Fic: A Question of Devotion
Title: A Question of Devotion
Author: agaryulnaer86
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Holmes runs into Mary several weeks after Watson breaks it off with her to return to the detective. By all rights, they should hate one another. But some things are just not as logical as Holmes wants them to be.
Spoilers: Well, technically this is all one big spoiler for the fic "Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe," but nothing shocking is revealed. Some spoilers for the 2009 Movie.
Warnings: None. Rated for vague reference to homosexual activities.
Word Count: 4337
Author's Notes: This story is set in the same H/W 'verse as "Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe" by sarisa_rahe & I. However, you don't have to have read that to read this, nor does it really give much away besides what you might think is the obvious ending. This is set about two weeks after the end of that story.
Missing persons have never been a particularly favorite sort of case, for Holmes, but on occasion he will admit that such cases can provide some interest for him. The only problem is the excessive amount of background work required. Well, in some cases. Holmes doesn’t mind the work so much. What he minds is the socialization required, and it is quite often without Watson, who provides great value by acting as a sort of buffer between Holmes and the rest of the world.
Even so. Of course it has to be without Watson, because though the good doctor can certainly play his part for the good of a case, Watson is in no way as skilled at acting as Holmes, and more, when there are two of them Holmes is not as quick at adapting, for he has to be certain Watson will be able to play along. Though Watson is quite skilled at catching on to Holmes’ mad jumps from one tactic to the next by now, he is not Holmes and does not share his brain, and as such cannot always be expected to carry on exactly as Holmes would wish.
And what’s more, the man has, simply put, been doing a very poor job of keeping his emotions to himself lately. It’s been a week since the missing boats, so just over two weeks since Watson had… returned to him. Holmes would have thought, before this, that having Watson back would feel better than it has felt. But in reality, it’s been… Holmes doesn’t know, isn‘t sure how to describe the way things have been. Sometimes it’s just like it was before, which is more than Holmes thought he would ever have again. Sometimes, it’s better. A lot of the time, though, it’s… well. Not worse, because Watson is there, and Holmes had been lost without Watson. But Holmes has never seen Watson so unhappy… excepting, of course, when Watson had been ever-so-slowly discovering his true feelings on leaving Holmes behind for married bliss. Which, Holmes supposes, should provide some small consolation, the fact that Watson had been just as depressed missing him as he is now. More, perhaps. Holmes does not have the expertise required to measure appropriately.
Holmes doesn’t know what to do with a depressed Watson. He’s tried everything. But it’s no secret that Holmes has never been particularly good with comfort, or… anything like that. Even Mrs. Hudson had taken pity, and tried to be subtle when she suggested that the detective simply… give Watson time. That’s the best (only) advice Holmes has gotten, so he hopes that it’s the truth, because if Watson spends the rest of his life feeling guilty and sorry for himself half the time… Holmes might very well go mad. It’s very frustrating, to Holmes; he’s not particularly used to caring when someone is clearly truly upset.
And Watson… Watson has been more than just upset. Holmes… supposes reasonably so. After all… Holmes might not have a very firm grasp on the intricacies of relationships, might not particularly want to have a grasp on it at all, but… he knows Watson loved Mary. Loves. Loves Mary. And that, Holmes supposes, must be the problem.
And that, Holmes also supposes, as he lies awake at night, now finally and unaccountably next to the only person he has ever cared for in the entirety of his life, is why he is so afraid every time he leaves the doctor’s side. He is afraid that Watson will realize all of the things Mary could be for him that Holmes never could. He is afraid that Watson will realize his mistake, will remember all of the very good reasons he had left in the first place, will decide that Holmes, as he had put once before, is not human, not human enough to experience all that comes with the new facets of their relationship properly. That he is not worth the risk that Watson is taking. Holmes is afraid that Watson will leave him again, this time never to return.
Needless to say, there is really only so much of this the detective can take. So when a new case comes along, for once he is glad for the distraction not only from his own boredom, but from Watson’s poor mood. Holmes finds that he can often aid Watson’s mood, but only when he has something to distract him with. Typically he does this in any number of horribly illegal and sinful manners, but there are also only so many times one can use that tactic upon the doctor before he begins to get suspicious of one’s intentions. A case, on the other hand, some adventure, a chance for action, now that is bound to distract the good doctor any day.
And so, despite his logical distrust of hope, Holmes has high hopes for this case anyway. Which is what finds him wandering about the market nearest the home of the missing heiress’ maid, dressed in a disguise. Really, it’s nothing intricate, for it needn’t be; sometimes the best disguises are less a disguise of one’s appearance than of one’s demeanor. If you believe in your disguise, cut yourself off from what you truly are and make the disguise the truth for a time, others will believe it as well. It is a simple fact, for all its frightening psychological implications.
So it is a French tourist and not Holmes who wanders from stall to stall in the marketplace, asking questions of the vendors in poor English from time to time and nodding with a vapid smile upon his face, only half comprehending everything that is said around him. But beneath that, the detective Listens, hearing all of the things that are thought private because the audience is disregarded as unimportant, unable to understand.
