Nutrisco et extinguo - Chapter XXXVIII
A/N: I realized I'd have to update almost once a week in order to finish this story early enough to attract readers before season 3 is aired... So I'll try :) But everything seems to be against me - like the increasing length of my chapters! I have no idea how this happened. Next chapter is bound to be very long as well (it's Moran centric ;) ) and I'm not sure about those after that. We are getting closer to the end after all! I've also been thinking lately that I will have to edit this story not only for the style and spelling or grammar mistakes once it is complete, but also to make all the chapters in the first half - i.e. before the tribute to Moriarty - longer than they are now. Anyway, enough blathering. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! And as always... reviewers are loved :)
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Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"
Castigat ridendo mores: "one corrects customs (or habits, behaviours) by laughing at them"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.
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Chapter XXXVIII: Castigat ridendo mores
Soldier, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
I don't believe in anything but myself
I don't believe in anything but myself
But then you opened up the door, you opened up the door
Now I start to believe in something else
"Hi Mary. Is John home?"
"Greg! It's good to see you. It's been a while."
The D.I. smiles at her warmly, if a little apologetically. Mary truly is glad to see him.
Since she has stopped working at the school - and she really tried to go on maternity leave as late as possible - she has been dawdling around the flat, rarely venturing out alone. John begged her not to. He seems to believe someone will jump on her at every corner and force a poisoned apple into her mouth. It doesn't make sense, and it annoys her sometimes, but she reckons it is sweet of him to worry so much.
"Please come in!" she tells him as she goes to turn off the music.
"That was a beautiful piece," Lestrade comments. "What is it?"
"Rusalka's Song to the Moon. It's Czech."
He nods. "I'm sorry I haven't been visiting lately, I've been busy."
"It's okay. You're working." She says it a little sullenly, as if work was a treat everyone enjoyed but of which she alone had been unfairly deprived. But that's how she feels about it after all. "Aren't you on duty now?"
He nods as he sits down at the table. She comes back from the kitchen and serves him some tea, mechanically, without asking. "I am," he answers. "I was near-by, and since I have some time ahead of me I thought I'd drop by and say hello."
"That's very kind of you. Although I take it it wasn't me you were visiting." She winks and sits down carefully.
"You all right?" Lestrade inquires.
"M'fine. Just the back hurting. Like an old lady."
"Like a pregnant woman."
"Right."
They exchange an amused smile.
"So when do you expect...?"
"Less than a month."
Greg's eyes widen. "Really? God, it's already been nine months. Time sure flies by."
"I suppose it does."
She looks down at her tea, gazing at her own misshapen, wavering reflection. Time did fly by. She hadn't realized just how soon the baby would be born, how soon she would have to move out; how soon John and her would start going on with their lives. Separately.
"You must be excited."
Her head snaps up sharply and she can read on Greg's face that he is wondering whether he's said something rude unwittingly. Her face softens and she tries to focus on the conversation. He'll think I'm a loony, she muses, unable to completely shake off the thought herself.
"I am. I thought I wouldn't be that impatient to have something screaming and crying and drooling and pooping in the flat, but I've grown rather tired of the kicking and now I'm really looking forward to having it out of my belly."
She can tell Lestrade is embarrassed and isn't sure how to reply to that, so she bursts out laughing.
"I'm teasing you, Greg. I'm an old woman stuck in a flat all day by herself, I'm so bored I feel like my brain is rotting away."
As Greg looks at her strangely, she feels the atmosphere change in the room. This has been happening increasingly often these past few months; Mary wonders if it is linked to her living with John and spending so much time with him, or if she has developed a fifth sense of some sort. She sighs.
"He used to say that a lot, didn't he?"
"Who?" Greg asks with some confusion as her question rouses him from his thoughts.
Mary shrugs. "Who do you think?"
"You're pretty sharp, you know."
"Only when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, I'm afraid," she grumbles before taking a sip of tea.
"No, I'm serious. Sometimes you remind me of him."
She stares at the D.I. pointedly. You guys are always reminded of him.
"Really? The hair, perhaps?"
"No, not the hair," he retorts, laughter in his voice. "But your attitude. Your words, sometimes. I don't know. Maybe it's just an impression."
"But that's what matter, isn't it?" she asks lightly. Her gaze falls on a bouquet of mimosa standing proud on the mantelpiece, next to the grinning skull, which currently seems to be rather grimacing, not appreciating very much to have yellow pompoms falling on his head. That is, on him. It is just a head after all. Mary grins back.
"What does?" Greg asks, more puzzled than ever. He'll really think she's crazy, won't he? Oh well. She's pregnant and tired. People tend to be more tolerant in such cases.
"Impressions. And I think you are probably right, too. It would make sense." She drinks more tea. Her lips twitch a little, craving a cigarette. She serves herself more tea.
"Why?"
"Well, I imagine it would explain why John proposed to me the very day we met."
"Mary..."
"Oh don't give me that look!" She chuckles. "It doesn't make me sad. It's such a good memory after all; one I'll have a lot of fun recounting to my kids. Kid. Whatever."
"No, listen Mary, it's important. John loves you genuinely. I don't know what happened between you two exactly, and I can't pretend I understand him perfectly. Hell, I thought he'd gone insane when he announced he was getting married to a woman he'd just met, literally!"
He shakes his head, remembering the first time he heard the news. Mary smiles. It's good to know John has such friends as Greg. She's glad the D.I. and him overcame what had brought them apart in Sherlock's death, and still enjoy each other's company, perhaps now more than before.
"But I know one thing," Greg continues. "He married you for... Well, for you. Just for you. He was never looking for Sherlock's replacement."
"I know," Mary says softly. "I know all that."
"You don't seem very convinced, though."
"I am. I really am. I know for sure that he never intended to replace Sherlock in any way."
