Mycroft forces me to go to rehab after the hospital. I try to resist, with good reason. John has basically moved in at Baker Street again. He goes to his (other, now fake) home every so often, but more often than not does he sleep in my, no, our bed. Now that he is finally mine I am unwilling to spend so much as a second away from home.
But Mycroft is adamant. Wish I would loath him as much as I always pretend to do. The fact that John supports his idea only makes it worth. I try to make the following weeks tolerable for me by getting to know my therapists better.
Weddings and babies might or might not change things. Kisses and love declarations certainly do. When John makes it perfectly clear that there will be no more kissing until I stop scaring away one therapist a day, I have no choice but obey.
I want to wait before mentioning the flash drive again until I am sure that John is happier in our relationship than he has been in his marriage. "Prepare to wait a long, long time," my inner Mary whispers into my ear in September, when I forget to concentrate on willing her away during my physiotherapy.
But she has a point, so when I come home, feeling tired out and battered already, I place it on the table. John looks at it for a long time. "Why?" he asks then. "We already know more than enough about her."
A hollow feeling starts to spread through my body. Why not? What reason could he have to avoid it?
"Maybe he has changed his mind about me," my inner Mary giggles. "He went to see me this afternoon, didn't he?" Yes, he did. Spent a few hours with her, pretending (?) that there is a slight chance he might forgive her one day. He objected to it, but went because I told him so.
Did she convince him to really forgive him one day? (Could she? Could he?) Was he reminded of the wonderful (?) time they had? But his boredom-infused nightmares started only days after the marriage. Plus, he loves me. More than her. Whatever it was they had, "wonderful" is clearly the wrong word to describe it.
"Are you sure?" my inner Mary wonders, and so do I.
"What is going on in your mind palace right now?" John's voice makes her crumble to dust. When did he start embracing me? (There is no better place on earth than in John's arms. What a shame I missed some minutes of it.) Instead of answering I lean into the embrace. Does he understand what I am telling him this way? Seems like he does, for he does not ask me again.
We open the file on the flash drive later that night. John keeps on holding my hand, or toughing my knee, or stroking my back the entire time, so casually that I don't have to comment on it. He really is a genius when it comes to handling me.
Studying the Word document, I cannot help but admire her manipulation skills. Everything mentioned is the truth. Only that the data is incomplete, essential facts missing, thus creating a new, better reality.
It mentions exactly the number of atrocious deeds that John could forgive after a while.
He only shakes his head and makes an indignant sound before closing the file. Then he pulls me to bed and presses his body so close to mine that I have no choice but to feel safe.
"Better get laid soon, it won't be long until you'll hurt him so much he'll go away," my inner Mary purrs while John is kissing me on the sofa in October. I close my eyes as hard as I can, concentrate on where John's hands are right now and what his tongue is doing to my ear lobe right now and wish she were wrong.
Getting laid is far out of my reach at the moment. Not only due to my body that is still struggling to heal, but also due to my inexperience. (Remember how surprised John has been at hearing that Mycroft had indeed been right about me being a virgin. Remember the way my eyes were stinging when he declared it impossible to believe that he is the one who has the privilege (!) to introduce me to sex.)
(Remember my surprise during my first John-made orgasm. Finally understood why people are doing that all the time.)
John decided to "TAKE IT SLOW". And we do. Funny how I can love him even more every day.
Still, the fear of hurting him is never far away. Neither is my inner Mary and her terrible shirt. Looks like the arrow is bigger every time I see her in my mind. Like when I mention to John that I am about halfway through with creating a plan to bring Magnussen down. (One of the few advantages of rehab. Endless time to think about important matters while sitting on that ridiculous stationary bike whose name I delete again every day.)
Apparently not a good topic. John freezes, then leaves without a word. When he returns (after forty-three minutes, breathing hard, wet from the rain, with dirt on his shoes that tells me how fast he has walked and hence how angry he has been) he shouts at me, then leaves the sitting room to make tea (in a really angry fashion that I must admit is as arousing as it is frightening), then finally finally ends up on the sofa with his head on my lap.
"The last time we went to face him you nearly died, Sherlock," he says quietly. Won't listen to the fact that Magnussen himself had no part in me being shot. Won't listen to the fact that there is no one else willing to bring Magnussen down but us.
We continue talking about it for another while, but no matter how lovingly I pet his head, he does not change his mind. It becomes clear that I will have to alter my plan. I will take Magnussen down, no doubt about that. I just won't tell John that he is in it with me more than five minutes in advance.
