DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers. Please, be aware.
As always, a huge thank you to sideris for taking time to beta this fic in spite of being busy with their own fanfiction. Which I recommend reading, they're far better than mine :)x
xxxxxxOOOXOOOxxxxxx
The Knights of the Triangular Table
xxxxxxOOOXOOOxxxxxx
Mary couldn't sleep.
It wasn't because of the baby; she was sleeping soundly. No. It was because... well, because her husband was fucking his best friend like right now, probably? Yeah. And she had consented it.
Oh, damn. Old Anja was coming back – not the thirty-something disillusioned, scared one, but the reckless teenager – the one who smoked, the one who spat on the floor, the one who chose to take a gun and shoot with it.
Mary felt a cool, slimy knot of snakes slithering and fighting the walls of her stomach. She sighed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She tossed the sheets and sat on her side of the now too big and too cold double bed. The night was chilling, and she felt, more than saw, goose pimples forming on her skin.
She needed to smoke, needed it badly. It'd been ages – decades – since she quit smoking, but the old ghost was coming back to haunt her – the need for the burning, relaxing air filling her lungs. Tonight she felt impetuous, nervous, as if a bundle of nerves squeezed her insides between her lungs and her stomach. She felt like getting drunk, like chain-smoking, like taking her gun and practising in the forest – but she mustn't. She mustn't, not while her head and her heart were in a mess.
And what about little Sherly?
Mary sighed and rubbed her closed eyes with her wasn't the young Anja any more, she was a mother in her forties. But she was going crazy locked up in her flat, damn it! She was suffocating, she needed fresh air!
What the hell. She'd go to a seven-eleven; she'd get cigarettes, beer – nothing stronger than that – and she'd come back there. John wouldn't be home tonight anyway, she was free to do whatever she pleased. She put clothes on, took her coat, her money, her mobile phone and her keys, and went out.
Walking in the freezing night did her good. She pretended to be another shadow in the night, an anonymous shadow gliding towards her hunting place. She loved those moments; loved to feel camouflaged and unnoticeable and ignored and underestimated – that made her feel secure, safe. A black panther in a dark jungle, blended into the shadows, seeing everything and seen by no one. But she knew that was just an illusion. Yes. She had lost her innocence long ago; she wasn't that Anja any more. Or, rather, that Anja had been chained and jailed in the deepest, dampest cell of her heart. Although sometimes she managed to break through – like tonight.
That Anja. Oh, how she'd liked to play that role. To have a long coat and smoke cigarettes and blow the smoke into the air, like a cross-gendered black-and-white Humphrey Bogart. Yes. She'd been excited to be part of the RAF – the proletariat against the bourgeoisie – to be David against Goliath – no damsel in distress, no whore at your disposal, no angel of the house; but a cross between an anonymous superhero, a femme fatale and a Second World War martyr. The tomboy of a Soviet militia, a guerrillera of a Caribbean jungle. Female Robin Hood and her comrades against Capitalism and its evils. So alluring, so glamourous; the eternal aura of Marxist glory and atheistic saintliness. Mary snorted. Working for a Great Cause. Indeed. But then... and now...
She started walking faster.
The bitter truth, a truth she learnt all too soon, was that she was no Humphrey Bogart, no David and no Robin Hood. Young Anja'd been so enamoured with the glamourous self-image she had made of herself... but it hadn't lasted long. No; because soon she'd known what it truly meant to be clandestine, to be persecuted. To have to hide, run, fly, hide again, paranoia; to become the shadows and still be afraid of them, afraid, afraid, always afraid and on the run, afraid of everyone, afraid and away, alone, so alone and suspicious of every pair of eyes that fell upon her – suspicious of every cat and every rat that crossed her path.
Anja's breath came out as puffs of smoke into the cold night. She guessed she had to be thankful for her comrade's support and the nerves Nature had given her – a steady pulse that made her into a deadly marble statue of Athena, Pallas the mighty warrior, Minerva the war goddess. She was thankful she'd never been caught – never been tortured, never been in jail. Never been broken down. Untouched, thanks to paranoia and cautiousness and good damn luck and – and who knows whose mercy. Or lack of interest. Or...
Stop it. Stop it. You got your cigarettes, verflucht! Smoke. Smoke – forget. You're Mary now. Mary Watson, a married woman and a mother.
Anja snorted.
'An angel of the house', huh? But John prefers bad boys in smart coats that smoke with finesse...
Shut up. Halt's Maul!
Enough. Get a grip on yourself. Look around.
You're in front of a seven-eleven. More precisely, in front of a tobacco vending machine near the supermarket's doors. You've got a plastic bag with three cans of cheap beer on the floor, next to you. You've got a packet of fags in your left hand and your purse in your right. Good. Keep breathing.
And then, out of the blue, a dreadful fear gripped her.
The baby.
What if someone broke in their house and harmed her? What if she suffocated? What if she needed her mother, what if she was hungry?
Bad mother.
Mary rushed home, leaving her beer cans in front of the vending machine.
OOOXOOO
Baby Sherlock was peacefully asleep, calm, in a cocoon of warm sheets. She was alright. The baby was all right; oh thank goodness. Mary swore she'd never leave her alone again. Never again.
Paranoia, huh?
Mary let herself fall onto her bed and covered her face with her hands.
