Whatever it takes. Whatever happens.
Mar. 23rd, 2014 06:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: This was so not the fic I was going to write today, but it had to be written for me to be able to move on.
Summary: Missing scene from His Last Vow. Sherlock and Mary have a talk after Sherlock comes home from the hospital.
“Ah, Mary, come in!” Sherlock got up from his chair with some effort, one hand on his wound, and his smile turned into a pained grimace. “I’m glad you could come.”
Mary smiled slightly, nervously looking around the sitting-room but without stepping inside.
“Don’t worry. John’s not here,” Sherlock said, inviting her in and offering her to sit on the sofa with a hand gesture. “Do you want tea?”
“Not if you’re the one making it,” she said, finally entering the room. Sherlock smirked. When she took off her coat he noticed that she had begun to show. She hadn’t done that the last time he’d seen her, but she was eighteen weeks along now, so it wasn’t very surprising.
“How are you feeling?” they both asked after a moment of awkward silence.
“You first,” Sherlock said, pain once again crossing his face when he sat down next to her on the sofa.
She watched him carefully for a moment until the pained expression had disappeared and he looked at her with one of his half-smiles.
“Much better than during the first twelve weeks,” she said. She stroked her belly with one hand, looking slightly hesitant to continue but Sherlock raised his eyebrows and she smiled. “I think I’ve felt it move.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. Perhaps it’s just… gas.”
“Do you have sonogram pictures?”
“Yes.” Mary nodded and reached after her coat. She pulled out her wallet and from there she took a picture and handed it to Sherlock. “This is nine days ago,” she said, moving just a little bit closer so that she could look at it with Sherlock.
“Mm, I forwarded the message to John,” Sherlock said, almost absentmindedly as he looked at the picture. It was astounding and utterly fascinating how well reproduction worked, how many things could go wrong and how rare it still was that anything did. He had spent most of the Watsons’ Sex Holiday reading up on the different stages of pregnancies and even started studying labour techniques in case Mary for some reason wouldn’t get to the hospital in time. It felt very strange to all of a sudden be so distant from this pregnancy. From Mary.
He gave her back the picture, but she shook her head. “Keep it. Show it to John.”
“I will,” he said, putting it down on the table.
They sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock kept his eyes on the sonogram, but Mary looked at his profile.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she finally said.
“For what? Shooting me?” Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not angry with you for that.”
“But you are angry with me.”
“No.”
“Sherlock,” she said, sounding very much like his mother. “You know I know when you’re lying.”
Sherlock sighed and turned to face her again. “Why didn’t you come to me for help?”
“That’s it?” Mary looked at him in disbelief. “You’re upset because I didn’t go the Great Sherlock Holmes for help?”
“I’m upset because you didn’t trust me!” The outburst made him winch and once again put a hand over his wound.
“Are you taking anything for the pain?” Mary asked, her voice softening noticeably.
“You sound like John,” Sherlock muttered. “And yes, I am. Normally. But excuse me for not wanting to have this conversation under the influence of any substances at all.”
“You’re an idiot,” Mary said, putting her hand on his knee. “Where are your pills?”
Sherlock pouted for a second. “Bedside table.”
Mary patted his knee and got up to fetch them. “I’ll even make tea.”
Sherlock was about to catch her hand and stop her, but instead he sank back down into the sofa and listened to her go into his bedroom and then potter around in the kitchen with a familiarity that only came from feeling at home somewhere. She didn’t even seem to notice the bag of human nails in the cabinet next to the tea.
“You have lactofree milk,” Mary said when she came back, carrying a tray with tea mugs, his pill bottle and a glass of water.
“You’re lactose intolerant,” Sherlock said, reaching out to take the pills and the water.
“I’m also more or less banned from this flat.”
“No, you’re not.” Sherlock inspected the pills he had poured out in his hand before he tossed them into his mouth and swallowed them down with the water. “And yes, it’s John who buys it.”
Mary looked a bit startled at that and it took her a moment to put down the tray. Then she toed off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the sofa.