Something in Greg's expression tells her he's realized his blunder - or what he probably construes as a blunder anyway. But he doesn't babble an apology or make for a hasty exit.
"Believe me," he says instead, "you wouldn't have wanted to be Sherlock's substitute. You're much better company as you are."
Mary snorts but cannot hide her knowing smirk.
"You won't hear me argue against that!"
She allows herself a cheeky green. She definitely likes John's friends.
But how do I know if I'll make it through?
How do I know? Where's the proof in you?
"Mmmmh, this is delicious! Harry you're so lucky to be married to a cook. You really don't know your luck."
"Oh yes I do," John's sister replies happily.
Every time Mary comes for lunch, as she regularly does since John has accepted a full-time job as a practitioner from the clinic he was working at, she tells herself next time she'll try to fall in love with a cook. Ideally, with one as talented as Chris.
"By the way Mary, Seb told me you've become quite good at the guitar!" the red-haired woman said.
"He's lying. I haven't been able to practice at all with this stupid stomach of mine! Look at me, I look like a whale!"
"I wouldn't say that," Chris retorts.
"But John gave you the guitar for your birthday and that was in May! You've had plenty of time to practice with Seb. He's quite good at it, isn't he?" Harry asks rhetorically.
"He is," Mary confirms, her mouth full.
"I'm sure it's part of his lady-killer paraphernalia," Harry says with conviction. Chris shakes her head with fond amusement.
"So, Mary, how has John been?"
"Good. He's working."
"You say that as if it were fun," Harry says between two bites.
"But it is fun!" Mary exclaims.
"He's a GP," Chris points out quietly, a smile on her face.
"You mean not a school teacher?" Mary retorts playfully. "Yeah, I know that. But his job must be fun to some extent if he decides to do it full-time when I'm pregnant and alone in the flat."
Her tone is cheerful, but Chris and Harry still exchange a look.
"You know John is doing it for you and the baby," Harry says before Chris managed to convey with her eyes the message: don't meddle, she's joking. "He is the man of the family after all, isn't he? He should feel responsible and want a full-time job, now that he's gonna be a father."
"Yes, well, he could've waited," Mary mumbles, somewhat grumpy, poking the food with her fork viciously.
"He would've waited a while if he had turned down their offer this time," Chris says, ever the voice of wisdom. Mary rolls her eyes.
"I know. I'm just being difficult, because I'm pregnant and I want a giant teddy bear to cuddle with at home. Nothing wrong with that!"
Harry chokes on her food and brings a towel to her mouth.
"My brother?" she says, disbelieving, once she has swallowed. "A giant teddy bear?" She bursts out laughing. "God, Mary, John's a soldier! A teddy bear? Ha ha ha!"
"Yes, he is," Mary comments absent-mindedly. John is a soldier. Sometimes she has a hard time picturing him at the front; but then some other times, she doesn't find it hard to imagine at all.
"When can he get paternity leave?"
"When the baby's born. And only for a week or two."
Chris gives her a sympathizing smile.
"I might ask him to get some additional paternity leave, though, if I go back to work early."
"John? Take care of a baby alone?"
"He's a doctor. Plus, I don't want him rushing headlong in work to... I don't know."
"Run away from his duties as a father?" Harry supplies, not very helpfully. Chris frowns at her.
"Maybe. Not exactly. As you said, that's why he's trying to make more money in the first place, spending less time on... well, Sherlock. Writing his blog, trying to figure out what that crazy genius meant in his notebook... He was never idle, you know, even when he worked part-time. I know he's doing this for us. But I wonder... Anyway. I want him to spend time with his son, too."
She falls silent. It isn't really awkward, or at least Mary doesn't feel like it is. But maybe she's wrong, because soon Chris starts the conversation again.
"It's good it really turned out to be a son, isn't it?"
Mary beams.
"I knew it would be!"
She was about to say how wonderful a boy was and how much better than a girl, but was interrupted by the door bell ringing.
"Oh, that'll be John," Chris says as she stands up, going to open the door.
"I love Fridays," Mary declares. John finishes work around noon on Fridays. When he announced he was considering working full-time, she had refused right away, saying they'd just be careful with the money, and she didn't want him to be away from home all the time. She found many reasons, made up excuses; she knew that considering their situation, she wasn't supposed to act like a wife entitled to ask her husband to spend time with her. She'd been the one to say she wanted a divorce after all. But John never mentioned it again. He simply takes care of her, attentive and loving as always. Sometimes Mary completely forgets they even had that conversation. But only sometimes. Like when he came to discuss with her the matter of taking up a full-time job at the clinic. In the end he has managed to convince her - mostly by explaining that full-time only meant 37.5 hours a week, so that he would be home at 5.30pm every day and at 1pm on Fridays, with the weekends off. Admittedly he had to get up early to be at work at 8am; but Mary was used to getting up early for school anyway. Moreover, she could have a lie in if she felt like: she wasn't the one working at the clinic now, was she?
"Hello love," John says as he presses a kiss on her brow. "Daydreaming again, aren't we?"
Mary pouts and decides to ignore the comment.
"Don't tease her, John," Harry chides him gently.
"Have you had lunch already?" Chris asks him.
"I haven't, actually. But I'm not hungry."
Harry furrowed her brow. "You're not taking the opportunity to eat a delicious meal prepared by Chef Chris? What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I'm just not hungry. Sorry Chris."
"No problem, John. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"
"Just water, thank you."
While they talk, Mary watches her husband warily. Then resumes eating and joins into the discussion again. She really likes John's family.
And so it goes, this soldier knows
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
And so it goes, this soldier knows
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
But it can be won, but it can be won
"What happened this morning at the clinic?"
"Mm?"
