Last intermission before the real story kicks in, I swear.
And... review? Please? I like them. A lot.
Mary's told herself that she told Sherlock the truth when she spoke to him in the hospital. She doesn't mind sharing John. She's been effectively sharing him for three years, because John hadn't forgotten and he hadn't moved on. She knows that John imagined, far too often, what Sherlock would say or do whenever something interesting turned up in the news. It's something she came to accept, and something she forced herself to accept when John went back to Baker Street five days ago and found the consulting detective, nearly lost him again, and brought him back to the flat. She knows that she'll be sharing John with a real, living Sherlock from here on out, and that her move to 221B Baker Street is probably more permanent than she led their landlord to believe. She knows that it will make John so much happier, happier than she's ever known him to be, and doesn't she want that for him.
But it's so, so hard.
She burns with resentment when he comes up to the bedroom they now share as she's just beginning to fall asleep, exhausted from dealing with Sherlock, who's been experimenting in exactly how sick he can make himself with as little forbidden food as possible. She doesn't let him see, because that's not what he needs. He needs to see her smile, needs her to be a little more affectionate than usual, a little more sweet, needs her to be concerned for Sherlock, so she is.
He climbs into bed without changing, briefly checks to make sure she's awake of her own accord, then proceeds to kiss her senseless for a solid five minutes. There's been precious little time for physical affection longer than a few seconds these past few days, and God, she's missed it. She almost forgets what John needs besides, obviously, this.
"I am so, so sorry," he whispers into her neck when he's calmed down. "You didn't have to stay up, you've got to work in the morning."
She pulls away just enough so she can see his face, then raises her eyebrows. "We always end up talking about this. It's always the same answer, love."
"I know, I know." He kisses her again, sweet rather than hungry this time. "John Watson, priority ultra."
That stings, because it's from a case - Baskerville, she thinks - but she smiles anyway and kisses his nose. "Eloquently put. Now get changed, your jumper's itchy. I don't know how you can stand it."
"Comes with being an old man." He teasingly rubs his sleeve against her face and she gives him the appropriate repulsed look. It's comfortable and familiar, which she thinks he needs after dealing with Sherlock all day. She hopes he needs it. For the first time she can remember, she isn't sure.
"Six months still before you're an old man," she says sleepily while he gets into his pajamas. "Don't sound so excited."
She drifts off with John's arm wrapped around her waist, her shirt rucked up a bit and his palm warm against her hip.
She's groggy when John jerks awake. A glance at the clock says she has good reason; three in the morning. Two hours before she has to get up for work.
At first, Mary thinks she's slept through one of his nightmares, which makes her feel awful. She's never done that before, even though John's not exactly loud about his flashbacks. Then she hears the voice in the hallway, calling for him, and she's wide awake and angry.
"Jesus," John mutters, not quite as exasperated as she think he means to sound. He's worried out of his mind. Of course he is.
She's not as fast as he is, and John's half carrying Sherlock to the couch by the time she gets her dressing gown on. He's telling Sherlock that he'll be okay but that he needs to know where his meds are. "Sink," Sherlock groans.
"What the hell... never mind." He's used to things being where they have no business being, and she is too, now. They'll have to do something about that.
"Your bathroom sink, Sherlock? They're not here." He stops. Mary turns into the sitting room and sees him leaning closer, smelling. "You..." he growls, not able to find a word to properly express how frustrated he is. "What was it? Couldn't think, or something? Detrimental to your mental capacity, right? And now you want me to go out, in the middle of the night, to the hospital and pull strings and beg for more because you thought you could manage without it five days after you got shot in the chest. Classic!"
"John..."
"I ought to leave you like this." "This" is doubled over on the couch, white and shaking violently. Mary knows he'd never do it. "I ought to go back to bed until I've had as much damn sleep as I want because you deserve every minute of this, you insufferable git."
"John, please."
"But I won't. You're right, I won't. God knows why." He's shrugging on his jacket and slipping into his shoes without socks. "Mary, please go back up to bed or I'll feel so awful."
"Can't have that," she says, kissing his cheek as he passes.
But she doesn't go back up the stairs. She stands there in her bare feet, looking at Sherlock on the couch, trying to see the man who caused John so much pain, who she doesn't forgive, but only seeing a little boy who's hurt and desperately needs to be held, though he'd never ask for it, would rather die than ask for it. Her little brother, Sawyer. Her friends in primary school. The baby she's only recently imagined raising with John. Something in her stomach aches with it.
Sherlock takes a breath and makes a heartbreaking noise that's in between a moan and a sob and Mary doesn't try to avoid it anymore. "Oh, honey, come here." She goes to the couch and gingerly pulls him into her arms. One hand rubs his back and shoulders, the other brushes a curl away from his face, then stays there, stroking his forehead. "It's all right. You're going to be all right."
They sit like that for a while, Sherlock in her lap, head resting on her shoulder, before he tries to speak. "I thought -"
"Shhh," she says and runs her hand through his hair.
He's insistent, and continues. "You didn't... forgive me. For hurting him."
Ah. That. "I don't."
"So why... this?"
She takes a moment, toying with his hair, even pressing her lips to the top of his head once or twice. "I don't forgive you, so you think that means I have to be horrible to you. It doesn't work that way, Sherlock. Not with me, anyway."
"So why." He trembles and makes the sound again.
"Shhh. No more of that. I told you because I thought you should know, that's all. Because I'm prone to doing things like this anyway, because things aren't black and white, even if we'd like them to be. You've hurt John, but you make him so happy. So I can't really be awful to you, even if I wanted to. And I don't, sweetie. I really don't."