And it is a French tourist who is staring in interest as he passes a street performer, the detective beneath considering his data in furious detail, when he is nearly run over by a woman. Holmes nearly falls over but catches himself with catlike reflexes, though the act itself appears more of a stumble than any well-trained martial artist’s calculation (but then, at the moment, Holmes appears more a tourist than a genius detective, so appearances can be and are notoriously deceiving in this case).
His first impression of the obstacle takes half a second at most but is an influx of data, from the feet up:
Well-kept, stylish black boots, but sturdy, not from the best shops but imitation and close enough that her class is well-put at middle, clean, so her work is not outdoors, but boots so there is work. Conclusion: she is a Governess. Green dress, well taken care of as well but old, the sort a woman wears to market when she is not looking to find herself a husband, or indeed to impress anyone at all. No rings on her finger, but recent marks, twice over actually. No other jewels. Conclusion: recently broken it off with her husband and has not recovered from the loss. Alone and disinterested in relationships of any kind. This in conjunction with the previous conclusion (of her working status) allows Holmes to conclude also that the marriage had not lasted long.
What Holmes sees when he looks up and finds Mary staring right back at him is not so easily summarized. And for once Holmes is not certain he particularly wants to, even though his mind carries on, rationally cataloguing everything about her and drawing conclusions despite his wants. (Dark circles under her eyes, paler than she should be: she hasn‘t been sleeping. She is no longer living with her parents. But even back at Cavendish place, she didn‘t dare go to any shops nearer her home for fear of seeing her husband.)
Holmes knows the moment his dark eyes meet her light that she sees through his disguise. This is the second time such a thing has happened, and Holmes is no less surprised by it this time than the first. The first time… that disguise had been made hurriedly, and with little in the way of supplies, as he had been in hiding. And he… he had not been at his best. This time… this time it’s different. Everything is different.
For a long moment, the detective and the estranged wife of his only friend, and now, lover, simply stare at one another. And then, having no way to approach this situation, Holmes does the only thing he can think of: he attempts to flee, throwing himself right back into his disguise and tipping the unfamiliar hat upon his head to the lady. “Excusez-moi, madame,” he says apologetically, his voice pitched just slightly lower than usual, but the words roll off his tongue the way even English sometimes unconsciously does for him, and though it does nothing to deceive the sharp-eyed woman before him, Holmes wishes only for her to pretend along with him.
She doesn’t.
Holmes is stopped in his tracks when a small hand with a surprisingly takes his arm; he freezes, dropping the act immediately, removing the persona as surely as another man might remove a coat. “Mr. Holmes.” It’s a moment before Holmes works up the nerve to turn around at the sound of her quiet voice. It’s another before his eyes can meet hers. It is an uncommon thing, for the detective to feel guilt for any of his actions. It is a very uncommon thing for the him to give any indication of such guilt. But it is written in his hesitation before meeting the woman’s eyes, in his reluctance to pull away from her grip on his arm, as though he is waiting for her to use the grip to her advantage, for some blow to come.
But none does, and soon enough she drops her hand, still staring at Holmes, who finds himself uncommonly at a loss for words. It is a singular thing, for the Great Detective to be so at a loss. And it is quickly overcome, although there is a slight falter at the beginning, as Holmes realizes suddenly that he can hardly refer to her as ‘Mary’ anymore, nor indeed can he call her ‘Mrs. Watson’ or even ‘Miss Morstan.’ She is still Mrs. Watson, but he suspects that even if he could make the words come from his reluctant mouth, she would not want to hear them.
So he eschews names and titles entirely, which when one is well known for one’s bohemian behavior, one can accomplish without raising many eyebrows. “I begin to wonder at the true level of my skill at disguises,” he says with a lightness he does not feel. No, he certainly does not feel the way he sounds, cannot be his usual cynical, indifferent self in the face of the woman who had both destroyed his very fragile world and, in the end, inadvertently caused it to shift and grow into something Holmes had never dared imagine he would- or could- have.
She took Watson from him. But in the end, Holmes took him back, and now of the two of them, Mary is the one left alone. And Holmes certainly knows the feeling of being without Watson. He knows it well enough to see the hole in her chest where a heart used to be, with eyes unaccustomed to seeing anything so ridiculously emotional, so very… irrationally metaphysical.
Mary does not strive for any false sense of normalcy or pride. “I believe I would know you anywhere,” she says quietly, and Holmes’ stomach flips unpleasantly at the look in her eyes. He knows that look. A month ago, the expression would have been mirrored in his own. God knows, Holmes knows depths of depression that he is certain no man was ever meant to endure.
His panicked desire to flee- really one of the only ways he has to deal with a situation he doesn’t know how to handle- is overcome suddenly by an uncommon sense of commiseration. His expression softens, very slightly. “Yes, well,” he says, looking from her face, to her hand, now hanging limply by her side, to the ground. He does not say anything more, because there is nothing to say.
They stand like that in a very uncomfortable silence, Holmes looking anywhere but at Mary and Mary staring only at Holmes and seeing nothing else, before finally Mary speaks. “How is he?” she asks simply, no excuses or explanation for her question.