That night, John needs to be held for hours and hours before he finally falls asleep in my arms.
"What would he want with an amateur like you in the long run?" my inner Mary laughs in November, when I stumble awkwardly through giving John my first hand job ever.
"Shut up!" I hiss. John opens his eyes and gives me a curious look, but a slight change in the pressure I am applying closes his eyes again and forces out a (wonderful) (aroused) (arousing) moan. I lean forward and let my tongue slip into his open mouth just to make sure he will forget my blunder.
He does not mention it afterwards. But after we went to bed John asks, "What about Victoria?" Out of the blue. Hate when he is doing that at night. When there is light, I can (almost) always tell what he was thinking before throwing a context free line at me. I just have to watch his eye movement. But at night, in near darkness, I am lost.
"Which Victoria?" I have to ask, already narrowing down the possible Victorias from one hundred sixty-eight to fifty-four.
John laughs. A wonderful sound, even when he laughs at my stupidity. "No, as a baby's name," he explains, still (oh so gently) caressing my arm with his fingers. (One thing I never anticipated about John. No matter how wild or hard or inept the orgasm has been, afterwards he is the most gentle person in the world. But did he really imply ...)
Oh. He did. "You want me to take part in naming the baby?" I cannot help myself, I need to verify. I can tell that his movements come to a complete stop for three seconds. Then he pulls me even closer.
"Of course. Sherlock, we are going to raise that child together. Of course we will find its name together." I am sure there are words for all these hot feelings that are filling my chest right now, but I cannot find a single one that would fit.
So instead, I think about names. But how do you name someone you don't know yet?
"What about Hamish?" I ponder, "Or John junior? Or Joan, if it's a girl?" In my mind I can see a three year old version of John hopping from one puddle to the next. A second John, what could be better?
But for some reasons John's body tenses at my suggestion. "No way!" he says, so harsh that there has to be a reason. Have I done something wrong (again)? I do not know what, but that seldom means I did everything right. I hold my breath and wait for his explanation. (He always explains. Knows how lousy I am with this kind of things.)
I have to wait two point six minutes before he elaborates, "There is a horrible tradition in my family. We only name babies after real people when they have died recently or are going to die soon. Sorry, but no Hamish or Joan. That's too scary."
Yes, it is. The thought of John dying is unacceptable, and only having an orgasm immediately will stop me from further thinking about it. (Or so I tell John. He knows it's a trick, but plays along willingly. No wonder I love him.)
"I think you are running out of time, my dear," my inner Mary taunts me at the beginning of December. She is right, not only concerning my relationship with John.
There is a scan of the baby. John and I come along. Not easy to pretend that I will only be the child's eccentric uncle Sherlock. When we see it moving its arms I am so overwhelmed by what the future could hold for us that I involuntarily squeeze John's hand. I compensate the blunder by quickly grabbing Mary's hand and squeeze it as well.
She has seen me getting over-involved with their wedding. She does not find my over-involvement with their child strange.
Anyway, the more important incident takes place before the examination. We wait, without talking much. (John avoids talking to her, looking grim. Just like we planned.) (I love him endlessly, but I (rightfully) still don't trust his (non-existing) talent to tell lies. Silently grudging is the best choice of action here.) Mary skims through some of the magazines and newspapers that are lying on the table in the waiting room.
When she sees one that belongs to Magnussen's empire, she shudders accidentally. Our eyes lock, and she knows she has given away more than she wanted.
"You know, John," I say without looking away from her, "if you go now, you will be finished before the doctor will see us." He knows that I want him out of the waiting room, and obediently goes to the toilet. She knows that he knows and watches me expectantly.
I play it by the book: lean forward, create a closeness between us that is not there in reality. (Disgusting.) Lower my voice even though we are alone in the room, "I am already working on a plan to take CAM down. My vow still applies to you, no matter what John might feel for you at the moment."
I can read in her face that she believes me. "What will you do?" Clever girl. But I am not willing to give it away, especially not to someone I don't trust at all.
"I cannot tell you the details, but there is one thing you need to know: If John invites you for Christmas, say yes!" Then I best myself, lower my voice even more, "Don't tell John there is a plan. He does not react well to any plans concerning Magnussen."
So we share a secret. Have a common goal. Renewed the bond that was once there.
Now all I have to do to safeguard John's unborn child is conceal my plan from the man I love, deceive his wife, outsmart my brother, probably have my parents drugged and conduct the deal I made with the devil.
For the first time, I am enjoying the Christmas season.