DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Note 1: There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers.
Note 2: A big thank you to sideris, who took my clunky, mistake-ridden sentences and transformed them into proper English. Also, their recommendations and tips improved this fic immensely. Thanks to hoodoo as well for re-reading this and bearing with me.
If you like Sherlock fanfiction, I recommend reading their works (at fanfiction dot net and archiveofourown dot org) :)
xxxxxxxOOOXOOOxxxxxxx
The Lady of Shalott
xxxxxxxOOOXOOOxxxxxxx
It was suspicious, to say the least.
"Lestrade," Sherlock growled, "your theory's stupid."
The Detective Inspector knew better than to take offence at Sherlock's rudeness, so he simply sighed.
"They confessed, Sherlock."
Sherlock snorted and started pacing. They were in Lestrade's office, it was ten in the morning, and Sherlock couldn't believe the police's incompetence after so many years working with him and his methods.
"But the motive, Gary! There's no motive, for God's sake!"
"Greg," the Inspector tiredly corrected. "And there is a motive. A childish prank from three very talented, very attention-seeking computer geeks. They confessed."
Sherlock threw his arms into the air in a melodramatic show of exasperation.
"Do you really expect me to believe a bunch of 16-year-olds was able to hack the United Kingdom's main broadcasting systems by themselves, just to pull a prank?"
Lestrade seemed slightly irritated. "Look, Sherlock, I understand you're unnerved. Seeing Moriarty's face on every bloody TV set was unnerving for everybody, believe me. But it was just that, Sherlock, a prank! They're geniuses, they're skilled, and they were bored. It wouldn't be the first time bored geniuses chose to show off their skills in a delusion of grandeur." Sherlock chose to ignore Lestrade's pointedly look.
"How can you be so obtuse!" he barked, sitting down then standing up again. "Bored teenage geniuses hack web pages, Garrick! The CIA's web page, the UK Government's home page! Not a TV network's internal broadcasting system!"
"Well, those three did."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And care to explain me how they got access to the computer system?"
Lestrade smirked proudly. "From one of BBC's own computers in London. Martin Galloway confessed. His brother has a part-time job as a cleaner there; he took his employee access card, entered the building and hacked the system."
"Meanwhile, Rose from Glasgow and Paul from Liverpool hacked Channel 4 and ITV, at the exact same moment, without siblings working as part-timers, with no phone call or sms or any kind of contact between them!" Sherlock exclaimed. "They didn't know each other, have never met face-to-face, and there's no trace of any kind of communication system between them – if your own geeks at the police aren't wrong, which frankly would surprise me – and nevertheless, they managed to coordinate a most difficult hack up to the minute?"
Lestrade tapped his desk with his index finger, a nervous tic Sherlock had already observed in him. "It was Paul who discovered Rose's and Martin's talents and addresses. They communicated by carrier pigeons and burned all the mail – "
" – rubbish," dismissed Sherlock, impatiently. "I was at their flats, there was no trace of pigeons having been there; none at all. You could say they cleaned after them very well, without their family knowing – however unlikely that is for such geeky, middle-class teenagers with both parents and/or siblings looking after them – but it's impossible to erase absolutely all traces. Nobody else in their family noticed any sound or smell or anything that'd make them suspect there were birds in those brats' bedrooms. They might have given a false declaration, in order to protect the brats, but even Paul's eight-year-old little sister said nothing, and it's easier to make a child talk – she didn't notice anything unusual about her brother's behaviour, didn't notice birds flying to his bedroom – even the neighbours saw nothing. One could argue the pigeons didn't go to those teenagers' rooms but to another place; yet they all live in the middle of their respective cities; if they all went regularly to a specific place, some of Glasgow's, Liverpool's and London's CCTV's would've captured them – but there's no trace of them in any footage, I checked; something you didn't, by the way. Teachers and fellow students, some of them with little sympathy and certainly no loyalty towards Rose, Paul or Martin all said they didn't notice anything abnormal in their behaviour and habits. And anyway," he added, "why collaborate? Why would attention-seeking computer geeks want to share their glory? They didn't need the other two to hack their chosen TV network's system, that much has been proved – they just coordinated to hack them at the exact same moment, with the exact same message. That suggests their aim was not to show off but to attract my attention – that 'miss me?' message was for me – but why would otherwise law-abiding, academically promising kids want to attract my attention, and risk legal penalties for it?"
Lestrade sighed deeply. "Sherlock," he said in such a fatherly way it annoyed Sherlock a bit. "You should be used to the idea that you're pretty famous by now. They wouldn't have collaborated if they didn't think sharing the glory with other two people was worth getting your, the police's and the whole UK's attention."
"But that doesn't explain the lack of evidence – "
"The case is closed, freak. And Inspector Lestrade has more useful ways of employing his time than listening to your rants," said an annoyed female voice from the office door.
"Sally," said Sherlock, icily. He turned slightly to glance at her. "Always a pleasure to see you."
The woman shot him an irked look. "Sergeant Donovan," she corrected him. "Despite your hobby of belittling our capacities, freak, we're professionals and we don't need an amateur to tell us how to do our job. Now, we're busy. Get out."
Sherlock half-closed his eyes and smirked. "Hmf. That's why you keep calling me to save your professional skin, isn't it, Sergeant Donovan? You're wearing black trousers today? Oh, I see. Cheap tampons don't always work as they should, do they? You should ask Lestrade for a pay rise. You could scrub his house floor, as you scrubbed Anderson's before his wife kicked you out of her house."
Sally Donovan would've been livid, if she had had a whiter skin. As it was, her eyes murdered Sherlock painfully slowly.
"Sherlock – " warned Lestrade, alarmed, but the woman cut him off.
"That's all you've got, you childish weirdo?" Her voice was strained with contained rage. "Not half as brilliant without your sidekick constantly kissing your cocky arse, are you? Just admit defeat already. We solved the case, the culprits confessed and the case is closed. Get the hell out of Scotland Yard."
