Ms. Jeanne Wilder was not a woman who was easily charmed. Widowed at barely twenty-six years old with no children and little money, she had long ago made peace with a life of quiet servitude, working for her aging father's medical practice by day and sewing blankets for the destitute by night, her weekends spent at church and charities. She'd liked it that way, liked the time she had to herself, and hadn't ever wished to pursue love again, deciding that if it would come it would come. After decades had passed, she was almost certain it never would.
John Watson had been quite the surprise, therefore. She'd met him when he'd come to care for her father's patients while he took a much-needed holiday. Watson had been nothing but a perfect gentleman towards her, with nothing besides a slightly lingering look to tell her he might be thinking of her as more than a simple colleague. To her own shock, she found herself thinking that she wouldn't mind at all if he ever said something to that effect. And so, when he did ask a bit awkwardly if she would like to take a walk with him, she'd said yes. He'd kept coming around after her father had returned, and she'd found herself looking forward to it.
He was an easy man to trust; he was a widower and a doctor and a writer who'd had many adventures, and he was kind and gentle and almost hesitant, like he didn't quite know how to go about courting again after the loss of his spouse many years before. That was alright by her, however, since she was the same, still grieving in some small ways for a man she'd loved decades ago. It wasn't long before love had grown between them, and when he'd asked her to marry him she'd said yes without hesitation.
It was a few weeks after that when she finally had a chance to meet his esteemed friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She knew all about him of course, for she'd read the stories John had written and had asked John about him. Her first impression was that Sherlock Holmes was handsome and endearing in an eccentric, bohemian sort of way and she liked him very much. He was charming, yes, but she was not a woman who was easily charmed. When she saw the chance, therefore, to speak with him alone, she took it. He seemed surprised to see her approach him, though not unpleasantly so, and he put on his best smile as she sat across from him.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes," she said.
"Of course, Ms. Wilder," he said politely. "I assure you that I have been eager to make your acquaintance for some time now, but my friend Watson has been very private about your relationship until your official engagement, even with me."
"I have been very private about it as well," Jeanne admitted. "It is a very different kind of feeling, finding love for the second time in one's life. John misses Mary very much, you know."
Sherlock Holmes' features took on a look of surprise that she would refer to Watson's previous wife, but he said nothing, his jaw moving awkwardly like a hundred thoughts were set to burst forth but were stifled.
"I appreciate how gracious you are," Jeanne commented. "Despite your disapproval of John marrying again, I mean."
Sherlock Holmes' mouth opened very slightly. "Ms. Wilder, I assure you I would never…"
She held up a hand to stop him. "I am not asking you to be happy about the prospect, Mr. Holmes. Please believe me when I say that I understand the kind of feelings changes like these can bring."
"Ms. Wilder, I assure you I do not disapprove."
"Sometimes," Jeanne went on unheeded, "we forget how much those we love most meant to those around us as well, so lost are we in our own grief. And then, when we have begun to heal, it is difficult for us to think of the pain of others."
"I suppose so," Holmes replied noncommittally.
"Mr. Holmes, you loved Mary," Jeanne said, a comment and not a question. "You undoubtedly supported John through his grief; allow yourself to grieve as well."
Holmes closed his eyes for just a moment. "No," he said softly. "I did not support my friend through his grief. I was… away."
"Oh," Jeanne said, understanding what he was saying. "That was when John thought you were dead. I apologize, I didn't realize."
He grimaced very slightly. "Yes," he said. "And yes, I loved Mary Watson. She was my client at first, and I was impressed with her fortitude and grace. Then, when she married John, she became like a sister I'd never known, and I loved and protected her like a brother should. When I learned she'd died and that I hadn't been there it was devastating. But it was Watson's bereavement, not mine, and his happiness now will not be clouded by my grief or my feelings. It was many years ago."
"Mr. Holmes, I am sorry," Jeanne said softly. "I am sorry you were not there, and I am sorry she is gone. Truly. I know what it is like, to feel like it's a betrayal against the dead even though your mind knows it's not, and to hate yourself for feeling the way you feel. But you do feel that way, and it is not wrong. It just is the way it is."
Sherlock Holmes was no longer looking at her, his gaze instead a bit far away and unfocused. "I once praised her," he whispered, "for making me a better friend to Watson and Watson a better man. Like a cord of three strands, we were stronger when she was there, and no, I cannot imagine John Watson loving anyone but her. I know she would have wanted him to be happy and I know you make him so, but I apologize to you for I will not be able to love you the same." He did look at her, then, blinking, and smiled. "I can see why John does, though," he admitted. "There are very few people who have ever been able to see through me this easily, Mrs. Mary Watson chief among them."
"Love is a strange thing, Mr. Holmes," Jeanne replied with a sigh.
"So I've noticed," Holmes said, "and please, Ms. Wilder, do not carry such thoughts as that I disapprove, especially of you, and have no fear at all that I would ever say a negative word to Watson. I will be smiling beside him next month and would never have the gall to compare you to Mary."
"Very good, for I am not her," Jeanne replied confidently. "I am a quiet woman, Mr. Holmes, not an adventuress, and I like my life that way. I will not be taking part in your investigations and I will not be in any of John's stories even if I do ever have a mystery for you. I like comfortable holidays in nice hotels and my biggest worries being for the homeless and destitute. John, of course, will continue on as he has done in the past so harbor no illusions that you are rid of him, but I will not want to hear any details of murders or gruesome cases. But I will be here, and I will be steady, and perhaps I can even become a friend."
Sherlock Holmes grinned. "Of course, ma'am," he said, standing and bowing to her. He reached out his hand and she took it, allowing him to help lift her to her feet. He kept hold of her hand, leaning down to kiss it. "I assure you," he said softly, "That I will never think of you as anything less."
"And you, sir, are charming. I can see how you are such a successful detective."
Sherlock Holmes smiled again, and together they went to join the rest of the party where Watson's delight at seeing his friend and fiance getting along so well was palpable. Later, Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, smiling next to Watson as a priest married them, and when he gave a short toast at their wedding breakfast he mentioned how he was happy to see two friends married, and perhaps it was because it was her wedding day, but he could have sworn he saw tears in the bride's eyes.
For the prompt from Book girl fan: A threefold cord is stronger than two.
