Nutrisco & exstinguo - Chapter 30
A/N:This chapter was kindly betaed by BritChick101. I'm sorry I'm a bit late in updating, but last week was crazy. I really should manage to post a chapter a week from now on - and I should, if I want this done before Season 3 is aired. Hope you enjoy this chapter! :) ~¤Zoffoli
...
Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Intelligenti pauca: "Few words suffice for those who understand"
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.
.
Chapter XXX: Intelligenti pauca
Empty bottles, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
Look at yourself
Are you sad?
Are you sad?
Don't be afraid
It's not bad to be sad
Sherlock finally remembered what "Lion Mane" evoked in his memory, eventually finding somewhere in his mind palace that there existed such a fish called Cyanea capillata, also known as Lion's mane Jellyfish - a deadly creature he recalled to have read about. With this, McPherson's last words came under a new light, and Murdoch could definitely be cleared of his colleague's murder. Stackhurst, the headmaster of The Gabbles, said that Sherlock even took a rock and killed the fish himself, after the case was solved - which I personally find a very funny mental image. So Murdoch was exonerated, and Stackhurst gave him back his job, since he had done nothing but help as a go-between for McPherson and his secret beautiful fiancée Maud Bellamy.
(Happy) end of the story (well, except for poor McPherson and his dog). This shows you should never bath into Sussex ponds without checking for deadly fish species first...
You sigh satisfactorily once you've written the last word of this case. You've been working on it for days, after all, and have even taken the trouble to contact Stackhurst yourself in order to get a first-hand account of the events.
Glancing at your watch, you realize you're going to be late if you do not hurry. You jump to your feet and run up to your room to change - Mary likes red and green jumpers on you the best, you know, and presently you are wearing a blue one. Absentmindedly, you wonder if Sherlock had any preference at all as to your jumpers - more precisely, if there were any that he found less distasteful than others - then dismiss the thought as utterly stupid (as if Sherlock would have bothered with such useless musings).
You check you've shaved properly this morning - although you know Mary doesn't care much about that - and, content with your appearance, leave Baker Street without turning your laptop off. You'll probably have time to work on another case tonight, after your date.
When you get to the bar, Mary is waiting outside, smoking. Just seeing her there, you know you are more than twenty minutes late. A tender smile spreads across your face unwittingly, and as you walk up to her, turns into an apologetic one. She glares, pouts, and turns her head to the other side in theatrical discontent. In truth, she is waiting for you to kiss her on the side of the neck, like you always do when you're late - which is, unfortunately, quite often. Your smile widens and this time you kiss her ear, making her jump and glower even more.
"You terrible man!" she exclaims, waving her cigarette in front of you threateningly. "What case did you stand me up for this time?"
"I didn't stand you up, dear," you argue teasingly, well aware that she hates being called that - or any other sweet name, for that matter.
"Oh, really, darling? What do you call that, then?"
"I'm sorry I made you wait."
"You're inviting me tonight."
"I'm always inviting you."
"That's not true!" she protested with an adorable offended frown.
"You never pay - it's either me, or on the house. I should be thanking Jerry."
She sulks, and retorts haughtily as she bends down to put out her cigarette on the pavement:
"Fine. But you'd better tell me all about that fascinating case you were late for. What happened this time?"
"Well, you see, it's the sad yet comical story of one of the weirdest accidental deaths I've ever heard..."
You spend the evening agreeably chatting, jumping from one subject to another easily - alcohol helping. When she orders a Bloody Mary, though, you know something isn't quite right.
"Have you talked to your parents yet?" you ask tentatively.
She shrugs, but you catch a flash of anger traversing her lovely gaze.
"They're idiots."
"I know, you've told me."
"Jerks, too."
"You've told me that as well."
She turns puppy dog eyes to you and gives her cutest pleading look. You are vaguely reminded of Sherlock's pout when trying to extort cigarettes from you.
"Will you hate me if I don't call them?"
"Of course not. But they're your parents, you know..."
"Oh yeah, I know," she replies gloomily.
You never like it when her brow darkens like this.
"It's no big deal, Mary, I just thought you might want to invite them to the wedding party, since..."
