Introducing the Mary-spective!

See, see, it's a pun. It's very clever if you don't look too closely, I promise.

Special thanks to the lovely Jodi2011 and rustyla for their reviews, as well as everyone who's put this on their alerts and/or favorites, which I honestly hadn't noticed until today. Multiple people want to receive an e-mail in the middle of the night because I've decided to write things and post them according to my Sherlockian sleep schedule! All of the arrogance!

John's come to depend on the drugs.

It's good that Sherlock can mind himself again, now that he's gone back to his regular shifts at the surgery - which, after three years, line up remarkably well with secondary school hours - and it's good that he's been weened down to over the counter pain relief without a hitch. But it's been almost two weeks since they've been back at 221B and John isn't missing the good old days much any more.

The good old days. He's not sentimental about them (not very) now that he's got them back. There weren't that many cases, really, because Sherlock's so stubbornly selective, and most of their time was spent as John's spending it now: Trying to talk Sherlock into eating and sleeping regularly and out of doing dangerous things in the kitchen. It's rather more important now, but Sherlock is resistant as ever to the notion that he's a human being.

He gets home at half two that Wednesday, because those are traditionally his office days and he's quick with the paperwork so he can have dinner waiting for Mary when she comes in, instead of going through their joint endeavors that generally involve plans of something exotic and new and end with pasta. His cooking usually ends in pasta too, but the difference is that he plans to make pasta because he doesn't delude himself into thinking he's an excellent chef the way Mary does when they're together. It's the first Wednesday that he's worked since Sherlock's been back, so he looks surprised when John walks into the kitchen clearly several hours before he's expected. He's in the middle of mounting slides and looks almost guilty.

John takes a deep breath. "What're you doing?"

"Why are you home? You work until five."

"Office day. What are you doing?" he repeats, but doesn't wait for a direct answer, because that could take all day. He picks up one of the slides. Even he knows at a glance - well, several glances - that it's a sample of fabric residue that one might find left behind on a door frame or between cracks in the floor, but he's bribed Lestrade into keeping anything interesting away from Sherlock for the next month at least and four years ago Sherlock made sure he had similar samples from every single piece of John's clothing, which means... oh no.

"Nothing hazardous to my health, Doctor," he's saying while John looks around the room. Sherlock knows he's in trouble, but he's not normal and doesn't look toward the pile, so it takes John a moment, even though they're not well hidden.

It's an even spread of everything Mary's brought to Baker Street for their indefinite stay; a "teaching" blouse and slacks, one of her cotton skirts that she likes to wear both when they go out and when they stay in, a selection of her shirts, two pairs of socks, and - John feels himself coloring a bit because Jesus Christ what could make even him think this was fine? - a bra and one of each of the two kinds of underwear Mary Morstan owns. John pinches the bridge of his nose and walks to the counter.

He tries to think of something poignant to say, to make Sherlock realize just how not good this is, but nothing comes. He's not sure something like that can be taught at 37, but if it can, he's sure Mary's better suited to explain it to Sherlock than he is. "Anything been on this counter that'd make me scared to cook on it?" he says finally. He's hoping it clears the air a little but doesn't send the wrong message.

"Perhaps the undergarments you're currently -"

"Oh for God's sake." John's not sure if Sherlock thinks he's being funny, but he wants to smack him.

"John, I was only -"

"No," John interrupts. "No." He puts Mary's clothes down in a pile on his chair that's become Mary's chair, then goes to find a pot for the pasta sauce that he won't start for another three hours - which is much easier than it used to be since they spent a Saturday scrubbing the kitchen and everything in it clean and Sherlock hasn't been left on his own for long enough to destroy their work yet. "We're not going to talk about this until Mary gets back. She's the one whose privacy you've tossed out the window this time, not mine."

He sees the look Sherlock's giving him, hears the unspoken words that he'll never say. That's not the John Watson I know. The John Watson Sherlock knows would have made sure Mary never found out. He would have dealt with Sherlock because the thought of Mary confronting him was embarrassing and terrifying. He never would have been secure enough in their relationship to let her go head to head with Sherlock, but that's already happened and they're none the worse for it.

He gives Sherlock a look in return. I'm not the John Watson.

Mary comes in at six to the smell of processed tomato sauce and the sound of Sherlock strumming absently at his violin. It's very warm despite the chill outside and the windows are fogged up a bit... she isn't surprised, then, when she turns into the kitchen to find John overcooking the pasta and sending clouds of steam into his face. He finishes emptying the pot into the strainer, a few noodles not quite making it in, looks up at her and grins. It's such a relief to see him smiling that she can't help herself when she mirrors him; she never can. "Just in time," he says.

"You mean you're just in time." She reaches around him to shake the last bits of water from the pasta, because he always forgets when she's not there and it weakens the sauce a bit. Not that she minds. "I know you know when I leave, you can't fool me."

His arm slides loosely around her waist. "I never can." He kisses her temple noisily without quite touching her skin.