"You've got such an... exotic beauty, Sally. Pity your sweet personality and your feminine job will prevent you from getting an actual boyfriend," spat Sherlock, and regretted his words as soon as he voiced them. The offended woman smirked viciously, triumphantly, taking advantage of his error. "Speak about yourself, freak. My being competent at my job doesn't prevent me from having friends or getting laid."
The man snorted. "No, of course. You got your job by having friends and getting laid," he spat nastily, and stormed out of Lestrade's office with what he hoped was a cool, dignified swagger.
Sally Donovan's words had hurt Sherlock deeper than what he'd ever admit aloud.
OOOXOOO
Miss Watson, Mary Morstan, A.G.R.A. or whoever she was supposed to be now, sat next to her kitchen table. She was caressing its edge with her fingertips, back and forth, in a simple, monotonous and sensuous fashion: she was deep in thought, staring at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite. The wrinkles of her face were the evidence of the nature and the length of her life – just like her husband's.
John. He was such a good man. She had fallen for him fast and hard, since their first interaction. The woman's palm smoothed the table, and her lips formed a bitter-sweet smirk. She could perfectly relate to what Sherlock felt. Her hand stopped and twitched a little, then continued caressing the table's edge. She had told John she liked Sherlock right after meeting the man. No lies there: he strongly reminded her of herself. He was like a male mirror straight from her past. But that, they'd never know.
Mary – as she had decided to call herself since she'd met John – took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had worked so hard, was still working so hard, to become what she was now. It wasn't that she rejected herself, or her past – no, just the ugliest parts. Or rather, she was in the process of accepting them as such and trying to turn them into something positive. Yes, that was it. Mary closed her eyes and her fingertips rubbed her lids. What would they think if they saw her now? Were they even alive? God... she was thinking a lot about them these days. Something to do with becoming a mother, Mary thought.
She felt her eyes become wet, and would have let herself cry, but she had caught a movement in the mirror in front of her, so she collected herself. That specific mirror was strategically placed to reflect the only window that was on Mary's back, which, while sitting in that spot, she wouldn't be able to see otherwise. She stared at the mirror and watched her husband talking to Sherlock at the front door. They were close to each other, very close. John's face was lit up, smiling brightly to his best friend. Sherlock himself seemed merry, as merry as he was able to show. Mary caressed her front with her fingertips, her elbow anchored to the table. She felt a pang in her chest, she felt like crying again – but this time, for different reasons. Instead of giving in, she closed her eyes and took a shaky breath.
Sherlock. She'd been genuinely sad on seeing him enter that plane, partly because she did like him – preferably, alive – and partly because of the torn expression John had had in his face. He'd been smiling, albeit tightly, all the time he thought Sherlock could see him. But as soon as the plane took off, well... she knew that face, had seen it already. She had helped him through his grief before, it hurt having to do the same twice. She didn't know if John could go through mourning him again... It had been hard. It had hurt her to see Sherlock fly to his exile – more than what she thought it would – and towards his certain death. And all for John's sake, for their sake. Like in Greek tragedies. Except, Sherlock had returned just after. Alive.
Mary opened her eyes and tapped the table with her fingers, then stopped, then tapped again. John was talking to Sherlock with his hand on his friend's arm; and Sherlock was leaning towards John in quite an intimate way. Mary almost snorted. Those two seemed oblivious to the subtext in their relationship, but for Mary (and for anyone else, she was sure) it screamed out, loud and clear. Different words, same message. And yet, they apparently didn't get it. Or they did get it, and had chosen to maintain the status quo. Because, you know, life is complicated, and yes I loved you, but you kind of faked your death while letting me believe you died for good and, guess what? I lived through Hell, I got lonely, and then I got married. Let's smile, right? Right, because men don't cry.
Damn. The tears were trying to run away again, so she closed her eyes to stop them. She heard the front door opening and the men's voices coming in, but she wasn't going to let them see her like that. So she forced herself to smile, until it eventually became a true smile. When they entered the kitchen, they found no trace of sadness in her face.
"Well then, Marx Brothers!" she greeted them. "Where have you left the third one?"
"Who, Mycroft?" answered John, hugging her and giving her a kiss on her cheek.
Sherlock frowned for a very short instant, then put his trademark 'not interested' mask on, and asked: "The who brothers?"
"The Marx Brothers, Sherlock!" exclaimed John, both amused and incredulous. "Of course you haven't heard of them."
"Meaning they're unimportant," counter-attacked the detective. He then sat on one of the kitchen chairs with brusque elegance and stared at Mary. "My dear brother is currently occupied feeding bullshit to goldfish."
John looked as confused as she felt, but Sherlock didn't deign to explain things further. He threw his arm towards the basket of fruits, chose an apple and took a bite.
"Is the baby asleep, dear?" asked John, turning to his wife.
"Yes, John," she answered, and her face sweetened. "She's in our room, as usual."
"I'll go and see her. I want to say hello."
"Be careful, don't wake her up..."
"Don't worry, I won't. Sherlock?" The detective looked at his friend. "Do you wanna come?"
Sherlock blinked. "What for?" he blandly asked. John made his 'you've-just-made-another-social-mistake-but-I'm-patient-and-forgiving' face, and answered, "You're her godfather. I thought you might want to see her."
"I'm her godfather. I thought you might've wanted to give her another name."
"Oh, come on, Sherlock," Mary interjected with a large smile. "She's got a beautiful name."
"It's not beautiful – "
"But it's the one we wanted our baby to have," cut in John, and added with a playfully malicious smile: "It's actually a girl's name, right?"
Sherlock groaned, but a smile threatened to betray him. "You could've called her Shirley, or something."
"Too bad," said Mary, with a mischievous smile of her own. "I got to name her."
A smile finally cracked through the detective's lips, though it wasn't large enough to show his teeth. "I only agreed to be her godfather because you seemed determined to go through with that absurd religious ritual of christening, and were determined to make me participate as well. I don't see the point in perpetuating irrational, archaic rites where symbolic step-parents are assigned with no other basis than personal acquaintance with the actual parents; which, by the way, is no guarantee that those assigned are necessarily able to cope with such a responsibility, as in my case," he said in one breath, but rose up and followed a smiling John anyway.
