Fic: Don't Explain, 3/8?
Title: Don't Explain, 3/8?
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, eventually NC-17
Word Count: 4,100 this chapter, 12,400 so far
Warnings: Explicit sex down the road, spoilers for season two
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: Thank you to my lovely extra two pairs of eyes, breathedout and thisprettywren.
On AO3
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter Three
The next day was the start of the weekend and John’s day off, though he had never been more anxious to go into work and get away from the flat. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, piecing together a vague memory of waking in the middle of the night and sensing someone watching him from the doorway. Or was that a dream? No, he was certain it had happened. His sleep-addled brain hadn’t even been disturbed by it. Quite the opposite-he’d found Sherlock’s gaze strangely comforting, and he’d fallen back into a deep sleep that lasted till morning. Now he was awake, and nothing was quite so simple.
When John finally made his way downstairs, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find that Sherlock was already awake. Possibly, he hadn’t actually slept. What was more surprising was that Sherlock had made coffee. John helped himself without offering thanks, because if Sherlock thought he could apologize with gestures that would be commonplace coming from anyone else, he was mistaken.
With coffee, toast, and the newspaper, John sat down across from Sherlock at the kitchen table-the kitchen table that was perfectly clean and fit for eating off of, unlike three years ago. Sherlock’s fingers were poised above the keys of his new laptop, but his eyes had been following John’s every movement from the time he entered the room. John could feel the weight of them even when he buried himself in that morning’s paper. It was like a physical touch that made him itch.
“Any plans for today?” John finally asked, because he had to say something to break the tension. Their silences used to be so comfortable.
He looked up when a minute elapsed and Sherlock hadn’t answered. Jesus, that face…if it weren’t for the shortness of Sherlock’s hair, and that strange look in his eye that could almost pass for sadness, it would be easy to believe that the last few years were nothing more than some vivid, horrifying dream. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts. He blinked and breathed in sharply. “Shopping. Mycroft intercepted my more important possessions from the skip, but I’ll probably need a new wardrobe and other basic essentials. Dull, but necessary.”
Something about the practical considerations for rebuilding a life tugged at John’s chest. Sherlock’s tone was matter-of-fact, but it made John reflect for the first time on how much he had given up when he jumped from that roof. Clothing was just the tip of it. At least he had managed to hold on to that remarkable coat, John thought, smiling internally.
“What about later tonight?” he asked. “Are you going to be available?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You seem to think my availability is questionable. I assure you, sitting in your flat and counting dust particles is my only occupation at the moment.”
John noted the bitterness underlying that statement, unsurprising considering how much Sherlock detested being idle. He also took note of the phrase, ‘your flat.’ Sherlock was always careful with his words, and it gave him an idea of where they stood. Some irrational part of him was sad to think that Sherlock no longer felt at home here, while the rest of him was glad to hear Sherlock admit to intruding on John’s life.
“I ask, because I want you to meet Mary. She’s agreed to have dinner with us tonight. I was thinking Angelo’s, since I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
Sherlock’s expression darkened as he considered the offer. “Do I have to?”
“If you want to be a part of my life again, then yes, you have to.” Not that Sherlock had any right to come back into his life.
And though he and Mary had discussed it last night over the phone, John still thought it was a terrible idea. His feelings toward Sherlock were confused at best, and he did not want Mary to see that. But she had insisted, and John figured he might as well get it over with sooner than later.
In a previous time, Sherlock might have huffed in annoyance and given some cutting remark. Instead, he gave more of a resigned sigh before returning his attention to his screen. “Fine. But it’s not my fault if I don’t like her.”
“Fair enough,” said John, going back to his paper. “I’m sure she’ll feel the same.”
***
The night was cool and pleasant as John and Sherlock traveled to Angelo's together through London’s noisy streets. The walk gave John the opportunity to impart some necessary threats.
“Behave yourself tonight,” he said in a low voice. “Keep the insults to a minimum, and don't start, I don’t know, talking about our sex life or something. Don’t talk about our past relationship at all, in fact.”
Sherlock was sullen and tense. “You said yourself that she already knows everything. Why avoid it?”
“It's called tact, and if you won't exercise it for decency's sake, at least do it for me.”
“Fine,” said Sherlock, jaw clenched. “Any other rules I should be aware of?”
John had never heard the word ‘rules’ spoken with such hatred. It was going to be a long night. “Just…please be pleasant if you can manage it.”
“Why should I?”
“Because foolish as it sounds, I want you two to get along. I don’t want her to absolutely hate you.”
“Why?” This time it was less of a challenge, and more genuine curiosity.
The answer was that John needed his sanity intact. Because he didn’t know what he would do if they hated each other. Mary and Sherlock were both important to him, though in different and complicated ways, and John wasn’t praying for any miracles here but he needed to know he could keep them both in his life without disaster. He also cared deeply about both of their opinions. He couldn’t stand the thought of Mary criticizing his past life, or Sherlock criticizing his current one.