"Since they'd be so happy I went back to the 'right path' and married a man, instead of sleeping around with women?" she cut in bitingly.
Gently, you take her hand in yours.
"Can't we just pretend they're dead?" she goes on, her tone almost begging.
You can't help but think of all the people you loved who died - your parents, first of all, then war companions, then Sherlock... She seems to grasp it instantly as you avert your eyes, and she presses your fingers in her palm.
"I'm sorry," she says precipitately.
You smile.
"It's okay. Look, I just want you to be excited about this, and not all worried and whatnot."
"I am excited!" she asserts, so loudly several other clients turn to you. To be fair, you're quite used to that by now. She doesn't even blush, and doesn't seem embarrassed in the least.
Since the subject is clearly upsetting her, you just drop it, and go on to talking about her pupils. As always, her face brightens immediately, and she can talk for hours about how silly and amusing and adorable and brilliant kids can be. You listen to her with a smile, enjoying the sheer warmth radiating from her sparkling irises, and her laughter chases away any shadow the day may have cast upon your mood. In a very different way than Sherlock, she's like the sun.
You part a few hours later, and kiss at the door of the bar. You never went to her place, and she's never come to Baker Street. You agreed that you'd see her flat after the wedding, and that the party should take place there - as a goodbye to the apartment she would leave, to move into 221B. It is a funny way to proceed, you suppose, but quite fitting for the situation. As you press your lips to hers, you revel in the distinct taste of tobacco, tabasco and lemon, and wonder almost unconsciously how different Sherlock's lips would have felt and tasted if you'd kissed him that night you both thought Irene Adler had died. He hadn't drank any cocktail, but he had smoked that one cigarette. If I had died when you were still alive, would you have smoked one too? A few more, perhaps, since you'd known me for a bit longer?
"Goodnight, John. See you tomorrow at the park."
"Goodnight, Mary. Have a nice day tomorrow."
"Ha ha, I will!"
Her laughter crackles in the night like a crystal clear fire, frank and daringly musical. You kiss her again, barely a peck this time, but joyous and dynamic, and you're already looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.
Dust off your hands
And reach into foreign lands
Of your mind
Dont be kind 'cause we're all fools
Each others' tools
"So... you're saying you're waiting to marry him to go out anywhere other than this bar or the park near your school, and to have sex?" Cathy reformulates, disbelieving.
"I know I'm an idiot, all right!" Mary bursts out, very annoyed with herself and the situation. "I was the one who told him I'd only go out with him if he married me, so now..."
"So now you thought that doing one stupid thing wasn't enough, and so you decided to keep being stupid until the wedding. Now I get it."
"Oh, shut up," Mary grumbles, lighting her umpteenth cigarette this morning.
.
"You're an idiot," Sebastian says. You shrug.
"She's the one who set the rules, you know."
"That's what I said."
"Hey! I want no male chauvinists in this flat!" Harry shouts from the kitchen, following their conversation; Chris breaks into laughter.
"She sounds like a funny girl. I'm really looking forward to meeting her."
You send her a thankful smile - she seems to be the only one to support your relationship with Mary. Mrs. Hudson thinks it isn't very serious, even though she's happy for you; Greg thinks you've gone bonkers, but he seems to have got used to the idea; Mike and Bill are glad, but think you're rushing things a bit, Seb keeps laughing at you, and Harry already hates Mary without having ever met her.
"Well, I am not!" she intervenes from the kitchen again - she is washing the dishes, and quite honestly you are rather surprised not to have heard any breaking noise yet.
"Oh come on, Harry, don't be a twat!" Chris chides with a frown. Then to you, with a smile: "It will be a pleasure to see you together, I'm sure."
"And how can you be so sure?" Harry insists, bursting into the room in her turquoise-coloured apron, her hands wet and full of soap.
"Don't let the water running like that!" Chris protests before joining her in the kitchen - you exchange a knowing smile as she walks past you. Harry always does that when she wants a hug but won't ask for it - that is, she does something to annoy Chris, so she'll come up to her, and give her her full attention. You seriously don't know how anyone could stand such a person. Then again, you're not one to talk.
.
"But how can you be sure he's the right one?" Cathy insists, sneaking a hand in Mary's pocket as they walk to get her lighter, so she will stop chain-smoking. But Mary notices, and catches her hand with a frown, shaking her head curtly.