"Would Mr. Holmes like some tonight?" she asks in the direction of the sitting room as she serves herself right out of the sink. Sometimes Sherlock deigns to partake in their meals, and sometimes his royal highness is above their regular eating schedules. She has yet to figure out when those times are.

"Please."

"Oh no, I'm not going to get it for you." She stops after two scoops and moves on to sauce. "I just needed to know how much I should leave. Be nice, John."

"Don't worry, he'll clean out the fridge if he's not satisfied, he's not on a case."

"That's right. How is that... going?"

There's a pile of her clothes on her chair.

Puzzled and interested, Mary sets down her plate. Sherlock is the only explanation; he's in what Mary understands to be "his" chair, across from hers, and trying not to look sullen. He was doing something involving her clothes, John caught him, and now he's holding him accountable with a public display. She almost feels bad for him.

"Sherlock's got something to say." Mary giggles aloud while she roots through the pile to determine what's there. They've been having this discussion, about whether or not they're Sherlock's parents, and the answer is clearly, "yes." John has recently stopped arguing.

She's still a little giggly when she asks Sherlock, "What did you need with my clothes?"

"Data," he answers immediately. He holds his violin right up against his chest, gripping the neck almost violently, playing dissonant chords that match his aggravated and rapid speech. "I've extensive records of clothing fibers gathered from a variety of surfaces with varying levels of concentration and contamination, but it occurs to me recently that they are overwhelmingly male. I never thought much of it, but what if there is a fundamental difference between the way fabric is treated depending on what gender the final product is intended for and who's more likely to wear something of mixed fabrics and which ones and how much time could I save by being able to tell at a glance whether the fibers were left by a man or a woman, enough, that's the word you're looking for, particularly when I'm stuck here with nothing else to do between doctor's orders and Mycroft's massive nose being where it doesn't belong!"

His final, angry pull at the strings is too much. The D string snaps and Sherlock has the look of being frustrated to the verge of tears, which is so hilarious on a grown man that Mary bursts out laughing again. He stands up and she thinks he says something about not being taken seriously, but she stands too and puts her arms around him as he tries to leave.

"It's okay, honey, don't cry," she says as seriously as she can manage - which isn't particularly seriously at all because he's nine inches taller than her and three years older and it's all so absurd. She feels him inhale sharply while she rubs his back. "Mummy's not mad at you."

"You have to apologize anyway, Sherlock, you don't just get to let it go now... Sherlock?"

Mary loosens her arms because that's John's "concerned doctor voice." She doesn't see what's changed in Sherlock's face that makes him sound like that, but then, she doesn't expect to. She gets out of the way.

"Sit down and let me see, right now." John herds Sherlock back into his chair, working the buttons of his dress shirt. Mary can see his face now, and it's not lined with pain or particularly white the way he gets when it's really bad, so how had John known? It's a stupid question. How does she know when John needs tea and to not talk about anything? How does she know when he still needs tea but does need to talk? She knows the little things that he does that he's not even aware of that tell her exactly what he needs from her.

So she pays attention.

It doesn't take her long to find it, about as long as it takes for John to look over the very raw scar tissue just below Sherlock's ribcage and notice something's wrong. There is pain in his features, but more importantly there's confusion and a little fear; something's hurting and he doesn't know why. Of course her fiance could tell.

"You are so... how did you even manage to do this?" John's asking.

"I don't know, tell me what I managed to do," Sherlock responds cheekily, but it's strained and doesn't have the full effect.

John turns to her, vaguely alarmed, but in control. "Mary, I'm so sorry, but can you get the car? We've got to go to the hospital, he's gone and torn something and he's bleeding. I'm sorry you didn't get to eat..."

She's already going for her keys. "Don't worry about it, love," she calls over her shoulder when she hits the stairs.

Her few friends tell her whenever they get the chance that she shouldn't be so accommodating. That she shouldn't bend over backwards for John Watson because that's what he's supposed to be doing for her. That he'll end up taking advantage of her. She pretends to listen, but their concern is largely ignored and she doesn't talk about John much when she's around them any more.

For one, she's never minded being there for people. Her mother, who was more of a child than Mary ever got the chance to be, her little brother, her friends during primary school who were always bullied. It's not really an effort, and she's so good at it. John would never take advantage of her - she's got to talk him into asking for things he really needs as it is, and she's supposed to be worried about him asking for things he doesn't? Please - and she's not entirely sure she would mind if he did. For another, she's never wanted to be looked after. Thirty four years of independence has yet to be overruled by three overlapping years of a relationship with John that still leaves her independent as she pleases, where it really mattered.

Her Ford is parked nearly a block away because someone has gotten very comfortable with the idea that the people at 221 don't own a car, but she still makes it back before the boys have made it down the steps. Considering the fiasco when they'd brought Sherlock up the steps, it doesn't surprise her.

"Been too calm for you, hasn't it?" John's saying as he leads Sherlock out the door. He's leaning against John heavily, and he's making the face that he makes instead of crying out or complaining. She sees that the walk down the steps has winded him and that breathing hurts. "It's just not good enough without a crisis."