Earlier, he’d given Mary a different set of warnings, preparing her for the worst.
“You should know that he doesn’t have any filters. He just says whatever he’s thinking, especially if it’s going to press buttons. Also, he does this thing where he looks at you and he knows your entire life story, so if he starts rattling off personal facts, don’t let it throw you. It won’t be things that I’ve told him. He’s just…I don’t know, observant. Oh, and he doesn’t always eat. So I’m not sure yet if he’s going to order anything, but if he doesn’t, he’s not trying to be rude. Well, I’m sure he’ll try to be rude, but the not-eating thing isn’t part of it.”
Mary had cut him off. “John. Relax. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And if he’s really as terrible as you say, it’s just going to make me look good, right?”
She said it like a joke, but John sensed the truth behind it. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a competition. He was with Mary, while Sherlock barely had a claim to his friendship, so why did it feel as though he were pitting them against each other? He couldn’t believe he was putting her through this-fucking hell, he couldn’t believe he was putting himself through this.
John gave Sherlock a look and sighed. “Let’s just make this as painless as possible, yeah?”
By the time they reached Angelo’s, John was a tight knot of nerves. He suddenly realized that he didn’t want Sherlock integrated into his life. He wanted him tucked away into a corner of his flat, close by for his own peace of mind, but hidden from view. He wanted Sherlock to be some secret he could come home to, completely separate from everything else he had. What a selfish, fucked up thing to want.
And it was too late for that, anyway, because Mary was already waiting for them outside. Her eyes were locked on Sherlock as they approached, no doubt sizing him up. John knew what sort of first impression Sherlock gave; he remembered it from when they met. Sherlock was tall and striking, intimidating even, with confidence radiating from his posture and his stride and his sharp eyes. The truly nasty bruise across his face did little to diminish the effect. He was definitely not the man John would have ever imagined himself with, had he ever imagined himself with a man, and a small, guilty part of him hoped that Mary was impressed.
He tried not to think about Sherlock’s initial impression of Mary. Sherlock was never impressed.
When they finally met at the door, John came right up to Mary, wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek. He felt a bit possessive, but he wanted to make it clear, to both of them, where his priorities were. He made the introductions without removing his hand from her back.
“Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes.”
She smiled and offered her hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’m glad to hear you’re not dead.”
“Are you?” Sherlock asked, glare on full stun. John had to cough pointedly into his fist before Sherlock narrowed his eyes and finally shook her hand with the focus of an athlete meeting his rival before a match. Then he smirked. “Pediatrician. I was right.”
“How-” said Mary, but John steered her to the door before she could finish the question.
“Don’t ask, or we’ll be out here all night.”
Inside the restaurant, Angelo was all warmth and generosity, slapping backs and pouring copious amounts of wine. John had explained everything when he made the reservation, so there was no moment of shock, just the happy reunion. It only turned truly awkward when John introduced Mary as his girlfriend, and Angelo’s eyes immediately sought out Sherlock’s reaction. John rubbed her knee under the table in apology.
“So,” said Mary, glancing about once Angelo had left them alone, “you went here during your first case together, right? ‘A Study in Pink?’”
Sherlock gave John an exaggerated look of fatigue. “She’s read the blog?”
“Of course she’s read the blog,” John snapped. He was already furious with himself. He hadn’t even realized it until Mary’s comment, but he’d clearly chosen a restaurant that meant something to Sherlock, when they should have gone to a place that would’ve made Mary comfortable instead. Stupid.
Mary looked back and forth between them, then put on a pleasant smile. “It reads like fiction. I mean, it’s incredible to think of all those cases you’ve solved. That first one, Study in Pink, might still be my favorite. When you finally figured out-what was it? Rachel? Brilliant.”
Her eyes turned briefly to John, and John saw at once what she was doing. Oh, bless her. She was attempting to bypass Sherlock’s defenses with outright flattery. Because if he had one blind spot, it was definitely his massive ego. How did she pick up on that so quickly?
He could even tell that Sherlock was secretly appeased by the way he addressed Mary directly, as though she were suddenly worthy of his time. Of course, he didn’t go so far as to thank her for the compliment. “It reads like fiction because John’s writing is sentimental. He’s always put too much emphasis on trivial drama, and not enough focus on the actual facts.”
Mary leaned her elbows against the table. “Still, the facts are what make it so fascinating. I think that definitely comes through. And,” she added, smiling at John, “I rather like John’s writing. I don’t think it’s sentimental at all. I keep telling him he should try to get a book deal, but he didn’t think it was right to profit off of your death.”
Sherlock scoffed. “No need to worry about that.”
“Clearly not,” said Mary with a wry smile. John didn’t understand how the two of them could do it, act as though coming back from the dead were an amusing, everyday occurrence when it still made his heart ache if he thought about it for too long. But it was probably in everyone’s best interest to keep the atmosphere light.