Mary gives him a look but John doesn't see it. They arrived home about fifteen minutes ago. John helped Mary in the stairs and held the door for her, gentle as ever. She fell in the armchair and he prepared some tea for them, then came to sit next to her and started reading the paper. Mary knows he is careful not to turn on his laptop the moment he is home, or to go through the pages of Sherlock's notebook for the umpteenth time. It's silly, really, because that's what he's dying to do. But Mary is grateful nonetheless. John is such a considerate man. And an idiot, too. She wants to tell him she doesn't mind, even ask him to read out the notebook to her, because she enjoys speculating about the meaning of it with John. But today there is a more important matter to be seen to.
"Don't 'mm?' me. I can tell you're upset. So what happened?"
John sighs but puts down the paper, revealing a small smile. He looks tired. Now Mary really is worried. She waits a moment, then comes to sit closer.
"Don't wanna talk about it?"
Spontaneously John takes her hand in his and starts rubbing his thumb on her palm. She knows he doesn't do it consciously. It's the kind of gestures he had with her when he's troubled about something, and that betray how intimate they are, without even realizing it. The kind of gestures Mary doesn't usually pay attention to, because for her, too, it feels only natural, but that she relishes when she notices it. Like now.
"That's not it," John murmurs. "It's not that I don't want to talk about it, but..."
He takes a deep breath and sighs. His touch becomes more nervous on Mary's hand. "There's this patient I have. She comes regularly. I think... I think she's suffering from domestic violence."
Mary presses his hand in hers. "You mean she's been abused?"
John nods. "That, and... I think she is assaulted sexually on a regular basis," he finally lets out, clenching his teeth. Mary's eyes widen.
"You mean... her husband rapes her?" He nods. "And hits her?" He nods. "Can we kill him?" He smiles shakily.
"I wish."
"Well... Can you report it to anyone?"
"No. She's said nothing to me."
Mary swallows. "She's said nothing, and I'm quite sure that she would deny it. I tried to hint at it today to talk to her about it, but the moment she understood what I was trying to say she very clearly told me to mind my own business and to stop making ridiculous assumptions."
"I see. Well..."
There is nothing to say, really. John's right to be upset. This is very upsetting, and there is nothing they can do about it.
"Do you think she'll come back to see you?"
"I don't know. Maybe she'll look for another doctor. But she probably wants as few people to know about it as possible, so she might come back."
Mary starts rubbing her thumb on John's palm soothingly.
"If she does, maybe you should just tell her. Give her advice - strictly medical, of course... I don't know, insist on the risks."
They fall silent.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to talk about this," John says after a while.
Mary scowls. "Why?"
"Because it's upsetting. It's not pretty."
"And you think I can't deal with not pretty?"
"I wish you wouldn't have to."
"Oh, John, you big idiot! Come here," she orders, pulling him into a hug. "You are the most idiotic teddy bear I've ever had."
"And the one who tells the gloomiest story, I'm sure."
"Idiot."
They cuddle for a while, Mary couldn't say how long. He is resting his head on her shoulder, where she put it herself, and she is resting her head on his. The skull is grinning at her under the mimosa. Sherlock's notebook is lying on the kitchen table, next to John's laptop. The flat is warm and it feels like home, a presence enveloping them. She closes her eyes.
"Are you all right?" John eventually asks.
"Of course I am!" She gets up to take her knitting on one of the kitchen chairs. John smiles.
"Made any progress?"
"Of course I have!"
"Of course," John echoes. Mary sticks her tongue at him. He chuckles.
"You're so whimsical these days."
"I'm pregnant."
"You have been for months."
"Well, I'm more pregnant."
"That doesn't make any sense, darling," he teases tenderly, kissing her temple as he walks past her to pour himself some tea.
"Oh really, sweetheart? Honey? Sugar?"
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to find the most stupid name to call you. Why are they all sugary? It's nauseating."
"Mary..."
"I mean, seriously! Doesn't it make you physically nauseous if you're always hearing sugar this and honey that and... Oh! Sweetie pie. There. That's a nice one."
"Right. Lovely," John comments as he turns on his laptop. "What are you even trying to make? Socks?"
"Hunny Bun, Pumpkin, Cupcake..."
Mary knows John is rolling his eyes even though her eyes are on her knitting. "Mrs. Hudson's cupcakes were so good yesterday!"
"Did you learn how to make them?"
"Why?"
"I don't know, she teaches you how to knit, so..."'
"...so she might as well teach me how to bake? Why, thank you, John. I'm glad you have such a liberal approach to the role of women at home."
"What the... You're the one who said you wanted to knit! And you're the one who loves cakes!"
"You love them too."
"Not that much."
"Right, you prefer spices."
John looks at her. She raises her head and looks back.
"Mary..."
"I didn't mean anything," she cuts in preemptively. "Stop seeing metaphors everywhere."
"But you see them too..." he remarks softly.
She sighs. "Mrs. Hudson will kill me. Look at what I did!" She shows John her knitting.
"Well?"
"It's supposed to be a bonnet!"
"Ah..." He bits his lips. Mary glares, and this seems to be the last straw; he breaks into laughter.
"It's not funny!"
"Oh yes it is."
"Well you try it! You'll see!"
"You're adorable, you know."
Her venomous glower does not seem to make John change his mind on the matter.
I sit in the back of a bus watching the world grow old
Watching the world go by all by myself
I took a faith full leap and packed up all my things and
All my love and gave it to somebody else
It's funny how even when John isn't around the flat is filled with his presence. Mary wonders briefly if that's how John feels about Sherlock, and how Sherlock felt about John when he used to keep talking to him even when he was away.
As she pours herself some coffee she thinks of John because they bought matching mugs - weird ones with cartoon chicks goggling. Mary wonders how they ended up buying them. Well. The chicks were yellow.
She seats down at the kitchen table and checks her emails on John's laptop. Her face lights up when she sees she's got one from Cathy.