When they left, Mary relaxed her grin into a sad smile and resumed caressing the edge of the table, her gaze fixed on the woman who stared at her from the mirror with a knot in her throat. She had been thinking about that lately. Thinking hard. And she was done thinking. She was a woman of action, after all.
OOOXOOO
John looked at Sherlock and felt a familiar giddiness. He was dressed as smartly as ever, staring down at the baby with ice-blue eyes. John liked Sherlock's demeanour, Sherlock's smooth movements, his spontaneous energy and his piercing eyes. He had stopped lying to himself - at least to himself - the day he thought Sherlock had died. He did feel attracted to him. He'd felt such ripping pain after Sherlock's death, he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd found himself standing on a puddle of blood.
The pain he felt now was different – it was a sweet pain, if one could describe pain as sweet. He'd felt such joy and yet such misery when Sherlock came back to him – came back too late. John couldn't even remember how many times he'd fantasised he'd finally told Sherlock how he felt, what he felt, and now that he was alive it was possible – yet not. Because John had moved on, and things had changed. Sherlock caused him so much exasperation and pain and yet, under that cool, detached exterior, he seemed to be yearning for John as much as John'd been yearning for him. And God knew John couldn't resist a plea for help, a hand gripping his clothes, a feverish glint in the eye – that undid him, he was a doctor, for fuck's sake! He'd been hardened by so many years of practice, and yet a mute, heartfelt cry and a poignant mask of indifference and John was in a turmoil. Or was that just what he wanted to see in Sherlock? John sighed. Sometimes it seemed as if Sherlock couldn't care less about him and the whole affair. But if that were true, John thought, if that were indeed true, how could one explain his Best Man speech, and his little touches, his little smiles, his delightful way of making John accomplice of his witty humour? John approached Sherlock and stood close to him, too close maybe, but what the hell. Even if they'd stuck to their old damned nothing-worth-mentioning-happens-here game, nobody said he couldn't play with the limits of its rules.
Sherlock was currently inspecting the baby in full detective mode, as if she were a knife half covered in gore – as if she were a proof in a crime. John felt a pang to the chest at that thought. The baby wasn't proof of any crime, because loving Mary was no crime. She was like a strong pole he'd hold fast to – after so many unstable relationships, after his whatever with Sherlock, after his fucking death... She was the stability and the commitment he'd needed; the loyalty, the strength, the shelter, the friend. He didn't want to lose her. And yet – there always was a yet in his life, wasn't there? – and yet, Sherlock stirred in him something that made his heart beat faster, made his body lean towards him, made his groin – stop that. It's as impossible as ever, mate, you're married to Mary now.
Sherlock shot him a weird look, John realised how close he was, cleared his throat and moved slightly away – but not too far away. Sherlock wasn't the only unfair bastard there, John thought moodily, and he'd be damned if he let Sherlock drift even farther away from him. The tension was so obvious even Sherlock seemed to suspect something, so John tried to avert his attention while not giving up an inch of conquered space.
"She's cute, right?" John asked.
Sherlock blinked, cheeky. "Whom?"
John rolled his eyes, aware that Sherlock was playing dumb intentionally. "Baby Sherlock, of course."
A flash of something crossed Sherlock's eyes, then he smiled slightly and looked back at the tiny baby. "Hm," he conceded. "She's got your eyes, John."
John felt a flutter at his chest. It hadn't quite been a compliment, yet, well – he chose to take it as one, what the hell. Nothing was going to fucking happen between them anyway, he could pretend to live a fantasy so long as he didn't overstep the boundaries of reality. John smiled brightly at Sherlock. "And she's got your name," he shot back. A bit of playing around couldn't hurt, right?
Sherlock's smile looked like a crack on a smooth marble surface. "Your name choosing ability is as deplorable as my parents', John. I can't compliment you two on that."
John barked a laugh. "And I can't agree with you."
"Doesn't really matter," Sherlock answered back. "'It's Mary you have to agree with."
It hurt as if his heart'd been stabbed with a needle, and John's smile turned slightly sour. And yet, he kind of appreciated Sherlock's stings – he could pretend they were motivated by jealousy, and that alleviated the pain. No matter how messed up that very fact was.
John couldn't find anything witty to reply with, so he huffed. "Mary must be waiting for us."
"Indeed, my dear John Watson."
There it is again, John thought. That sweet pain. If one could describe pain as sweet. I'm such a sad fucked up bastard.
Sherlock put his hand on John's lower back and pushed him gently towards the door. John felt as if he'd been burned and the heat spread directly up his spine and to his groin. He noticed with a shiver Sherlock's hand stayed there until they got perilously close to the kitchen, and took a shaky breath.
Two could play that game, it seemed.
OOOXOOO
It was raining.
It was raining, but Sherlock wasn't looking through 221b Baker Street's windows. No. He was staring at nothing in particular, his eyes looking at his living room without observing. For once.
He was bored. He was irked. The Moriarty prank case still had loose threads, but he could do nothing about it, and Scotland Yard were a bunch of blind idiots. At least he'd had the opportunity to be with John more frequently than what had become normal. And now he was back at Baker Street, with no case and no John.
He was bored. Bored out of his mind, without John's gun to shoot at the wall. Without John to hide his cigarettes or to go shopping for milk or something. He was stagnating. He was bored. He was lonely. He was...
Sherlock frowned. He was sad.
He wouldn't have been able to put his finger in the exact word that defined his mood before. Before meeting John. John and his romantic streak – but no, he was just a normal bloke, wasn't he? No. No, he probably was more perceptive than most blokes. Certainly more than himself.
Sherlock smiled acidly. When it came to feelings, it was him the one that looked but couldn't observe. John and he were so complementary. The best team ever.
Whatever.