"He's funny. He's kind. He's weird. He can be alternatively cute and hot, and as far as clothes are concerned, his taste is as bad as mine - or so people say. We're made for each other, don't you think?"
"Does he smoke?"
"No."
"I do."
Mary stares.
.
"I'm sure you'll come to like her," you tell Harry as you sit for coffee in hers and Chris's living-room. "Really! She's not boring, she's kind, funny..."
"Give it up, John", Seb interrupts. "She would've hated Sherlock too, just for the sake of it, if you had ever married him."
The thought is so preposterous you burst out laughing, choking on your drink.
"What?" Sebastian protests. "You could've gone to Canada too!"
"If there had been some nice, incomprehensible murder there, yes. But to marry? Ha ha, that's such a crazy thing to say! I can really tell you never met Sherlock."
Sebastian shrugs, and you miss his amused smirk as you take another sip thoughtfully.
.
"You've only met him once!" Mary protests, irritated with Cathy's repeated deprecatory remarks about John.
"And that was quite enough, thank you very much."
This is too much, and Mary stops dead in her tracks, now definitely cross.
"I am going to marry him, Cath. I love him, and if you can't understand that, then you can just piss off."
Cathy rolls her eyes dramatically, and keeps walking.
"Really? And who will be your best friend whose shoulder you'll come to cry on when all this ends in tears?"
"It won't!"
"Of course it will."
"And why, pray tell?" Mary asks in a mockingly contemptuous tone.
"Because it always ends badly with you."
.
"This just can't have a happy ending, you know," Harry presses on one last time before you leave for the clinic; now she really is wearing you down. "You're in love with Sherlock, aren't you?"
Your expression darkens visibly, and you reply in a grave tone:
"I am. But Sherlock is dead, and I love Mary. I really don't see the problem."
Harry sighs, and shakes her head.
"I'll cheer for you, John, don't worry. I'm just not sure about this."
"Well, we are. Isn't that all that matters? Who knows what will happen tomorrow anyway? As long as this makes us happy, I really don't see why anyone should have a say in it."
Harry gives you a small smile, and nods.
"You're right. I'm looking forward to meeting her next Saturday."
.
"Will you be there next Saturday?" Mary inquires, somewhat hesitatingly.
This time, it is Cathy's turn to stop and glare before she walks down the underground stairs.
"Mary, don't get me wrong. I would've loved to have you in my bed, but if you're happy with that guy, I'll be happy for you. It's your bloody wedding, girl, of course I'll be there! See you later."
And with those words she's gone, leaving a jaded, smiling Mary behind.
"That just shows how serious you were about me," she murmurs with a chuckle before leaving herself.
.
"Oh well," you muse as you leave Harry's flat, "At least that shows she is taking us seriously."
.
When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling
Give me this empty bottle feeling
I think its time to repaint
It's time to repaint myself
You are beaming when you walk out of the Register Office with Mary that day, and are sure that you haven't felt as happy in months - nor as nervous. You asked Greg to be your witness, and even though he grumbled that he felt like he was doing something Sherlock wouldn't have approved of, he was touched enough and gladly accepted. Mary's witness is that weird girl you met the second day you went to the Bar - her ex. And that in itself is quite comical, too.
"We'll meet at my place in two hours, then!" Mary tells them as she grabs your hand and pulls you away. "We'll take a walk around a bit, and I want to show John the school."
"And the flat, too, I presume," Cathy mumbles sullenly. Greg laughs, and nods.
"We'll meet you there, then. And again, congratulations to the both of you."
Mary sends him the brightest smile before dragging you away down the street. You hail a cab, let her announce the address, and kiss her senseless on the back seat while she laughs and tries to tickle you.
"Here we are!" she exclaims gleefully as she leads you from the park you used to meet in for lunch sometimes to the school she teaches in. "This is it! Well, the building isn't especially nice or anything, but I still wanted to show it to you. I love this place because of the brats."
You like how she always calls them 'the brats', with such a fond smile lighting up her face. Taking her hand and lacing your fingers with hers, you ask teasingly:
"Will you want to see the clinic, too?"