So tired.
Settling down should have changed everything, shouldn't it?
But it hadn' hadn't changed everything.
So tired. So alone.
That was her life in a nutshell. A blur of both friendly and threatening faces while she rushed forward, always forward. Free fall into the future.
She was forty-four now. She was tired. She was exhausted.
And then she exploded. In just a second, tears flowed from her eyes, her face became hot and puffed and she twisted it in pain. There was no one to see her, after all. She could cry at her heart's content.
She felt trapped in her own tower.
Half sick of shadows.
Mary snorted, and then she sighed.
She was fed up with being strong. She was fed up with pretending she was made of marble and then pretending she wasn't. She was fed up with putting masks on and playing roles - she felt like a layer under a layer under a layer of pretence that had lost track of the true, inner core. Was there even a true, inner core anymore?
Verdammt.
Who was she? Did she even remember who she was?
She was Mary Watson.
No.
Who was she?
She was Anja.
Anja Gertrud Richter Achenbach.
No.
Who was she now?
She was Mary Watson, née Morstan, John Hamish Watson's wife.
Truly?
No.
She was Otto Richter's and Frieda Achenbach's daughter, born in West Germany in 1971. A member of the Rottee Armee Fraktion until it disbanded. Meine Muttersprache ist Deutsch.
But now she lived in English. She loved, she laughed, she thought in English. Good grief!
Jesus.
She even cursed in English now.
Who the hell was she?
Mary moaned. Were her masks part of her already? Was Mary the evolution of Anja? The next step? Or just her last performed role, a character that had finally succeeded in taking the actress over?
No. No, she was Anja. No, she was Mary now. But Mary was Anja. But not really. She was Anja's older self. Yes. Yes, that was it.
Really?
Or was Mary a defeated Anja?
So confused. So tired. So very, very tired.
Why did she propose an arrangement? Why had it felt like a good idea and then a bad one and then a good one and then a bad one and -
Who was she? What did she want? How did she feel?
Good grief. John.
John. John, come home. Please.
Sherlock continued to sleep peacefully, calmly, in her cocoon of warm sheets.
OOOXOOO
John and his best friend had dozed off for half an hour or so. Sherlock's mind had been too blocked, or too tired, and his penis had refused to respond. John had given up any hope at pleasuring his friend that way, judging it best not to nag. But then Sherlock had awoken, and they had cuddled, and they had caressed each other; and John couldn't help feeling a pleasant pain piercing his heart, couldn't not kiss him, not lick him, not respond to Sherlock's needy greed to be touched. Sherlock seemed to be drunk on sensory stimuli – he was so starved for physical affection, it wasn't surprising.
So John had decided to please Sherlock as best as he could. He'd never been with a man before, but he had been with quite a lot of women. And he was a man himself; so he didn't feel at a loss – the point wasn't doing fancy gay positions, but to give his friend – his love – a blissful physical release. And he certainly could do that. So he caressed and stroked carefully, sometimes more gently, sometimes more roughly – keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock, on Sherlock's sweaty chest, on Sherlock's closed eyes, on Sherlock's frown of pleasure and his half-opened mouth. He was sexy, sexy like hell. Christ.
John felt so grateful for having the chance to lie with him.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock had panicked at first. All those intense, burning feelings and sensations had threatened to overwhelm his mind. But John had coaxed him into relaxing, into letting go, into accepting the loss of control. Sherlock knew he'd have been unable to yield so completely if his partner had been someone else - his experience with Janine seemed now a grotesque parody of love-making.
He was laying on his back, and John was next to him, supporting himself on his left elbow while his right pleasured him. Sherlock had a hand gripping the sheets and the other clinging to his friend's shoulder; he was submerged in a lake of bliss and – and – feelings. Oh, John. John, John and his gentle but firm strokes wrapping his – fuck – it was so different when it was someone else doing it for you – oh, God. And John knew what to do. He knew. He knew how it felt, he could relate to it. He'd whisper Sherlock soothing nonsense now and then, his hot breath caressing Sherlock's ear and his gentle words making Sherlock's heart beat harder – shh, no need to hurry – relax, leave it to me – shh...
And like that, pleasure bathed Sherlock's senses and built up in no time – and then, it happened. An intense bliss he'd never felt without drugs, a pleasure that melted his body and his heart and made him groan in his release. A bliss that didn't make him feel like shit afterwards. A true, wholesome, healthy bliss.
When they finally lay to rest under his stained sheets, Sherlock spooned John in a contented doze. This was Heaven, he said to himself. Definitely Heaven, and Mycroft was so fucking wrong about life.
OOOXOOO
The first thing John realised when he woke up was that he'd been spooned by Sherlock, that his friend had morning wood – so did he – , and that all that pleased him. It was pleasant to lie with his best friend glued to him in a warm love nest. It was usually him spooning Mary, the one feeling a body against his stomach – now he could feel a bigger body against his back. It was like a gentle, protective shell of warm and sexy flesh. Comfortable and arousing.
The second thing he realised, as soon as he looked at his mobile phone, was that he was late for work.
Shit.
He should have foreseen this.
Shit. This was frustrating. It was so pleasant, so good to just lie in bed with no care at all, with Sherlock hugging him in his sleep, both their bodies and the sheets smelling of sweat and semen and sleepy contentment – fuck.