"I wasn't trying to injure myself, John."

"Yeah, I know, you're too vain for that." He loads Sherlock into the back seat and looks at her. "Thank you so much," he says. She knows he doesn't mean just for driving.

She gives him a quick kiss and says, "Like I said, don't worry about it."

Mary doesn't really like driving because it requires too much of her attention. It's difficult for her to begin with and driving in the city is a special kind of nightmare. She barely notices the spreading red splotches on Sherlock's chest, or how John holds his hand and tells him he's going to be all right and occasionally rubs his shoulder or brushes damp hair away from his forehead when they stop at traffic lights. Because she doesn't forgive him and she doesn't mind sharing.

It would be a lie to say that Mycroft isn't worried when John calls him to inform him that Sherlock's back in the hospital. He just has much bigger things to be worried about, like the fact that his connections in America are growing tired of holding Moran even if they do owe him a favor, or many favors, that he still doesn't know what Moran's plan is or how to counter it, that he's paying little mind to things of national importance to try to keep his little brother safe from the mess they've created together. He's simply too aloof for John Watson.

"I get it. You don't care," says the bitter voice at the other end of the line.

"When my brother announced ten years ago that he was creating a field for himself as a consulting detective, I had resigned myself to the assumption that the hospital would become his semi-permanent place of residence," he responds icily. "Forgive me for not being alarmed or surprised." In truth, he's both of those things. Well, maybe not the second one... "I'm dealing with a number of very important and delicate situations at the moment, not the least of which being Sebastian Moran. I am slightly distracted."

There's nothing at the other end for a moment, and Mycroft thinks that he's somehow stunned John into silence, which he wasn't expecting because John isn't the kind to take that from him. He knows that isn't the case when John says slowly, "Sebastian Moran."

Mycroft is still irritated, but the tone catches his attention. John Watson knows James Moriarty's right-hand man? "Yes, the man whose current goal is killing your friend."

"I know that, you've just never mentioned his first name... But you said he was a colonel?"

"Yes. John, how do you know him?"

"If he's the same Sebastian that served in Afghanistan, he was one of my mates. Not my sub-unit, but one we spent a lot of time close to, under the same Lieutenant Colonel. He was only a major, then, but I wouldn't be surprised if he'd been promoted... he was with me when I got shot."

Mycroft takes a deep breath and says absently, "Colonel Moran was a major stationed in Afghanistan in 2009." He's thinking in the time it takes John to formulate a response. No one they have record of serving in Moran's sub-unit reports being close to him; "mates" certainly suggests a rather intimate friendship. He's not sure how he's missed it for so long, but this could be what he needs.

"How the hell did he wind up working for Moriarty?"

"We've been able to piece together that they were rather close friends before Moran joined the military. Moriarty called on an old favor at some point and they continued to work together until three years ago. Was Moran very clever?"

"What?"

"Clever, John, how clever was your friend Sebastian?" Mycroft is almost positive of the answer, but there's no reason to be making assumptions when he has the proof on the other line.

John inhales audibly. "Really clever. The cleverest person I knew before I met the two of you."

Of course. "Thank you, John. You've been a great help."

"How? You already knew that, didn't you?"

"It helps to be prepared. The smallest details may prove crucial."

Mycroft hangs up and leans back in his chair. He's confirmed what he's suspected all along, and it gives him more comfort than it should. He resolves to bring Moran back into the country as soon as possible and to have a face to face conversation with him within the week.

Sherlock's familiar with this sensation as he comes round after surgery for a second time in a month. The uncomfortable bed that he doesn't care is uncomfortable, the weakness, the medley of drugs in his system that dull the pain easily but do nothing for the rushing inside his skull except make it less coherent. He doesn't know why it would cross John's mind that this is more interesting than being cooped up in the flat; it's still horribly, unendingly dull and he hasn't even got a microscope.

"Morning," John says groggily, checking his watch. Someone pulled some strings and got a second bed into Sherlock's room, which John and Mary are sharing. Mary's the only one actually asleep, though, curled up on top of him like a cat, one of his hands gently stroking her hair. They look so horribly, modernly picturesque and he hates the both of them. Why did John have to move on? Why did he have to find someone else who made him happy? Why did he have to be so absolutely willing to uproot himself from his horrifically domestic routine to help Sherlock with a case gone wrong? And why did he have to find the one person in London who Sherlock can't reasonably find fault in and propose to her?

Mary Morstan. So sickeningly perfect. She won't forgive him, but she'll move in with him because John needs to look after him so Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson don't have to and because he's missed 221B. She won't forgive him, but she'll sit with him and hold him when he feels he's about to die. She won't forgive him, but she'll take him into consideration when she's making dinner with John. She won't forgive him, but she won't mind him taking her clothes and using them for experiments, with a "mummy" joke included for John's benefit. She won't forgive him, but she'll drive him to the hospital after he triggers internal bleeding by playing the violin, which even he knows is absolutely absurd but if anyone can play the violin too violently it's him. She won't forgive him, but he'll never be able to tell.