Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter 33

[zoffoli]

j

A/N: In this chapter there are references to The Mustgrave Ritual by Arthur Conan Doyle and to A Passage to India by E.M. Forster. You may want to know that a riddle is mentioned in The Mustgrave ritual, that speaks of the sun, the shadow, an oak and an elm; and that Mr. Fielding, Mr. Heaslop, the Collector, Ronny, Lesley, the Major, and Mrs. Turton, are all characters from A passage to India. ;)

Hope you enjoy reading! As always, reviewers are loved.

G

Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

Ad libitum: "At one's pleasure"

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.

A

Chapter XXXIII: Ad libitum

Let go, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

Hey, I'll move out of the way for you
Hey, I'll move out of the way for her too
I never thought we'd end up here in separate cages
It doesn't go like this
You left out some pages

White petals are falling. Mary stirs, then tightly shuts her eyes, trying to fall back to sleep. But she can feel the petals slowly burying her under a white coat of flowers; and she does not like the idea. Annoyed, she shakes them away. To no avail. Eventually she snaps and sits up, eyes wide open and ready to shout at someone.

But there's no one. Around her, endlessly, white petals are falling. What am I doing here? she wonders. Carefully, she stands and takes a step. The ground is soft under her feet, and surprisingly it is this detail that makes her realize she is dreaming.

She frowns. She never liked white. Concentrating, she tries to turn the petals into yellow flowers at least, but fails. She shrugs and keeps walking.

Funny that apple blossom would start falling as early as April, she muses, as if time and seasons in her dream were linked to reality. As she gropes her way through the never-ending whiteness, she notices a faint sound filling the air. Something like a soft breath, perhaps, regular. Bestowing a semblance of life on the spring-less scenery. For some reason it reassures Mary. She starts looking for the person breathing there, everywhere.

"John!" she calls. "John!" John?

Is it? She begins to feel fear. "John?" Her steps quicken. Unwittingly, she starts running. "John!"

Suddenly she becomes aware of how cold the petals are against her skin - almost burning. "John!" They feel like rain now, too violent to be snow, not clear enough to be hail. She hates them, and only wishes they would change colour. She hates this horrible whiteness, falling, falling, slowly swallowing her. "JOHN!"

"John."

She freezes. The voice that has spoken is not familiar to her, yet she already knows to whom it belongs. Refusing to turn, she closes her eyes. Her hands start trembling.

"John."

She starts as a hand comes to rest on her shoulder, pressing against it lightly. Her eyes snap open and spontaneously she turns towards the voice. She meets blue eyes, pale skin, black curls. Tentatively, she brings her hand to his face.

Her hand? Her eyes widen. Before she can even touch the white face, she sees her hand - and it isn't her hand. It is wider, darker, hairier. A man's. She steps back with horror, but Sherlock catches her - him? - and leans in for a desperate kiss. Mary can feel his lips on hers.

She screams.

A gasp - now she is awake. Isn't she?

Frozen, she lies in bed a moment, then starts trembling. Scowling at no one, she purses her lips stubbornly.

Get a grip, girl.

All of a sudden John wakes at her side with a gasp. Surprised at first, Mary cannot help smiling. Tenderness fills her chest. God, our nights are so fucked up.

She turns to John, reaching for him. But John doesn't see her and turns to the other side, reaching for a shirt he does not find. He doesn't see her, and turns his back on her.

Mary's hand hangs in mid-air as John seems to remember that there is no shirt, and no owner of it anywhere in the world.

Slowly, his arms curl up and he embraces emptiness, burying his face and his tears in a non-existent chest.

Slowly, Mary's hand falls back on the whiteness of the mattress.

"Mrs. Watson!"

Mary's attention snaps back from the white sheet on her desk to the pupil addressing her.

"Yes, Tom?" she asks with a smile. God, what am I doing daydreaming in class? To be fair, the kids were supposed to have gone home by now. But she has to admit that all day long, she hasn't been very focused on what she was doing. Even now as she listens to the boy and answers him, half of her mind is elsewhere; searching a whiteness silent as a tomb.