But he had to go. He had to clean up – at least his body – and go to work. He had to. So he started moving very slowly, to try to disentangle himself from Sherlock's grip. After some instants, his best friend stirred.
"Mm... John?"
Jesus. He was so endearing when he was half asleep.
"I've got to go to work, Sherlock..."
"Don't go." He said it as if that were the most obvious and elementary thing to do.
John ignored him and stood up. "I can't just not go."
Sherlock cracked an eye open. "Call, then. Tell them you're ill or something."
John smiled with amusement. "And then what? I sign my own sick leave? I work with medics, Sherlock."
"Bunch of idiots."
"All the more reason not to let them alone."
"I'm an idiot too."
"Nice try."
Was Sherlock pouting? Oh dear. He was, like a stubborn kid whose parents weren't giving him what he wanted. So sweet. So annoying. John bent over him and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on his lips – a kiss that became not so chaste afterwards, and then hotter, wetter; and then –
"Sherlock, I really have to go."
Sherlock huffed, closed his eyes and groaned, "Fine. Call of duty. Whatever." He opened an eye, presumably to see whether John was listening to him or not. He was, so Sherlock closed his eye again and added with what John had learnt was fake nonchalance: "Once a soldier, always a soldier, huh?" He looked at John, but John was making a point of ignoring him and busying himself with looking for his clothes. Sherlock chose a more aggressive tactic, and said: "I bet you always did as you were told, nevercorrected your teachers and did all your pointless homework."
"And then some,"said John matter-of-factly while fishing for a sock. "You have to, if you want to become a doctor."
"Good boy," answered Sherlock mockingly.
"You like that," John retorted flippantly. "Don't deny it. You enjoy ordering me around."
"And you enjoy being ordered around." Sherlock smirked. "Let me guess. Good boy only got one option to give in to his bad boy urges, right? To be wicked because he was told to. Oh! But it was for a Great Cause, wasn't it? For Democracy and Her Majesty the Queen."
There. The last straw. Now John was annoyed enough to show he was - he huffed. Sherlock had gone too far. Why did he always have to push the limits? Why didn't he know when to stop? But he knew when to stop. He simply didn't care to. "You shouldn't speak so high and mighty, bad boy," he retorted. "You invented a whole job to justify and give in to your 'good boy' urges."
"Meaning?"
"You like playing the well-loved hero, in spite of your cynicism. It's not just about the intellectual challenge, is it? Behold the smartest detective fighting against crime for your benefit. Applause expected. Admit it."
Touché, said Sherlock's face. But then he smiled in amusement, and in... triumph?
Why?
Oh, shit.
"Fuck you, Sherlock! I'm late enough!"
"You're very much invited to fuck me any time, John."
"Fuck you!"
He hurried towards the stairs, bath forgotten. He heard Sherlock still laughing when he slammed 221b Baker Street's front door, and couldn't help smiling fondly in spite of himself.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock frowned at his opponent from the other side of a chess board. An opponent who was dressed up so neatly it downgraded 221b Baker Street's living room from a jungle to a college dorm.
"I warned you."
"Shut up, Mycroft."
"..."
"..."
"Checkmate. I won."
"Go fuck yourself, Mycroft."
"Hm. Less problematic than fornicating with a married man, I should say."
"And not half as good."
"I believe you."
"..."
"..."
"Why, Mycroft?"
"Because you are my dear little brother."
"You know what I'm talking about."
"..."
"Well?"
"Security failure."
"Bullshit. Or, your people are even more incompetent than what I thought."
"There are no MI5s in Young Offender Institutions, Sherlock."
"Not even in this case?"
"I fail to see why I should employ my skilled staff to babysit teenagers."
"Idiot." Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Are you doing something about it?"
"You needn't worry."
"Don't tell me,"he answered raising both hands, and Mycroft sighed as dramatically as Sherlock had.
"We are, Sherlock. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have actual work to do."
"Yes, Her Majesty."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, stood up and added, matter-of-factly, "By the way, brother dearest. You do know this matter is none of your business anymore."
"Of course, brother dearest."
"Sherlock. I'm serious. You know what happened last time you decided to snoop into things you shouldn't."
"Yes, Mycroft,"he replied, irked. "And then I corrected half the wrong I did."
"Is that how you call becoming infatuated with a prostitute?"
Sherlock felt his face turn livid. "Didn't you have actual work to do, Mikey? Fuck off."
Mycroft pierced him with a dangerous,warning look and exited the living room.
OOOXOOO
It was definitely suspicious.
Sherlock had inspected all the area surrounding Her Majesty's Young Offenders Institution Marshland: there were absolutely no traces of the fugitives on the ground. Impossible. It's surrounded by an open field of mud, two feet deep, and by nothing else. It was a known strategy; it slowed down anyone escaping on foot, it made them leave footprints and, better still – it dissuaded prisoners from breaking out in the first place. Besides, the weather that day – the day before – had been rainy in the morning but not in the afternoon. The teenage hackers had been reported missing that very same evening – if they'd just walked off the premises, theywould have left footprints. And those footprints should be still there, because it froze that night, and still was cold enough for frost to cover the mud. That only meant one thing: they had left from the only place they wouldn't leave traces – the paved road. Ergo, the front door. Ergo, they should've been noticed.
