9:00pm
Sherlock...I have a confession to make.
.
9:08pm
Go on.
SH
.
9:10pm
I gave Mary Morstan your phone number...
9:20pm
Sherlock?
9:31 pm
Look I'm not going to apologize. I did it for you.
9:42m
You need to talk to John. You didn't see him, I did. He looked so different. So lifeless.
WE ARE SORRY BUT THE NUMBER YOU HAVE REACHED HAS BEEN DISCONNECTED. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE. FOR MORE INFORMATION PLEASE CONTACT THE FOLLOWING NUMBER...
Mary stumbled up the steps to her flat, her eyes half closed. She was deliriously tired, and the nurses practically forced her to go home and rest. Trisha would be fine. She had to repeat that to herself the whole ride home.
Trisha would be fine. She'll be there in the morning. She's just sleeping. Trisha will be fine.
After fumbling with her keys, she pushed the door open. A rectangle of light spread across the floor into the dark flat. Putting the keys back in her bag, she lazily shut the door with a booted foot and flicked on the lights simultaneously.
Her hand was on her gun faster than she could think as a small gasp escaped from her throat. Standing in front of the mantle, facing the pictures adorning it, was a stranger in a long dark coat. He was holding a photograph of her and John on new years last year. John had drunkenly kissed her smiling cheek and a friend of theirs caught the moment. It was a good memory for both them. Grinning brightly, caught up in the jolly of a party and influenced with alcohol enough to silence the heartache, if only for a moment.
The man placed the picture carefully back onto the mantle but didn't turn. Her gun was already out and aimed.
"I wouldn't advise shooting, Mary," he cautioned quietly. He slowly turned.
She couldn't help but stare at him. It was obviously Sherlock Holmes, that much she could tell. It was the same man she saw that night she got Trisha back. He looked more tired and far more boarded up than she'd last seen him.
"You're him," she said, slowly lowering her gun.
"Very good," he responded. She noted the forced nature in the way he raised his eyebrows.
She huffed out her surprise and put the gun away. Shuffling into the living room, she kept her gaze locked on him.
Neither one said anything, just watching each other. It was weird for both of them, analyzing someone who meant a great deal to a mutual friend of theirs. Savior meeting savior. The air in the room was alive and dancing with tension.
"Sherlock Holmes." She said, thinking on the words and what they meant. Her distaste screamed behind them. They meant someone who's hurt John. Who didn't fall into his arms when he saw him. It meant someone who ran once long ago and keeps running.
"And I clearly know who you are. Let's skip the introductions." His face barely moved as he spoke.
"You're jealous of me? Really? Like you have any right to be," she scoffed out her accusation. Sherlock slide his eyes to the side.
"I didn't say-"
"No shit. Your eyes and your hands did when you said 'you'. Look I don't care how you feel. I don't even care why you're here. I care about John. So do me a favor and stay the hell away from him. You broke his heart and you have no right to come back." She wasn't sure where this animosity was coming from. She never fully decided she didn't like Sherlock, but now that it was confirmed he was back, she hated all that it implied. That he was alive this whole time and left John to crumble. That he even came back and left John again.
"I am aware." He said quietly, turning his head. It was the truth and it was shame; her eyes narrowed.
"Go on," she hissed.
"I'm not obligated to explain myself to you. I've only come to demand you stop tracing me. You got my number from Molly, so I figured I'd save you the trouble. Yes I'm alive," he began a slight pace, locking his hands behind his back and turning away from her, "but I'd prefer to stay dead, thank you."
"Do you even care about John at all? Are you really as heartless as they say?" His fingers twitched. Squeezed. She took notice. She also noted his lack of response. He was supposed to have a response for everything.
"Ok, so you do care. Then why stay away? I saw how you looked at him. Back at the warehouse. And no one has a big plan to return unless they really want to. So what changed your mind? Was your old toy too broken to come back to play with?" Her hostility was draining, becoming more quizative.
"You've spent too many nights awake in a hospital chair, Mary. You're too tried, your deductions are off." He didn't turn to face her still.
"No, actually. They're spot on." Her anger was gone. She couldn't help but read people with a hint of amazement. When it was interesting enough to capture her attention, she always got distracted from her emotions. It's as if she's observing something on the TV. Distantly.
Hearing her change in tone, he turned to face her.
"You're afraid." she told him, walking closer, "Not 'normal people' afraid, but I can still see it. You're sweating. Hands clenched. Avoiding eye contact. Back turned. Look at your forehead! You're scared shitless. Of what? Me?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We're getting off the subject," he growled. But was unable to stop her. He knew he would be able to, it wasn't hard to distract people who are lead mostly by emotions. But something inside him wanted her to read him. Trusted her intelligence and almost felt secure in letting some body language slip out. As if he wanted her to read what he didn't want to think.
