Turn Left. [AU!timeline - John/Mary (Morstan)]
Title: Turn Left
Pairing: John/Mary (Morstan), gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: off-screen major and minor character death (kind of)
Words: 1519
Summary: Original prompt. The John Watson we know is a war hero, an army doctor, and the blogger of the world's only consulting detective. All this because one afternoon in September, he decided to turn left. What if he had turned right?
It's an afternoon in September, and John is at a crossroads.
“Just five minutes,” Harry says.
John drums his fingers against the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the lights. “Since when have you been qualified to give career advice?” he asks, pointedly. But jabs about her dropping out of art school have long since lost their effect, and Harry only rolls her eyes.
“Since when did you decide to become a soldier?” she asks back. “I thought you wanted to help people.”
“Medical Corps,” he bites out.
“Oh, right, because sewing up gunshot wounds in the middle of nowhere instead of the local A&E is somehow much better.” She peers to the right of the intersection. “At least we'd know where you are. Mum would know where you are.”
It's a bit of an unfair argument to use, they both know, but it stops him to think anyway. Mother, who still won't step inside a car after the call from the hospital telling her about an accident on M25 and how sorry they are. John remembers her tearful relay of the news, and remembers thinking that no one should ever learn of the death of a loved one by phone.
“Just. I've already talked to Mary. You don't have to agree to anything, just drop by so she can put a face to your name. That's all I'm asking.”
The lights are turning yellow. John glances at Harry.
“Five minutes, John.”
He gives a resigned sigh and flicks the indicator to the right.
It turns out to be twenty minutes. John smiles at Mary eleven times, she responds nine times out of said eleven and laughs once.
Harry ends up almost ten minutes late for her meeting, but doesn't say a word.
Five years later John asks Do you want to? I mean, me? and Mary answers I do and tells him not to worry about the rings.
Eleven months later Sarah Amelia Watson is born, all pale-honey skin and hazel eyes.
John and Harry still don't talk that much, but they keep somewhat in touch through Harry's blog. At least this time she's making an effort to lay off the bottle by following her therapist's instructions.
They've lived in Bromley for a little over a year when Harry blogs about the conclusion to the strange serial suicides in London. John reads about the fifth and sixth bodies found in Roland Kerr College and wonders why Harry pays attention to such morbid stuff.
In March of the same year there's another couple of suicides - a rich city boy found in his flat with a bullet in his brain, and a week later his girlfriend goes the same way. The yellow press liken the couple to a modern Romeo and Juliet while John breathes a sigh of relief that he chose family over money.
April 6th John wakes up in the middle of a night to his phone ringing. Mary stirs in the bed behind him, and he hurries to answer as to not to wake her up.
The caller ID says 'Harry'. Of bloody course.
“Piss off,” he grinds out in a sleep-rough voice.
There's a pause of a second on the other end of the line until, finally, in an uneven voice comes, “Guess what I'm wearing.”
John closes his eyes. “Wrong number, Harry. I'm not playing this with you,” he says.
“No, John. Guess what I'm --” A breathy sound, almost like a hiccup. “-- what I'm wearing.”
It's the pause that makes John alert. Suddenly Harry doesn't sound drunk anymore, but afraid. “Harry, what's wrong?” he asks, only marginally aware that Mary is sitting up now as well. “Why are you crying?”
“I-I'm not crying, she's just... relaying a message... for me,” Harry gasps, badly suppressed sobs punctuating her speech. Then there's a deep breath and, “Please, John, help me, help me please--” before the call cuts off.
“Harry?” John looks at the phone, then quickly redials and raises it back to his ear. 'The number you have dialled can not be reached at this moment--'
“John?” Mary whispers, smoothing a honey-coloured arm around his torso. “What is it?”
He shakes his head, redialling again and again with no success. “I don't know, it was... so fast -- She's, she needs help, I have to --”
He doesn't notice he's crying until the emergency services operator has to ask him to calm down and explain what has happened.
There's no help that could save her.
The casket is polished white wood and empty. The little remains that were found allowed for identification but not much more. John stares at the rare sober smile of Harry's funeral photo and wishes he could've said something better to her.
There is a pale, thin hand on his arm, and John looks up to see his wishes reflected on Clara's face. Even through the black layers of her widow's dress it's clear that she's been losing weight.
“I asked her to do the shopping,” Clara says. “Just shopping. As if that mattered.”
John takes her hand in his. He hesitates for a moment before replying. “I asked why she was crying,” he says and feels Clara's fingers tightening their hold. “She never answered. And I still don't know why--” The last word makes his voice break and he stops.
They stand in silence while he swallows tears and wipes his eyes for the millionth time that day. “This is... wrong. It shouldn't be like this,” he chokes out.
She nods, but says, “It wasn't you fault.”
Still feels like it, though.