But they hadn't been.
"Are you telling me," Sherlock snarled at the Director of the YOI, "that there is no CCTV recording of yesterday from 19:13 PM to 19:36 PM?"
The Director shifted uncomfortably and shot a nervous look at Sherlock. "No, Inspector Lestrade."
It was so utterly goldfish of him Sherlock just stared at the man with his face pointedly blank. "Why haven't you been sacked yet?" he asked, still not quite believing his ears. "Wait: I know. Because you're a civil servant." Then he rolled his eyes.
Bingo. That's annoyed him enough to loosen his tongue.
"It's the first time this kind of thing happens, sir," the Director protested. "Our CCTV system is autonomous and the computers that manage it aren't linked to the Internet."
Oh. Not as goldfish as you appear at a first sight.
"So it was tampered with from the inside," deduced Sherlock in a murmur, quickly thinking of different possible culprits. "I presume you did talk to the guard on duty?"
"Yes, Inspector Lestrade," answered the Director stiffly. "He remained in his cabin the whole evening, including the time range that's missing from the record."
Sherlock huffed in irritation. "And did he remain awake?"
"He doesn't remember falling asleep, Inspector," the Director shot back.
Sherlock snorted. "Obviously he wouldn't if he fell asleep," he sneered, and if he weren't a rational man, he'd say the Director's white, profuse moustache hair had straightened in outrage. Stop thinking like John and concentrate.
"We are professionals, Inspector Lestrade," said the man. "I can testify our guards stay alert while on duty, sir, just as any policeman at Scotland Yard does." Sherlock concealed his triumphant smirk. Now we're getting somewhere.
"If he didn't notice anything," added the Director, "it must be because there was nothing to notice. Nothing extraordinary."
Nothing extraordinary… routine. Normal schedule. Ordinary activities.
"Do the prisoners have leisure activities during the evening, Mr Pitt?"
"Yes, Inspector."
Is elaborating asking too much, for God's sake? You are goldfish after all. "Which ones?"
"Macrame and drawing for the girls, gym and football for the boys. Oh, and on Tuesdays a course on basic computer skills for both sexes. They learn how to use Text Processors and so on."
Sherlock threw up his arms in exasperation and headed for the door. No, not a goldfish. An amoeba. He stopped and turned towards the Director again.
"Are you telling me you let kids that were detained because they'd hacked the UK's main broadcasting systems get near a computer?" he exclaimed.
"They're old computers, with nothing newer than Microsoft 98," answered the Director defensively. "They're not connected to the Internet either, and they had a teacher and a guard watching them the whole two hours.
"Two hours a week with a computer since May," Sherlock mumbled, bewildered. "Are you all out of your little minds?!"
"Inspector Lestrade," answered the Director, "with all due respect, do not look down on us. We check those computers once a week. We've inspected all the computers within this building, for that matter. There's no trace of hacking whatsoever."
Sherlock huffed, annoyed, then realisation dawned on him. "In that case, Mr Pitt," he slowly said, "if we eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
The Director raised an eyebrow in a mute, clearly displeased demand for further explanations, but Sherlock ignored him. "Mr Pitt, I understand the uniform of the detainees consists of a green pullover, green trousers and a grey t-shirt?"
Mr Pitt seemed confused. "Yes, Inspector Lestrade."
Sherlock didn't answer. He was pretty sure by then that the teenagers hadn't broken out. He reached for his Belstaff and put it on with a flourish. No, they hadn't broken out. They'd been released. The previous day, someone who knew the access code to the building's security system and who wasn't suspected by the guard on duty had opened the doors and erased a part of the CCTV records. Mr Pitt himself? Another security guard? But who took the kids out?
Not the Director, judging by his car's lack of frost, the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles on his expensive, smart outfit and the general mess in his office: six dirty, plastic coffee cups; a prison blanket carelessly thrown over a chair, the box of pills to fight headaches on the desk, the smell of the room itself. Mr Pitt had been in the building since the day before and hadn't gone out, not for long anyway.
Sherlock, lost in thought, barely said goodbye to the Director. He slammed the door in his way out, smiling to himself – he had a feeling the rabbit hole was deeper than he'd first calculated.
The game was on.
OOOXOOO
It was 8 P.M. It was dark outside, and the fluorescent tubes were making the walls of the clinic seem ridiculously white. Or so John thought.
He was sitting in front of his desk, self-absorbed, feeling tired and guilty. It'd been a week since that first night at Sherlock's. His handsome, reckless and emotionally cold Sherlock. Or so John had thought.
He had discovered that, in fact, Sherlock wasn't as insensitive as he pretended. In truth, sometimes John felt he was frightfully unaware whether Sherlock was acting or being sincere; sometimes Sherlock said nothing, sometimes he told the truth – and sometimes he lied.
But there were some moments when even the most skilled actor dropped his mask, even if only for a second – and John had seen. He had seen Sherlock bare – truly bare, bare to the core. And he'd seen. He'd seen a desperate loneliness craving affection, any kind of affection, but especially love; craving the burning, lustful and feverish love John had for him and which Sherlock greedily snatched for himself, like a starved child, snatching whatever portion of food he could get. That cunning man disguised his urges quite skilfully most of the time. But sometimes, like in some heated moments of love making, or while enjoying post-coital bliss, or when Sherlock thought John couldn't see him – the make-up wore off and the lonely, starving child appeared.