“He hasn’t read it yet,” Sherlock said, because he knew she didn’t dare ask.
“Have you?”
He looked at her. “May I?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Is there anything you want me to know before I do? – Because I won’t wring my hands the way John does.”
“I almost told you so many times, but…” she said quietly. Sherlock stared at her. “I worried that you might say something indiscreet.”
Sherlock snorted a laugh, ginning ill. “Ouch. Damn you.”
“I was afraid you’d let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”
“You know that’s not why I didn’t tell John,” Sherlock said, smiling ruefully.
“You were afraid he’d follow.”
Sherlock nodded.
“I was afraid you’d go after Magnussen.”
“So you shot me instead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock reached out and took her hand. “But I will go after Magnussen.”
“Because I’m a case to you now?”
“Because you’re my family.”
“But if John…”
Sherlock smirked. “I’ll talk him round.”
Mary blinked.
“Obviously I’ll have to make him think it’s his own idea, but he’s never been that difficult to manipulate before so I don’t—“
“Sherlock, you don’t even know my name,” Mary interrupted.
“I don’t know the name your parents gave you,” Sherlock said. “There is a big difference and I don’t really care about it if you don’t. Names are truly uninteresting compared to the rest of the person and either way I’ll find out once I’ve read what’s on memory stick.” Sherlock took a deep breath, squeezing her hand that he was still holding before letting go and continued much slower: “If you don’t want to tell me now, that is.”
Mary looked at him for a long time before shaking her head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you…”
“But I can’t be the first one you tell.”
“Yeah.”
Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”
Mary took a deep breath. “We’re okay, right, Sherlock?”
“Of course we are,” Sherlock said, smiling at her.
“When’s John coming back?”
“Late,” Sherlock said. “You can… stay a while if you like.”
“I’d like that very much,” Mary said, her voice breaking slightly.
Sherlock’s smile became warmer. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she whispered. She moved over to his side of the sofa and leaned against his shoulder. Sherlock put his arm around her, resting his head against hers. The pain in his side was slowly becoming numb and even though the rational side of his brain knew it was due to the pain killers, a part of him believed it was Mary’s closeness that did it.
He would make Magnussen regret using his chosen family against his biological one and he would make him pay for trying. Sherlock had probably never been more determined about anything in his life.
Summary: Missing scene from His Last Vow. Sherlock and Mary have a talk after Sherlock comes home from the hospital.
“Ah, Mary, come in!” Sherlock got up from his chair with some effort, one hand on his wound, and his smile turned into a pained grimace. “I’m glad you could come.”
Mary smiled slightly, nervously looking around the sitting-room but without stepping inside.
“Don’t worry. John’s not here,” Sherlock said, inviting her in and offering her to sit on the sofa with a hand gesture. “Do you want tea?”
“Not if you’re the one making it,” she said, finally entering the room. Sherlock smirked. When she took off her coat he noticed that she had begun to show. She hadn’t done that the last time he’d seen her, but she was eighteen weeks along now, so it wasn’t very surprising.
“How are you feeling?” they both asked after a moment of awkward silence.
“You first,” Sherlock said, pain once again crossing his face when he sat down next to her on the sofa.
She watched him carefully for a moment until the pained expression had disappeared and he looked at her with one of his half-smiles.
“Much better than during the first twelve weeks,” she said. She stroked her belly with one hand, looking slightly hesitant to continue but Sherlock raised his eyebrows and she smiled. “I think I’ve felt it move.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. Perhaps it’s just… gas.”
“Do you have sonogram pictures?”
“Yes.” Mary nodded and reached after her coat. She pulled out her wallet and from there she took a picture and handed it to Sherlock. “This is nine days ago,” she said, moving just a little bit closer so that she could look at it with Sherlock.