It's been a week now. The boy keeps talking. A week since her periods should have begun. He grins at her and laughs. Should she be concerned? This is ridiculous. Tom starts walking towards the door. Maybe she should be concerned. She hasn't been feeling so well lately.

"Goodbye, Tom. See you tomorrow!"

Even cigarettes don't make her feel any better. And if this is what she thinks... She groans. She definitely doesn't want to give up smoking. Not now.

As she pushes open the door to their flat, she remembers that tonight John will come back home late. Which means it is her turn to prepare dinner. Another groan - something else she doesn't want to do. Still, for John's sake, she decides to give it a try and opens the fridge to see what she can make.

But the mere sight of food repulses her and she closes the door just as quickly. Damn this all.

Maybe some music will help her relax and get a grip. There was that song she heard at Mrs. Hudson's the other day, something from an opera. What was it called again? She frowns as she tries to remember. Something about the moon. Something...

Oh, she'll just google it. She types "song moon" and there it is, at the bottom of the page. Rusalka, Song to the Moon - Dvorak. She plays it.

The pristine voice fills the air and Mary wonders why she likes this song so much. It's not her type. At all. And it isn't as if she understands the lyrics. Yet there's something strong and powerful to it, something that fills her chest with an almost unbearable warmth. Not just her chest. Her gut, too.

She turns away and opens one of the living-room windows. To get some air - it's still cool this month. The voice keeps weaving something unspeakable into the air. Mary always liked music - various kinds. She would've liked to learn to play the guitar, but never really got the chance. Her parents thought it wasn't a "serious" instrument. Idiots. She looks up to the pale April sky and inhales deeply. Maybe she should learn to play the guitar.

She turns back to the flat and her gaze meets two empty holes. She stares at the skull.

"You're not really white," she remarks out loud. "I kind of like you." Leaning against the wall, she lets out a sigh. "Do you think John kept you because he liked you or because you were Sherlock's?" The skull remains silent. "Right. Obviously." She smirks at the grinning face before sitting to mark some papers.

It's already dark out when Mary decides she should do something about dinner. Stretching, she mentally lists all the kinds of food she can think of, dismissing each of them in turn. Finally she stops and grins. Well. That doesn't sound bad.

You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle.

Mary has really tried, but she still has no idea what that can possibly mean. Anyhow, it doesn't matter, she concludes as she pushes the door open. This restaurant is good, period. She doesn't really care to know why.

Her eyes scan the menus displayed on the wall above the counter. She and John came a few times together, and Mary liked it a lot. But today nothing is to her liking. She sighs.

"Wow, that sure sounded desperate."

She blinks and turns to the stranger who has just spoken. He's rather tall, blond, with brown eyes. Good looking. He smiles.

"Don't like the menu?"

"I love the menu," she retorts. "Just... not today."

"Oh. Well, that's a pity. Would you like to go somewhere else?"

"... You came to a Chinese takeaway to hit on girls?"

"No. I came to a Chinese takeaway because I'm a lonely bachelor who felt like eating Chinese."

"Let me guess, now you feel like eating something else."

A smirk lights up his face.

"Maybe."

Mary allows herself to smile back, then turns back to the menu.

"Well, too bad. I'll order Chinese. I'll have the Szechuan Beef with the House special rice please."

"What?" the stranger stammered. "But-"

"Not for me."

He arches an eyebrow and Mary holds her hand up to show him her ring.

"Aw, real one?"

"Real one."

They remain silent as Mary waits for her order, but the man does not leave. Eventually when Mary gets her food, he speaks again:

"And of course, you're faithful?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

She sticks her tongue out at him before leaving the restaurant.

Unfortunately. Unfortunately for whom?

Hey, when was the last time you laughed
And did you mean it when you did?
I'm just wondering
There's sorrow in your voice, it's abounding
It's astounding how you live so close to your cure

The water of the shower is hot on her skin. Not that she's really cold.

John liked the food, though he worried about her not being hungry. He made her eat something in the end.