“None of this was supposed to happen.”
Mary sits him down in their living room for a talk, and John blinks and clears his throat as he tries to think of an answer.
“If this is your way of saying that our marriage was a mistake, then...” he begins, but the end of the sentence escapes before he can grasp it. Mary purses her lips in thought.
“Maybe it was,” she says, then reaches to place her hand over his. “You're a good father, and I don't want this to push you away from Sarah. But.” She licks her lips briefly, a small frown on her face. “But us...”
“There's something missing,” he fills in, and she nods. Perhaps even looks slightly relieved.
“If we'd met at some other time, somewhere else, then maybe... But like this, I think we'd both be happier on our own,” she says and stops to wait for his reaction.
He watches her, and thinks, and finally nods. “All right.”
It's an afternoon in September, and John is at a crossroads.
The tick of the indicator sounds unbearably loud in the empty car. He waits for the lights to turn green, but it isn't until he looks to the right of the intersection that he recognises the place.
Ten years. It barely feels like long enough to blink.
He does then, slowly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, it feels like Harry is back there in the car with him.
“John. Just.”
He doesn't look at her, cannot look at her. Her smile in the corner of his eye is sad and distant.
“Turn left, John.”
His eyes fill with tears then, and he doesn't pause to think for even a second before adjusting the indicator. He doesn't notice the red blur of the lights when he steps on the gas, nor the approach of the other car until it's too late.
The pain cuts through his being the moment he comes to himself. It's like his body is on fire, his skin dry and stretched too tight over his bones. Through the pain he feels a hand around his wrist, a short, slender thumb stroking his palm - a woman's hand.
Mary, he thinks and opens his eyes, just enough to get a glimpse of his surroundings.
Harry stares out of the hospital window, worry carving deep lines on her forehead and beneath her dark blue eyes. It's a wonder she doesn't feel his pulse picking up, and he uses the moment to look around the room.
In the bed next to his lies an alarmingly tall man with a shock of black hair, every inch of his skin covered in cuts and bruises. He's asleep, or unconscious, and inexplicably familiar, and then John remembers.
Funny that he should forget in the first place.
The hand around his wrist tightens, and John hears Harry gasp. He turns to look at her, and the surprise and relief are evident on her face.
He takes a deep breath, ignoring the burning in his throat and chest, and says in a barely audible whisper, “Thank you.”
Before she can overcome her confusion and ask for what, the urge to close his eyes and sleep becomes irresistible.
Pairing: John/Mary (Morstan), gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: off-screen major and minor character death (kind of)
Words: 1519
Summary: Original prompt. The John Watson we know is a war hero, an army doctor, and the blogger of the world's only consulting detective. All this because one afternoon in September, he decided to turn left. What if he had turned right?
It's an afternoon in September, and John is at a crossroads.
“Just five minutes,” Harry says.
John drums his fingers against the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the lights. “Since when have you been qualified to give career advice?” he asks, pointedly. But jabs about her dropping out of art school have long since lost their effect, and Harry only rolls her eyes.
“Since when did you decide to become a soldier?” she asks back. “I thought you wanted to help people.”
“Medical Corps,” he bites out.
“Oh, right, because sewing up gunshot wounds in the middle of nowhere instead of the local A&E is somehow much better.” She peers to the right of the intersection. “At least we'd know where you are. Mum would know where you are.”
It's a bit of an unfair argument to use, they both know, but it stops him to think anyway. Mother, who still won't step inside a car after the call from the hospital telling her about an accident on M25 and how sorry they are. John remembers her tearful relay of the news, and remembers thinking that no one should ever learn of the death of a loved one by phone.
“Just. I've already talked to Mary. You don't have to agree to anything, just drop by so she can put a face to your name. That's all I'm asking.”
The lights are turning yellow. John glances at Harry.
“Five minutes, John.”
He gives a resigned sigh and flicks the indicator to the right.
It turns out to be twenty minutes. John smiles at Mary eleven times, she responds nine times out of said eleven and laughs once.
Harry ends up almost ten minutes late for her meeting, but doesn't say a word.
Five years later John asks Do you want to? I mean, me? and Mary answers I do and tells him not to worry about the rings.
Eleven months later Sarah Amelia Watson is born, all pale-honey skin and hazel eyes.
John and Harry still don't talk that much, but they keep somewhat in touch through Harry's blog. At least this time she's making an effort to lay off the bottle by following her therapist's instructions.
They've lived in Bromley for a little over a year when Harry blogs about the conclusion to the strange serial suicides in London. John reads about the fifth and sixth bodies found in Roland Kerr College and wonders why Harry pays attention to such morbid stuff.
In March of the same year there's another couple of suicides - a rich city boy found in his flat with a bullet in his brain, and a week later his girlfriend goes the same way. The yellow press liken the couple to a modern Romeo and Juliet while John breathes a sigh of relief that he chose family over money.