John's teasing but friendly smile came to his mind. You say you're sad, Sherlock? A perfectly sound analysis, but I'd hope you'd go deeper. You've missed the most important facts.
Which ones, John?
You're not just sad. You're melancholic. You're nostalgic. You're restless. Bored, too; you nailed it there. In short, you're unhappy about our current situation; you miss me. You miss us.
Shut up, John. There's no man on Earth who can feel so many different things at the same time. Don't be ridiculous. God. Stop laughing.
Seriously, Sherlock. You're the ridiculous one. You're a caricature of the rational, insensitive Victorian gentleman. Not as much as your brother, though.
And then you smile fondly at me, and resume writing in your blog. And then you disappear, because you're not really here with me. Not any more. No. You chose to live with Mary, with a woman. They're the emotional ones, right? Women. But Mary, John. She's a cold-blooded murderer.
You're a cold-blooded murderer. A soldier.
Christ. I'm a murderer.
And neither of us is paying for it. We're no heroes, see? I told you, John. There're no such things as heroes. Don't be romantic. Some people's heroes are other people's villains.
Good grief!
I guess I've got a penchant for cynicism. Don't you? Tell me you do. But you're not here any more to tell me anything. You're not here with that glowing smile of yours. This is worse than when I faked my death, John. Because now I know that even your patience and your loyalty have limits.
It's raining outside. It's pouring outside. Is there no clever criminal left in London, for God's sake?!
OOOXOOO
1 A.M.
John lay awake.
It had been an exhausting day at the clinic (because, obviously, fathers aren't supposed to share the burden of taking care of babies with mothers, so shut up and be grateful you did have paternity leave, you lazy git); as usual, he had barely had the energy to wash the dinner dishes and fall in the sofa to surf on the Internet. He did go to bed with Mary, but despite his fatigue, he couldn't fall asleep.
He was torn. Torn between what he thought was the right thing to do, and what he desperately wished to do... Dr Watson and Mr Hyde. He would have snorted if he had had the energy, and if Mary were a sound sleeper.
John took a deep breath and looked at his wife. He couldn't quite see her face in the dim light of their bedroom. Her breathing was deep and relaxed, but that didn't prove anything. He returned his gaze to the ceiling.
He hadn't been able to contact Sherlock for two weeks. He supposed the detective would be busy following the newest thread of the Moriarty prank case. Or had he solved it already? Oh dear, he couldn't even remember. That never happened before. Hell, he had been busy with the baby and work and...
"John?"
He almost jumped.
"Jesus, Mary! You were awake?"
"So were you," she answered. "What's worrying you?" Mary moved to John's side and embraced him with one arm. He relaxed a bit, but didn't answer.
"You can't sleep?"
Again, John remained silent. Mary raised herself over an elbow and said with a smile: "I know of a method that helps falling asleep..."
"Are you going to tell me a fairy tale?" said John, feeling playful.
"If that's what you want..."
Mary lowered her face and kissed him with tenderness. "Once upon a time," she whispered, "there was a kingdom called Camelot..."
John snorted, freed his arms and embraced his wife.
"... where a Prince Charming lived in a great castle..."
This time he huffed, amused, and kissed her. "Are there any dragons in your story?" he asked, joking.
"Just one," was her smiling reply, and positioned herself on top of John. She kissed his neck, then his cheek, then his lips; and he replied with soft caresses.
"It was a lonely dragon that was kept chained in the dungeons of the castle," she continued. She started unbuttoning his pyjama top, and he immediately did the same for hers.
"The dragon didn't mind being kept in the dungeons," said Mary, "for it hadn't known any other kind of life." They were both naked from the waist up now. "The dragon was proud of itself," she whispered while kissing and caressing John. "All the humans it saw appreciated its ability to melt the rocks they gave to it. With just one exhalation, it could melt any rock and turn it into pure gold."
"But one day, the Prince Charming – not knowing there was a dragon in the dungeons, and following his adventurous nature – descended the stairs of the castle far below the lowest level he'd ever been. He entered the dungeons, and discovered the dragon." Mary paused, then continued. "The Prince Charming was thunderstruck by it. It was a rude, arrogant yet charming dragon who didn't pay much attention to him, or that's what he thought at first."
"Mary..." said John, and stopped caressing her.
"But the knightly, honest Prince still praised the dragon for his extraordinary ability. The Prince discovered the beast could actually be quite friendly; he was simply so used to living alone in a dungeon that he didn't know how to react."
"Mary, please," warned John. Mary didn't seem to have realised she had switched from saying 'it' to saying 'him', but John had.
"Eventually, the Prince befriended the dragon, and they spent a lot of time together having fun. One day, the Prince descended as usual but he found the dragon nowhere. "Where's the dragon?" he inquired to the guards. "He's dead," they answered shrugging. "That cannot be," thought the Prince, but the dungeons were deserted. He bitterly mourned his friend's loss."
"Mary, stop it." John's voice was strained; he was a bit annoyed now.
"Time passed and the Prince Charming fell in love with a Princess Charming. They were to live happily ever after, and they were certainly happy. But one day, a miracle turned their lives upside down."
"Let me guess," interjected John, sarcastic. "The dragon returned flapping nonchalantly, and thought the Prince'd just say 'oh, hello!' "
Mary gave a weary half-smile. "He did flap nonchalantly, and he did have presumptuous misjudgments about the Prince's ability to keep secrets to himself," she affirmed. "But the Princess Charming noticed an alarming detail, and I'm sure the Prince Charming did as well."
"What detail?"
Mary sighed quietly. "The dragon was still hindered by heavy chains."
John remained silent, and Mary continued talking. "He may have thought that the ever gentle Prince'd free him from those chains. But, he got a reality check and decided that wasn't going to be possible."
"What are you trying to say, Mary?" John was dead serious. He heard her swallow.
"I'm positive he loves you, John. Like in, deeply loves you."
John was agitated. When he spoke, his voice was raspy. "I suspected there was something." He paused. "I mean, if someone like Sherlock can actually love."
