a great deal," Mary replied cheerfully. "No, don't tell me which pocket. Searching is half the fun." She patted him down until she found the zip ties.
"How's the victim?" John inquired.
"Bruised and knocked about, but all right," Mary told him. "No thanks to this chap. She could have broken a hip! Shall I?" She indicated the zip tie in her hand.
"Be my guest," John offered generously.
"Oi! That hurts!" the young thief complained as she fastened his wrists together.
"Oh, dear," Mary said without regret. "I must have fastened them too tightly. I might have cut off circulation a bit."
"No worries, love," John assured her, standing up and flexing his hands to relieve the cramps. He put one foot on the teen's back to stop him getting up. "I'm sure the police will arrive before he loses the use of his hands. He probably won't get gangrene from it. You know, when I was in Afghanistan, I saw men get their hands chopped completely off as punishment for thievery."
"Hey!" the boy cried, but they ignored him. Standing over him, Mary was kissing her Captain in relief at finding him completely unharmed.
Then together, they pulled the thief to his feet and walked him down the alley, back towards the scene of the crime. Returning the stolen bag to the old lady, who now wept with gratitude, they turned their captive over to the authorities and spent the next hour and a half giving their statements in the pouring rain.
Back in the Baker Street flat, an ice-cold, exhausted couple shed their sodden clothes and put on warm night things. They would not be going home that night after all. Their flat just seemed too far away. Instead, they curled up before the fire and tried to stop shivering; and this time, it was Sherlock who was solicitous, bringing them tea and covering them with a blanket.
But John and Mary never did get their dinner that night.