Here we are again. eohippus outright encourages me to be arrogant. I hope you know what you've unleashed, my lovely person.
It's occurred to me how angsty this is. This whole project, not just this specific part. That wasn't the original intention, hence this isn't filed under "angst," but these characters just exude angst from their pores. I can't help that. I only work with what the Doyle and the Mofftiss give me.
Mycroft finds Moran a week after the shooting at Baker Street.
He finds him in Texas, via a credit card payment to his hotel. Mycroft has the building discretely surrounded and brings the man in without a hitch, but one didn't have to be a Holmes to realize that this absolutely stinks of a trap. He waits. He isn't sure if being caught is meant to get Moran back into England or meant to keep him out or get him back in and Mycroft has simply no idea how many levels of a bluff he's dealing with. He hadn't known how many he was dealing with when he brought Moriarty in either. He's still not entirely sure.
He leaves the main lobby for his study because it's getting rather late and John Watson is on a normal sleep schedule for the time being, while he can up Sherlock's medication and put him to bed for regular intervals. He hasn't called yet today because he's forcing himself not to call seven times a day because he did that on the first day Sherlock and John were back at the flat and John lost patience with that tactic in considerably under twenty-four hours.
So for the past two nights, he's only called once, to be regaled with stories of how difficult his brother is and doesn't Mycroft know that first-hand. He makes an effort not to laugh at the fact that it takes exactly one day for Sherlock to make himself sick testing the limits of his temporary dietary restraints, and exactly two for him to decide that his medication is impeding his mental capacity in a way that is absolutely unacceptable for moving between lying down in his bed and lying down on the sofa, dump it down the sink and then plead with John to run to the hospital and get more when the pain became unbearable as he should have known it would.
John is too weak to deal with Sherlock, Mycroft had thought when he'd heard all of this from the doctor. John scolds him before and he scolds him after, but in between, when Sherlock is utterly miserable, he soothes him, tells him everything will be all right. Mycroft used to do that, when Sherlock was a skinny little boy who found the need to experiment with everything, particularly things that were bound to hurt him or make him ill.
He found Sherlock in his room once, spilled chemicals all over the rug and Sherlock clutching his foot in the corner because he'd neglected to clean it up the day before and neglected to wear shoes the day of. The exact conditions of the botched experiment and how Sherlock had gotten ahold of the mildly corrosive materials weren't important, as there had been too many of these cases over the years for Mycroft to be bothered to store each of them. He remembers all the conversations though, even though they hurt.
You didn't call for Mummy? She would have heard you.
I never call for Mummy. Mummy doesn't know what she's doing. It's not practical to call for Mummy.
Trust you to use a word like "practical" when you're talking about waiting for me to get home. Doesn't it hurt?
Of course it hurts. That's why I'm not stepping on it.
I could carry you.
Don't be absurd.
Trust you to use a word like "absurd." Did you learn that from Father?
Don't tell him, Mycroft. Please.
Why on Earth would I do something like that?
... Thanks.
It would be much easier on both of us if you could stop doing this, every once in a while. You can learn all of these things from books, Sherlock.
You can't learn everything from books, Mycroft. Books can be wrong. Never trust anything until you can see for yourself, that's what Father says, doesn't he? We can listen to him sometimes, when he makes sense, can't we?
He couldn't have been more than seven years old - that was when it had all fallen to pieces and Sherlock had stopped letting his big brother clean him up after things went wrong - but he'd managed to mimic Mycroft's concerned tone perfectly while still mocking it. But it's a lighter mocking than it is now, because they were so close, rather than so distant.
The conversation gets hazy around there. Mycroft had brought up a point about particle physics or some such, which Sherlock dismissed as boring and Mycroft scolded him for it because how would he know and then both of them had dissolved into a fit of giggles, because that's what is supposed to happen when Mycroft asks Sherlock "how would you know," not bitter silence and irritation and silent power struggles and the fault is on both sides.
He dials John's number and thinks that maybe John's too strong to deal with Sherlock, and that he's the weak one. Back to caring again. How quaint.
John picks up on the fourth ring. "Mycroft," he says. What he always says in greeting him; not "hello," not "hey," and certainly not "ahoy."
"John," he replies. "How is he?"
"Excellent. Fantastic. Had some soup and tea and nothing else, took his meds like a good boy and is currently..." There's a pause, as though John's lost track of Sherlock and is trying to locate him. "... Analyzing my fiance," he finally says. Distant. Not at all excited about the prospects. "Excellent."