Holmes looks up at that, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth so that his lips make an uncertain line, reflecting the lack of understanding in his eyes. He knows exactly who Mary is asking after. But for a moment, it is difficult for him to understand why. Watson broke her heart, after all.
But then… then Holmes recalls the month before, and knows that he would have asked, too. It makes no sense. But it isn’t meant to, simply one more reason the always-rational detective was never meant for any of this.
Mary watches the comprehension make its way to the detective’s eyes, and for a moment they are in complete understanding, so surely that even Holmes cannot escape the knowledge that they are of a level. And he cannot bring himself to lie, either. Perhaps a month ago he would have dreamed of arrogantly telling Mary of Watson’s happiness without her. But… he finds that he cannot lie to her any more than he can lie to himself about this.
So brown eyes meet blue (lighter than Watson‘s, but giving the impression that they might become green or gray at another time) yet again, and Holmes’ brows knit. “He doesn’t sleep well or often,” he says without inflection, listing observations. “He’s depressed and guilt-stricken.” Holmes should know. “He worries for you.”
Now it’s Mary’s turn to look away, and Holmes is certain she hadn’t wanted to hear that. But he is well-known for being brutally honest without regard for the feelings of his audience, and this is no different. She made the mistake of asking, and so he will provide her with the truth, as clearly and unapologetically as he sees it.
There is silence for a moment, but Mary, to her credit, is not one to be kept down or scared away so easily. She looks back up at Holmes, who to his credit, meets her gaze squarely. “I had hoped he would be happy,” she says with an obvious effort.
Holmes, unaccustomed to the feeling currently inhabiting his chest, blinks and then swallows, glances away and then back. Obvious signs of discomfort with this conversation, but Mary does not let it go, but continues staring at him until Holmes replies, his voice melodic even as it quiets. “Yes, I confess to the same hope.”
Mary’s eyes close, this time, and Holmes is certain that whatever it is he is feeling, she is feeling the same, and he forces himself not to fidget, giving her a moment before she turns her uncommonly piercing gaze on him. “I suppose I am at fault as much as anyone,” she says after a moment, watching him.
Holmes blinks, obviously taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I tell myself I should have known,” she says, but then shakes her head, staring off at something Holmes cannot see. “But that is a lie. I did know. I knew you loved him.” Holmes is reminded forcibly of the hospital, Watson lying unconscious, Mary telling him to solve the crime, no matter what it takes. For Watson, for Watson’s sake, and he did, and it was. He does so much for his Watson’s sake, so much that the doctor will never, can never, know.
But Mary… he thinks Mary knows. Unaccountably, the detective cannot think of a single response to this, and so Mary carries on while he remains silent. “It was his love for you I had tried to keep from myself,” she says quietly, and Holmes stares at her, trying to feel angry, angry because she could lie to herself so when he was not only confronted with Watson’s love for his wife, but had it repeatedly pointed out to him by the man himself, and often. Holmes has tried to hate Watson for that. It worked when the doctor was not present. Sometimes.
Mary smiles, but it’s a bitter expression. “I recall wondering, at times, if it hadn’t been because he saw some of you in me that had won his attentions in the first place.”
Eyes wide, Holmes stares back at Watson’s wife, unable to respond for a moment. At first he is unwilling to believe that such a thing might be true, but then, slowly, rationality proves otherwise. In many ways, he and Mary are similar. She has displayed on many occasions a keen intelligence, and more, observational skills that Holmes finds himself mildly impressed with. All untrained and not nearly genius enough to parallel his own. But similar, watered-down aspects of himself are there.
But then, Holmes thinks, in other ways, Mary is very much his opposite, as though Watson was attempting to find someone as different from Holmes as humanly possible. She is kind, forgiving, sympathetic. She is pleasant and steady, more independent than most women but still willing to trust and lean on her husband, as a wife should. She is easygoing and easy to love.
There is silence for a moment as Holmes recognizes all of this and more, and then brings his eyes to meet Mary’s yet again. “There you go too far,” he says briefly, to the slight widening of her eyes. “I am much prettier than you.”
There is a long pause, and then, quite suddenly and very obviously against her will, Mary stifles a laugh beneath her hand. Some of the tension there dissipates, and she shakes her head. “Mr. Holmes,” she says after a moment, “it is very difficult to be angry with you for any length of time.”
“You should try being pleased with me,” Holmes counters. “I hear it is much more difficult.”
“Patience was always one of John’s virtues,” Mary says quietly, and Holmes cannot argue that point. Really, Holmes does wonder at times at the extent of Watson’s patience. It simply is not natural. Perhaps it is a mental defect. Mary obviously requires less patience than Holmes does, however, and displays a great deal of her own patience before gesturing in the direction she was walking.
“Walk with me?” she asks, to Holmes’ utter surprise.
To his continued surprise, he finds himself nodding. “Of course,” he says, and they start off, in silence for a moment, although Holmes would not call it companionable, the manic detective in his disguise and the estranged wife proper as always.
“Do you think he will be happy eventually?” she asks quietly after a minute or so, watching the ground in front of them as they walk.