They ordered their meals, and even Sherlock chose something from the menu, though when their food later arrived he barely touched it. John drank his wine like water, and tried to keep the uncomfortable silences at bay with any minor thing he could think of: his work, something he’d read in the paper, the last movie he saw. He got the sense that neither Sherlock nor Mary was actually paying him much attention. Sherlock was too busy trying to intimidate Mary with his scrutiny, while Mary kept smiling back at him as though she found his presence delightful, which clearly left Sherlock baffled and annoyed. It was surreal to think of these two people, representing such different parts of John’s life, here in the same room, interacting.
They had nearly finished eating when Mary tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “Come on then, Sherlock. Tell me everything you can about me.”
“Why?” asked Sherlock from across the table, eyes suspiciously narrowed.
“Because John said to expect it, and I’ve been sitting here all night waiting. Come on, I want to see how well you do.”
Sherlock crossed his arms and looked to John, as though seeking permission, which John found oddly sweet. “Go ahead,” John prompted, a bit tipsy by now. “I know you’re dying to show off.” He placed a nervous hand on Mary’s thigh; he’d been doing that all night, unconsciously touching her hand or nudging her foot, maintaining an almost constant physical contact.
Sherlock turned his eyes back to Mary. “You’re a pediatrician, although you used to smoke.”
“Wait,” John interrupted, “you used to smoke?”
Mary winced. “Not since I was a teenager.”
“But you still miss it sometimes,” said Sherlock, blatantly smug.
Mary gave John a small, apologetic shrug, and Sherlock continued.
“You make a decent salary, enough to live on your own, and yet it’s obvious that you cut your own hair. Clearly that’s not a financial decision, and you’re not particularly good at it, so it seems you place value on self-reliance. It might explain why you and John have no plans to move in together. Self-reliance does not extend to learning how to cook, however. John hates your meals, and he’s not a picky eater. You simply haven’t invested the minimal amount of effort it would take to impress him.”
With his biting tone, Sherlock probably thought he was delivering an insult. But Mary knew perfectly well that John hated her cooking, and she couldn’t care less. John squeezed her thigh and raised his eyebrows in a look that said, “Hear that? Minimal effort.” Mary responded with a “too bad” grin.
This quick exchange made Sherlock falter. His frown deepened and his eyes fell to his untouched meal as he delivered the rest of his observations, though John could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “You knit in your spare time-you’re responsible for the hideous scarf in John’s flat.” John bristled at that. He rather liked that scarf, and he wasn’t going to stop wearing it just because Sherlock thought it was ugly. But now he wouldn’t be able to put it on without thinking of Sherlock’s opinion. Dammit. “Knitting is how you entertained yourself on the train when you recently visited your mother in the country.”
The smile fell from Mary’s face, and John cocked his head in surprise. That…wasn’t actually correct, though it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had ever made a mistake.
“What makes you think I visited my mother?” asked Mary.
“Your bracelet,” Sherlock replied with a small gesture, as though it were obvious.
Mary's eyes went wide, and her left hand shot to her right wrist, which wore a pearl bracelet that John had never seen before tonight. He'd noticed it earlier, but Sherlock was too much of a distraction; otherwise, he would have mentioned it.
“What about my bracelet?” The question was strangely quiet, cautious, which caught Sherlock’s attention. He looked up and pressed his hands together under his chin, that familiar gesture John hadn’t seen in so long. It filled him with anxiety. Apparently Sherlock had finally provoked the reaction he was after. Now he was going to enjoy himself.
“The bracelet is new; you keep moving it up and down your wrist like you're trying to find a comfortable place for it. You’re probably not used to wearing much jewelry at all considering it’s the only piece you have on. It’s also far more formal than the rest of your outfit. Clearly not something you would buy for yourself, so it must be a gift, and one of sentimental value or you wouldn’t be wearing it to such an informal dinner. It’s not from John-not his taste at all. It looks like an antique, possibly an heirloom, and that makes an older family member most likely, one that you’re close to. I doubt you would have a living grandmother, so that leaves mother as the best option. Add that to the train ticket stub I saw in your purse, and it's reasonable to assume you were visiting your mother in the country a few days ago when she gave you that bracelet.”
Sherlock sat back in his seat, but his self-satisfied expression lasted only a moment before it dissolved back into an impassive mask.
Mary was staring in shock, her fingers still touching the bracelet. She opened her mouth to respond, but then she paused and let out a slow breath. John was well acquainted with Mary’s moods, and this one took him by surprise. Mary was quickly closing herself off like she did when she was upset. It couldn’t have been the mention of her mother. Sherlock must have hit some other nerve, and it bothered John that he didn’t know what it was. He moved his hand to the small of Mary’s back and gave her a questioning frown, but she was too focused on Sherlock to notice.
“My mother is dead,” she finally answered. Her tone was carefully even.