"Wish her luck."
"Absolutely." He's sure if he asked John to repeat his instructions, he wouldn't be able to do it. He's probably trying very hard to determine whether or not to intervene for the sake of his upcoming wedding.
Mycroft almost tries to catch John's attention again before he hangs up, but thinks better of it. He has plenty of time to consider what do to with Moran, do it, and then inform his little brother.
No need to interrupt his fun.
Mary Morstan is becoming "extraordinary" very, very quickly.
Sherlock has been trying for a solid hour to find something that she couldn't carry on a conversation about that he could. He's running out of ammo. She has a fair grasp of chemistry, though freely admits she hated it in school because it was so predictable and she would much rather pay someone else to experiment and make discoveries than to actually touch a bit of equipment herself; she knows more than enough about history of all sorts, not just criminal history and the things Sherlock Holmes is specifically interested in; knowledge about forensics a mile wide and an inch deep; and a passing interest in criminology, though it's mostly the soft psychology bits, bless. And rather intimate knowledge about things that he doesn't care for a whit - classic literature (naturally), astronomy, philosophy, politics, and sensational trivia, though she's fortunately roughly as disdainful of that as he is: "Some people simply can't talk about anything else," she notes. Sometimes she's so interested by what they're talking about that she actually looks up from the papers that she's busy covering with red marks but generally decent grades.
He's willing to admit to himself - never to John - that even though Mary's willing to share John with him, he's not so willing to do the same, not with an ordinary person. He supposes it's good, then, that Mary isn't very ordinary. He might feel a little less resentment in the months to come.
"Biology?" he asks simply. When he'd started, he had proposed proper questions about the field and he'd determined and extrapolated from her answers the rough dimensions of her knowledge. But then John had practically forced another dose of medicine into his system when he'd been honest about his pain level and he's getting sleepy now and asking real questions about things he's only partially interested in is just so much work.
"What of it?" A question with a question.
"How do you find it?" With a question.
"Depends on the subset. Macro's generally fascinating, particularly evolutionary niches, but micro's just tedious, isn't it?"
Sherlock frowns. "I find the opposite to be true."
She's smiling as she flips a paper over into her "done" pile. "Of course you do. It's your job."
"My "job" is whatever I make it."
"Yes it is."
Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to that. Well, he does, but none of the options his brain presents him with are particularly good ones. He's found that Mary has a talent for rendering him speechless, simply because he doesn't want to seem childish or stupid to this clearly very intelligent woman. Normally, intelligence doesn't make him falter - he's Sherlock Holmes, why should it? - but so rarely does it come without the need to show off. Mary is a secondary school English teacher who finds more fault in Sherlock Holmes than in her students, whose atrocious grammar she corrects almost lovingly. She can be so much more. She should be so much more. Someone exciting or interesting, changing the world or at least doing what she pleases. But this is what she pleases, and that rather confuses him. She is content having a job and being engaged to John Watson. John's choice is, when it matters, impeccable.
He supposes, when he thinks about it, that it must take a very special sort of woman to put up with John Watson. The others were ordinary as dirt and they'd all left when they realized they would have to wrestle with Sherlock Holmes for John's attention - he does pay attention to John's "relationship crap", he just doesn't care very much (at all) because they were never prominent figures at 221B - and that Sherlock would usually win. He's not sure what they were expecting from an army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan, or maybe they just hadn't taken that into consideration at all, which is an equally stupid notion.
"Nearly done interrogating her, Sherlock?" John asks as he comes from the kitchen with tea and coffee. There's none for him, because Sherlock's already had his daily dose of caffeine and more than one cup will actually make him ill, which is horrid and limiting but there's nothing for it, he has the data now. He gives Mary her liquid bliss and a light kiss on the cheek. That's something notable too; she's made John more physically affectionate than she is. John's normally the one stingy with... well, everything in the relationship, but here he is passing out kisses and little touches like penny candy.
"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Mary asks. She seems genuinely surprised, but Sherlock isn't sure he can trust it because how could she not notice? "I thought we were just talking about anything and everything. I haven't done that in a while, it's very nice."
"Nope. That's an interrogation. Probably trying to decide if he'll grace us with his presence at the wedding. What's the verdict?"
"She balances you nicely. I'll be sure of twice as much decent conversation."