Holmes, unable to simply watch his own feet as he walks but rather can do nothing but look around them, taking in every detail of the area that his eyes can see, frowns just a little. He has long since this conversation began given up attempting to understand her motivations, why she should continue to care after what had happened, or worse, why it should make perfect sense to him in a completely irrational way.
“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause, voice quieter than usual. He shakes his head, glances over at Mary, and fights to keep his expression from showing any of his considerable worries. Not now. Not to her. “I don’t know,” he adds again, almost inaudible.
Mary is silent for a moment, but then looks up at him, her expression unreadable. “Why not?” she asks, and Holmes gets the impression that this question is more meaningful than he understands.
He frowns, hesitating, uncertain. This conversation is very, very out of his depth. He does not know how to respond to it properly, does not quite understand everything that is being said. Does not know why it hurts so much to speak to her, and yet is easier somehow, as though finally there is someone who understands, when even he does not. He is silent for a long, long moment, but then suddenly he stops in his tracks, turning to look at Watson’s wife. “Because,” he says, almost harshly, suddenly completely forgetting how uncomfortably aware he had been that this woman holds not only his continued freedom and safety, but Watson’s, in her hands, “of me, madame, because at any moment he may wake up from his metaphorical daze and recognize what it is he left behind and how much of an imbecile he was to leave you for me. Because he worries that I am inhuman, and he is right. Because he thinks that I am something that I am not, not only this mechanically perfect genius detective but that somewhere beneath it there is a good man, a human being, that he cares for, and I have perpetuated the romantic notion for years because I dread losing him. Because I am not good enough for him, and you very well might be, and it is only because he is an idiot that he hasn’t realized. Is that what you wanted to hear, Mary Watson?”
His voice had not gotten louder over the course of this explanation, but rather softer; and yet somehow harsher, somehow all the more imposing for the quiet display. It’s not anger, is never anger with Holmes, but rather resignation and fear masked by unimpeachable logic, that marks his words. And yet, Mary does not back away, does not take her words back. She does not even blink.
Rather, after a long moment, she nods. And then, much to a suddenly agitated Holmes’ surprise, she reaches over to put her arm in his. “Yes,” she says, softly but confidently. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is.” He stares at her, and she turns them gently, beginning their walking again, now with her arm in his. “You are in love,” she says unapologetically after a long moment. Thoroughly confused, Holmes stares down at her. After all that, this is what she deduces? Seeing his confusion, Mary nearly smiles. “I suppose I wanted to be certain that you would care for him properly. I see now I was mistaken in daring to question your devotion.”
Holmes continues to stare at her in complete shock and confusion, his feet moving along without his permission. “There are some mysteries which are beyond even my great capabilities,” Holmes concludes a moment later, without even the slightest hint of humility. “Women, I think, are foremost among them.”
Mary nearly smiles again. “I do not think it is women which has you so baffled, Mr. Holmes,” she says gently.
Holmes does not argue, but the confusion does not fade from his expression as they continue walking, sooner than he would have thought coming very close to her destination. Finally, Holmes decides that there is something he must say, even though he is long since completely bewildered by this conversation. “Mrs-” he starts, then pauses. Mary sighs. “You may call me Mary,” she says.
Relieved in the way of a confused child attempting to understand the confines of societal convention, Holmes nods. “Mary,” he begins, “your actions thus far have been nothing but reassuring. But I find that I must ask-”
“I wouldn’t turn you in to the authorities,” she says, not looking at him.
Holmes pushes on anyway. “I don’t mean to imply anything, of course, but I understand that popular belief would suggest that what- what Watson and I- that our situation is not simply illegal, but immoral. And I understand too that you are a devout Christian, which, while being a completely irrational mindset, is not your fault (for you were raised in a society which requires it). If you should find that you cannot go on allowing… what I mean to say is…” He trails off. Lord, it is difficult to say this in a correct fashion. Normally Holmes does not bother, and this is exactly why. It’s only a matter of time before he gives up.
Sighing frustratedly, Holmes simply spits it out. “If you find that you cannot live with the fact that you know he and I are sinning, that the taint of it is too much for you so-called immortal soul, I will not blame you.” Probably. “I would prefer you simply go to a priest, but if the case is such that you find you must turn someone in, I beg you to let me bear the punishment.”
Mary pauses, turning to stare at him. Her husband had said very nearly the same thing to her, the day he had told her… it’s painful, to hear the words reflected backwards from Mr. Holmes, albeit with less tact. It’s painful, too, that both men would think her so petty. “I will tell you what I told John, Mr. Holmes,” she says. “I will not be the ruin of his chance at happiness. I am not so petty.” The sin? Well, that is between the two men and God. It is not hers to judge.
Holmes is visibly relieved. “You are more forgiving than I would be,” he says shortly, unforgiving and honest even in his assessment of himself.
Mary shakes her head. “No,” she says after a pause, recalling the months during which Mr. Holmes had tried, had very obviously tried, to let John go. She recalls very clearly the night he had disguised himself as a doctor, to see to John in the hospital. The way he had looked at John, every time she’d seen the two of them together. The subdued, uncommonly quiet man who had appeared in place of the manic, uncontrollable detective on the day of their wedding.