April 6th John wakes up in the middle of a night to his phone ringing. Mary stirs in the bed behind him, and he hurries to answer as to not to wake her up.
The caller ID says 'Harry'. Of bloody course.
“Piss off,” he grinds out in a sleep-rough voice.
There's a pause of a second on the other end of the line until, finally, in an uneven voice comes, “Guess what I'm wearing.”
John closes his eyes. “Wrong number, Harry. I'm not playing this with you,” he says.
“No, John. Guess what I'm --” A breathy sound, almost like a hiccup. “-- what I'm wearing.”
It's the pause that makes John alert. Suddenly Harry doesn't sound drunk anymore, but afraid. “Harry, what's wrong?” he asks, only marginally aware that Mary is sitting up now as well. “Why are you crying?”
“I-I'm not crying, she's just... relaying a message... for me,” Harry gasps, badly suppressed sobs punctuating her speech. Then there's a deep breath and, “Please, John, help me, help me please--” before the call cuts off.
“Harry?” John looks at the phone, then quickly redials and raises it back to his ear. 'The number you have dialled can not be reached at this moment--'
“John?” Mary whispers, smoothing a honey-coloured arm around his torso. “What is it?”
He shakes his head, redialling again and again with no success. “I don't know, it was... so fast -- She's, she needs help, I have to --”
He doesn't notice he's crying until the emergency services operator has to ask him to calm down and explain what has happened.
There's no help that could save her.
The casket is polished white wood and empty. The little remains that were found allowed for identification but not much more. John stares at the rare sober smile of Harry's funeral photo and wishes he could've said something better to her.
There is a pale, thin hand on his arm, and John looks up to see his wishes reflected on Clara's face. Even through the black layers of her widow's dress it's clear that she's been losing weight.
“I asked her to do the shopping,” Clara says. “Just shopping. As if that mattered.”
John takes her hand in his. He hesitates for a moment before replying. “I asked why she was crying,” he says and feels Clara's fingers tightening their hold. “She never answered. And I still don't know why--” The last word makes his voice break and he stops.
They stand in silence while he swallows tears and wipes his eyes for the millionth time that day. “This is... wrong. It shouldn't be like this,” he chokes out.
She nods, but says, “It wasn't you fault.”
Still feels like it, though.
“None of this was supposed to happen.”
Mary sits him down in their living room for a talk, and John blinks and clears his throat as he tries to think of an answer.
“If this is your way of saying that our marriage was a mistake, then...” he begins, but the end of the sentence escapes before he can grasp it. Mary purses her lips in thought.
“Maybe it was,” she says, then reaches to place her hand over his. “You're a good father, and I don't want this to push you away from Sarah. But.” She licks her lips briefly, a small frown on her face. “But us...”
“There's something missing,” he fills in, and she nods. Perhaps even looks slightly relieved.
“If we'd met at some other time, somewhere else, then maybe... But like this, I think we'd both be happier on our own,” she says and stops to wait for his reaction.
He watches her, and thinks, and finally nods. “All right.”
It's an afternoon in September, and John is at a crossroads.
The tick of the indicator sounds unbearably loud in the empty car. He waits for the lights to turn green, but it isn't until he looks to the right of the intersection that he recognises the place.
Ten years. It barely feels like long enough to blink.
He does then, slowly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, it feels like Harry is back there in the car with him.
“John. Just.”
He doesn't look at her, cannot look at her. Her smile in the corner of his eye is sad and distant.
“Turn left, John.”
His eyes fill with tears then, and he doesn't pause to think for even a second before adjusting the indicator. He doesn't notice the red blur of the lights when he steps on the gas, nor the approach of the other car until it's too late.
The pain cuts through his being the moment he comes to himself. It's like his body is on fire, his skin dry and stretched too tight over his bones. Through the pain he feels a hand around his wrist, a short, slender thumb stroking his palm - a woman's hand.
Mary, he thinks and opens his eyes, just enough to get a glimpse of his surroundings.
Harry stares out of the hospital window, worry carving deep lines on her forehead and beneath her dark blue eyes. It's a wonder she doesn't feel his pulse picking up, and he uses the moment to look around the room.
In the bed next to his lies an alarmingly tall man with a shock of black hair, every inch of his skin covered in cuts and bruises. He's asleep, or unconscious, and inexplicably familiar, and then John remembers.
Funny that he should forget in the first place.
The hand around his wrist tightens, and John hears Harry gasp. He turns to look at her, and the surprise and relief are evident on her face.
He takes a deep breath, ignoring the burning in his throat and chest, and says in a barely audible whisper, “Thank you.”
Before she can overcome her confusion and ask for what, the urge to close his eyes and sleep becomes irresistible.