"Come on, John," Mary replied gravely. "He killed a man for your sake. Look at what he did to that CIA agent for Mrs Hudson's sake; you told me."
"A peculiar way of showing love."
"I was prepared to do the same," declared Mary. And I have actually done it, thought John with unease.
"I still am," she whispered, and a heavy silence followed. "Besides," she added, "you should've seen his face when we went to save you from that bonfire."
"I..." John huffed. "I know, Mary." He searched for his wife's eyes in the dark. "But don't worry. I'm married to you, dear. I love you. And I think 'best friend' is a good enough place."
Mary remained silent for some minutes; John noticed there was something wrong. "What is it?" he inquired.
"Sometimes, 'best friend' is not good enough," she replied, and the depth of her voice made the doctor think about the gaping hole that Mary's past still was to him.
"But what on Earth do you want me to do about it?" asked John wearily. "You're not insinuating I should abandon you and the baby and declare my ardent, earnest passion to him with a rose between my teeth, are you?" he added acidly.
"No, I'm not," said Mary, and fell silent. They were in no mood for physical intimacy any more. After a while, she spoke again. "Look, John..."
He sensed anxiety in her voice, so he waited for her to resume speaking.
"You may want to deny it, but... there is a blatant sexual tension between you two."
John panicked. He'd become so embarrassed he was thankful of the darkness. "Mary, not you too. I'm not gay."
"Stop using semantic loopholes, John. I'm not Sherlock. I know it when you tell half truths." She smiled and added, "I'm well aware you're interested in women." Her smile wavered. "That doesn't exclude you being interested in men too. Am I wrong?"
His silence betrayed him. Mary hesitated a bit before speaking again. "I don't mind, John."
"Come on, Mary, I know you don't mind – "
"I mean, I don't mind you being attracted to Sherlock."
He was shocked into silence. Suddenly, the air became colder. "Are you telling me," he said in an icy, slow voice, "that you don't mind if your husband lusts after his best friend?"
This time, it was Mary's turn to be speechless.
"I..." she finally croaked, "Look, I don't know. I'm not sure, okay?" John heard her hands messing with her hair. "I love you, dear, you know that. You know how much you mean to me." She swallowed and continued. "It's just... I feel bad. I feel like an intruder sometimes, like it's my fault you're not togeth – "
"Mary," cut in John, sternly. "It's so not your fault. I'm seriously shocked you can think that way. It was him who abandoned me; he caused me so much unnecessary sorrow it nearly destroyed me! He's the one who keeps people at an arm's length; he's the one who keeps pushing me back even now –"
" – because of us, John – "
" – because he's a fucking emotional half-wit!"
The outburst seemed to resound in the bedroom's silence. For some time, the couple didn't dare to utter another word. Finally, Mary spoke with unusual timidness. "Maybe... maybe we can work a way out of this mess."
"How?" asked John, tired. Mary was silent for a moment.
"I... I don't know," she admitted, "I'm not sure... but... I do want a happily ever after. For everyone," she added, with weak humour. John snorted, then smiled, and felt a wave of tenderness towards her wife. This was mostly why he fell in love with her: no matter the seriousness of a conversation, she always managed to lighten the mood, to stay positive.
"Don't go all hippy on me, Mary," he said with affection. She smiled and answered:
"Why not?"
But deep down, A.G.R.A. knew why not.
OOOXOOO
"Are you sure, Mycroft?"
"Brother dearest." A pause. "Please."
Sherlock shot another glance at the file Mycroft had handed him. Documents on relatively old paper, typewriter style – no, Courier font letters. Written using an old computer's Text Processor. The last documents – one third of the total – on newer, whiter paper. Written in Times New Roman, more recent. The manila file's colour faded, edges worn. Smells like dust. Kept in storage and barely removed. Top Secret? Not quite. Old news. From the 90's. Regularly, but infrequently updated. Still kept secret, not stored on computer.
"Why are you showing me this?" he asked to Mycroft.
"I thought it would interest you."
"Bullshit. You've always got ulterior motives," Sherlock answered flippantly. They remained in silence, and when he saw that his brother wouldn't cooperate, he changed tactics. "What are you going to do?" he inquired.
"Nothing," answered Mycroft, inspecting his fingernails. "Unless Germany tells us otherwise."
"Not bound by EU laws?"
"EU laws don't bind their masters, dear brother."
Sherlock huffed and returned the file.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock stood smoking in front of his living room window. He shot a glance at his cigarette. Industrial; already done. Random American brand from random vending machine. Mediocre quality. Really. Mycroft could've given him something better. Was it a subtle message to convey his disapproval? Probably. Mycroft loved that kind of silly games. Idiot.
Sherlock gave it another puff and exhaled the smoke against the window. He had once told himself he'd quit both this and his other vice, but as usual, when things got too boring or too complicated, he couldn't help sinning yet again.
He was smoking; therefore, his mind was in overdrive. Elementary.
It wasn't, however, because of a case. No, there hadn't been any interesting cases lately. Nothing higher than a seven. Disappointing.
No. It was of a much more... personal matter. That made him extra impatient. He tapped the back of a nearby chair and exhaled again.
Should he? He supposed he shouldn't. But then again, he was curious. He didn't feel the exhilarating thrill he felt with good cases – no, it wasn't that. It was much more ordinary. Yet... he loved to surprise people, to puzzle them by telling them things they felt sure he couldn't know. He was a bit of a drama queen, after all.
What the hell. He would.
OOOXOOO
John sat with some of his colleagues in the hospital employees' canteen. Shifts were long and arduous, but the work was well paid, and with a baby at home, he couldn't say no. Except... he very much wanted to. He missed working with Sherlock, missed Sherlock, and hospital job just wasn't the same without Mary around. But no responsible father would leave a safe work and decrease their home income by almost two thirds, right? Right. So there he sat, eating last night's leftovers from a lunchbox, and almost depressed. Thank God he still had his colleagues to talk to.
His thoughts wandered to the conversation he had had with his wife the previous night, and he sighed.