She grimaces disgustingly - she profoundly hates hospitals and such - then seems to realize something and answers:
"Well, I guess I could make an effort for you..."
Chuckling, you lean in to peck her on the cheek, and she understands you were joking.
"Oh, you silly man!"
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Yes it was. It's a word you use to describe your pupils, and you love them."
"So you think I love you?" she inquires with her hilarious snob mimicry, sending him a theatrically scornful look.
"Ummm... I dare say you do," you reply playfully, circling her waist and bringing her closer to you, just enough to give her an Eskimo kiss.
After the tour of the school area, she brings you to her own neighbourhood, showing you around as if you were the one about to move in. In truth, she probably just wants to show you everything that's been part of her everyday life for the past few years, just to share her past a bit more with you, before you start building something together. Somehow, you begin to feel a little guilty for making her leave all of this - you told her from the beginning that you wouldn't leave Baker Street, and offered that she visit the flat before you went to publicize your intent to marry at the Register Office. But she had declined, and said it would be more fun to discover the flat the very day of your wedding...
Her flat is lovely. Small, but very bright, oriented south. The decoration is cheerful and homely, pleasant in its simplicity, but you have time to catch a glimpse of the mess in her room before she closes the door hurriedly. You smile.
After you've prepared everything for the small, intimate party you decided to have with close friends and family only (as it turned out, Mary didn't have many friends either, anyway, much like yourself) you start greeting everyone at the door. You're so happy about everything that you no longer feel anxious about Harry meeting Mary. She arrives with Chris and Sebastian just after Greg and Mike, soon followed by Bill, Cathy, Mrs. Hudson and Jerry (who took off his evening just to attend). Molly and Shinwell were not in town, and of course Molly apologized profusedly.
Another friend of Mary's is coming tonight, and you almost choke as you open the door to him with a smile. But your smile abruptly turns into an expression of shock and horror. To be fair, the expression is very much shared by the other man.
"John... You're that John?!"
"Good evening, Peter," you mutter, gritting your teeth. You have no idea how you can let that man in to your wedding party when the first - and last - time you saw him was at his place and you almost slept with him. Right now, you feel very much like running away again.
"Hey, Peter! It's been a while!" Mary exclaims happily, running to him and giving him a hug.
"What, you invited him?" Cathy groans.
You really wish you could disappear now. Right now. But it's your bloody wedding party, how could you not attend?
Peter is still in shock, too, and keeps staring at you dumbly. You glare, trying to convey the message 'you're making everything so obvious, you idiot', and failing miserably.
"Do you know each other?" Cathy inquires, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. Mary turns to you with a smile, a question in her merry eyes. You gulp.
"Uhm... right. Come here."
Grabbing Mary by the wrist, you bring her to the kitchen and whisper:
"Do you remember that one guy that convinced me that I couldn't possibly be gay?"
"The one you left standing there naked on his bed?"
You swallow with some difficulty.
"Right. That one."
Slowly, her eyes widen as realization dawns on her. She breaks into a fit of giggles.
"Oh God, John, you're really someone. Ha ha ha! I love you."
And with those words, she kisses you in a surge of affection, and you can't believe you were lucky enough to meet such a wonderful woman. You beam into the kiss. "I love you too."
"Oohooh! This isn't the time to be all lovey-dovey, leaving your guests alone!" Sebastian suddenly cuts in as he bursts into the kitchen, making you jump.
"Haha, that's right! Let's party now!" Mary exclaimed. Then, turning to you: "Can I tell them?"
"What?! No! What the... No way!"
"Aw come on! This is hilarious, you know."
"Thank you very much," you grumble sullenly. Of course, it is hilarious, but it isn't something you'd want to shout on the roofs for everyone to hear. And seriously, the situation would be so awkward... You start suddenly as you feel her hand on yours, and look up to her.
"Precisely, love."
You shiver. If you forget about the 'love' and the tender gesture, this could've almost sounded like Sherlock. Reading your thoughts. Already knowing what should be done, even if it seems crazy. Overwhelmed, you hug her tightly. "I really love you."
As you embrace her, you miss her wistful smile, and the moved, caring look in her eyes.
You follow her back into the living-room and walk up to Peter.