She stared at him for a bit until she decided what to do. It was a long short, but worth a shot.
"John Watson is in love with you." she stated, strongly focused on Sherlock's features.
Eyebrow twitch. Lip tug.
She walked closer still. "John Watson is still in love with you, after 3 years." she said moving closer.
Shifting legs, looking away. It was making an impact. She continued.
"John loves you, Sherlock." She said with more passion, now standing face to face with him.
He looked up at the ceiling. She could see the crumbling walls. She had to push further. She put her face in his personal space and lowered her voice.
"John Watson cries still because he fell in love with a man who died. He still sees a therapist. He drinks almost every night in attempts to drown the emptiness, but it only gives him a headache in the morning. No closure. I hear him calling out in the nights for you, sometimes. On the nights that he does sleep. John Waston wants you, with every fiber of his being! John-"
"Alright!" Sherlock snapped, caught off guard by both the effects the woman's words were having on him and the ferocity in his voice. "I get it, I broke him. I hurt the only thing that's ever mattered, and now I have nothing left. I realize the damage I've done, but what business does a bomber have returning to his destruction?" His voice along with his pulse rose without his consent. He hated when things John related did that to him.
She backed away but kept her scrutiny locked on his every movement movement. They were getting sloppier. Sherlock felt her understanding it, felt her deducing further than he wanted her to, taking control of the situation. He found it tremendously irritating to be read like that.
How had she gotten under his skin, known exactly what to say? Moreover, his insides were shaking. His heart hurt more than ever hearing her say his name, throw his sin back in his face. The image of a drunken John crying meshed with the trembling voice from nights before.
"I never knew it, don't know how, and I found out too late. But for what it's worth, if you can hear me wherever you are, I learned since you died that I've always loved you."
"That's interesting. You don't want to return...because you feel you don't deserve it?" She asked incredulously. He didn't respond once again.
"I don't know if anyone's ever told you this...but you don't fix something that's broken by leaving it broken. You fix it."
His back was frozen and head down and her heart softened seeing how upset he was. Maybe he wasn't evil, just emotionally inept.
"He's not permanently broken, you know." She offered, "he's just been switched off. You're the only one that can turn him back on."
"I can't." he whispered, still facing away.
His words weren't a confession of a misgiving, rather of personal weakness. He could, but he can't. She was beginning to understand.
"Now I get it. You're not scared of facing your mess. You know that somehow you can fix it. No, you're scared of your mess not wanting you anymore."
He didn't move.
"You're an idiot," she informed. He cocked his head slightly, so that only half his body was facing her. It was clear he was holding back tears. Ah so the robot did feel.
"I've been called a lot of things in my life," he responded, "but it's been a long time since someone called me that." He looked trapped in a memory, too tired to hold up the wall.
"You honestly believe John's not going to accept you back?" she couldn't help but scoff. It had been a very long day, and she was really too tired for this nonsense. Boys were always so stupid at these types of things.
"As if he could possibly do anything else," she said mostly to herself, as she ran her hand through her hair.
"I can't...I can't risk it," he said quietly, unsure why he was even saying it.
"Really?" She threw her best tilted-head glare at him, "You don't have the balls to ask a guy out, so you're just going to let him rot for the rest of his life?"
"He's better off-"
"With you, Sherlock. He was always better off with you. So stop being a fucking pussy about it. You know it's rather selfish. After all the hell you caused him, you won't take on a little for him."
He had nothing to say back. He had never thought of it like that, never thought he could be a cure for John. Only a curse. Getting him back was the selfish thing to do, not running away.
He had planned on coming here then jumping on the first train out of London. But now...he was reconsidering. He wasn't sure what to think and the confusion and pain it was causing was less than bearable.
"Sherlock," she said gently, feeling bad for being so harsh. She stood and walked over to him, placing a hand on his arm. He was too lost to notice. He lifted a wide gaze to her, looking like a deer caught in headlights. A deer with wildly blue eyes.
"Go to him. Stop all this pain, for both of you. There's no point in it. Be logical about this."
"There is no logic in it," he couldn't stop from tumbling from his mouth.
"The logic of the heart, dumbass. It's a bit different from the brain, but just as demanding. You can't help him dead. And he can't help you broken. Go fix your mess."
Somewhere in the back of his mind he had to applaud John for finding such a woman.
A/N: Hey guys! So this chapter is a little less edited, but I figured it's better than nothing. Stuff's gettin' busy in the icky real world so I wanted to give you something :) Enjoy! Please feel free to comment with any mistakes sho I can fix em.