Mary shakes her head again. “I think not, Mr. Holmes.”
Author: agaryulnaer86
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Holmes runs into Mary several weeks after Watson breaks it off with her to return to the detective. By all rights, they should hate one another. But some things are just not as logical as Holmes wants them to be.
Spoilers: Well, technically this is all one big spoiler for the fic "Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe," but nothing shocking is revealed. Some spoilers for the 2009 Movie.
Warnings: None. Rated for vague reference to homosexual activities.
Word Count: 4337
Author's Notes: This story is set in the same H/W 'verse as "Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe" by sarisa_rahe & I. However, you don't have to have read that to read this, nor does it really give much away besides what you might think is the obvious ending. This is set about two weeks after the end of that story.
Missing persons have never been a particularly favorite sort of case, for Holmes, but on occasion he will admit that such cases can provide some interest for him. The only problem is the excessive amount of background work required. Well, in some cases. Holmes doesn’t mind the work so much. What he minds is the socialization required, and it is quite often without Watson, who provides great value by acting as a sort of buffer between Holmes and the rest of the world.
Even so. Of course it has to be without Watson, because though the good doctor can certainly play his part for the good of a case, Watson is in no way as skilled at acting as Holmes, and more, when there are two of them Holmes is not as quick at adapting, for he has to be certain Watson will be able to play along. Though Watson is quite skilled at catching on to Holmes’ mad jumps from one tactic to the next by now, he is not Holmes and does not share his brain, and as such cannot always be expected to carry on exactly as Holmes would wish.
And what’s more, the man has, simply put, been doing a very poor job of keeping his emotions to himself lately. It’s been a week since the missing boats, so just over two weeks since Watson had… returned to him. Holmes would have thought, before this, that having Watson back would feel better than it has felt. But in reality, it’s been… Holmes doesn’t know, isn‘t sure how to describe the way things have been. Sometimes it’s just like it was before, which is more than Holmes thought he would ever have again. Sometimes, it’s better. A lot of the time, though, it’s… well. Not worse, because Watson is there, and Holmes had been lost without Watson. But Holmes has never seen Watson so unhappy… excepting, of course, when Watson had been ever-so-slowly discovering his true feelings on leaving Holmes behind for married bliss. Which, Holmes supposes, should provide some small consolation, the fact that Watson had been just as depressed missing him as he is now. More, perhaps. Holmes does not have the expertise required to measure appropriately.
Holmes doesn’t know what to do with a depressed Watson. He’s tried everything. But it’s no secret that Holmes has never been particularly good with comfort, or… anything like that. Even Mrs. Hudson had taken pity, and tried to be subtle when she suggested that the detective simply… give Watson time. That’s the best (only) advice Holmes has gotten, so he hopes that it’s the truth, because if Watson spends the rest of his life feeling guilty and sorry for himself half the time… Holmes might very well go mad. It’s very frustrating, to Holmes; he’s not particularly used to caring when someone is clearly truly upset.
And Watson… Watson has been more than just upset. Holmes… supposes reasonably so. After all… Holmes might not have a very firm grasp on the intricacies of relationships, might not particularly want to have a grasp on it at all, but… he knows Watson loved Mary. Loves. Loves Mary. And that, Holmes supposes, must be the problem.
And that, Holmes also supposes, as he lies awake at night, now finally and unaccountably next to the only person he has ever cared for in the entirety of his life, is why he is so afraid every time he leaves the doctor’s side. He is afraid that Watson will realize all of the things Mary could be for him that Holmes never could. He is afraid that Watson will realize his mistake, will remember all of the very good reasons he had left in the first place, will decide that Holmes, as he had put once before, is not human, not human enough to experience all that comes with the new facets of their relationship properly. That he is not worth the risk that Watson is taking. Holmes is afraid that Watson will leave him again, this time never to return.
Needless to say, there is really only so much of this the detective can take. So when a new case comes along, for once he is glad for the distraction not only from his own boredom, but from Watson’s poor mood. Holmes finds that he can often aid Watson’s mood, but only when he has something to distract him with. Typically he does this in any number of horribly illegal and sinful manners, but there are also only so many times one can use that tactic upon the doctor before he begins to get suspicious of one’s intentions. A case, on the other hand, some adventure, a chance for action, now that is bound to distract the good doctor any day.
And so, despite his logical distrust of hope, Holmes has high hopes for this case anyway. Which is what finds him wandering about the market nearest the home of the missing heiress’ maid, dressed in a disguise. Really, it’s nothing intricate, for it needn’t be; sometimes the best disguises are less a disguise of one’s appearance than of one’s demeanor. If you believe in your disguise, cut yourself off from what you truly are and make the disguise the truth for a time, others will believe it as well. It is a simple fact, for all its frightening psychological implications.
So it is a French tourist and not Holmes who wanders from stall to stall in the marketplace, asking questions of the vendors in poor English from time to time and nodding with a vapid smile upon his face, only half comprehending everything that is said around him. But beneath that, the detective Listens, hearing all of the things that are thought private because the audience is disregarded as unimportant, unable to understand.