She smiles. John is so kind. So protective. He was right about the apples: Molly told them they had been poisoned. John reported it to Lestrade, but they found nothing. At the time Mary thought his reaction was ridiculous and annoying, but in hindsight she finds it incredibly sweet. John truly is a hero.

But how did he know? Instinct, he said. Mary didn't believe him. She still doesn't. There was something in John - something Sherlock had left him. Not deductive skills, naturally. But... something. Something Mary cannot quite put her finger on.

But is it only one thing?

Mary winces and brings her hand to her breasts. They're swollen. She told John it was because her period was coming soon. That was three days ago.

Fortunately she's been feeling sleepy early in the evening these days, and at night when they wake up because of nightmares, John is always too engrossed for any other activity. Even if they hug, he doesn't realize; even though he's a doctor.

And Mary can't even hate him for it.

This is getting out of hand. And yet... and yet.

She rests her brow against the warm bathroom's tiles. Her face feels wet and warm.

When she comes back into the living-room in her fluffy white bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel, John is typing on his laptop. About Sherlock, of course. John has resumed writing his blog, and the hit counter has gone up again. Mary smiles.

As if on cue, John turns to her and smiles back.

"Hello there," he says. Frowning a little, he adds: "You look terribly tired. Do you still have work to do for tomorrow?"

"Nope."

She comes to sit next to him. He moves his chair closer and spontaneously kisses her on the cheek in a surge of affection.

"Would you like to watch a movie, then? That German one you wanted to see must be lying around somewhere."

"No, I'm good. I'd rather read tonight."

She stands, kisses John on the forehead, and slumps into the armchair, opening the novel she's currently reading. A Passage to India.

While she's reading about the life of Adela Quested, John is typing on his laptop about Sherlock. Some French poet said once that love wasn't looking each other in the eye, but looking in the same direction.

Mr. Fielding is saying he believes to be innocent. John keeps writing, the sound his fingers make on the keys filling the room. The Collector is now accusing Mr. Fielding of having insulted Mr. Heaslop. Ronny is almost crying. John stops typing a second, as if groping for the right words, then resumes his activity. Now Mr. Fielding is looking at Marabar Hills. He's feeling miserable. He feels he's failed his life; Mary is wondering what happened at Marabar Hills. John is typing. What's that case about, again? Oh yes. Something about a riddle and the disappearance of a live-in help and a household manager. Something about the sun and the shadow. And John is still typing. Mr. Fielding is thinking he ought to have been working at something else all this time. Something about an oak, and an elm, perhaps. Mary wonders whether Adela truly was assaulted and by whom. John keeps typing. What shall we give for it? said the riddle. All that is ours. Mr. Fielding feels like he has nothing. Mary feels like John has everything already. Something about the sun, something about the shadow, the oak, and the elm... Everything about Sherlock.

Mary doesn't hear the thump of her book as it falls to the floor. She does feel the warm pair of arms wrapping around her and carrying her to bed. The arms are truly holding her, and no one else. The man to whom they belong truly does love her. But he writes about something else. Something about a riddle, something about a ritual... Everything, always about Sherlock.

I never know what to do with my love
I never know what to do with my hands
So I put them behind my back
I put them behind my back
Behind my back

Mary throws the stick into the bin with exasperation. The fifth stick. Damn it.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhausted. Her gaze falls on the little red + sign. The fifth one.

Oh well. Picking up the bin bag, she hurries out and puts it in a bin liner with the rest of the rubbish where John won't find it. She doesn't want him to find out that way.

"I'm home!"

Well, that was just in time, she muses.

"Hello darling."

John turns to her with surprise, arching his eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Mary blinks. "Nothing's wrong."

"You just called me darling."

She tilts her head to the side, then bursts out laughing.

"I did, didn't I? Ha ha, that's hilarious!"

"Is it?" He's frowning slightly now, so Mary goes up to him and kisses him to assuage him.

"It is. I must be terribly tired."

"You do look tired."

John holds her gently and looks her in the eye.

"Mary, have you been sick?"

"No."

"Are you depressed?"