Hello Beauty!
Jerry and everyone are so boring when you're not around. I really miss you! So tell me when is a good time for me to drop by :))
Mary smiles and shakes her head. Cathy was always good at inviting herself over. Mary replies hastily and then turns to the interesting stuff: Sherlock's notebook.
She doesn't care about the notebook so to speak, and God knows she isn't obsessed about the consulting detective like a certain someone. But John told her about the ciphers at the bottom of the page - those saying "Mycroft you are an idiot" - and she found it so hilarious she decided to study the various encrypting methods online and, most of all, discover the two passwords to the last messages. Since she knows the meaning of the message, she thought it would be easy to find a tool online to crack the keyword: after all, it's usually the message one wants to find out, not the keyword.
But it isn't easy. She found tools online that could help encode or decode a message with a keyword, but you still have to enter the keyword. Mary sighs. Curiosity killed the cat, they say. But Mary is curious. She is incredibly, unhealthily curious. Mycroft's reaction when John asked him what the keywords were, and Sherlock's cheekiness towards his brother, tells her the keywords must be significant.
She pouts at the screen. Why? she wonders with annoyance. Why is the stupid keyword necessary? I have the message already! Her moue turns into a glare at the laptop's lack of response.
WHY, she types in the square for the keyword, and "Why!" she exclaims for emphasis, pressing the Enter button dramatically. Her eyes widen as her theatrics are what eventually lead her somewhere. On the screen, the message decoded with the keyword WHY has just appeared: Mycroft you are an idiot.
Feverishly, her heart hammering with excitement and anticipation, she tries again. Typing the sentence "Mycroft you are an idiot", she enters the keyword WHY and presses Encode message.
IFANVDPFMQHPAHLEKGKA
Quickly she turns the pages of the notebook and compares both ciphers.
"That's it!" she cries out with delight. "The first keyword is 'why'! Ha ha ha!"
The discovery makes her ridiculously happy.
"Wonderful! 'Why'... Why? It must be a question. But why why?"
Her eyes fall on the notebook again. Mycroft you are an idiot. Why? Oh. But that's it.
Mycroft, you are an idiot.
Why?
Because...
"That's it! The second keyword must be the answer! Sherlock had been mimicking a dialogue with his brother!"
Mary is thrilled. It isn't that she cares that much about the Holmes brother, Sherlock or Mycroft. She is just curious. Nothing wrong with that.
All right, so maybe she does care. John's affection is contagious. Mary wishes she'd met Sherlock when he was still alive, wishes she'd seen him and Mycroft interact, because it sounded most entertaining when John recounted it to her. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes are fascinating men, like characters in books. They are amazing and infuriating and complex. Mary has no idea how John stood to live with Sherlock - well, because he was in love, she imagines, and even before that he cared so much - and she would no doubt have gone bonkers if she'd had to share a flat with him. But having the Holmes as friends or as acquaintances must have been a lot of fun, and she regrets to have missed out on it.
"Keyword, keyword... God, this is excruciating!" She was so lucky to have found the first one at random; but now how could she ever hope to get as much luck with the second one? "Oh, please! Now that I know it's the answer..."
She frowns at the screen. "All right, let's go for childish. Sherlock was childish after all."
BECAUSE, she types. Enter. Wrong. It doesn't work. "That's not it, then," she mutters. It could have been: Sherlock was cheeky, and when he wrote this he was still a kid. The final answer to the question "Why is Mycroft an idiot?" could well have been "Because." With a full stop. But it wasn't.
"Why, then? Why is Mycroft an idiot?"
"I'm not sure he'd be happy to hear you, dear."
Mary jumps and turns towards the voice.
"Mrs. Hudson! I hadn't heard you come in at all!"
"Well, obviously. I knocked, you know."
"You did?" Mary blinks. She hasn't heard anything. Then again, she's been talking to herself aloud...
"Twice, dear. You seemed quite engrossed. What are you doing?"
"Trying to decipher a message. Or rather, to find the keyword to decipher it."
"Oh! Sherlock would've loved this."
"I'm sure," Mary replies moodily. "He's the one who encoded it!"
Mrs. Hudson puts the cookies she has brought on the table and takes the kettle to fill it with water. She does that whenever she comes, now. Taking care of Mary like a mother while John is away. Always Mary feels a wave of fondness wash over her, but not today. Today she is too irritated with the bloody ciphers.
"Was this is his notebook?" Mrs. Hudson asks kindly.
Mary nods.
"See these ciphers at the bottom of the pages? They all say: 'Mycroft you are an idiot'."
"Oh dear."
"I know. What a brat, huh?"
"He must have known Mycroft would find the notebook eventually," Mrs. Hudson said affectionately.
"He must have guessed," Mary corrected.
"So if you know what the message is, what are you trying to decrypt?"
"The keywords. Here, look. See these? The ones written in red ink."
"Yes?"
"They're encrypted with different methods. More complicated ones. This is was encrypted using the Vigenèse square, and this one, the Playfair cipher."
"Playfair?"
Mary grins.
"Funny, isn't it?"
"He always had a twisted sense of humour," Mrs. Hudson notes gravely. It makes Mary want to laugh even more.
"In these methods," she went on, "a keyword is used to encrypt the message. I found the first keyword by accident, but I can't find the second one."
"What was the first one?"
Mary gives her a mysterious smile. "Why," she says theatrically.
"Why?" Mrs. Hudson repeats, puzzled. "Is that the keyword?"
Mary nods eagerly, looking at the screen again. "Yes. That's it. Now I want to know what the second keyword is even more."
"So that's the reason you were asking why Mycroft was an idiot when I came in," Mrs. Hudson says with a chuckle.
"Right," Mary answers most seriously.
"Why Mycroft is an idiot," Mrs. Hudson repeats pensively, her gaze drifting.
