The next time John disappeared, Sherlock was ready for it. He had deduced that the next commemorative date would be the day John had proposed to Mary. A quick perusal of his flatmate's laptop confirmed a reservation at the Ritz Hotel for that date. Armed with a time and place, Sherlock prepared his strategy.
It had now been six months since Mary had left them, and their lives had achieved a sort of rhythm that gave them a sense of equilibrium. Slowly they were returning to their old habits of living together as they had before Mary had entered their world. John read the papers to Sherlock over breakfast. Sherlock talked out his cases to John, whether John was present or not. John did the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning. Sherlock dissected body parts and performed experiments on the kitchen table. John sometimes went out to the pub with Lestrade or with Mike Stamford. Sherlock sometimes insisted on dragging John to Angelo's or to other old haunts where they had customarily eaten as a pair of bachelors. Reverting to type, Sherlock began rejecting the more boring cases, concentrating his efforts on the ones that captured his interest. They found themselves smiling more easily as time went by. John's wry sense of humour returned bit by bit, and Sherlock found himself able to go for hours at a time without thinking of Mary.
The important date arrived. Sherlock's inner-Mary cautioned him to allow John adequate privacy before rushing in to help, and so he timed his arrival at the Ritz precisely in order to give John one hour of solitude. Sherlock deemed that to be plenty of time to allow for wallowing in his emotions alone. However, when he arrived at the Ritz dining room, the table John had reserved was occupied by a young couple in formal wear, and there was no sign of his flatmate.
The maître d' confirmed that the gentleman in question had indeed shown up, approached his reserved table, and then hovered in its vicinity for several minutes before fleeing to the entryway. The staff had observed with interest as he had attempted to re-enter the restaurant a number of times before finally giving up and walking out of the hotel altogether. Had anyone noticed which direction the skittish diner had headed? Of course not. Sherlock sighed. What to do now? All his careful planning, thwarted by inconceivable emotional responses.
Where would John go? As far as Sherlock knew, the couple had not gone anywhere else on the night in question. Mary had claimed that they had danced all night at the Ritz. Perhaps he had gone to another place of importance to them. Westminster Bridge? Unlikely. They had enjoyed walking in parks. But to which one would John go? Every park was Mary's favourite park. What if John were just wandering aimlessly through the streets? It was hopeless. Sherlock did not have enough to data to go on. Perhaps he should send out his homeless network to search for John? Should he contact Mycroft to check the CCTV cameras in the area? How annoyed would John be if Sherlock got others involved in this private part of his life?
At last, Sherlock realized that the most obvious solution would be to ask John where he was. After the Westminster Bridge incident, his friend had promised not to turn his phone off again as long as Sherlock promised not to call it for frivolous reasons.
Where are you? Sherlock texted. John sent a one-word answer—the name of a bar near Westminster station. Sherlock frowned. A bar. Not a park. Not a pub. This did not bode well, he thought.
Arriving at the bar, he easily spotted his friend at a corner table with a pint in his hand, fending off the advances of a female nearly young enough to be his daughter. Intrigued, Sherlock kept out of John's line of sight and watched this phenomenon. He had noticed of late-and Lestrade had commented on this as well—that as John's hair faded to grey and as time etched more character-lines into his face, the more female attention he seemed to attract. His customarily friendly and affable personality had been eclipsed by a sorrowful vulnerability tinged with an air of dangerous edginess, a romantic combination that appeared to be irresistibly attractive to the opposite sex. Sherlock watched with fascinated amusement for over 20 minutes as John dealt with no less than six flirtatious women who were drawn to the sight of a man brooding alone over a pint as cats are drawn opportunistically to a puddle of spilt milk.
Eventually, though, he realized that his exasperated friend needed a rescue. The sixth young woman was apparently not taking "no" for an answer. Sherlock moved to stand behind John's chair and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. Leaning over to speak in John's ear, he rumbled loudly enough for her to hear, "Well, John, should I be jealous?"
The woman apologized and fled. Other women around the room nodded to themselves, relieved that there was an explanation for their rejection by the mysterious stranger other than their own obnoxious behaviour. Sherlock walked around the table to sit across from John, who smiled and said, "Sherlock, thank god you're here. I'd quite forgotten what it was like to be single in a place like this."
Sherlock snorted derisively. "John, be honest. You were never this desirable to women when you were single."