"Depressed? What in the world, John?!"

"You keep listening to this song," he says, waving his hand in the air at the music playing. "It's beautiful, but you must admit it isn't the happiest song you've ever heard."

"So... You think I'm depressed because I listen to an opera song you find depressing."

"I didn't say that!"

"But that's what you mean."

"Well..."

She smiles. "I'm not depressed. And I don't find this song depressing. But if you don't like it, I can stop listening to it when you're around."

She turns to stop the music, but John catches her by the wrist. "No. I like it too. It's just that... You're not happy."

Slowly, Mary wraps her arms around John and rests her head on his shoulder. "You don't know what you're saying."

John kisses her throat.

"Do you know what she's saying?" he asks, referring to the lyrics.

Mary smiles.

"No idea."

They chuckle and hug each other tighter.

"Don't move. It's cosy," she grumbles.

They stay like this for a moment. John strokes her hair.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Mmh... Let's have cake."

"What?"

"I feel like having cake."

"But we don't have cake."

"Well, then, let's bake some!"

John shakes his head as Mary slips away, hopping to the kitchen. She turns off the music on the way.

Hey, don't you know what I need when I say
Hey, see it in my face, I'm breaking
I've waited for so long
Just to know
That you'd wrap yourself around me if you couldn't let go

Naturally, she stops smoking. And naturally, everybody makes a fuss about it.

"You stopped smoking?" Cathy exclaims, disbelieving. "Don't tell me you're pregnant!"

Her tone is teasing, perhaps a little mocking. She's joking. Mary shrugs.

"Don't be stupid. John just kept insisting. You know, him being a doctor and all."

"Seriously? God, you're smitten."

"Oh well. Got to make concessions when you're married."

"You didn't make any concessions for me," Cathy remarks with a pout. Mary laughs.

"We didn't really have time to get to that stage now, did we?"

Cathy sighs dramatically.

"Are you trying to have a baby?"

"What the... No, I'm not! We're not!"

"What, are you saying there's no chance? Seriously, do you guys even-"

"Don't be stupid. Of course we do."

As she goes back to Baker Street, Mary realizes she should stop drinking too. She groans. Her behaviour really is going to become suspicious to those who know her. Even to...

"You stopped smoking?" John exclaims, disbelieving.

Mary grins.

"Yep! No more cigarettes for me. Aren't you happy?"

"Of course I am. But why all of a sudden?"

Mary leans against the wall, looking out the window as she usually does when she opens it to smoke at night. She doesn't open it tonight. In place of a cigarette, she brings a mug of herbal tea to her lips.

"I've always wanted to play the guitar," she says.

John smiles tenderly.

"And so you stopped smoking?" he asks.

She seems to come out of her reverie and furrows her brow.

"What? No!"

He chuckles and leans to kiss her, aiming for the cheekbone - Mary has dimples when she makes that lovely moue of hers, which John finds adorable. But she turns her head at the last moment and his lips land on her temple.

"Oh, you..."

She sticks her tongue at him and escapes to the armchair, grabbing her book and curling up into a ball.

"Those swine are always on the lookout for a grievance," Lesley is saying. The Major is tittering. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril..." Mrs. Turton cries:"They ought to be ground into the dust!" Mary groans. They're noisy. All so noisy. She buries her face into the pillow. The moon is full again, shining over the Ganges. Threads of silver are looking into her window. Mary is rushing through Central India on a moonlit train, sliding swiftly into the night. She'd like to see more of it. More of it all. Nimbly, she sneaks out of the window and onto the roof.

It's cold out. Invigorating. Mary grins.

"Good evening."

She turns towards the voice.

"Oh."

Mary looks at the tall, dark figure standing on the train a few steps away from her.

"Are you here for a duel to the death?" she asks, only half playfully.

"No," Sherlock replies. He looks up to the sky. "I'm here to watch the moon." He glances at her with a small smile. "Like you."

Mary blinks. "You like the moon?"

"I can appreciate it."

"Ah."

They look up and watch the moon. Its halo of light gives it a cottony feel. It looks protected.