"Look, I'm sorry about happened. Obviously, it was a mistake on my part, and I..."
"Hey, no worries, mate! I mean, it's quite clear now that you weren't just repelled by me, y'know. Just the wrong gender or something. But really, you're such a tea..."
"That's quite enough Peter, thank you!" Mary cuts in, still chuckling.
"Wait... Are you saying that's the guy whom..." Harry trails off, having overheard the conversation as she was chatting with Mrs. Hudson.
"Such a coincidence, isn't it?" Mary says with a smirk, hardly repressing a giggle.
She and Harry exchange one look, and burst out laughing, no longer able to hold back. You sigh, and roll your eyes. Well, at least, they'll get along...
"Congratulations, John," Mrs. Hudson tells you, pressing your hand with emotion. "I am truly glad you found someone. And, you know, he would've been happy too... No, scratch that, he would've sulked for months and been even more insufferable than usual."
You laugh with her whole-heartedly. "I'm glad you're here, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."
The rest of the party is joyous and simple. It's good to see your friends, who have never met with each other before, talk animatedly in a room you've just discovered, and that Mary will leave definitely soon.
Once everyone is gone, you and Mary clean the room and wash the dishes. You notice her suitcase for tonight is already done.
"So... How do you feel?" she asks.
"Exhausted?" you offer with a smile.
Your gazes lock and you both let out a silly giggle as you look away. As you finish drying up the last glass Mary has washed, your face becomes slightly graver.
"Mary, listen... Are you sure it's all right for you to move out? You seem to like this place a lot."
"I do," she concurs. "I do, but I've already made up my mind. That's why I wanted to say goodbye today. Plus, there's no point in getting married if we don't live together, right? And don't you think we've waited long enough?"
She glances at you, and a crooked smile creeps up your face.
"That's thanks to you, though. But you know that already."
Pouting, she averts her gaze and goes to get her suitcase, but drops the act quickly.
"Say, John, you're not having second thoughts about this, are you?"
"What? No! God, no!"
"Good. I promise I won't smoke in the flat, and I will go down to do so."
Smiling, you peck her on the cheek and get the suitcase for her. "The best would be for you to stop smoking you know. Your health?"
She pouts as she closes and locks the door behind her.
"Thanks, doctor."
Try not to peer through plastic eyes
Through plastic eyes
Peel back the rind
And you'll find something kind
"Wow. That's quite a nice place you've got here!"
"Do you really think so?"
"Well, yeah, if you ignore the grinning skull on the mantelpiece and that horrible wallpaper. But I'm sure you love it and want to keep it that way, so long live the skull! You really are obsessed with anatomy, aren't you, doctor? Is the whole skeleton in the bedroom?"
Her laughter fills the room, flooding her teasing tone. You realize that to a stranger, the flat may indeed look weird, and not full of memories. Well, to you, it is both; but weirdness has just become familiar. To you, Sherlock's presence is everywhere in 221B; yet Mary can't know, since she never met him. There are no pictures of the consulting detective hung on the wall, no obvious token of him having lived here. But to you, to you...
"Actually, it was Sherlock's," you admit. "Said it was his friend when we met."
"Oh well. Always better than pictures of you two together everywhere."
You send her an amused glance, shaking your head.
"Dinner?"
"Not hungry."
"That's even better."
You find that you love sharing smiles with her.
You're still you, remember you
Rosy child, strong and wild
With apple lungs
You, you breathe with ease
Floating on the breeze
Floating on the breeze
"So... You didn't call your parents in the end," you say as you are both lying down on your bed, bathing in the moonlight filling the room.
"I did," she retorts. "I just didn't invite them."
Her night gown is white - to make up for the dress, she said. Her wedding dress, which was bright green.
"Are you serious?"
"Hmm. Quite serious. Actually, I did tell them they could come, and that it would make me happy."
"Then you did invite them! What did they say?"
"No."
"...No?"
"No."
"...Did you tell them I was a man?"
"No."
Chuckling, you kiss her softly.
"You're impossible, you know."
"Just your type, right?" she teases back.
"Possibly," you reply playfully, cupping her face and playing with her cheeks.
"I was happy to meet your sister," she says out of the blue. "I really like her."