“You're not in mourning,” said Sherlock with his usual lack of delicacy, confused rather than embarrassed.
Mary’s eyes unfocused. “It was a long time ago. When I was a baby. I was raised by my aunt-she’s the one who gave me the bracelet.” And just as quickly, Mary snapped out of it. She grinned and shook her head as though nothing were wrong. “But you’re right, I just came back from visiting her in the country. That was marvelous.”
Sherlock studied her closely. It was plain to John that she was hiding something, even with several glasses of wine in him, so surely it must be obvious to Sherlock. He seemed about to say something, but before he could, Mary gestured to his plate.
“By the way, are you going to finish that? If not, would you mind if I took home the leftovers? Like you said, I hate cooking.”
Sherlock glared and picked up his fork, and John watched in amazement as the entire meal was consumed within minutes.
***
Outside the restaurant, it had started to drizzle lightly. John huddled under Mary’s umbrella-always prepared, that one-while Sherlock let the drops fall on his face, tracing the lines of his features. He looked gorgeous with the rain and his skin glowing under the streetlamps. John quickly chased that thought away, chalking it up to the wine, and pulled his girlfriend closer.
“I’m staying at Mary’s tonight,” he explained. “Do you need a key to the flat?” He realized how silly the question was as soon as he asked it, considering Sherlock had already broken into the building more than once.
Sherlock tilted his head back to the rain and blinked at the sky. “I made a copy of yours.”
John rolled his eyes. “Right. Glad you didn’t wait to ask permission or anything first.” That earned him a glare, and John returned it.
“Thanks again for having dinner with us,” said Mary. “I’m so glad I can finally put a face to John’s stories.”
That seemed to be the moment when Sherlock decided he’d had enough. Without bothering to respond, he simply turned on his heel, long coat flowing, and walked away.
John watched him go, trying to be irritated, but what he felt was closer to pity. Before dinner, he’d been so worried about what this meeting would be like for Mary. Yet Mary, at the end of it, seemed perfectly fine. It was Sherlock who had been tense and uncomfortable all evening, and now he was stalking off with hunched shoulders and a scowl. John used to think that Sherlock’s heart was made of granite, that nothing could get to him. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
***
It wasn’t until later that night, as he and Mary were getting dressed for bed, that John thought to mention the bracelet again. He sat on Mary's mattress, watching as she removed the pearls and placed them on her dresser.
“Earlier tonight…Sherlock said something that bothered you.”
Mary slowed her movements and gave a noncommittal hum.
“It was something to do with your bracelet, yeah?”
At first she was silent, her lips pursed in thought. John pulled off his socks while he waited for her response. But Mary just shook her head and picked up her brush. “I don't really want to talk about it now,” she said. “I'll explain later.”
“Mary-” John started, but she cut him off with a warning look. John clenched his jaw to keep himself from pursuing the matter. He knew from experience that if he pressed further, Mary would just shut down completely. It was endlessly frustrating considering how often she convinced him to open up, usually after a particularly violent dream. He just wanted a little fucking balance in the caregiving. But this was an old argument, and he let it go for now.
The brush passed through Mary's dark hair for a minute or two before she said, seemingly out of nowhere, “Is he really as clever as you say he is?”
John’s fingers paused on the buttons of his shirt, and he made sure that he had Mary’s eye contact before answering. “He's a genius. And I mean that quite literally.” Despite what Sherlock had done to him, and regardless of the other horrible things John might say about him, he would never let anyone question Sherlock's brilliance in his presence. It was the one thing he was determined to defend, no matter what.
Mary considered his words, then asked, “Do you think he’d be able to find out what happened to my dad?”
A few things came together for John. Mary was never upset talking about her mother. But if this had something to do with her father, that would definitely explain her agitation. He stood from the bed and came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his mouth to her neck. She smelled clean and tasted lovely. “If anyone could, it would be him. Do you want me to ask for you?”
Mary put down the brush and leaned back against his shoulder. “Maybe. Let me think about it first.”
She guided his hands up to her breasts, and sighed under his touch. John thought she had the perfect sized tits, just the right fit for the span of his fingers. He placed another kiss on her neck, and watched their reflection in the dresser’s mirror.
“Thanks again for making tonight bearable,” he said. “I admit, I was sort of afraid he’d rip you to shreds, but you were amazing.”
She smiled. “I told you not to worry. I can handle myself.”
John chuckled as he thought back to the end of the meal. “You even got him to eat for fuck’s sake. How the hell did you do that?”
She turned fully in his arms to face him, and bit her lip as though she were trying to suppress a grin. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…” She paused and traced a finger along his arm. “I have a lot of experience dealing with stubborn children.”
John snorted, and then he laughed outright with the truth of it. Mary laughed with him. She made it sound so simple, and in that moment everything seemed possible. Maybe John could have his life here, with Mary, and still be friends with Sherlock. God, he hoped that was true.
He quickly shucked the rest of his clothes and together they fell into bed.
