He had changed into night clothes and had brushed his teeth, but could not seem to stop moving. Mary watched him from where she was snuggled in bed and sighed.
"It's very cold," she hinted suggestively.
John stopped his pacing and looked at her with concern. "Shall I get another blanket, love?"
"I don't want another blanket, Captain. I want you to come to bed," Mary chuckled. "Not much at taking a hint, are you?"
John faked a long-suffering sigh. "If you insist." He slid beneath the duvet and she curled up against him, shivering. He drew her into his arms and held her close. "I'm aware you're just using me as an alternative heating source," he murmured into her hair.
"Of course," she teased. "That's why I married you, you know. To keep me warm at night."
"Hmm. Just yesterday, I thought you said you married me because I'm impossibly cute." She could feel his cheek move in a smile against her head.
"Don't be ridiculous, darling," she whispered ardently in his ear. "How could cuteness be of any practical use against hypothermia?"
He laughed quietly and hugged her tightly. "What would I do without you? Mary, if anything had happened to you today, I . . . ."
"Don't think about it." She lifted her face up to look at him. "We both had a horrible fright today, but we're all right now." They lost themselves in a lingering kiss.
"I'll likely dream tonight," he told her, cradling her head in one strong hand against his shoulder. "You've never had to endure my PTSD dreams before. Perhaps I should sleep in the guest room."
"No!" she cried, a bit too fast, unable to endure the thought of being left alone. "I need you here tonight, where I can feel you. I spent the entire day terrified you would get yourself killed trying to rescue me. Anyway, I'm not afraid of your dreams."
"You're not afraid of much, are you? You're the bravest person I've ever met," John told her, then admitted, "I was living in a nightmare all day, thinking of what might be happening to you. I don't believe I could sleep either, without you here."
"Well then, that's settled." Mary kissed him again. "Let's try to sleep a bit. I'm exhausted, and I know you must be, as well."
000
She awoke in John's bed back in Baker Street. Alone. How had it happened? The room was frigid and yet also stuffy, as if it had been long deserted. She gathered the blanket around herself for warmth and tiptoed towards the stairs. "Captain?" she whispered hopefully, nearly faint with dread. The silence lay heavy upon the house, stifling every sound. Her breath came in short, painful pants, frosty in the icy air.
Downstairs, the familiar sitting room was cold and dark and smelled of must. No one had lived here in very long time, according to the eloquent dust that covered every surface. "Captain?" she called, louder this time. Her voice fell dead to the floor. The flat was clearly devoid of all life, and a sense of desolation swept over her, a mantle of despair. She moved stealthily to Sherlock's bedroom and peered in. "Sherlock? Are you there?" she called, quavering, knowing there would be no reply.
She rushed back into the kitchen, and now the pressing weight of loss turned to terror. "John! Where are you? Why aren't you here?" she cried desperately. "John! Please!" Her breath hitched in a sob, and she dropped into a chair and knew she was alone. Entirely, completely, eternally alone. "Please don't be gone," she gasped, too devastated to weep.
A sudden warmth enveloped her and she heard his voice speak gently in her ear. "I'm here, love. It's okay, I'm here." And then she was truly awake and in her own bed, and John was there, holding her and murmuring comfort to her. She hid her face in his chest and breathed in the familiar, reassuring scent.
"I'm sorry I woke you," she said at last. He squeezed her tightly in answer.
"I hadn't fallen asleep yet. Too keyed up, I guess," he admitted. "You haven't had that dream in a long time, have you? The one where everyone disappears."
She drew a shuddering breath. It was like him to know that this was what her dream was about, rather than assuming she was reliving her kidnapping experience of that day. "No surprise, having it tonight, after I almost lost you. Again."
"You won't lose me. I promise I'll never leave you," he assured her. She knew he meant it sincerely. But she couldn't help but think that, if he had been unable to find her that day; if he had decided to give in to the kidnappers' demands and surrender himself to them, she might very well be mourning him tonight instead of clinging to him as if she were drowning.
Eventually, her racing heart slowed to a normal pace and she was able to relax against him, listening to him breathe. Now their roles were reversed, with John peacefully asleep at last and herself wakeful, soaking in his warm, solid presence, full of gratitude for his existence.
As an hour crept by, however, he grew more and more restless. At last she disentangled herself from his embrace, preparing for what surely was to come. "Remember what I told you," Sherlock had said, and she did remember. "Don't touch him. Don't speak to him. Avoid making any sudden noises or movements that might startle him. Even when he sits up with his eyes open, wait! He will still not be fully conscious."