John huffed and pressed his fingertips against his closed eyes. Good grief.
He opened his eyes and stared at the wooden flatness of his desk. And him? Who was he? Dr Watson? Mr Hyde? A good boy, or a bad boy? He'd always had a very clear idea of who he was – a good boy, of course. Dr John Watson, a doctor. He saved lives.
Yes, he did, but he could end lives as well. He could heal, but he could hurt – and he hadn't hesitated about doing so. Why did he go to Afghanistan? Why did he enrol in the Army? Why did he go to a war far, far away from home?
For Freedom. For Democracy. For Scientific, Liberal Reasoning against unreasonable religious fanaticism.
John almost snorted. Those words sounded so hollow now. Big words, great words that once had had the power to swell his heart with beautiful, ardent, brave feelings. Words that had had sense and purpose, an inherent goodness and righteousness and warmth. Words that described a perfect utopia. Words he once believed were great enough to die for.
Great enough to kill for.
John closed his eyes, weary. He'd been in Afghanistan as a doctor, but what he'd seen, what he'd lived - what he knew, and ultimately, what he'd been forced to do had spoilt his Trust and his Faith and he could Believe no more.
He'd been so innocent. So utterly, incredibly naïve - his heart blinded by romantic images of fictional superheroes and historical martyrs and – he should've been old enough not to believe in heroes, but alas. He'd always had that life-saver, care-taker tendency – growing up with Harry, how could he not? That was why he'd studied medicine. But deep down in his twenty-something mind, he'd kept a teenager yearning to be some realistic superhero. Yearning to be Sir Lancelot in Shining Armour.
This time, John actually snorted.
And then he'd spent three years in a real war and he'd seen each of those big, beautiful, great words lose their meaning without being replaced. John sighed, lifted his chin and looked at his desk. That wasn't the worst thing, though. He closed his eyes.
You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it.
You are a doctor who went to a war. You're addicted to a certain kind of lifestyle, John.
He snapped his eyes open.
Good boy giving in to his bad boy urges, huh? John felt suddenly irritated. Who the hell did the Holmes brothers think they were to patronise him? Cocks.
But it was true. It was the horrifying truth. He missed living each day as if it were the last day of his life. Routine back in the UK had been so bland and meaningless, as pointless and artificially comfortable as the very same words he'd first thought he fought for. He missed the deep camaraderie, the straightforward simplicity, the thrill of the danger and the daily violence; the opportunity to give vent to his anger without holding back. The Great Words had lost their sense of purpose pretty quickly, but John found purpose again in his daily fight against Death and The Others. They became a goal in themselves - a fulfilling, important goal. Yes. Each of his actions in Afghanistan had held ten times more importance and meaning than a day's work held now in the blissfully oblivious UK.
And then they'd been demobilised, leaving John alone in front of Mr Hyde, who'd been his comrade in need; in front of Mr Hyde and his desperate ambition to exist. And then he'd met Sherlock Holmes, the only morally acceptable way of letting Mr Hyde live. The only way not to become a criminal or implode out of forced nothingness. The only way not to live a meaningless existence.
Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes and his ability to make John's heart pound fast with thrill and excitement and - why deny it now? – sexual desire. Sherlock Holmes and his enticing magic and his knack for making John's cynical self Believe once again, Believe in superheroes and romance. Sherlock Holmes and his parallel, wonderfully thrilling world of real fantasy. In less than twenty-four hours after meeting John, Sherlock had given life back Meaning and Purpose.
God.
John rubbed his face with his hands. He was so twisted.
That first night, with the cabbie. He could've shot between them – not directly to the cabbie's head. Damn, he was a good shooter; he could've spared the taxi driver and just have frightened them so as to make them forget the pills. He told himself then that the cabbie could've hurt Sherlock if left alive – but he could've waited. Waited and seen. Now he'd never know for certain. Did he murder him because he'd been worried and nervous?
No. He hadn't been nervous. He'd discovered while in Afghanistan that he had a certain capacity to stay calm like steel in moments of great danger. He felt a rush of cold adrenaline that made his mind focus and forget every unnecessary detail around him, a high sense of concentration and power and calm. He'd never admitted it to Sherlock, not even to himself, but he understood Sherlock more than what people thought he did, probably including Sherlock himself. His friend sought those moments of tense calm, of focused high. He sought them, he was addicted to them – and if he couldn't get them, well – cocaine. Similar effects.
It makes you feel powerful, doesn't it, mate? You never indulged in cocaine, not even in Afghanistan. You're not as addicted to that rush as Sherlock is. But it haunts you. Mr Hyde does. Mr Hyde and his fascination with violence and danger and power – unethical, unfair, evil pleasure of holding destructive power over other people. You enjoy that, feel it each time you take your gun in your hands. The power to heal and to hurt at wish. The power to kill and save a life, at wish.
God's power. That was it.
John tapped his desk with his fingers, disturbed by his thoughts. For Heaven's sake. He was a humble human being, equal to the rest of the human beings. Full stop.
Yes, he was. Dr Watson knew he was. But Mr Hyde wasn't satisfied with it.