Chapter Four
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, eventually NC-17
Word Count: 4,100 this chapter, 12,400 so far
Warnings: Explicit sex down the road, spoilers for season two
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: Thank you to my lovely extra two pairs of eyes, breathedout and thisprettywren.
On AO3
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter Three
The next day was the start of the weekend and John’s day off, though he had never been more anxious to go into work and get away from the flat. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, piecing together a vague memory of waking in the middle of the night and sensing someone watching him from the doorway. Or was that a dream? No, he was certain it had happened. His sleep-addled brain hadn’t even been disturbed by it. Quite the opposite-he’d found Sherlock’s gaze strangely comforting, and he’d fallen back into a deep sleep that lasted till morning. Now he was awake, and nothing was quite so simple.
When John finally made his way downstairs, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find that Sherlock was already awake. Possibly, he hadn’t actually slept. What was more surprising was that Sherlock had made coffee. John helped himself without offering thanks, because if Sherlock thought he could apologize with gestures that would be commonplace coming from anyone else, he was mistaken.
With coffee, toast, and the newspaper, John sat down across from Sherlock at the kitchen table-the kitchen table that was perfectly clean and fit for eating off of, unlike three years ago. Sherlock’s fingers were poised above the keys of his new laptop, but his eyes had been following John’s every movement from the time he entered the room. John could feel the weight of them even when he buried himself in that morning’s paper. It was like a physical touch that made him itch.
“Any plans for today?” John finally asked, because he had to say something to break the tension. Their silences used to be so comfortable.
He looked up when a minute elapsed and Sherlock hadn’t answered. Jesus, that face…if it weren’t for the shortness of Sherlock’s hair, and that strange look in his eye that could almost pass for sadness, it would be easy to believe that the last few years were nothing more than some vivid, horrifying dream. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts. He blinked and breathed in sharply. “Shopping. Mycroft intercepted my more important possessions from the skip, but I’ll probably need a new wardrobe and other basic essentials. Dull, but necessary.”
Something about the practical considerations for rebuilding a life tugged at John’s chest. Sherlock’s tone was matter-of-fact, but it made John reflect for the first time on how much he had given up when he jumped from that roof. Clothing was just the tip of it. At least he had managed to hold on to that remarkable coat, John thought, smiling internally.
“What about later tonight?” he asked. “Are you going to be available?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You seem to think my availability is questionable. I assure you, sitting in your flat and counting dust particles is my only occupation at the moment.”
John noted the bitterness underlying that statement, unsurprising considering how much Sherlock detested being idle. He also took note of the phrase, ‘your flat.’ Sherlock was always careful with his words, and it gave him an idea of where they stood. Some irrational part of him was sad to think that Sherlock no longer felt at home here, while the rest of him was glad to hear Sherlock admit to intruding on John’s life.
“I ask, because I want you to meet Mary. She’s agreed to have dinner with us tonight. I was thinking Angelo’s, since I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
Sherlock’s expression darkened as he considered the offer. “Do I have to?”
“If you want to be a part of my life again, then yes, you have to.” Not that Sherlock had any right to come back into his life.
And though he and Mary had discussed it last night over the phone, John still thought it was a terrible idea. His feelings toward Sherlock were confused at best, and he did not want Mary to see that. But she had insisted, and John figured he might as well get it over with sooner than later.
In a previous time, Sherlock might have huffed in annoyance and given some cutting remark. Instead, he gave more of a resigned sigh before returning his attention to his screen. “Fine. But it’s not my fault if I don’t like her.”
“Fair enough,” said John, going back to his paper. “I’m sure she’ll feel the same.”
***
The night was cool and pleasant as John and Sherlock traveled to Angelo's together through London’s noisy streets. The walk gave John the opportunity to impart some necessary threats.
“Behave yourself tonight,” he said in a low voice. “Keep the insults to a minimum, and don't start, I don’t know, talking about our sex life or something. Don’t talk about our past relationship at all, in fact.”
Sherlock was sullen and tense. “You said yourself that she already knows everything. Why avoid it?”
“It's called tact, and if you won't exercise it for decency's sake, at least do it for me.”
“Fine,” said Sherlock, jaw clenched. “Any other rules I should be aware of?”
John had never heard the word ‘rules’ spoken with such hatred. It was going to be a long night. “Just…please be pleasant if you can manage it.”
“Why should I?”
“Because foolish as it sounds, I want you two to get along. I don’t want her to absolutely hate you.”
“Why?” This time it was less of a challenge, and more genuine curiosity.
The answer was that John needed his sanity intact. Because he didn’t know what he would do if they hated each other. Mary and Sherlock were both important to him, though in different and complicated ways, and John wasn’t praying for any miracles here but he needed to know he could keep them both in his life without disaster. He also cared deeply about both of their opinions. He couldn’t stand the thought of Mary criticizing his past life, or Sherlock criticizing his current one.