"That's the problem, isn't it," Mary grumbles. "He isn't actually an idiot. Even to Sherlock, he couldn't possibly have appeared to be an idiot. Especially not to Sherlock."
"I suppose not," Mrs. Hudson replies slowly. Mary arches an eyebrow.
"You suppose not?"
Mrs. Hudson is looking at the notebook but not really seeing it, Mary can tell.
"Well, Mycroft is an idiot in some way. A little like Sherlock, but even worse than him in that respect."
"What do you mean?"
Mrs. Hudson gets up to pour the boiled water in the tea pot. Mary loves to have her fussing over her and John.
"Mycroft is an idiot because he cares and will not admit it," she says. Mary tilts her head to the side. "You see, he wants to believe he is cold blooded and heartless - impervious to sentiments."
"Well, maybe he is," Mary comments pensively. "In some way. His job is his whole life, right? He doesn't have anyone; probably doesn't truly care about anyone." Upon meeting Mrs. Hudson disapproving gaze, she adds quickly: "I'm not saying he doesn't give a damn about people like you or John or... The only thing I'm saying is that maybe there isn't anyone he deeply cares about, in the strong sense of the term. You see what I mean?"
Mrs. Hudson smiles knowingly, if a little wistfully. "Not anyone, really?"
"Well, not anyone except Sher... Oh."
Mary's eyes sparkle.
You are an idiot.
Why?
"One word," she says restlessly, turning to the screen, "the keyword has to be one word."
It keeps echoing in her mind, as if the message was addressed to her. You're an idiot. An idiot. Why?
CARING, she types.
Mycroft you are an idiot.
"Mrs. Hudson, you're wonderful!" Mary cries out. "We did it!"
But already she feels her excitement recede and leave a sense of unease and denial in her chest. As if the words were addressed to her.
You are an idiot.
Mary hugs Mrs. Hudson gaily.
Why?
Her eyes fall on her mug with the goggling chicks.
Because you care about me.
But how do I know if I'll make it through?
How do I know? Where's the proof in you?
And so it goes, this soldier knows
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
"Pretty Mary! How are you doing today?"
"Don't call me that, Seb," she groans as she closes the door behind him.
"Would you rather I called you Bloody Mary?" he asks her with a wink. She rolls her eyes.
"Here, I brought you flowers," he adds before she can complain again, handing her a bunch of daffodils.
"Oh they're beautiful!" Seb opens his mouth but she forestalls him. "And don't say 'just like you'," she warns, raising a finger, on teacher mode.
"Aw, why?"
"Because it's cheesy."
"Fine, fine."
"But thanks for the flowers," she says with a boyish grin.
"No problem. I found them nice-looking, although I prefer roses."
"Really? Yellow roses?"
"No, red roses of course! The colour of love and passion!"
"...Right."
Mary goes into the kitchen and puts the flowers in a vase.
"It smells very good here. Have you baked something?"
"Yes!" She beams. "An apple pie! It's almost done baking."
Seb gives her a strange look.
"What? You think I can't bake a proper pie?"
Sebastian's face breaks into a wolfish grin. "No. I'm just thinking that John is a lucky man."
Mary shrugs. "If you make passes at me I'll tell my husband."
"Come on, flirting never killed anyone," he says playfully. "And you're not staying married for long, are you?"
Mary glares. "Well that's not of your business now, is it?"
"Oh Mary I was just kidding. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I know you even flirted with John."
"He told you that?"
She nods, her lips curving up in a satisfied smirk. "Well, I won in the end, didn't I?"
She sticks her tongue at him and Seb laughs.
"What a woman!"
"Why did you even come here in the first place? You know I can't play the guitar like this."
"I know," Seb says as she serves him coffee - black, no sugar. "But I can."
"You came to play for me?"
"Problem?"
She smiles. "Wait 'til John gets home and finds you serenading me."
And so Seb starts playing the guitar while Mary takes her pie out of the oven, elated to see she succeeded and showing Seb excitedly. He simply nods at her, smiling. She takes her mug of tea and joins Seb in the living-room.
The song he plays has a Bohemian tone to it, festive and poetic all at once, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes soulful.
"You really are good at it," she grumbles. Seb looks pleased.
As he plays on, Mary finds herself daydreaming again, as John says. About Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Sherlock; John and Lestrade, too.
"He died because he cared," she murmurs.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Say, Seb..."
"Mm?"
"Do you have friends?"
He stares.
"How am I supposed to take that?" he says with a laugh.
"Don't be stupid. I mean... Like a real friend. Someone you've shared stuff with. A partner in crime, y'know?"
"I know," he says quietly, looking at his fingers dancing on the chords. Mary frowns.
"You know?"
Sebastian remains pensive for a moment, and Mary lets him drift into memories of things past.
"I do have a good buddy," he says at last. "Ron. Went to college together. Good guy."
"Still see him sometimes?"
"Of course! What do you think?"
"I don't know! It's just that we never met him. You're such a mysterious man, Seb."
"Oh, and is that good?" he asks with a seductive smile.
"Probably," she concedes. Then with a wink: "But I prefer the teddy bear type."
And so it goes, this soldier knows
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
But it can be won, but it can be won
But it can be won, but it can be won
"We didn't have to take a cab, you know," Mary mumbles.
"I know we didn't have to," John assures her. "Turn left here," he tells the cabbie.
"But you insisted."
"I just didn't want you to take the stairs in the underground, and we're too late to take a bus - I'm not even sure we'll arrive on time."
"Molly will understand if we don't. I'm sure she's not the kind of woman to be bothered by such things."
"Maybe," John says dismissively, looking out the window and keeping an eye on their route.
"I'm happy to see her again. It's been a while we haven't had dinner with her and Shinwell."
"It is. Hey, why did you turn here? It's shorter if you take Dean Street!"