Okay, so he did care deeply for Sherlock, and he did feel attracted to him. He loved him. Always had, actually. But Sherlock was a self-labelled sociopath who believed love was a human error. A chemical imbalance. It'd have been stupid of me to tell him the truth, right? It couldn't be then, and it certainly can't be now. I love Mary. I love her so much, and she's my wife, and the mother of my daughter. It's pretty clear.
Except now, Mary's words had grown deep roots within his mind. She had told him Sherlock loved him. He'd never allowed himself to believe that, not really. But now that another person said it... but... shit. So what? He was married. He couldn't split himself in half, could he?
Oh, but he wanted to. He wanted to. Christ. All those years admiring his odd flatmate, his brilliant friend. So smart and yet so oblivious. So cruel and yet so sweet. So cunning and yet so innocent. So... so extraordinary. Sherlock. Sherlock and his cheekbones and his – everything. John had never told anyone, not even Mary, about how he had exactly felt after the – the fall. How much he had regretted not telling him he appreciated him, not telling him... but what was the point now? John didn't commit the same error twice, when he'd thought he'd die. That they both'd die, that day at the Tube. That cock. He had faked it on purpose, he was sure, just to make a prank... or, on second thoughts, to coax him into talking. Into saying things he'd never dare say otherwise – only John was so cowardly he didn't dare say them even on the brink of death.
Well, neither did Sherlock, right?
'Sherlock's actually a girl's name'. Go to hell. At least I was able to say the most important part of the truth. My! But I'm being unfair. You did say part of your truth. In my wedding day no less. You dick. Takes an official statement of my being with someone else for you to blurt out –
"John, are you okay? You've spaced out."
Quick, smile. "It's nothing, Bill. I'm a bit tired, that's all."
Padma, another colleague, looked at him with sympathy. "It's hard having a baby at home, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Haven't been sleeping well..."
"Well, mate. We're heading to Floor 3 for a coffee. You coming?" asked Bill.
"In a minute. I'll catch up later."
"As you wish, you know where to find us. Bye!"
Bill, Padma and the other two doctors rose up and exited the canteen. Still thoughtful, John followed them in a much slower pace, and once in the corridor, he approached one of the windows. He stood in front of it, pretending to contemplate the streets below.
How could human relationships be so damn complex? Sometimes, he missed the simplistic brutality of war: I'm right, you're wrong, I command, you obey, and if you don't agree, I'll make you agree. Or I'll kill you. Ruthless, unethical, but extremely simple.
John made a sigh and headed towards Floor 3.
OOOXOOO
It was a grey, cold and cloudy morning. It was September, but it didn't feel like it. It felt like chilly November.
"Let's meet at Hyde Park, what'd you say?"
Mary didn't answer; she was puzzled and a bit anxious. The palm holding her phone was moist.
"I can't leave the baby alone, Sherlock," she answered finally. "What'd you want to meet up for, anyway?"
"Around 4 PM? John'll be still at work, right?"
She didn't answer again, and let the pause stretch.
"Okay then," Sherlock finally said into her silence. "At 4 PM, between the Diana Memorial Fountain and the Serpentine. I'll be waiting." And he hung up.
Mary felt an irrational fear creeping up from her stomach. Nonsense, she thought, and went to fetch little Sherlock, who was sleeping soundly.
OOOXOOO
It still was a grey, cold and cloudy day in the afternoon, with few people roaming around. Mary came from the Serpentine Bridge, along the path that went to the Memorial, and found Sherlock standing next to the bird sculpture, facing the river. He was smoking with charming elegance, lost in his thoughts, a hand in his coat pocket, and his collars turned up. Mary smirked. She had to admit he was attractive, in a classy, black-and-white kind of way. His slender hands were manly, yet beautiful, manipulating the cigarette with finesse, as if it were made of glass. He had the same androgynous, fluid grace that proud horses and stealthy panthers had. Mary huffed and smiled with sadness. If she were a couple of decades younger, she would have fallen for him at first sight. She understood what John saw in their friend: a rare, sensuous gracefulness.
Her mouth had suddenly become dry, and her heart started beating faster. She approached him in silence, her peacefully sleeping baby wrapped close to her chest.
OOOXOOO
When Sherlock sensed her arriving, he exhaled the smoke he had in his lungs, threw the butt to the ground and stepped on it. Without a word, he pointed at a nearby bench, approached it and sat down. Mary followed him in a slower pace and stopped in front of him, without sitting down.
"Good afternoon, Mary" he finally said, "Or should I say, Guten Nachmittag, Anja?"
Her face became as white as a sheet of paper, and her body went rigid.
"Don't worry," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. "It wasn't John. If he read your files, he didn't say a word to me."
Mary was still standing, and standing quite still. For a moment, Sherlock feared it'd been too Not Good.
"My name's Mary now," she croaked, when her voice returned to her. He gestured for her to sit down, which she finally did.
"I thought you might've been curious about how I got the info," said Sherlock, feeling somewhat disappointed.
"John said he didn't read the files. Mycroft, then," she answered, her pale face turned to yellowish.
"Yes."
Neither spoke for some dramatic seconds. Then Mary said: "So I presume I'm not a priority?"
Sherlock smirked. He had to admit she was smart. "Not unless Germany reclaims you."
The woman snorted with bitterness. "Joy."
"The Rote Armee Fraktion disbanded seventeen years ago, Mary. You're no longer a threat." He savoured the slightly surprised face she had made when he mentioned the name of her organisation. Oh, he so loved to outsmart people.
"I could've been instigating local insurrections in the UK," Mary said.
"They know you didn't. Even though you kept training yourself in the woods. You were being closely watched."
"I was aware. That's why I kept a low profile."
"Precisely my point. You're no longer a threat."
Bingo. Somewhere under all those layers of Mary, Anja finally got irritated. "I can be if I want to," she coldly said.
"Being forty-four years old, recently married, recuperating from a complicated childbirth and in charge of a newborn baby? I don't think so. And neither does Mycroft," stated Sherlock smugly.