Earlier, he’d given Mary a different set of warnings, preparing her for the worst.
“You should know that he doesn’t have any filters. He just says whatever he’s thinking, especially if it’s going to press buttons. Also, he does this thing where he looks at you and he knows your entire life story, so if he starts rattling off personal facts, don’t let it throw you. It won’t be things that I’ve told him. He’s just…I don’t know, observant. Oh, and he doesn’t always eat. So I’m not sure yet if he’s going to order anything, but if he doesn’t, he’s not trying to be rude. Well, I’m sure he’ll try to be rude, but the not-eating thing isn’t part of it.”
Mary had cut him off. “John. Relax. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And if he’s really as terrible as you say, it’s just going to make me look good, right?”
She said it like a joke, but John sensed the truth behind it. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a competition. He was with Mary, while Sherlock barely had a claim to his friendship, so why did it feel as though he were pitting them against each other? He couldn’t believe he was putting her through this-fucking hell, he couldn’t believe he was putting himself through this.
John gave Sherlock a look and sighed. “Let’s just make this as painless as possible, yeah?”
By the time they reached Angelo’s, John was a tight knot of nerves. He suddenly realized that he didn’t want Sherlock integrated into his life. He wanted him tucked away into a corner of his flat, close by for his own peace of mind, but hidden from view. He wanted Sherlock to be some secret he could come home to, completely separate from everything else he had. What a selfish, fucked up thing to want.
And it was too late for that, anyway, because Mary was already waiting for them outside. Her eyes were locked on Sherlock as they approached, no doubt sizing him up. John knew what sort of first impression Sherlock gave; he remembered it from when they met. Sherlock was tall and striking, intimidating even, with confidence radiating from his posture and his stride and his sharp eyes. The truly nasty bruise across his face did little to diminish the effect. He was definitely not the man John would have ever imagined himself with, had he ever imagined himself with a man, and a small, guilty part of him hoped that Mary was impressed.
He tried not to think about Sherlock’s initial impression of Mary. Sherlock was never impressed.
When they finally met at the door, John came right up to Mary, wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek. He felt a bit possessive, but he wanted to make it clear, to both of them, where his priorities were. He made the introductions without removing his hand from her back.
“Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes.”
She smiled and offered her hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’m glad to hear you’re not dead.”
“Are you?” Sherlock asked, glare on full stun. John had to cough pointedly into his fist before Sherlock narrowed his eyes and finally shook her hand with the focus of an athlete meeting his rival before a match. Then he smirked. “Pediatrician. I was right.”
“How-” said Mary, but John steered her to the door before she could finish the question.
“Don’t ask, or we’ll be out here all night.”
Inside the restaurant, Angelo was all warmth and generosity, slapping backs and pouring copious amounts of wine. John had explained everything when he made the reservation, so there was no moment of shock, just the happy reunion. It only turned truly awkward when John introduced Mary as his girlfriend, and Angelo’s eyes immediately sought out Sherlock’s reaction. John rubbed her knee under the table in apology.
“So,” said Mary, glancing about once Angelo had left them alone, “you went here during your first case together, right? ‘A Study in Pink?’”
Sherlock gave John an exaggerated look of fatigue. “She’s read the blog?”
“Of course she’s read the blog,” John snapped. He was already furious with himself. He hadn’t even realized it until Mary’s comment, but he’d clearly chosen a restaurant that meant something to Sherlock, when they should have gone to a place that would’ve made Mary comfortable instead. Stupid.
Mary looked back and forth between them, then put on a pleasant smile. “It reads like fiction. I mean, it’s incredible to think of all those cases you’ve solved. That first one, Study in Pink, might still be my favorite. When you finally figured out-what was it? Rachel? Brilliant.”
Her eyes turned briefly to John, and John saw at once what she was doing. Oh, bless her. She was attempting to bypass Sherlock’s defenses with outright flattery. Because if he had one blind spot, it was definitely his massive ego. How did she pick up on that so quickly?
He could even tell that Sherlock was secretly appeased by the way he addressed Mary directly, as though she were suddenly worthy of his time. Of course, he didn’t go so far as to thank her for the compliment. “It reads like fiction because John’s writing is sentimental. He’s always put too much emphasis on trivial drama, and not enough focus on the actual facts.”
Mary leaned her elbows against the table. “Still, the facts are what make it so fascinating. I think that definitely comes through. And,” she added, smiling at John, “I rather like John’s writing. I don’t think it’s sentimental at all. I keep telling him he should try to get a book deal, but he didn’t think it was right to profit off of your death.”
Sherlock scoffed. “No need to worry about that.”
“Clearly not,” said Mary with a wry smile. John didn’t understand how the two of them could do it, act as though coming back from the dead were an amusing, everyday occurrence when it still made his heart ache if he thought about it for too long. But it was probably in everyone’s best interest to keep the atmosphere light.