John looked annoyed, but had to admit to the justice of Sherlock's observation. "I wonder what it is?" he mused.
"Brooding," Sherlock assured him solemnly. "It is a well-known fact that women find brooding to be overpoweringly alluring."
"Brooding? Where on earth did you hear that?" John demanded, unbelieving.
"Um, on telly," Sherlock admitted sheepishly. "Talk shows."
"Well, then, it must be true," John chuckled sarcastically.
Sherlock picked up John's mug and sipped. He did not really like ale, but it seemed like something a comrade would do. Then he asked, "So why are you here instead of at the Ritz?"
John looked resigned. "No point asking how you know about that, I suppose. You always know, don't you?" he asked affectionately. "I . . . I just couldn't manage it, I guess. The Ritz isn't really a place one can sit in alone, you know. I was surrounded by couples, laughing and dancing. It made me feel resentful and bitter. I didn't want to feel resentful and bitter while I was remembering Mary. So I left."
Sherlock nodded and said nothing. Mary had taught him that silence was often the best way to get people talking. Sure enough, John soon said, "Have I ever told you about when I proposed to Mary?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I presume she squealed with delight and made a public spectacle of herself."
"Well, eventually," John smiled quietly. "But initially, she refused me outright."
Sherlock's eyebrows raised, but he could see that John was trying not to laugh at the memory.
"I had only got so far as "would you" before she cut me off and begged me not to ask her. She said she'd tried it once and it was no good. She'd only hurt me and make me sorry I'd asked her. Naturally, I apologized for my presumption, and then she apologized for hurting my feelings. Eventually, we agreed to just let things go on as they had been." John was now grinning broadly. "And then I asked her to dance with me, and she turned white as a sheet."
"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, chuckling with his friend. "What did she say when she realized her mistake-that you hadn't been asking her to dance before then?"
"She was horrified! She demanded that I ask her my question again and promised to let me finish my sentence. Of course, I told her the mood had passed; it was too late." They were now both laughing in earnest. "So she insisted I ask her again and swore she'd say yes to whatever I asked."
"Fearless Mary!" Sherlock smiled fondly. It was the first time they had been able to speak freely of Mary in any tone other than grief. Now it was as if the dam holding back precious memories had been breached, and their favourite stories of their life with Mary came pouring out in a torrent of affectionate laughter.
"Remember when she identified the cause of death at that house in Highgate, when every one of us there was stumped? 'I've caused wounds like this before,' she said, and Anderson nearly had an apoplectic fit," Sherlock grinned.
"Remember when she attacked that pickpocket at our wedding reception and bloodied his nose for him?" John chortled.
Sherlock told John about the amusing way Mary, on their trip to Cornwall, had fended off the advances of a young P.C. who had a bad case of hero-worship. John told Sherlock about the three assassins he and Mary had caught in their flat on their first anniversary, and how she had scolded them severely for spilling coffee on her carpeting as she handcuffed them. Sherlock marvelled aloud that the tiny Mary had managed to drag his unconscious body out of a roomful of poisonous gas, saving his life. John boasted about how his clever Mary had thwarted a pair of bank robbers while she was locked inside a safe. They reminisced for hours, feeling now the joy that Mary had given them with her life rather than the sorrow she had left behind. They inevitably finished with the story of her sacrificial death, and they were able to feel pride in her courage.
"I could wish she had not been so brave," John mused. "But if she had not been so utterly fearless, she would never have married me in the first place. She had to face her greatest fears to make a life with me. I'm just grateful for what time we had." He was silent for a long while. Then he said, "It wasn't my fault, was it? It really wasn't. I couldn't have reached her in time to save her."
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "It was the killer's fault, and no one else's. He and his partner are the ones who did this to us. And they have paid dearly for it."
They went home, and they both slept better than they had since Mary had left them—the first truly peaceful, restful night they had passed in six months. Sherlock did not once have that re-occurring dream which had plagued him every night—the one in which he had been clever enough and fast enough and good enough to save Mary; the one that always left him lying sleepless and angry until dawn. And Mary's Captain did not wake up screaming her name even one time all that night.
She would have been pleased.
000
The story of John's proposal to Mary is told in "Dancing Round the Subject". The other stories referred to here are from "His Spare Watson", "Making Friends and Forming Alliances", "Can't Manage Ordinary", and "Invictus."