It was harder than she had imagined, not touching him. She longed so much to comfort him both with her body and her words, as he tossed about, moaning and muttering, lost in his nightmare. She drew as far from him as she could manage without falling out of bed, staying out of the way of his flailing arms. He was fighting with his dreams, and it was horrifying to watch. She held breath and tried to be still as stone so as not to startle him. An almost imperceptible creak told her that Sherlock was at the bedroom door, keeping watch over them both, silent as a guardian angel. She felt him there but did not turn to look at him. How strange it was to know he was standing by to protect her from her own husband, and to protect John from himself.
John's groans gave way to agonized shouting, and then suddenly one fist connected with her shoulder, knocking her sprawling to the floor. She gasped, but managed not to cry out, rubbing the new bruise which joined her already impressive collection of contusions. She heard Sherlock whisper, "Stay down!" But she did not need him to inform her of the wisdom of keeping out of the way of a possible follow-through. "Next time, I'll know not to try to stay in bed," she thought ruefully.
Then with a final, heart-rending cry, he sat straight up, gasping for breath. She peered over the side of the mattress at him and stifled a sob. His eyes were wide and wild with grief, his face a study in horror, his chest heaved with emotion; and he whimpered her name in a broken, hollow voice. How she longed to hold him close and reassure him with her voice, as he had done for her only a short time before. But it would be of no lasting comfort to him to awaken to a throttled wife. She could not imagine what it would do to him to know he had harmed her in his sleep.
At last, he seemed to truly come to himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and covering his head with his hands, shaking uncontrollably. Mary glanced back at the doorway, and Sherlock nodded and then disappeared. Carefully, she crawled back into bed and cautiously approached him.
"Captain," she murmured. "Captain, it's all right. I'm here." She tentatively stroked his hair. Yes, he was well and truly awake. So at last, she dared to wrap her arms around him and nuzzle her face against his ear. He sat still as stone, unable to respond. "Come back to me, Captain," she said quietly but firmly. "That's an order."
He drew a long, shuddering breath and lifted his head. "Mary? Are you okay?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"Of course, darling. I'm always okay when you're with me," she said lightly, smiling through her tears. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He shook his head. "Just reliving the day," he said softly. "Only it ended quite differently."
"Live in the truth, Captain," she encouraged him. "You found me in time. You saved me. You're my hero."
He unfolded himself then and they clung to each other. "I only found you because you were clever enough to give me a clue they couldn't decipher," he told her admiringly. "You saved yourself."
"We worked together. We're quite a team," Mary told him.
John pulled a long breath and let it out slowly, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. They remained that way for a long time, getting used to the idea that the day was truly behind them. Then he moved to get out of bed. "I'm going to get cleaned up," he said thickly.
"Good idea, Captain. I'll make you a cuppa, shall I?" She pulled on her dressing gown and watched him until he disappeared into the bathroom. Then she walked on shaking legs into the sitting room, where Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, waiting for her.
"Are you all right?" he asked with some concern. He's seen the blow she'd taken, and was quite familiar with John's right hook.
"It's fine," she said dismissively. "And he'll never know about it, will he? We're having tea; would you like a cuppa?"
"Certainly," he agreed and followed her into the kitchen.
As she busied herself with the kettle, Mary pushed back a sob and softly observed, "It must be dreadful, to know you've taken a life. It's no wonder he has such nightmares."
Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. "I don't believe you truly understand the content of his dreams, Mary," he told her. "John is a soldier. He doesn't enjoy killing people, but he understands it's part of his job. He regrets it when it becomes necessary, but it doesn't horrify him or cause him to lose sleep."
Mary looked at the detective in wonder. "What are you saying?" she asked.
"He isn't reliving pulling the trigger, Mary. He's living through the nightmare of what might have happened had he missed his shot."
Mary's breath caught, the full import of his words flooding through her.
"If his aim had been the least bit off, he might have shot you accidentally. Or he might have missed his target and the kidnapper would have shot you himself. Either way, he loses you, and it's entirely his own fault."
"Good lord," she cried in a low voice. "I never even considered that he could miss."
"Of course not. You have complete faith in him and in his abilities, as do I. But he does not." Sherlock took the now screaming kettle from the stove and poured the steaming water into the teapot. "That's his greatest fear—failing to protect those he cares about: the ultimate type of uselessness. I should have thought you'd know that, Mary."
Mary considered Sherlock's words as she followed him into the sitting room with the tray. "You're quite right, of course. I did know it." She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Sweetheart. You're a good friend to us."
"I know," Sherlock said.