The cabbie apologizes and says he is starting on this job, but Mary doesn't listen to him. Her attention is all on John as he gives directions. Even when he looks tired, there is warmth and gentleness on his face. And even when he is annoyed, he still looks adorable. Actually, maybe even more when he is annoyed, she muses.
"What are you smirking about?"
"Nothing. I love you."
"I love you too," he answers easily. Mary knows he means it, as much as he can mean it.
"You've come to know London very well," she notes.
John smiles.
"I guess I have, yes."
"Who knew you becoming Sherlock's stalker could have such a positive effect?" she teases.
"Of course it has positive effects!" John protests. "I've learned a lot thanks to his past cases. I've found many great places, that bakery you like, and..."
He laces his fingers with Mary's and she stops herself from rolling her eyes, knowing what's coming next. "... and I got to meet you."
"That's right. We'll make sure to thank him when we go visit his grave on All Saints' Day."
She can feel John's befuddled stare on her.
"All Saints' Day? I didn't know you were-"
"I'm not. But... Well, I suppose it's the natural time to go. But we can visit his grave anytime, really."
"Do you want to?"
Mary nods. "I've never been close to a dead person. I mean, someone who died. But it feels right to go visit them sometimes, don't you think? Not that Sherlock isn't always there with us, but..."
She notices John glance worriedly at the cabbie, who is obviously trying to look at ease and failing. Mary has a Cheshire cat-like grin.
"I love having him with us, of course, and that's not what I'm saying! I mean, considering he'd dead, he's no trouble feeding or anything."
"Mary..." John says, warning in his voice. He doesn't like it when she teases strangers, but she cannot help it.
"Don't lean in like this!" she chides. "I know he's non-substantial, but still, you can't sit on him! Are you all right, Sherlock?" she asks an invisible figure between them. John sighs in defeat and the cabbie speeds up, most likely to reach their destination quickly and get them out of his cab as soon as possible.
And so it goes, this soldier knows
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
And so it goes, this soldier knows
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
"Cathy!"
"Mary, my love! It's been so long!" her friend says as she gives her a hug. "God, you're huge."
"Thank you."
"How have you been doing? Nice dress you've got there."
"I'm fine, thanks. Coffee?"
Cathy nods eagerly, looking around the flat.
"It's the first time I come here, y'know."
"I know," Mary replies evenly, going to the kitchen to prepare some coffee.
"And you've been living here for months!" her friend insists, picking up the skull and looking at it with round eyes.
"Indeed. Put that down, will you?"
"You've got a skull in your flat?"
"No, it's a crystal ball you're holding."
Cathy puts the skull down and turns to Mary with a pout. "Sarcastic as ever, aren't we?"
"Don't be sour. I never got the chance to invite you over, and although I've been here for months, I've known for months that I would move out sooner than expected, so I really didn't see the point."
Cathy's expression becomes serious. She joins Mary in the kitchen and sits down at the table quietly.
"You know, Mary, I really don't understand you."
"Nothing new under the sun."
"You wanted that man so bad, not just as a man, but as an actual boyfriend and bloody husband. And once you got everything you wanted, you tell him you want a divorce?"
Mary sighs. She turns to her friend, leaning back against the sink, waiting for the coffee to brew.
"We've already had this conversation."
"Yeah, I know. But Mary, has anything changed between you two at all? Every time I see you with John, you seem like any happy married couple. You look good together, and by that I mean there really is a sense of intimacy between you guys, as if you'd known each other your whole life."
"Like childhood friends?" Mary asks lightly.
"Yeah, something like that," Cathy concurs. Then she meets Mary's amused gaze and rolls her eyes. "Fine, so you feel like he's your best friend rather than your lover. But isn't that what you felt toward me as well? I think you've got a tendency to run away when you're happy, girl. I'm serious."
"I wasn't happy with you, Cath."
"Ouch, that hurts."
"You asked for it."
"Maybe," Cathy confirms reluctantly. "But tell me, has anything really changed between you and John? It feels like he doesn't really intend to divorce you, y'know..."
"Well I do."
"Yes, well..."
"And things did change."
"Really?"
"We don't sleep together anymore."
Cathy shrugs.
"You told him you want a divorce, love, what else can you expect?"
"It's not him. It's me."
"Again?!"
Mary glares at her ex before serving the coffee. "He understands."
"He sure is understanding. So you really don't love him anymore?"
"I love him."
Cathy lets out a sigh of exasperation and takes her cup of coffee. "Then you're not attracted to him anymore?"
"I am."
"God, Mary, what is wrong with you?"
"What do you feel in this flat?"
Cathy frowns. "What?"
"Do you feel like it's the flat of newlyweds expecting a baby?"
"Well... Yeah. Maybe not newlyweds, it doesn't feel new like that. It's comfy. Like you've been living together for quite a while already. And yeah, I can tell you're expecting a baby, with that knitting lying around and those magazines and-"
"But we haven't been living together for quite a while, have we," Mary says quietly, sitting down with her mug of tea. She looks at the chicks.
"What are you saying? You don't like the flat?"
"I do. It feels like home."
"Then-"
"And like we're three in the house."
Silence. Cathy is staring at her, observing her. But Mary does not feel threatened under her scrutiny. Cathy is her closest friend, but her gaze can read Mary less easily than some other gazes...
"Which is fine," Mary goes on eventually. "I actually like it. A bit as if I had moved into a family house or something... There are memories everywhere. And Mrs. Hudson, too, who is not our housekeeper. Who wasn't their housekeeper, either."
"Rebecca syndrome, then?"
Mary blinks. Then she remembers the movie and the book and bursts out laughing. "No, God no! Nothing like that. I'm sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom after all, and-"
"Your bedroom," Cathy cuts in firmly. Mary stops speaking. "It's your bedroom now."