They ordered their meals, and even Sherlock chose something from the menu, though when their food later arrived he barely touched it. John drank his wine like water, and tried to keep the uncomfortable silences at bay with any minor thing he could think of: his work, something he’d read in the paper, the last movie he saw. He got the sense that neither Sherlock nor Mary was actually paying him much attention. Sherlock was too busy trying to intimidate Mary with his scrutiny, while Mary kept smiling back at him as though she found his presence delightful, which clearly left Sherlock baffled and annoyed. It was surreal to think of these two people, representing such different parts of John’s life, here in the same room, interacting.
They had nearly finished eating when Mary tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “Come on then, Sherlock. Tell me everything you can about me.”
“Why?” asked Sherlock from across the table, eyes suspiciously narrowed.
“Because John said to expect it, and I’ve been sitting here all night waiting. Come on, I want to see how well you do.”
Sherlock crossed his arms and looked to John, as though seeking permission, which John found oddly sweet. “Go ahead,” John prompted, a bit tipsy by now. “I know you’re dying to show off.” He placed a nervous hand on Mary’s thigh; he’d been doing that all night, unconsciously touching her hand or nudging her foot, maintaining an almost constant physical contact.
Sherlock turned his eyes back to Mary. “You’re a pediatrician, although you used to smoke.”
“Wait,” John interrupted, “you used to smoke?”
Mary winced. “Not since I was a teenager.”
“But you still miss it sometimes,” said Sherlock, blatantly smug.
Mary gave John a small, apologetic shrug, and Sherlock continued.
“You make a decent salary, enough to live on your own, and yet it’s obvious that you cut your own hair. Clearly that’s not a financial decision, and you’re not particularly good at it, so it seems you place value on self-reliance. It might explain why you and John have no plans to move in together. Self-reliance does not extend to learning how to cook, however. John hates your meals, and he’s not a picky eater. You simply haven’t invested the minimal amount of effort it would take to impress him.”
With his biting tone, Sherlock probably thought he was delivering an insult. But Mary knew perfectly well that John hated her cooking, and she couldn’t care less. John squeezed her thigh and raised his eyebrows in a look that said, “Hear that? Minimal effort.” Mary responded with a “too bad” grin.
This quick exchange made Sherlock falter. His frown deepened and his eyes fell to his untouched meal as he delivered the rest of his observations, though John could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “You knit in your spare time-you’re responsible for the hideous scarf in John’s flat.” John bristled at that. He rather liked that scarf, and he wasn’t going to stop wearing it just because Sherlock thought it was ugly. But now he wouldn’t be able to put it on without thinking of Sherlock’s opinion. Dammit. “Knitting is how you entertained yourself on the train when you recently visited your mother in the country.”
The smile fell from Mary’s face, and John cocked his head in surprise. That…wasn’t actually correct, though it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had ever made a mistake.
“What makes you think I visited my mother?” asked Mary.
“Your bracelet,” Sherlock replied with a small gesture, as though it were obvious.
Mary's eyes went wide, and her left hand shot to her right wrist, which wore a pearl bracelet that John had never seen before tonight. He'd noticed it earlier, but Sherlock was too much of a distraction; otherwise, he would have mentioned it.
“What about my bracelet?” The question was strangely quiet, cautious, which caught Sherlock’s attention. He looked up and pressed his hands together under his chin, that familiar gesture John hadn’t seen in so long. It filled him with anxiety. Apparently Sherlock had finally provoked the reaction he was after. Now he was going to enjoy himself.
“The bracelet is new; you keep moving it up and down your wrist like you're trying to find a comfortable place for it. You’re probably not used to wearing much jewelry at all considering it’s the only piece you have on. It’s also far more formal than the rest of your outfit. Clearly not something you would buy for yourself, so it must be a gift, and one of sentimental value or you wouldn’t be wearing it to such an informal dinner. It’s not from John-not his taste at all. It looks like an antique, possibly an heirloom, and that makes an older family member most likely, one that you’re close to. I doubt you would have a living grandmother, so that leaves mother as the best option. Add that to the train ticket stub I saw in your purse, and it's reasonable to assume you were visiting your mother in the country a few days ago when she gave you that bracelet.”
Sherlock sat back in his seat, but his self-satisfied expression lasted only a moment before it dissolved back into an impassive mask.
Mary was staring in shock, her fingers still touching the bracelet. She opened her mouth to respond, but then she paused and let out a slow breath. John was well acquainted with Mary’s moods, and this one took him by surprise. Mary was quickly closing herself off like she did when she was upset. It couldn’t have been the mention of her mother. Sherlock must have hit some other nerve, and it bothered John that he didn’t know what it was. He moved his hand to the small of Mary’s back and gave her a questioning frown, but she was too focused on Sherlock to notice.
“My mother is dead,” she finally answered. Her tone was carefully even.
“You're not in mourning,” said Sherlock with his usual lack of delicacy, confused rather than embarrassed.