Oh, no, he wasn't. John buried his Mr Hyde side under layers and layers of a kind, understanding and patient Dr Watson – human, humanist and humanitarian. Yeah, right. Mr Hyde still lurked under that and pushed him to run around the streets of London after what the law called criminals, and made him feel turned on by fantasising about raping his best friend's mouth.
Disgusting. Fucking twisted.
But then Dr Watson would take over, and would kiss Sherlock tenderly, and would please him the best way he could, and would love him and would make love to him. And then he'd remember that those people they stalked and hit and shot were criminals indeed. And he'd sleep soundly.
Until doubts crept over him again, doubts and confusion and guilt and a frightening hollowness lurking in a dark corner of his mind.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock paced across the living room, thinking.
One week since those kids escaped the YOI.
Six days since he discovered a small resting area a mile away with van tyre marks and footprints frozen in the mud. The tyre marks came from and returned to the main, paved road. There was the tiniest piece of a green pullover in a bush – one of the runaways had gone behind the brambles. Probably to urinate.
So they had used a van to escape. How could a van have entered and exited a YOI unnoticed? Either a) it was a van the staff was used to see, like the catering service's van or b) it was a van the guards were told to let in and out.
The problem was, Sherlock couldn't go back and impersonate Lestrade any more – he'd been discovered that very afternoon by Scotland Yard. Sherlock smirked and caressed his violin lightly, inspecting it for imperfections, then put it back on his living room's table. Mycroft's infuriated phone call had been priceless.
He'd looked for the enterprises that worked for the YOI, tricked them into telling him their working schedules, and surprise, surprise – none of them had had any business with HMYOI Marshland that day. Sherlock was after a ghost van, apparently.
Sherlock sighed, frowned and threw himself to the sofa. The case was off limits for him – he couldn't return and interrogate the staff that were on duty that day. He couldn't sneak up as part of the staff either; the police had given them his description – he'd be immediately found out.
He'd meet a dead end. Thank you, Scotland Yard.
But that very reticence to let him 'snoop' into the YOI confirmed an unsettling thing – they didn't want him near the kids. Why? Rivalry? Nah. There always had been rivalry and they always ended up calling him when they felt lost.
No way.
Mycroft?
But of course.
Sherlock growled in frustration. One week since the prison escape. One morning since he'd met the dead end and one second since he'd realised he'd lost the game.
He'd lost the game, and if it was true Mycroft had something to do with it – Sherlock was pretty certain by now he had – all he could do now was sulk and stagnate. Alone.
One week since that too suspicious prison break. Sherlock sighed, stood up brusquely and picked up the violin once more.
Two weeks since he'd been allowed to touch John.
Two weeks since John had handed in his resignation at the hospital, although he wouldn't be able to leave his work and join him until next week. Sherlock frowned.
Now his bed felt cold every time he lay on it.
He huffed; since when did he notice his bed was cold? But no. It wasn't cold. It just felt cold because John wasn't with him.
Oh. That was it. He was lonely without John. He was bored. How could he sneak into YOI Marshland? He couldn't. He'd already checked all the possibilities. Mycroft wouldn't let him. Why? Obvious. Because he was his big brother.
God, he was lonely. It was dull without John at home.
…
Hmf.
So complicated. Sentiment. He'd wanted to get involved and now look.
God. He wanted more of John. Was that selfish? Did Mary feel like this?
Sherlock played a short string of impetuous chords on his violin, then flourished the bow against the air and let the hand that gripped it fall lifeless.
Exhibit A: he wasn't satisfied with this situation of 'sharing' John. Exhibit B: Mary was in his same situation. Ergo? Mary wasn't satisfied with the situation either. Was she?
Additional unknown variable: John.
God, it was too much. Sherlock put the violin on the table and frowned. Too much! Too much unknown factors!
Christ! Get a grip on yourself! Be inductive! Be empirical!
Sherlock took a deep breath, joined his palms and put them under his chin.
He needed more data. He needed evidence.
...
But of course.
He needed to talk to Mary.
OOOXOOO
Anja felt very tempted not to pick up her mobile.
It was vibrating on the kitchen table. It was insistent, thunderous, demanding. It read "Sherlock" on the screen.
Fuck off, she thought. Fuck off, I don't want to speak to you. I can't speak to you.
She finally did answer the call though. Sherlock's smooth baritone spoke with unusual quietness.
"Mary. We have to talk."
Anja. Anja, not Mary. And I thought talking was an annoying woman thing? But she said none of this.
He added, "Let's meet at Jerry's Café. Do you know where it is?"
When Anja answered, her voice croaked. "I know. I've never been inside. Why should I meet you?" Oops. That came out more aggressive than intended. Sherlock sighed lightly, and Mary felt bad.
"Mary. I want us to work."
"Us?" Her voice dripped acid. "Which us?"
"That's precisely the point."
He fell silent; Anja waited.
"In two hours?" Sherlock finally proposed.
"..."
"Please."
"All right." Her voice sounded weird. She cut the call. What the hell?
Mary burst out crying and hunched in on herself.
OOOXOOO
It was a cold October morning; windy and rainy. A good day to stay inside. Anja, however, was outside, walking towards Jerry's Café, her frozen hands gripping her umbrella and fighting the weather. But what chilled her insides was the meeting she'd be having with Sherlock. That was why she had asked a good friend of hers to come home and take care of little Sherly. Anja – or rather, Mary – wanted to spare the baby what might come up in that encounter.