"I'm glad! I think she likes you too."
"I always wished I had siblings."
"A big brother?"
"Exactly!"
"I knew it."
"Pff... You're not allowed to be a jerk tonight. It's our wedding night after all."
"Actually, I've been thinking - perhaps you're not that weird, but just old-fashioned."
"...Right. That would make sense if I hadn't lost my virginity yet. Which isn't the case, just so you know."
"I had gathered."
"Was the first person you fell in love with a man or a woman?"
"Hmm... A man, I think."
"You think?"
"It was a silhouette. I couldn't see their face, they walked so fast past me."
"Love at first sight, uh? In a peculiar way, I guess..."
"What about you? Who was your first love?"
You smile, trying to hide the doubt. If you really had to think about this one, you wonder if you wouldn't answer 'Sherlock', because you don't think you truly loved anyone before him. But then again, his death might have messed up your head - distance can make you idealize things a bit, and once they're lost forever, they appear in your memory like the best things that ever happened to you. To be fair, it is probably true in Sherlock's case.
"She was a girl two years older than me."
"Elder sister of a friend?"
"Exactly."
"Haha, I'm not surprised! Let me guess: she turned you down."
"Yup."
Mary laughs. "Well, too bad for her. She has no idea what she lost."
"I was quite different then, though."
"How?"
"Well, smaller, for one thing."
"Really?! I didn't think that was possible."
"Oh, you..."
Diving on her, you assail her with tickle, enjoying hearing her crystalline laughter fill the room.
When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling
Give me this empty bottle feeling
I think it's time to repaint
It's time to repaint my...
It's funny how natural everything feels when you're with her. You're not awkward at all, and you can rarely predict her reactions. Like now.
"Tell me more about Sherlock."
Dumbfounded, you stare at her in the semi darkness of the room.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, but... I think I already told you everything. Is something bothering you?"
"No, not at all. But it feels like you didn't tell me the most important thing. Something you've never told anyone."
You blink, not sure what she means by that.
"I swear I'm not hiding anything from y-"
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant," she interrupts. "Just... Think about it. Perhaps you've never told even yourself."
Something I have never told even myself? you muse with puzzlement. What did you not tell yourself about Sherlock? You've been thinking of him every minute of your life since his death. You've been dreaming of him, you've been craving his mere presence in the room, you've... Oh.
"I wish I had told him," you murmur. "I wish I had told him before he died."
Your whisper is strangled in your throat, and you close your eyes. Mary takes your hand in hers.
"Told him what?"
"What I said to his gravestone, what he deserved to hear... That he is the best man I ever met, and that he gave me so much... without even intending to give anything, without trying to be kind at all, or considerate, or human... I should've told him how important he was, how crucial he was so he would think twice before j... before jumping off a bloody roof."
Slowly, very gently, Mary snuggles closer to you and embraces your cold body, resting your head on her shoulder. You take a deep breath.
"Don't you think he knew already?" she asks quietly.
"But he killed himself! He didn't even tell me, he... He must have felt so alone..."
"Just think for a second, John. If he didn't tell you the truth, don't you think it is precisely because he knew? He knew you'd try to stop him, and probably die in the process. And I can't know what was going on in his head at the time, or ever, because he was a mad genius, and I'm no genius even if I'm a bit mad, but... That's beside the point... Anyway, what I'm trying to say..." She hugs you closer, nuzzling your hair unconsciously. "He didn't want you to die. He thought the whole thing through so you would live, and he probably didn't consider it as a suicide at all. Rather, a logical conclusion to his reasoning. You had to live. For some reason I can't quite fathom, he had to die so you could do so. Problem solved, period. Well, except he wasn't a machine, and surely he must have felt something, but... I don't think he felt alone. He cared, John. He cared, and from what you told me, he must have had a good reason to do what he did, and I know, I know he did it for you, or at least above all, for you. Because he wanted you to live."
You weren't aware you were weeping, but suddenly you realize the wetness on your cheeks and you bury your face in the welcoming chest.