Mary’s eyes unfocused. “It was a long time ago. When I was a baby. I was raised by my aunt-she’s the one who gave me the bracelet.” And just as quickly, Mary snapped out of it. She grinned and shook her head as though nothing were wrong. “But you’re right, I just came back from visiting her in the country. That was marvelous.”
Sherlock studied her closely. It was plain to John that she was hiding something, even with several glasses of wine in him, so surely it must be obvious to Sherlock. He seemed about to say something, but before he could, Mary gestured to his plate.
“By the way, are you going to finish that? If not, would you mind if I took home the leftovers? Like you said, I hate cooking.”
Sherlock glared and picked up his fork, and John watched in amazement as the entire meal was consumed within minutes.
***
Outside the restaurant, it had started to drizzle lightly. John huddled under Mary’s umbrella-always prepared, that one-while Sherlock let the drops fall on his face, tracing the lines of his features. He looked gorgeous with the rain and his skin glowing under the streetlamps. John quickly chased that thought away, chalking it up to the wine, and pulled his girlfriend closer.
“I’m staying at Mary’s tonight,” he explained. “Do you need a key to the flat?” He realized how silly the question was as soon as he asked it, considering Sherlock had already broken into the building more than once.
Sherlock tilted his head back to the rain and blinked at the sky. “I made a copy of yours.”
John rolled his eyes. “Right. Glad you didn’t wait to ask permission or anything first.” That earned him a glare, and John returned it.
“Thanks again for having dinner with us,” said Mary. “I’m so glad I can finally put a face to John’s stories.”
That seemed to be the moment when Sherlock decided he’d had enough. Without bothering to respond, he simply turned on his heel, long coat flowing, and walked away.
John watched him go, trying to be irritated, but what he felt was closer to pity. Before dinner, he’d been so worried about what this meeting would be like for Mary. Yet Mary, at the end of it, seemed perfectly fine. It was Sherlock who had been tense and uncomfortable all evening, and now he was stalking off with hunched shoulders and a scowl. John used to think that Sherlock’s heart was made of granite, that nothing could get to him. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
***
It wasn’t until later that night, as he and Mary were getting dressed for bed, that John thought to mention the bracelet again. He sat on Mary's mattress, watching as she removed the pearls and placed them on her dresser.
“Earlier tonight…Sherlock said something that bothered you.”
Mary slowed her movements and gave a noncommittal hum.
“It was something to do with your bracelet, yeah?”
At first she was silent, her lips pursed in thought. John pulled off his socks while he waited for her response. But Mary just shook her head and picked up her brush. “I don't really want to talk about it now,” she said. “I'll explain later.”
“Mary-” John started, but she cut him off with a warning look. John clenched his jaw to keep himself from pursuing the matter. He knew from experience that if he pressed further, Mary would just shut down completely. It was endlessly frustrating considering how often she convinced him to open up, usually after a particularly violent dream. He just wanted a little fucking balance in the caregiving. But this was an old argument, and he let it go for now.
The brush passed through Mary's dark hair for a minute or two before she said, seemingly out of nowhere, “Is he really as clever as you say he is?”
John’s fingers paused on the buttons of his shirt, and he made sure that he had Mary’s eye contact before answering. “He's a genius. And I mean that quite literally.” Despite what Sherlock had done to him, and regardless of the other horrible things John might say about him, he would never let anyone question Sherlock's brilliance in his presence. It was the one thing he was determined to defend, no matter what.
Mary considered his words, then asked, “Do you think he’d be able to find out what happened to my dad?”
A few things came together for John. Mary was never upset talking about her mother. But if this had something to do with her father, that would definitely explain her agitation. He stood from the bed and came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his mouth to her neck. She smelled clean and tasted lovely. “If anyone could, it would be him. Do you want me to ask for you?”
Mary put down the brush and leaned back against his shoulder. “Maybe. Let me think about it first.”
She guided his hands up to her breasts, and sighed under his touch. John thought she had the perfect sized tits, just the right fit for the span of his fingers. He placed another kiss on her neck, and watched their reflection in the dresser’s mirror.
“Thanks again for making tonight bearable,” he said. “I admit, I was sort of afraid he’d rip you to shreds, but you were amazing.”
She smiled. “I told you not to worry. I can handle myself.”
John chuckled as he thought back to the end of the meal. “You even got him to eat for fuck’s sake. How the hell did you do that?”
She turned fully in his arms to face him, and bit her lip as though she were trying to suppress a grin. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…” She paused and traced a finger along his arm. “I have a lot of experience dealing with stubborn children.”
John snorted, and then he laughed outright with the truth of it. Mary laughed with him. She made it sound so simple, and in that moment everything seemed possible. Maybe John could have his life here, with Mary, and still be friends with Sherlock. God, he hoped that was true.
He quickly shucked the rest of his clothes and together they fell into bed.
Chapter Four