Mary looks down at her tea. "Is it?" she says casually.
"Does John ever refer to it as Sherlock's bedroom? Does he make you feel like you're not welcome here?"
"No! No, not at all. John is... great, really. He's just amazing."
Cathy groans in frustration and drinks her coffee in one go as if to calm her nerves.
"You're impossible, Mary."
"He doesn't hit me. He doesn't even force sex on me even though we're married."
"Mary! He would have no right to do that! It'd be rape nonetheless!"
Mary nods. "Yes. But it happens. He really is such a wonderful guy."
"'Cause he doesn't rape you? What the hell, Mary..."
"Even in sex he was lovely," she goes on, ignoring her friend. "Always very considerate. Loving, too. I could tell he was touching only me, trying to please only me, and thinking only of me."
"What was the problem, then?" Cathy grumbles, clearly tired of trying to understand her ex. "If he's a wonderful husband and loving and respectful and great at sex..."
"When he was touched, I could tell he saw only Sherlock."
Her voice is serene and almost tender, but upon hearing it Cathy feels her irritation crumble to pieces. She takes Mary's hand in hers.
"Mary..."
"It felt a bit like a threesome, you see?" Mary says with a chuckle. "No matter how I touched him, it was as if any kind of deeply rooted feeling or extreme sensation could only be linked to him. As if only Sherlock could touch John, in every sense of the word."
"Mary."
"It does feel like home, and I love it here. I love him. But sometimes I feel like I'm playing gooseberry."
"Then why are you still here?" Cathy asks gravely. "I know you're pregnant and all that, but Jerry or me could've taken care of you. Why are you staying with him when obviously it's only hurting you?"
Mary shakes her head and smiles. "You're wrong," she replies. "No only."
"But he's in love with someone else! He's trying, all right, but doesn't it make the situation even harder on you? If that's how you feel - if what you've just told me is how you feel - you were right to tell him you wanted to divorce."
"Yes, I think I was."
Cathy squeezes Mary's hand in hers and looks her in the eye.
"Then don't be a fool now and don't change your mind. You know it's for the best, anyone would. It's quite simple."
Mary squeezes back reassuringly and gives her a warm smile. She's grateful for her friend to be so concerned about her well-being. But sometimes Cathy can be so obtuse...
"I'm not changing my mind, Cath. But you're wrong. Whatever this is, it's not simple." Mary looks away, missing the pained look on Cathy's face, and repeats absently: "It's not simple."
And so it goes, this soldier knows
(And so it goes)
The battle with the heart isn't easily won
(The war is won)
But it can be won
Above the fireplace the skull is grinning under the moonlight. John is lying asleep on the couch, his face beautiful and peaceful. By the window a man is standing, a violin in hand. Softly Mary walks in, her eyes following the strands of silver running in the stranger's curls. The moon is huge outside. Mary opens her mouth to say something but just then the man brings the instrument to his chin and begins to play. A voice resounds in the moonlit darkness.
Mĕsíčku na nebi hlubokém,
Svĕtlo tvé daleko vidi,
Po svĕtĕ bloudíš širokém,
Díváš se příbytky lidí...
On the couch John does not stir. The sky outside is deep and dark. It is so vast it seems to be swallowing the street and the buildings across and the lights; only the moon rays pierce it, burning the last remains of the world below. Soon it becomes oppressive. Mary runs to the window, pushing past the man, and opens it wide. She finds herself under the spotlight, as if the moon rays had been the front beams of a car or the search lights of a helicopter. Mary trips and falls from the window. Her first thought is not to scream so as to not wake up John, so she brings a fist to her mouth and bites it.
Mĕsíčku postůj chvíli,
Řekni mi, kde je můj milý ?
She ends up on the road and the violin and the voice are still filling the air. Looking up she can only see a dark blue sky. A shiver runs down her spine. She feels cold and wraps her arms around herself in a tight embrace. She should have worn something warmer than a nightgown. Hopefully this won't harm the baby.
It is so dark she wonders where the moon has gone. Still the voice is singing and the violin ripping the silence of the night.
"Where are the stars?" she asks out loud. There is nothing but the road and the night and the starless sky. "I want to see the stars."
"Why?"
She turns towards the person who has just spoken and blinks. "What are you doing here?"
"This is the road I walk," Sherlock replies.
"Oh. But aren't you playing the violin in the flat?"
His only answer is a secretive smile. He starts walking and Mary falls into step behind him. "John is sleeping," he says eventually. She nods.
"There's no light here. I wish we could see the stars."
"Why?"
Mary stops in her track, surprised. "Why? Well... Because I care, I suppose."
"Do you?" Sherlock replies distractedly. He isn't listening.
Řekni mu, stříbrný mĕsíčku,
Mé že jej objímá rámě...
"Who is singing?" Mary asks him.
This time it's his turn to stop and look at her with surprise. "Isn't it you?" She shakes her head. "Well. I don't know, then."
"You don't?" She cannot quite believe her ears. Sherlock Holmes, not knowing something and admitting it aloud?
They walk in silence for a while. His steps are quick, as if he knew where he was going and was in a hurry.
"Why do you walk this road?" she inquires.
"Because it leads home," he replies simply.
"Home?" she echoes, in a daze. She looks around them. "Is this home?"
"This? No," Sherlock says with a frown and some impatience in his voice.
"What are you thinking about?" Mary asks.
"We need to arrive before he wakes up."
"Really?"
"Yes. Hurry."
"But I'm pregnant!"
"Well then you should be running twice as fast, shouldn't you?"
"I should?" Mary says, bewildered. She looks down at her belly. "I'm cold," she declares as if she were merely commenting on the weather and not her condition.
"Here," Sherlock says briskly, handing her his coat. "But hurry up, would you?" His tone is rather sharp but Mary takes the coat gratefully.
