Fic: In from the Cold [BBC Sherlock, Mary/John]
Title: In from the Cold
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating PG
Characters: Mary Morstan, John Watson
Length: 640
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes WAdvent Day 8. Beta'd by Stevie.
Summary: Why would an operative of her experience risk a life with John Watson?
Moriarty's long-term plans had included me infiltrating John Watson's life as a nurse, positioned to provide services ranging from intelligence to assassination on command. When things went to shit, that cover identity, Mary Morstan, was the most bullet-proof available, so I went with it.
I found myself following the plan, taking a job at the clinic where Watson worked. It was a mission with no objective, but at least it was a mission. I decided to treat it like a long-term recon gig, and settled in for the game.
Watson wasn't what I had expected, based on Moriarty's briefing. I'd predicted a bored operator who'd lost his assignment, and would likely make the jump to join the elder Holmes' forces or a private merc company ASAP.
Instead, I met a man destroyed by Holmes' death. Widower, said my instincts, finely honed from recruiting mules and suicide bombers across Eastern Europe, a danger to himself and others. He was grieving, barely making it through the day at first. But he showed up, pasted a smile on his face, and got the job done. I respected that.
There were two times I saw Watson come alive in those first few months. The first was when a father ran into the clinic carrying his three year-old son, gasping and gulping, unable to breathe. Watson snapped questions and orders, diagnosed the problem in less than 60 seconds, and treated the boy for anaphylactic shock.
The second was tonight, when a junkie pulled a knife on me in the deserted waiting room. Before I could find a way to kill him without breaking cover, Watson took him down, quick and professional. He told me to call to call 999. I came back to find that Watson had released him from the submission hold and was staring him down with a tight little smile.
"Try it," Watson mouthed at the junkie, who glanced at the knife that had been kicked away under a chair a few feet away before cowering back into the corner.
It was the first time I met the man I'd seen in Moriarty's files, the one who could fire a kill-shot with a hand-gun from 15 meters away, through two panes of glass. The real John Watson.
Or one side of the real John Watson, anyway. My hands were shaking with rage afterwards, at the junkie for endangering my cover and at Watson for thinking I needed saving.
Watson assumed it was fear. He made me tea and sat with an arm around me as we were interviewed by the police. His combat-high slowly drained away until it was a grey and quiet man who walked me to my door, making sure I made it home alright.
It's an article of faith, among operatives of a certain level - the only way out of the game is in a body bag. The clinic, Mary Morstan, it was all just a way to stay under the radar until the Iceman called off his dogs and business went back to normal. But maybe …
John Watson was fucked up, but if he could do it, if he could save lives as well as take them, be as good at comforting a victim of violence as he was at inflicting it … maybe I could do it, too. Stop running. Make a home for myself. Have a man, a good man, because John Watson was good. By civilian standards he might be put together wrong, but I liked him that way, sharp edges and all.
I could save him; give him something to live for. I could. And maybe in the process he'd save me right back.
That was the night I turned on my front steps and kissed a surprised John Watson on the lips. "Thank you," I said, soft and heart-felt, before opening the door and slipping inside.
I knew John assumed I was thanking him for saving me from a kid hopped-up on amphetamines. And I knew that I would do anything, absolutely anything, so he could keep right on thinking that.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating PG
Characters: Mary Morstan, John Watson
Length: 640
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes WAdvent Day 8. Beta'd by Stevie.
Summary: Why would an operative of her experience risk a life with John Watson?
Moriarty's long-term plans had included me infiltrating John Watson's life as a nurse, positioned to provide services ranging from intelligence to assassination on command. When things went to shit, that cover identity, Mary Morstan, was the most bullet-proof available, so I went with it.
I found myself following the plan, taking a job at the clinic where Watson worked. It was a mission with no objective, but at least it was a mission. I decided to treat it like a long-term recon gig, and settled in for the game.
Watson wasn't what I had expected, based on Moriarty's briefing. I'd predicted a bored operator who'd lost his assignment, and would likely make the jump to join the elder Holmes' forces or a private merc company ASAP.
Instead, I met a man destroyed by Holmes' death. Widower, said my instincts, finely honed from recruiting mules and suicide bombers across Eastern Europe, a danger to himself and others. He was grieving, barely making it through the day at first. But he showed up, pasted a smile on his face, and got the job done. I respected that.
There were two times I saw Watson come alive in those first few months. The first was when a father ran into the clinic carrying his three year-old son, gasping and gulping, unable to breathe. Watson snapped questions and orders, diagnosed the problem in less than 60 seconds, and treated the boy for anaphylactic shock.
The second was tonight, when a junkie pulled a knife on me in the deserted waiting room. Before I could find a way to kill him without breaking cover, Watson took him down, quick and professional. He told me to call to call 999. I came back to find that Watson had released him from the submission hold and was staring him down with a tight little smile.
"Try it," Watson mouthed at the junkie, who glanced at the knife that had been kicked away under a chair a few feet away before cowering back into the corner.
It was the first time I met the man I'd seen in Moriarty's files, the one who could fire a kill-shot with a hand-gun from 15 meters away, through two panes of glass. The real John Watson.
Or one side of the real John Watson, anyway. My hands were shaking with rage afterwards, at the junkie for endangering my cover and at Watson for thinking I needed saving.
Watson assumed it was fear. He made me tea and sat with an arm around me as we were interviewed by the police. His combat-high slowly drained away until it was a grey and quiet man who walked me to my door, making sure I made it home alright.
It's an article of faith, among operatives of a certain level - the only way out of the game is in a body bag. The clinic, Mary Morstan, it was all just a way to stay under the radar until the Iceman called off his dogs and business went back to normal. But maybe …
John Watson was fucked up, but if he could do it, if he could save lives as well as take them, be as good at comforting a victim of violence as he was at inflicting it … maybe I could do it, too. Stop running. Make a home for myself. Have a man, a good man, because John Watson was good. By civilian standards he might be put together wrong, but I liked him that way, sharp edges and all.
I could save him; give him something to live for. I could. And maybe in the process he'd save me right back.
That was the night I turned on my front steps and kissed a surprised John Watson on the lips. "Thank you," I said, soft and heart-felt, before opening the door and slipping inside.
I knew John assumed I was thanking him for saving me from a kid hopped-up on amphetamines. And I knew that I would do anything, absolutely anything, so he could keep right on thinking that.