John had insisted on things being normal between them, but perhaps not quite so normal, because John doesn't reply to him and Sherlock can see him mouthing, "Thanks," to the floor and he screams inwardly. For one, it's not as much of an insult as John clearly thinks it is, but he's not about to explain that aloud, and for another that's what Sherlock before the Jim Business does and he wishes John would make up his mind and either let him try to be a normal person who pretends to care or let him be Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh, don't look like that, love." Mary's put aside her papers and curling up in her chair - John's chair - catlike, cradling her mug in both hands and peering over the top at his downcast, frustrated face. "He's trying to compliment the both of us, be proud of him!" When John still doesn't smile, she pulls an exaggerated frown, which makes him laugh.
They talk about nothing for a while and Sherlock zones, trying to undo the puzzle of John Watson and what he's supposed to do to make things better. When their beverages are finished, or at least to the point where neither of them feel guilty pouring the dregs down the sink, John gathers the mugs and says, "I'll be upstairs. Whenever you're done." Mary smiles in return and keeps smiling as John disappears. She then pulls up her stack of papers again and resumes scribbling in red almost immediately.
Sherlock waits, mostly to make sure that John won't hear him, partly because he's no good at having feelings, worse at talking them, and forget asking for advice. "I know," he begins after he searches for eloquent words, finds them, deems them rubbish, and decides to just say whatever he can manage, "I've hurt him, Mary. Am I hurting him still?"
She finishes her comment deliberately, then puts her pen down and doesn't look at him. "Of course you are, Sherlock."
"How?" He doesn't care if she takes it, "how am I hurting him?" or, "how can I stop?" He means both questions. He needs both answers.
"By leaving. By coming back. By being here in the first place." She is so calm, it makes him more upset. He's shaking. "Everything is wrong because, once, things were perfect."
"What am I supposed to do? How do I fix it?" His voice shakes as badly as he does.
She looks at him and he hates the look in her eyes. Pity. Codling. Look at Sherlock, he doesn't understand people, doesn't understand what he's supposed to do, the poor thing, isn't he so smart and precious. Well, it's not that he doesn't understand people, that he couldn't if he wanted to people don't understand him don't understand that this is how they were meant to function but instead they got saddled with pointless feelings that benefit nothing and the real potential of humanity is treated like a freak who has to circumvent all of their pettiness just to get anything done well he's not going to take this not from her not now hasn't he known this was what he was coming back to a serious girlfriend and then a fiance and John who's moved on and hasn't he been aching for three years too.
"We don't fix it, Sherlock," she says finally, only a moment later. "I wouldn't fix John if I could. We take it and make the best of it, because nothing's going to "fix" it. You're always going to be hurting him for what you did, which is why I don't forgive you either. No matter what you do, it's going to hurt. Some things more than others, and you just have to learn which ones are which."
He takes a deep breath and he shouldn't, he really shouldn't, but he says, "I see, you're hurting him too."
She's looked away by now, but he sees her mouth tighten. "I am."
"How? You've done nothing wrong."
"But I'm not you, am I?"
Once again, Sherlock doesn't know what to say.
It's a while before Mary comes up from the sitting room. John hears her putting her papers into her massive organizer and he's glad today's Friday and he's on leave for the next week and a half. She opens the top drawer to get her nightie, but he's not sure if she pulls it out because she doesn't change before sliding under the comforter with him. He starts to roll over to face her because Mary never just collapses in bed, she's so methodical and particular about those things, but she hushes him and cuddles closer, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing her nose against his shoulder blades. "Don't ruin it."
He doesn't know what he's not supposed to be ruining but there's a desperation in her voice that scares him, so he mumbles, "Okay," and stays where he is. "Sherlock get to bed okay?" he asks after a minute.
"Yeah."
Her voice breaks and a sob is muffled against his t-shirt. "Jesus, Mary, what's..." he begins, moving again, but she cuts him off.
"Don't!" She's crying in ernest, a spot on his shirt going warm and then cold with damp, squeezing him tighter and holding him in place. "Don't, please."
It feels like forever because the last thing he wants to do is have her so close and not letting him be there for her like she's been there for him, or maybe that's the second-to-last because the last is having her not trust him like this ever again, to know that she knows what's best for her and it'll be all better soon. And it is all better soon, because absolutely no time at all has passed before she lets go of him and says, "Okay. I'm okay, John, you can look at me."
He's turned over in an instant, a hand on hers as she wipes at her face. "Jesus, Mary, wha -"
"And Joseph," she says with a grin, and John knows he's never going to find out what it was that made her like that because he can't help smiling at it too, even if it feels so wrong.
"Yeah," he says, pulling her into his arms before she can get up to put her nightie on, not just yet. "Him too."