When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling
Give me this empty bottle feeling
I think its time to repaint
It's time to repaint myself
It hurt, she thought. She was never one to like melodrama, but this raw, silent pain cut into her soul more effectively than any misfortune she had ever encountered. John was such a strong man - so brave, too. He could still love, he could still laugh with all his heart, and he hadn't shut himself off somewhere far away where no one could ever reach him: he could live with the ghost memory of the man he'd lost. He was living, truly living, and Mary admired him for it. A lot.
She also couldn't help but think how unfair this whole situation was. What was the point of separating two people who cared for each other so much? There wasn't any. It was absurd, meaningless, and plain horrible. There really was no justice whatsoever in the world.
But John was brave, and he did not start hating the world. He was still a doctor, and he was still taking care of people. He made efforts with his family even if he did not feel very close to his sister, and did not turn into an embittered, broken man. And she loved him for that. When she had met him the first time, he was just that weird, funny straight guy hanging out alone in a very gay bar. He was disturbingly honest and so open about everything, coming up to her directly to ask if she really had just stuck her tongue at him, regardless of how silly such a question sounded from a complete stranger.
John was fun to be with, kind and full of humour, yet not boring at all - not perfect in the least, which was Mary's personal sense of perfection.
"It's fine if you cry, though," she suddenly said out loud.
"And whose fault is that?" John grumbled from her chest. Amused, she kissed the top of his head and slid down so their noses would touch.
"Aw, look at you, all grumpy. That's not cute at all. Well, actually it is, but... Wargh!"
She jumped back as he attacked her again, tickling her and kissing her face all at once. She laughed and tried to push him back, to no avail.
"St... Stop! You're... ha ha ha!"
Finally he seemed to get tired of it, and she could catch her breath. She sighed relaxedly, relief obvious on her features.
"You know, you don't have to have recourse to such techniques if you don't want to have sex with me."
"What the... Of course I want to! You've made me wait for more than two weeks, remember?"
She smirked as she turned back to him.
"To be fair, love, I've also made myself wait more than two weeks."
They exchanged a grin.
Maybe blue or green
Or something in between
Maybe blue, maybe green
Maybe something in between
It started with teasing caresses and quick, stolen pecks on unexpected spots. But now, now that night clothes are scattered around the room, the game has gone to another level, though it hasn't lost any of its fun. You are only worried that it won't lead to proper physical results on your body - that is, you truly hope it will be enough to get you erect, because you categorically refuse to think of anything close to Sherlock tonight. It would be terribly insulting, and Mary isn't just a one night stand: she is now your wife.
"Um, Mary, there's something I must tell you..."
"You've got a hidden kid somewhere?"
"What? No! I... Um... I haven't..."
"Oh. That. Well... Let's see what I can do about it, shall we?"
And see it, you did. You probably never chuckled so much during sex, repressing your laughter so as not to wake the whole neighborhood. Mary is tender, teasing, eccentric and funny even in bed, and it is so much like her that you enjoy it greatly. That is, until she finds a piece of clothe under your pillow while riding you, and brings it out in surprise.
"Oh? What's that? Is it a habit of yours to sleep with crumpled shirts?"
Your heart misses a beat and the air catches in your throat as you stare, alarmed. Sherlock's shirt. How could I have been so stupid and not removed it? Idiot, idiot, idiot...
Trying to think of something, anything, you look around desperately; but it is quite hard to remain focused when she is on you and holding that damn shirt.
"Mary, look, I..."
"Thank God I know you're not gay, or I would've been rather hurt to find someone else's clothes in your bed, darling," she sussurrates, and you can't tell if her tone is tantalizing or threatening. Both, perhaps. She looks at the shirt closely.
"How do you know it's someone else's?" you ask in one breath.
"Please. It's classy, John."
"Hey!"
She sticks her tongue at you and puts the shirt next to the pillow. You let out a groan as she bends and moves on you.
"Well. Hopefully I'll be better than a shirt. But if you want to keep it as a cuddly toy, I don't mind - I'll just try to forget where it comes from."
Having said that, she leans in and presses her lips to yours, and it feels like a gift. You love her for her understanding, and for her respect: her respect for the man who's become part of you and which she fully accepts. Sherlock.
Maybe blue or green
Maybe something
In between
In between
.
.
.
tbc
Previous Chapter
Next Chapter
Back to Table of contents
Click to view