And it is a French tourist who is staring in interest as he passes a street performer, the detective beneath considering his data in furious detail, when he is nearly run over by a woman. Holmes nearly falls over but catches himself with catlike reflexes, though the act itself appears more of a stumble than any well-trained martial artist’s calculation (but then, at the moment, Holmes appears more a tourist than a genius detective, so appearances can be and are notoriously deceiving in this case).
His first impression of the obstacle takes half a second at most but is an influx of data, from the feet up:
Well-kept, stylish black boots, but sturdy, not from the best shops but imitation and close enough that her class is well-put at middle, clean, so her work is not outdoors, but boots so there is work. Conclusion: she is a Governess. Green dress, well taken care of as well but old, the sort a woman wears to market when she is not looking to find herself a husband, or indeed to impress anyone at all. No rings on her finger, but recent marks, twice over actually. No other jewels. Conclusion: recently broken it off with her husband and has not recovered from the loss. Alone and disinterested in relationships of any kind. This in conjunction with the previous conclusion (of her working status) allows Holmes to conclude also that the marriage had not lasted long.
What Holmes sees when he looks up and finds Mary staring right back at him is not so easily summarized. And for once Holmes is not certain he particularly wants to, even though his mind carries on, rationally cataloguing everything about her and drawing conclusions despite his wants. (Dark circles under her eyes, paler than she should be: she hasn‘t been sleeping. She is no longer living with her parents. But even back at Cavendish place, she didn‘t dare go to any shops nearer her home for fear of seeing her husband.)
Holmes knows the moment his dark eyes meet her light that she sees through his disguise. This is the second time such a thing has happened, and Holmes is no less surprised by it this time than the first. The first time… that disguise had been made hurriedly, and with little in the way of supplies, as he had been in hiding. And he… he had not been at his best. This time… this time it’s different. Everything is different.
For a long moment, the detective and the estranged wife of his only friend, and now, lover, simply stare at one another. And then, having no way to approach this situation, Holmes does the only thing he can think of: he attempts to flee, throwing himself right back into his disguise and tipping the unfamiliar hat upon his head to the lady. “Excusez-moi, madame,” he says apologetically, his voice pitched just slightly lower than usual, but the words roll off his tongue the way even English sometimes unconsciously does for him, and though it does nothing to deceive the sharp-eyed woman before him, Holmes wishes only for her to pretend along with him.
She doesn’t.
Holmes is stopped in his tracks when a small hand with a surprisingly takes his arm; he freezes, dropping the act immediately, removing the persona as surely as another man might remove a coat. “Mr. Holmes.” It’s a moment before Holmes works up the nerve to turn around at the sound of her quiet voice. It’s another before his eyes can meet hers. It is an uncommon thing, for the detective to feel guilt for any of his actions. It is a very uncommon thing for the him to give any indication of such guilt. But it is written in his hesitation before meeting the woman’s eyes, in his reluctance to pull away from her grip on his arm, as though he is waiting for her to use the grip to her advantage, for some blow to come.
But none does, and soon enough she drops her hand, still staring at Holmes, who finds himself uncommonly at a loss for words. It is a singular thing, for the Great Detective to be so at a loss. And it is quickly overcome, although there is a slight falter at the beginning, as Holmes realizes suddenly that he can hardly refer to her as ‘Mary’ anymore, nor indeed can he call her ‘Mrs. Watson’ or even ‘Miss Morstan.’ She is still Mrs. Watson, but he suspects that even if he could make the words come from his reluctant mouth, she would not want to hear them.
So he eschews names and titles entirely, which when one is well known for one’s bohemian behavior, one can accomplish without raising many eyebrows. “I begin to wonder at the true level of my skill at disguises,” he says with a lightness he does not feel. No, he certainly does not feel the way he sounds, cannot be his usual cynical, indifferent self in the face of the woman who had both destroyed his very fragile world and, in the end, inadvertently caused it to shift and grow into something Holmes had never dared imagine he would- or could- have.
She took Watson from him. But in the end, Holmes took him back, and now of the two of them, Mary is the one left alone. And Holmes certainly knows the feeling of being without Watson. He knows it well enough to see the hole in her chest where a heart used to be, with eyes unaccustomed to seeing anything so ridiculously emotional, so very… irrationally metaphysical.
Mary does not strive for any false sense of normalcy or pride. “I believe I would know you anywhere,” she says quietly, and Holmes’ stomach flips unpleasantly at the look in her eyes. He knows that look. A month ago, the expression would have been mirrored in his own. God knows, Holmes knows depths of depression that he is certain no man was ever meant to endure.
His panicked desire to flee- really one of the only ways he has to deal with a situation he doesn’t know how to handle- is overcome suddenly by an uncommon sense of commiseration. His expression softens, very slightly. “Yes, well,” he says, looking from her face, to her hand, now hanging limply by her side, to the ground. He does not say anything more, because there is nothing to say.
They stand like that in a very uncomfortable silence, Holmes looking anywhere but at Mary and Mary staring only at Holmes and seeing nothing else, before finally Mary speaks. “How is he?” she asks simply, no excuses or explanation for her question.