Damn that man.
There he was, waiting for her at the café's door, under a black umbrella and with his dark coat, his cigarette and his posh clothes.
Verdammt ihn.
He was handsome. And much younger. Boyish. Fresh. Not bittered by fatigue and disillusionment and constant defeat.
Well, she wasn't an embittered hag. Or rather, Mary wasn't - even if Anja was.
Halt's Maul, Anja Gertrud. You're not bitter and you're not a hag. Come on. You're a sensible adult. Act like one.
She lifted her chin and strode towards Sherlock.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock observed Mary approaching him. Her walk was tense and uptight. No baby. Black trousers, dark grey coat. Smarter clothes than those she usually wore, clean and ironed. To intimidate? Maybe. No necklace, no earrings, no ring except her wedding ring. Aggressive stance. Aggressive stride. No high-heels, black shoes. Everything spotless. Dressed for battle. When she finally reached him, she greeted him with a cold "Hello" and didn't add anything else.
He'd wanted evidence. Well, there it was. Mary clearly was unhappy, or maybe just unhappy at him. Anderson himself would have been able to notice that much. But no. Anderson would've noticed it right away, without having to read clues on her clothes.
He wasn't sure if it'd work. But it had helped him before, with John. So he'd use it. The 'Redbeard' card.
John. Redbeard. John. Redbeard.
He slowly closed the distance between him and Mary and hugged her cautiously. He felt the mood changing instantly. He felt it in the air. Jesus. He'd improved his mood-observing skills. Had he truly been so blind before? He guessed he had been. Pity. It was a useful tool.
Mary relaxed visibly, though not wholly. She hugged him back, lightly – cautiously? She was still serious, but she had a softer expression when they separated.
God. This was going to be difficult.
OOOXOOO
Anja had been thrown off-balance by Sherlock's hug. "Hello, Mary," he said. Anja swallowed and Sherlock quietly added, "Cup of tea? Coffee?"
"Hot chocolate for me," she answered. It was cold, after all. And she'd felt a sudden craving for sugar. Sherlock gave a small and timid smile and turned towards the door. God, it was impossible to stay mad at him. Fuck him.
The first thing that caught Anja's attention when they walked inside was the sharp contrast the coffee shop made with the street – the place was warm and cosy. All shades of gentle browns decorated the homely café and its comfy chairs; wooden tables and plants and carpets lulling one into sitting down. A characteristic sweet smell pervaded the air; something between coffee and milk and cream and chocolate and recently baked bread and cakes. She liked it, and she wasn't sure whether the smell would help her or not. Maybe it would. Maybe it'd comfort her and help her put on her strongest Athena mask. Or maybe it wouldn't, and it'd weaken her and she'd end up crying like a schoolgirl. The speakers played soft music in Span– no, Portuguese. Bossa nova? Maybe. She was no expert in music.
Sherlock led them to a discreet and relatively private part of the café. The waitress didn't take long to come to them and take their orders. She had a soft, amiable smile; a soothing manner and a pleasant accent – Anja's gaze kept going back to her. Indeed, that waitress was as sweet and brown as the hot chocolate she'd brought her. She made Anja think of relaxing naps on warm days, of lazy white clouds crossing blue skies, of exotic aromas and sweet fruits. Was hers a mask too? Probably. That so very feminine woman probably took advantage of her free time to frown and express her annoyance any time she felt annoyed – something she couldn't do at work. But, inside Jerry's Café, the charm worked and the performance felt real and her character was perfectly played. Anja felt Mary taking over. That Sherlock. He'd chosen this place on purpose, she was certain. Not quite that oblivious of the importance of mood, was he?
"So," she said, a sudden chill squeezing her insides and her gaze fixed on her chocolate, "what did you want to talk about?"
Sherlock smiled tightly. "John," he simply said. "And this little experiment of ours".
Mary clutched her cup and remained silent. Sherlock tapped the table lightly with his slender fingers and pursed a corner of his mouth for a second. "This isn't working."
Anja's breathing accelerated. "Get to the point." Shit. Too aggressive, once again. Her chocolate was burning her palms.
Sherlock inhaled deeply, fixed his gaze to his cup of tea, seemed to hesitate for a moment and then said: "It's a simple question of geometry, really. Our triangle has unequal sides."
Never mind the tense atmosphere, or maybe because of it: Anja burst out laughing. What the hell? "Did you call me to give me some weird master class in primary school geometry, Sherlock?"
Sherlock seemed to be a bit offended, but didn't dwell on it. He gravely replied, "John taught me not to underestimate primary school knowledge."
Anja sobered. She looked up and fixed her eyes on Sherlock's blue ones. "It's a metaphor, then." She was softer, more civilised.
Sherlock answered with a mechanical smile. "Yes, it is," he said. "Despite my disapproving of poetic writing and pointless literary devices, I admit sometimes metaphors do help to describe reality with accuracy and economy of words. In such cases, even I indulge in them."
Mary suppressed a smirk. Sherlock Holmes at his most 'public school', huh? Was he nervous? Maybe he was. Maybe he was nervous, maybe hereally didn't want to make an enemy out of her, and relied on his most correct language to prevent offending her, oblivious that that made him seem pedantic. She felt a tale-telling knot in her throat, and her eyes getting hot.