Mary huffed and let it go. "What if some politician wants me as a trophy for his electoral campaign?" she spat.
Sherlock softened a bit. "Let's hope not."
"That's not good enough."
"I know."
They remained in silence for some time.
"You know," Sherlock finally said, "I thought you were much younger. Closer to my age, actually. Thirty-something."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" replied Mary with a half-smile.
"A simple observation," he retorted.
"An inaccurate observation. I'm surprised, Sherlock."
"You're a good liar, Anja."
"Mary. And thank you."
They fell into silence once again, then he said: "So John doesn't know."
Mary tensed visibly. "He told me he hadn't read the files," she confirmed.
"Did you feel relieved?"
"Very."
"Why?"
Mary shot him a hard stare. "You know why, Sherlock. He wouldn't have loved me any more."
"Because of the killing part?"
She looked at him with an incredulous 'really?' face, and replied, "Because of the Red Army part, Sherlock."
"Oh. I see," he said absent-mindedly, pondered for a moment, and added: "And how do you stand loving a veteran of a so blatantly imperialist war people all over the world demonstrated against it?"
He was taunting her, and she knew it. Mary looked at him sharply.
"I was already in love when he told me that. The John I fell for is a kind, easy-going and friendly doctor. The John I love makes me laugh, makes me dinner, makes me love," she retorted with cold fury. Sherlock clenched his jaw and ignored the almost immediate change in Mary's facial expression.
"I'm sorry," she quietly said.
"There's nothing to apologise for," he answered with frosty pride. "Anyway," he added, "if you can continue loving him even after knowing what he did, what makes you think he can't do the same?"
Now Mary's confidence really seemed to fail. "It was him who chose not to read the files, Sherlock."
They remained silent for some minutes.
"You know, I'm curious," Sherlock finally said.
"About what?" she asked, a bit churlish once again.
"Magnussen told us you worked for the CIA. I'd have thought you abhorred them. Did you freelance for them?"
Mary's - or was it Anja's? - face turned as white as a sheet of paper. She seemed to be unable to say anything. Bit Not Good? But he had to know.
"Didn't you?"
She fixed her eyes on the bird statue and her voice sounded strangled when she answered, "No."
Ah. I see.
"So it was the Rote Armee itself who collaborated with the CIA?"
Mary - or was it Anja? - flinched at his words. "More like we were made use of," she muttered. Her face was so white it had become almost purplish, her teeth were clenched and her eyes were hard like iron. Sherlock's inner John was screaming 'Not Good' at the top of his lungs, but the piece of meat he'd bitten on was being too juicy to let go.
"Were there no objections amongst you?"
Mary pursed her lips for a moment, then relaxed them again.
"There were," she growled. "But some of the CIA's strategic objectives were also our own. They did everything to facilitate our task and sold us arms at an interesting price."
"In exchange of getting rid of some key businessmen, I presume?"
She didn't seem to notice - but Sherlock had, naturally - that her hands had clenched into fists so hard her knuckles had turned white. Mary licked her lips. "Those men managed their companies in the ruthless pursuit of private profit, stomping on worker's rights in countries where they could get away with it," she said in one breath.
"I deduce they were also a nuisance for some... private interests back in the USA, am I wrong?" Sherlock couldn't help smirking, but tried to smooth his face. He was being Not Good enough as it was. She didn't answer, but Sherlock could read 'Obviously' written all over her face. Hey, he was getting good at it.
"Didn't that pose a problem for you? Integrity-wise, I mean," he asked with false concern. He was enjoying himself. He was a cat, she was a mouse, and he was having fun playing with her. He should feel guilty, but he didn't.
Mary was sitting still and tense. "The top leadership decided it was a lesser evil in exchange for carrying out some of our strategic objectives."
"Oh, I see," said Sherlock, with smooth sarcasm. "When the Greater Good is at stake, my enemy's enemies are my allies. But what would your people've said if they'd known? A bit risky, wasn't it?"
Oops. Too Not Good? He must've put salt in some deep wound, because she flinched as if in physical pain. And at that very moment Sherlock realised - too late, as usual - why he was enjoying this so much.
Petty vengeance. Petty, childish, bitter vengeance for stealing my John away. His mental Mycroft sneered at him. Enjoy getting involved, brother dearest.
He felt a disagreeable coldness in his chest, a feeling he wasn't too sure he could identify. Guilt? Remorse? "I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered. Mary was blinking abnormally fast – eyes reddening, starting to swell; reddening nose, also starting to swell. Conclusion: she was on the verge of crying. But she didn't cry, oh no. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, blew her nose quietly and put it away with an arched eyebrow and pursed lips. Not one tear had dared to escape. Sherlock swallowed. He was being ridiculous, immature. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Mary," he repeated, louder. Mary's eyes were still fixed somewhere in front of them. Quick. Change tactics.
"You know me," he said, as lightly as he dared to speak. "I've got to maintain my high-functioning sociopath image. I can't just stop being an arsehole."
There. Win. A small smile on her too pale face.
"I guess you do know something about human nature, after all," Mary said, with her eyes downcast. Sherlock sensed there was more than one message in that sentence, but he didn't get them. So he did what he always did in those situations: he blinked and let it go. Mary seemed okay with it, though, as if she had come to terms with something.
Neither talked for a few moments, and thank God, the tension between them dropped, until the silence became almost comfortable. Suddenly, the baby stirred awake, claiming her mother's attention. Sherlock felt a mild interest. Odd.
"So. What is it like to be a mother?" he asked, trying very hard to be Good for once, but even he was aware of his awkward politeness. Mary smiled weakly at his efforts to be friendly. Better than nothing.
"Tiring," she answered. The baby was hungry, it seemed. She unbuttoned her coat, her jersey and her shirt to breast-feed her. Suddenly curious, Sherlock stared. She caught him, which made him avert his eyes towards the statue.
"What is it like?" he finally dared to ask, feeling a bit uncomfortable.
Mary smirked and replied, "Pleasurable."