"Did it hurt?" Mary asks.

"What?"

"The fall."

Sherlock's face shines under the moon. Mary thinks even John never saw him looking so alive. She feels privileged.

"Do you mean the landing?" Sherlock inquires lightly.

Mary stares.

"I don't quite remember the landing. But I remember that it hurt before."

Something tightens somewhere in Mary's chest, and she doesn't know why. She finds him beautiful. They're so close, standing together on this train's roof. Yet there is a gulf between them. Mary looks back at the moon.

"You saw me, tonight," she says before the dream starts fading away. Everything tips over in a swirl of colours and silvery streams. Dizziness. Everything goes black. A fall. Mary's eyes open to the whiteness of the sheet.

She thinks she heard Sherlock say something before she slipped away. "He loves you, you know." She pouts. I really don't want to hear that from you of all people.

Just a second after her, John wakes up with a gasp. Mary smirks. Weird, to know that they're dreaming about the same man. She's about to open her mouth for some banter when she sees that John's face is shining. Not like Sherlock's did. Something breaks somewhere in Mary's chest, and she represses a groan. These guys are going to kill me, I swear.

Carefully, she snuggles up closer to John, and wraps her arms around his heaving chest.

I never know what to do with my love
I never know what to do with my hands
So I put them behind my back
I put them behind my back
Behind my back

"I met a very handsome guy today in front of a guitar shop," Mary declares, her mouth still half full of pastries Mrs. Hudson has baked for tea.

Her landlady stops pouring the tea and stares.

"He was nice. Though of course I wasn't interested in him. I was interested in the guitars."

"We have a guest today," Mrs. Hudson tells her, not knowing what to say about guitars or nice guys chatting you up about it.

Mary's eyes light up.

"You got him to come? Really?"

"Look at you, now, all excited."

"Of course I am!"

"Please behave."

Mary nods, a big grin splattered on her tired face. She's glad she wore her salmon-coloured dungarees today. When the doorbell rings, she's almost ready to pounce. But Mrs. Hudson gives her a look, and so she settles for jumping to her feet. The landlady goes to open the door.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Hello Mycroft. I'm happy you could make it today."

The tall man comes in. Mary is beaming.

"Hello! I'm Mary," she says, extending her hand. Mycroft shakes it perfunctorily.

"Mrs. Watson. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Mary. I'm not going to call you Mr. Holmes. Too awkward."

"...I see. Well. Mary, then." She rather likes the amused smile playing on the man's lips. "I brought some scones," Mycroft continues, putting the bag on the table.

"Oh, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble," Mrs. Hudson replies.

"I really did not."

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes and goes to put the scones on a plate. Mycroft turns to Mary.

"So. You wish to know more about Sherlock, I heard."

"Not quite," Mary answers, mimicking his form of speech. "John would, though," she adds more seriously, looking Mycroft in the eye.

"Is that so? Then I wonder why it isn't him sitting here in your place."

Mary frowns.

"Aren't you happy to meet me?"

"Well, it certainly is a pleasure," he retorts, smiling thinly. Mary shakes her head and sighs.

"I don't see you making a lot of efforts to see him."

"Considering that the last time I did, your husband pointed a loaded gun at me, I fail to see how I could be perceived as the hostile one here."

Mary bursts out laughing. "I bet you're not used to it! People pointing a gun at you." Her laughter quiets down. "John is full of surprises, isn't he?"

"He is. Did you get used to it?"

They exchange a look. Mrs. Hudson comes back with the scones and a third cup.

"John described you well," Mary comments as she grabs a scone.

"Did he?"

"Insufferable," she says with an impish smile. Mycroft smirks back.

"I can tell you never met my brother."

"Actually, I did."

Mycroft freezes. Mrs. Hudson almost drops her cup of tea.

"In dreams," Mary adds. Discreetly Mycroft starts breathing freely again, and Mrs. Hudson gives the young woman a pained look. Mary doesn't notice either of them.

"How was he?" Mycroft inquires, taking a sip of tea.

"He was nice."