Oh, shit. That song. That song was putting her in a melancholic mood – quick, look at somewhere else than his face. The window. No, not the window, damn; it's raining outside, it suits the melody –
"Mary. Anja."
She didn't move her gaze. Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped the bomb. "I think we should try to be together. The three of us. I mean, the four of us."
Mary turned her face so quickly she almost hurt her neck. "What?"
Sherlock looked a bit embarrassed. "Come and live at 221b Baker Street. John, you and the baby. Come and live with me." Mary realised she had her mouth open and shut it. Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands and added, "I feel bored without John around. And I deduce you must feel that way too. Let's live together."
Slowly, the information sank into Mary. She was completely taken aback. Living together. Living together. Sherlock actually wanted her company too, not just John's. Or at least he preferred her company to being alone. It was more than most people could say about their relationship with him. However...
"Wouldn't living under the same roof worsen feelings of jealousy?"
It was Sherlock's turn to look taken aback. They remained in silence for some minutes.
"It might," he finally said. "Or it could actually work the other way around."
Mary lifted an eyebrow. "How so?"
Sherlock averted his eyes. "I..." He stopped, then tried again. "I know it's difficult to force yourself to have feelings you don't have; to force yourself to be attracted to someone... but... I think we should try to... we could... share some kind of intimacy, you and me. At least a friendly one. And the three of us together too. At least sometimes. I mean, if it doesn't work, we don't have to force ourselves, but – "
Wait. Wait, wait, wait, this was too weird, this was creeping her out. What did she just hear? Did this man know no boundaries, no limits? Had he lived in a cave all his life? Mary didn't know whether she should laugh, be scandalised or take it seriously.
"Are you proposing we do threesomes, Sherlock?" What kind of weird porn film did he think he was in? Or did he think human relationships worked as equations, as geometrical problems – as crime scenes, maybe? How could he be so naïve? How could he be so certain? Mary felt her cheeks getting hot. But what if he was right? Jesus Christ. He was giving her a hope she didn't want to feel.
Things aren't so easy, you see. No, you don't. Of course you don't see it. You find a problem and think about a right solution. You're destroyed because of drugs? You create a whole new job to channel your prodigious mind. Your relationship with John isn't satisfying enough because you've got to share him with me? You ask us all to come live with you. Of course things are easy for you.
Anja felt the knot in her throat tightening. She'd been like that once. She'd wanted everything too, once. Keiner oder alle. Alles oder nichts. She'd thought it was natural and obvious. She'd thought she was going to change the world.
Insead, the world had changed her. She felt her eyes getting hot. Her bright hope, confidence and courage had burst into a million little pieces that twinkled with insecurity in a dark, cold night of infinite mistrust; dim stars that now could only flare hot-white with fury and fear.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm proposing a ménage à trois," he said. "As I've said before, if our relationship were a triangle, it wouldn't be an equilateral one. John benefits from both of us but we only benefit from him. It's unequal. A simple geometrical problem, really; once you think about it." He lost a bit of his self-confident stance. "I love John," he said, as if those words tasted odd, "but I don't want to feel as if we were rivals." His lower lip quivered very faintly. "It's pointless. You're a great woman, I'd much rather be friends with you. I like you, in fact."
Gott! Dammit. Sherlock. Oh, come on. Seriously. I thought you had no clue about feelings, yours or anyone else's – Mein Gott. I can't – I can't stop my tears from falling, I can't, I can't even stop my nose running. Fuck. Don't talk like that. Don't. You seem so genuine. You make it seem so simple. So easy. But it isn't. God, I wish it was. But it isn't. Is it? Jesus; if my heart continues beating this hard I might have a heart attack. Christ. You live in a parallel world, Sherlock, don't you? Oh dear. Yes, you do. You do live in a parallel world. I'm glad you do.
"Mary..." Sherlock sounded worried. "I – look, if this is too awkward –"
She smiled and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.
"No, Sherlock – I mean yes, but no."
"What?"
Sherlock's puzzled face was so comic it made Mary laugh despite her tears. "I mean it's okay. I mean it is awkward, but it's okay. I accept. But – " A doubt clouded her puffed and red face. "I don't know if John... he might feel – "
" – uncomfortable?"
" ... a bit jealous?"
Now he seemed really confused. "Wha – Why?"
"Because... well..." Mary glanced at Sherlock, feeling insecure. "He might believe that you and me... since the beginning..." Sherlock seemed as puzzled as before, so she simplified it. "He might feel excluded."
"Well," said Sherlock, raising both eyebrows, "We felt and still feel excluded a great deal too, don't we?"
Mary smiled weakly. You don't get it, do you? But he had a point. "... true," she finally whispered. "Even so..."
"Let's speak to him," Sherlock said. "Let's talk. The three of us. This evening, at home. At Baker Street."
Mary knew her eyes must still be all red and puffed when she nodded. She looked quietly at Sherlock while he averted his gaze towards the window – towards the grey, rainy weather and the pedestrians that hurried towards their mysterious destinations. They remained in thoughtful silence, sipping from their respective cups. Mary blessed the cosy coffee shop, which whispered to them in mellow Portuguese and sheltered them from the unpleasantness outside.
…Encontrei em você a razão de viver e de amar em paz, e não sofrer mais, nunca mais...
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.