Holmes looks up at that, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth so that his lips make an uncertain line, reflecting the lack of understanding in his eyes. He knows exactly who Mary is asking after. But for a moment, it is difficult for him to understand why. Watson broke her heart, after all.
But then… then Holmes recalls the month before, and knows that he would have asked, too. It makes no sense. But it isn’t meant to, simply one more reason the always-rational detective was never meant for any of this.
Mary watches the comprehension make its way to the detective’s eyes, and for a moment they are in complete understanding, so surely that even Holmes cannot escape the knowledge that they are of a level. And he cannot bring himself to lie, either. Perhaps a month ago he would have dreamed of arrogantly telling Mary of Watson’s happiness without her. But… he finds that he cannot lie to her any more than he can lie to himself about this.
So brown eyes meet blue (lighter than Watson‘s, but giving the impression that they might become green or gray at another time) yet again, and Holmes’ brows knit. “He doesn’t sleep well or often,” he says without inflection, listing observations. “He’s depressed and guilt-stricken.” Holmes should know. “He worries for you.”
Now it’s Mary’s turn to look away, and Holmes is certain she hadn’t wanted to hear that. But he is well-known for being brutally honest without regard for the feelings of his audience, and this is no different. She made the mistake of asking, and so he will provide her with the truth, as clearly and unapologetically as he sees it.
There is silence for a moment, but Mary, to her credit, is not one to be kept down or scared away so easily. She looks back up at Holmes, who to his credit, meets her gaze squarely. “I had hoped he would be happy,” she says with an obvious effort.
Holmes, unaccustomed to the feeling currently inhabiting his chest, blinks and then swallows, glances away and then back. Obvious signs of discomfort with this conversation, but Mary does not let it go, but continues staring at him until Holmes replies, his voice melodic even as it quiets. “Yes, I confess to the same hope.”
Mary’s eyes close, this time, and Holmes is certain that whatever it is he is feeling, she is feeling the same, and he forces himself not to fidget, giving her a moment before she turns her uncommonly piercing gaze on him. “I suppose I am at fault as much as anyone,” she says after a moment, watching him.
Holmes blinks, obviously taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I tell myself I should have known,” she says, but then shakes her head, staring off at something Holmes cannot see. “But that is a lie. I did know. I knew you loved him.” Holmes is reminded forcibly of the hospital, Watson lying unconscious, Mary telling him to solve the crime, no matter what it takes. For Watson, for Watson’s sake, and he did, and it was. He does so much for his Watson’s sake, so much that the doctor will never, can never, know.
But Mary… he thinks Mary knows. Unaccountably, the detective cannot think of a single response to this, and so Mary carries on while he remains silent. “It was his love for you I had tried to keep from myself,” she says quietly, and Holmes stares at her, trying to feel angry, angry because she could lie to herself so when he was not only confronted with Watson’s love for his wife, but had it repeatedly pointed out to him by the man himself, and often. Holmes has tried to hate Watson for that. It worked when the doctor was not present. Sometimes.
Mary smiles, but it’s a bitter expression. “I recall wondering, at times, if it hadn’t been because he saw some of you in me that had won his attentions in the first place.”
Eyes wide, Holmes stares back at Watson’s wife, unable to respond for a moment. At first he is unwilling to believe that such a thing might be true, but then, slowly, rationality proves otherwise. In many ways, he and Mary are similar. She has displayed on many occasions a keen intelligence, and more, observational skills that Holmes finds himself mildly impressed with. All untrained and not nearly genius enough to parallel his own. But similar, watered-down aspects of himself are there.
But then, Holmes thinks, in other ways, Mary is very much his opposite, as though Watson was attempting to find someone as different from Holmes as humanly possible. She is kind, forgiving, sympathetic. She is pleasant and steady, more independent than most women but still willing to trust and lean on her husband, as a wife should. She is easygoing and easy to love.
There is silence for a moment as Holmes recognizes all of this and more, and then brings his eyes to meet Mary’s yet again. “There you go too far,” he says briefly, to the slight widening of her eyes. “I am much prettier than you.”
There is a long pause, and then, quite suddenly and very obviously against her will, Mary stifles a laugh beneath her hand. Some of the tension there dissipates, and she shakes her head. “Mr. Holmes,” she says after a moment, “it is very difficult to be angry with you for any length of time.”
“You should try being pleased with me,” Holmes counters. “I hear it is much more difficult.”
“Patience was always one of John’s virtues,” Mary says quietly, and Holmes cannot argue that point. Really, Holmes does wonder at times at the extent of Watson’s patience. It simply is not natural. Perhaps it is a mental defect. Mary obviously requires less patience than Holmes does, however, and displays a great deal of her own patience before gesturing in the direction she was walking.
“Walk with me?” she asks, to Holmes’ utter surprise.
To his continued surprise, he finds himself nodding. “Of course,” he says, and they start off, in silence for a moment, although Holmes would not call it companionable, the manic detective in his disguise and the estranged wife proper as always.
“Do you think he will be happy eventually?” she asks quietly after a minute or so, watching the ground in front of them as they walk.