He said nothing, but he knew Mary noticed she had managed to embarrass him a bit. Her smirk grew larger, but didn't say anything else. They fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence. After some long minutes, Mary broke it.
"Sherlock... thank you for everything you've done for me and John." He suddenly turned very still; he was beginning to feel a knot in his throat. Mary continued speaking with a small smile. "You may be a high-functioning sociopath, but you certainly are loyal and committed to those you love. When you want."
Now Sherlock felt really bad for having been such an arse before. He was positively embarrassed, and… inexplicably afraid. Mary spoke again. "You know John loves you back, right?"
Sherlock turned his warm face to look at Mary; he could feel his hair rising. She swallowed visibly and averted her eyes to the river. Mary remained silent for a long moment; and then, she dropped the bomb. "I mean, the same kind of love you've got for him."
The comfortable silence had turned to brittle glass once again.
"I'm smart, Mary, but I'm not sure I follow you."
Mary took a deep breath and exhaled it. She looked nervous and unsure of what she was doing. But she was courageous, Sherlock would give her that.
"Look," she said, "I'm still confused with how I feel about you two. I once told you, I'd do anything to keep John by my side. I'm deeply in love with him. That's why –"
"That's why you'd rather share him with another person than run the risk of losing him completely?" interrupted Sherlock acidly.
"That's why I don't want to see him suffer," she shot back, annoyed. But Sherlock knew he'd nailed it. She added, "And I don't want to see you suffer, for that matter."
Sherlock calmed down a bit, but he still felt cold inside. They didn't dare utter a word for a few seconds, then Sherlock said, "Well... After all, you did come second."
But Mary too seemed to know how to have a sharp tongue when she wanted, and retorted, "Yet you yielded easily the first place."
An eye for an eye. Sherlock smirked with bitterness."True."
The baby had long stopped feeding and lay asleep next to her mother's exposed breast. She seemed to notice that, and carefully replaced her clothing.
"Beautiful breast," said Sherlock out of the blue. Let's see if she keeps her balance.
Mary simply snorted. "They're bigger when one's breastfeeding."
"I meant it's got a beautiful shape."
Mary looked at him with suspicion, but after some time, chose to ignore his remark. Keeps her balance, indeed.
"Have you talked to John about this?" inquired Sherlock.
"About my breasts' shape and size?" she retorted, and he couldn't help smiling a little. Keeps her balance while giving the finger. Not a goldfish. He liked that side of her. He liked her, he realised.
"No," he answered with calm, and added, "about our charming little... what would you call it...? ...love triangle?"
Mary shifted uncomfortably. "A bit," she answered.
"How much?"
She took a deep breath. "I told him I noticed the sexual tension between you," she replied flatly. "And that you two obviously care deeply for each other." She paused a moment, somewhat unsure, then slowly added, "I also told him I felt a bit like an intruder, like an obstacle between you two. It makes me feel bad."
"I can kind of relate to that feeling," he muttered quietly, humbled by her honesty. He saw Mary's throat clench. She fixed her eyes on the bird statue in front of her. When she spoke again, her voice was under control. "We needn't continue this way."
"And what do you propose?" inquired Sherlock gravely.
"I think that's pretty clear."
He snorted. "I hate that feminine way of beating around the bush."
"And I hate it when smart people play dumb," she retorted.
They fell silent for a minute, then Mary stated, "I think you should talk to John."
Sherlock huffed. "Men don't talk, Mary."
"Yeah, that's your biggest flaw."
"Says a woman."
They both suppressed a grin, and remained in silence until Mary ventured: "Okay, so do whatever men do to sort this out with John."
"Shouldn't you talk to him?"
"I thought that was an annoying woman thing?"
"I thought that was a lovey-dovey couple thing."
Mary grinned triumphantly. "Then, as a lovey-dovey couple that you two are, will you talk to John too?"
Sherlock huffed. "I hate that feminine way of beating around the bush."
"I love you too, honey."
They both smiled at the bird statue in front of them, savouring the friendly silence they had created. After some time, though, reality sobered them.
"I've never tried anything like this, Sherlock, I warn you," said Mary seriously. "I don't know how this... love triangle or whatever is going to work. I don't know how I'll react once you're... officially together. I'll do my best to manage my feelings," she promised solemnly. "I hope you'll have the same courtesy."
"Well, do your best with your bleeding heart," replied Sherlock with sarcasm. "I'll do my best to melt my rock."
"That sounded wrong."
"Grow up."
"Too late."
Sherlock suppressed a snigger and Mary feigned a cough to conceal hers.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Don't you have a watch?"
Mary rolled her eyes and looked at her mobile phone.
"So?" asked Sherlock. "What time is it?"
She shot him a half-annoyed, half-amused look. "Five PM. I should go home," she said, and stood up.
"Is John free tomorrow evening?" inquired Sherlock.
"I think so." She seemed suddenly off.
"Will you 'talk' to him when he comes home today?"
Mary shifted her weight to her other leg. "I could..."
"Excellent. Then I'll 'talk' to him tomorrow evening."
"Okay," she quietly said.
Sherlock rose up with renewed energy. He was happy, happier than he thought was able to feel, as if a weight he hadn't noticed he carried had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.
"Thanks, Mary," he said with honesty, caught her forearms between his hands and kissed her cheeks. "We'll keep in touch." He then waved a goodbye and walked towards the Serpentine bridge, his hands stuffed in his dark coat's pockets and his collars turned up. He rushed home.
OOOXOOO
Mary looked at her phone. 5:20 PM. God. And she was still sitting on the bench.
Everything had gone smoothly. No melodrama, no suspicions and a manageable level of venom. Exactly as hoped.
That's why she hadn't expected to feel the vertigo she still felt in her stomach; a cold, sick dread that twisted her insides. A fear that hadn't gripped her at first - before she really realised that was going to happen.
She was going to... share John with Sherlock. And now, she couldn't back out.
Mary felt nauseous. She sincerely hoped she had done the right thing.
Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence.
Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.