"Then I'm afraid it wasn't him, Mrs. Watson."

"Mary."

"Mary," Mycroft corrects obligingly. "If it isn't to talk about Sherlock, then, I am not sure of what help I could be."

"Of no help at all," she answers with a grin. "I just wanted to meet you. To meet a Holmes, of course - I've heard so much about you two that I was getting frustrated. But I wanted to meet you especially."

Mycroft arches an eyebrow.

"You have to talk to John again," Mary tells him.

The elder Holmes's mouth twists into a slightly bitter smile. "Have I been forgiven, then?" he asks sarcastically. Mary ignores his tone.

"No. He hasn't forgiven you." She brings her cup to her lips and takes a sip. "He never will."

Both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stare at her. Mary looks down at her cup of tea.

"He hasn't forgiven himself, either," she says quietly. "And he never will." She bites into a scone decidedly. "But," she goes on, "he can stand living with himself. I'm sure he'd stand seeing you again."

Mycroft chuckles, and Mary isn't sure whether it is because of her, or at her. She ignores that too. "I like your scones."

They keep talking for an hour or so. Then Mycroft stands, saying he has to go. Mary decides she should go as well, and Mrs. Hudson sees them to her door. After she has closed it, though, Mycroft turns to Mary. His gaze makes her stop on the first step of the staircase.

"You should tell him, you know," he says simply.

Mary's eyes widen a little, but soon her face breaks into a cheeky grin.

"Tell him that you're sorry and would love to speak to him again? Sure, Mycroft. Will do."

And with these words she runs up the stairs.

Can I move out of the way tomorrow?

Less than an hour later, someone knocks on the door of the flat. Mary looks up from her book at John, and he looks up at her from his laptop. The staring contest goes on until he finally gives up and goes to open the door. It is Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, hello John! Mary, dear, you forgot something when you came for tea."

"Did I?"

Mrs. Hudson hands her a bag. The one in which Mycroft brought the scones. Mary furrows her brow, confused, but takes it nonetheless. She realizes there is something inside, and catches the twinkle in her landlady's eyes.

"I wonder if it's been forgotten on purpose," she says enigmatically. "Well, good night to you two!"

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," John says before turning to his wife. "What was this all about?"

Entranced, Mary takes out of the bag what Mycroft evidently left behind quite willingly. A notebook.

"What-"

"This is it," she says, mesmerized. "This is it, John!"

"What?"

"The thing you really wanted from Mycroft!"

"From My... God Mary, you met Mycroft? At Mrs. Hudson's?" John sounds both disbelieving and very annoyed. Mary frowns.

"Should I have asked for your permission?"

"No, of course not. You can do whatever you want. Fraternize with whomever you want."

"John!" she exclaims, now quite angry herself. This seems to calm John down a bit.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Really sorry. I never actually asked you whether you felt like meeting him or not. I... It didn't even cross my mind."

Gently, Mary comes and snuggles up to him, kissing him on the temple. "It's fine. You know me. I was just curious."

She is very grateful to John when he wraps his arms around her tenderly and pays no attention to the notebook she is holding. Mary knows John wants this notebook badly. But she also knows that right now, he is only thinking of her, and how to make it up to her. She smiles.

"Here," she says, stepping back and handing him the notebook. "He didn't give it to me directly, probably because he knew I wouldn't have accepted it and would have told him to give it to you himself."

John takes the notebook and Mary goes to look out the window. It's nighttime already. It's comfortable. It feels like home. This. The flat. The living-room. Her, sprawled in the armchair, reading. John, by her side, typing on his computer about Sherlock. Fleetingly Mary thinks of guitars and a Chinese take-away. She closes her eyes.

"John."

"Mmh?"

"There's something I must tell you."

Her tone appears to alert him, for he puts down the notebook at once and comes to her.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, resting his brow on hers. Mary shakes her head.

"Nothing's wrong."

She wraps her arms around his waist and pushes him back a little to allow some space between them. Then, looking him in the eye:

"John. Let's get a divorce."

Can I move into the way tonight?

.

.

.

tbc

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