"There's still blood on it," she notes with a grimace.
"Didn't have time to clean it. There's no time. Hurry up!"
"Fine, fine!"
Aby si alespoň chviličku,
Vzpomenul ve snĕní na mne...
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"Why is there no moon?"
"Not relevant."
"And the stars?"
"Oh, what is it with you and the stars?!"
"They're pretty!"
"That's stupid," Sherlock grumbles. Mary scowls at him. "Just play with your teddy bears and leave the stars alone."
"I want to see the stars," Mary says stubbornly. "And I'll find them by myself if you don't want to help!"
She sticks her tongue at him and runs off the road into the fields, into the darkness.
"Wait!" she hears behind her, but pays it no heed. She runs on and on and realizes with a pang of guilt that she is still wearing his coat. She should have given it back before fleeing. What if he's cold? What if he dies from the cold? She shivers.
"Sherlock?" she calls. Only the violin and the voice answer, ever present. Then suddenly something vibrating in her pocket makes her jump. Her phone. "Yes?" she says cautiously as she picks up.
"Where are you, you idiot?!"
"Oh, Sherlock! I have your coat."
"Come back right now!"
"I'll give it back later. Did you get home safely?"
"Where are you?"
"I don't know. Is John still sleeping."
"Yes."
Mary smiles.
"Keep an eye on him, won't you?"
"You-"
"Who do you think he is dreaming about?" she asks quietly into the phone. On the other end, Sherlock does not answer. "You, or me?" Mary goes on.
"Just come back. You're being annoying. I can't stay all night. I'm busy."
"Right. Well, I'll just climb up the ladder to the stars and come back, all right?"
"You're an idiot."
"And you're repeating yourself. Just keep vigil. I'll give your coat back."
She hangs up and turns to the ladder that's appeared while she was on the phone with Sherlock. The violin has stopped, but the voice is still singing. And now Mary can hear the rustling of the sea. She walks towards the ladder - green, why is it green? Something about a case... a green ladder? - and feels the sand under the soles of her bare feet.
"Mary?"
She stops dead in her track and looks at the sea. The moon has risen above it. John is standing on the beach, his laptop under his arm.
"John!"
He comes to her and she kisses him on the cheek. "What are you doing here?" she asks happily.
"What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see the stars!" she tells him excitedly, pointing at the ladder.
"The stars?" he repeats, disconcerted. "But I've brought you flowers, look!" He hands her a bunch of daffodils.
"Oh, thank you John! I'll take them with me."
"I'm coming with you."
She shakes her head. "I'd rather you didn't. You've got to go home."
"But-"
"He's waiting for you, you see. Watching over you. He said he wouldn't stay all night."
"Mary-"
"Shh, listen!"
Zasvět' mu do daleka, zasvět' mu,
Řekni mu, řekni, kdo tu naň čeká...
"It's that depressing song again," John remarks, disapproval clear in his voice.
"It's not depressing. You know, John, the keyword... It was 'caring'. Caring. Isn't it beautiful?"
John looks lost and does not answer. Mary smiles. "You look tired, John. You should go back to bed. Here."
She takes off Sherlock's coat and gives it to her husband. "Give it to him for me, won't you?"
"But you'll be cold."
"It's not cold up there," she counters. Then she turns to the ladder and starts to climb.
"Mary! Wait!" she hears John call behind her. But she keeps climbing. She feels light, so light, lighter than she has in months. She checks her belly but it is still as big as ever. Her face breaks into a smile. Soon she can see nothing below but the ladder disappearing into the night. But above... above, there is the light. The voice has become softer, and sings more quietly. Mary recognizes the end of the song.
O mněli duše lidská sní,
At' se tou vzpomínkou vzbudíl,
"This is it, then," she says with wonder. She is getting quite dizzy. "The end." She looks at the stars around her and smiles.
Mĕsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni
"It's beautiful," she murmurs. Then she lets go of the ladder and falls, eyes closed.
Mĕsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni!
With a bang she finds herself back in the living-room on the hard boards. It is cold. Her back hurts. She looks around but sees no trace of John, or of Sherlock for that matter. The flat is empty. She's all alone. In her hand is still the bunch of daffodils. On the mantelpiece, the skull is grinning down at her.
"John..."
Her eyes snap open. It takes a few seconds for her to come to her senses and understand that she has been dreaming. She's lying in bed, in Sherlock's room; something warm in her hand makes her turn her head and she sees John, sitting in an armchair by her bedside, asleep. And holding her hand.
Mary's eyes widen. "John?" she calls. She gives his hand a squeeze.
"Mm?" comes the sleepy reply.
"John, what are you doing here?" she asks softly, pulling his hand. John finally opens his eyes.
"You were having nightmares. You called my name. And... Sherlock's."
"I did?"
He nods.
"But... why are you in an armchair?"
John grins drowsily. "You were sprawled all over the bed. There was no room for me."
Mary groans and pulls him towards her on the bed.
"Idiot. You must be cold."
"M'fine."
"Come here."
"I am here."
"Well come closer!"
He chuckles. She lets go of his hand and snuggles up against his chest instead, as if he were a protective older brother. That's how she tries to think of it anyway. Gently, he strokes her hair and murmurs, already half-asleep:
"I'm sorry you have nightmares about Sherlock."
Mary plays with one of the buttons of his pyjamas. "It wasn't a nightmare."
"I'm sorry," John repeats. Mary smirks. He really is cute when he is sleepy.
"Thank you, John," she murmurs. "Thank you."
She waits until his breathing is regular and she is sure he is in deep slumber to slip away from his embrace and put a pillow in his arms instead. Then she lies back on the mattress, careful to let John have his half of the bed, and goes back to sleep, a smile on her face.
But it can be won
.
.
.
tbc
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Soldier, by Ingrid Michaelson
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