Holmes, unable to simply watch his own feet as he walks but rather can do nothing but look around them, taking in every detail of the area that his eyes can see, frowns just a little. He has long since this conversation began given up attempting to understand her motivations, why she should continue to care after what had happened, or worse, why it should make perfect sense to him in a completely irrational way.
“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause, voice quieter than usual. He shakes his head, glances over at Mary, and fights to keep his expression from showing any of his considerable worries. Not now. Not to her. “I don’t know,” he adds again, almost inaudible.
Mary is silent for a moment, but then looks up at him, her expression unreadable. “Why not?” she asks, and Holmes gets the impression that this question is more meaningful than he understands.
He frowns, hesitating, uncertain. This conversation is very, very out of his depth. He does not know how to respond to it properly, does not quite understand everything that is being said. Does not know why it hurts so much to speak to her, and yet is easier somehow, as though finally there is someone who understands, when even he does not. He is silent for a long, long moment, but then suddenly he stops in his tracks, turning to look at Watson’s wife. “Because,” he says, almost harshly, suddenly completely forgetting how uncomfortably aware he had been that this woman holds not only his continued freedom and safety, but Watson’s, in her hands, “of me, madame, because at any moment he may wake up from his metaphorical daze and recognize what it is he left behind and how much of an imbecile he was to leave you for me. Because he worries that I am inhuman, and he is right. Because he thinks that I am something that I am not, not only this mechanically perfect genius detective but that somewhere beneath it there is a good man, a human being, that he cares for, and I have perpetuated the romantic notion for years because I dread losing him. Because I am not good enough for him, and you very well might be, and it is only because he is an idiot that he hasn’t realized. Is that what you wanted to hear, Mary Watson?”
His voice had not gotten louder over the course of this explanation, but rather softer; and yet somehow harsher, somehow all the more imposing for the quiet display. It’s not anger, is never anger with Holmes, but rather resignation and fear masked by unimpeachable logic, that marks his words. And yet, Mary does not back away, does not take her words back. She does not even blink.
Rather, after a long moment, she nods. And then, much to a suddenly agitated Holmes’ surprise, she reaches over to put her arm in his. “Yes,” she says, softly but confidently. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is.” He stares at her, and she turns them gently, beginning their walking again, now with her arm in his. “You are in love,” she says unapologetically after a long moment. Thoroughly confused, Holmes stares down at her. After all that, this is what she deduces? Seeing his confusion, Mary nearly smiles. “I suppose I wanted to be certain that you would care for him properly. I see now I was mistaken in daring to question your devotion.”
Holmes continues to stare at her in complete shock and confusion, his feet moving along without his permission. “There are some mysteries which are beyond even my great capabilities,” Holmes concludes a moment later, without even the slightest hint of humility. “Women, I think, are foremost among them.”
Mary nearly smiles again. “I do not think it is women which has you so baffled, Mr. Holmes,” she says gently.
Holmes does not argue, but the confusion does not fade from his expression as they continue walking, sooner than he would have thought coming very close to her destination. Finally, Holmes decides that there is something he must say, even though he is long since completely bewildered by this conversation. “Mrs-” he starts, then pauses. Mary sighs. “You may call me Mary,” she says.
Relieved in the way of a confused child attempting to understand the confines of societal convention, Holmes nods. “Mary,” he begins, “your actions thus far have been nothing but reassuring. But I find that I must ask-”
“I wouldn’t turn you in to the authorities,” she says, not looking at him.
Holmes pushes on anyway. “I don’t mean to imply anything, of course, but I understand that popular belief would suggest that what- what Watson and I- that our situation is not simply illegal, but immoral. And I understand too that you are a devout Christian, which, while being a completely irrational mindset, is not your fault (for you were raised in a society which requires it). If you should find that you cannot go on allowing… what I mean to say is…” He trails off. Lord, it is difficult to say this in a correct fashion. Normally Holmes does not bother, and this is exactly why. It’s only a matter of time before he gives up.
Sighing frustratedly, Holmes simply spits it out. “If you find that you cannot live with the fact that you know he and I are sinning, that the taint of it is too much for you so-called immortal soul, I will not blame you.” Probably. “I would prefer you simply go to a priest, but if the case is such that you find you must turn someone in, I beg you to let me bear the punishment.”
Mary pauses, turning to stare at him. Her husband had said very nearly the same thing to her, the day he had told her… it’s painful, to hear the words reflected backwards from Mr. Holmes, albeit with less tact. It’s painful, too, that both men would think her so petty. “I will tell you what I told John, Mr. Holmes,” she says. “I will not be the ruin of his chance at happiness. I am not so petty.” The sin? Well, that is between the two men and God. It is not hers to judge.
Holmes is visibly relieved. “You are more forgiving than I would be,” he says shortly, unforgiving and honest even in his assessment of himself.
Mary shakes her head. “No,” she says after a pause, recalling the months during which Mr. Holmes had tried, had very obviously tried, to let John go. She recalls very clearly the night he had disguised himself as a doctor, to see to John in the hospital. The way he had looked at John, every time she’d seen the two of them together. The subdued, uncommonly quiet man who had appeared in place of the manic, uncontrollable detective on the day of their wedding.
Mary shakes her head again. “I think not, Mr. Holmes.”