“Mm, I forwarded the message to John,” Sherlock said, almost absentmindedly as he looked at the picture. It was astounding and utterly fascinating how well reproduction worked, how many things could go wrong and how rare it still was that anything did. He had spent most of the Watsons’ Sex Holiday reading up on the different stages of pregnancies and even started studying labour techniques in case Mary for some reason wouldn’t get to the hospital in time. It felt very strange to all of a sudden be so distant from this pregnancy. From Mary.
He gave her back the picture, but she shook her head. “Keep it. Show it to John.”
“I will,” he said, putting it down on the table.
They sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock kept his eyes on the sonogram, but Mary looked at his profile.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she finally said.
“For what? Shooting me?” Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not angry with you for that.”
“But you are angry with me.”
“No.”
“Sherlock,” she said, sounding very much like his mother. “You know I know when you’re lying.”
Sherlock sighed and turned to face her again. “Why didn’t you come to me for help?”
“That’s it?” Mary looked at him in disbelief. “You’re upset because I didn’t go the Great Sherlock Holmes for help?”
“I’m upset because you didn’t trust me!” The outburst made him winch and once again put a hand over his wound.
“Are you taking anything for the pain?” Mary asked, her voice softening noticeably.
“You sound like John,” Sherlock muttered. “And yes, I am. Normally. But excuse me for not wanting to have this conversation under the influence of any substances at all.”
“You’re an idiot,” Mary said, putting her hand on his knee. “Where are your pills?”
Sherlock pouted for a second. “Bedside table.”
Mary patted his knee and got up to fetch them. “I’ll even make tea.”
Sherlock was about to catch her hand and stop her, but instead he sank back down into the sofa and listened to her go into his bedroom and then potter around in the kitchen with a familiarity that only came from feeling at home somewhere. She didn’t even seem to notice the bag of human nails in the cabinet next to the tea.
“You have lactofree milk,” Mary said when she came back, carrying a tray with tea mugs, his pill bottle and a glass of water.
“You’re lactose intolerant,” Sherlock said, reaching out to take the pills and the water.
“I’m also more or less banned from this flat.”
“No, you’re not.” Sherlock inspected the pills he had poured out in his hand before he tossed them into his mouth and swallowed them down with the water. “And yes, it’s John who buys it.”
Mary looked a bit startled at that and it took her a moment to put down the tray. Then she toed off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the sofa.
“He hasn’t read it yet,” Sherlock said, because he knew she didn’t dare ask.
“Have you?”
He looked at her. “May I?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Is there anything you want me to know before I do? – Because I won’t wring my hands the way John does.”
“I almost told you so many times, but…” she said quietly. Sherlock stared at her. “I worried that you might say something indiscreet.”
Sherlock snorted a laugh, ginning ill. “Ouch. Damn you.”
“I was afraid you’d let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”
“You know that’s not why I didn’t tell John,” Sherlock said, smiling ruefully.
“You were afraid he’d follow.”
Sherlock nodded.
“I was afraid you’d go after Magnussen.”
“So you shot me instead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock reached out and took her hand. “But I will go after Magnussen.”
“Because I’m a case to you now?”
“Because you’re my family.”
“But if John…”
Sherlock smirked. “I’ll talk him round.”
Mary blinked.
“Obviously I’ll have to make him think it’s his own idea, but he’s never been that difficult to manipulate before so I don’t—“
“Sherlock, you don’t even know my name,” Mary interrupted.
“I don’t know the name your parents gave you,” Sherlock said. “There is a big difference and I don’t really care about it if you don’t. Names are truly uninteresting compared to the rest of the person and either way I’ll find out once I’ve read what’s on memory stick.” Sherlock took a deep breath, squeezing her hand that he was still holding before letting go and continued much slower: “If you don’t want to tell me now, that is.”
Mary looked at him for a long time before shaking her head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you…”
“But I can’t be the first one you tell.”
“Yeah.”
Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”
Mary took a deep breath. “We’re okay, right, Sherlock?”
“Of course we are,” Sherlock said, smiling at her.
“When’s John coming back?”
“Late,” Sherlock said. “You can… stay a while if you like.”
“I’d like that very much,” Mary said, her voice breaking slightly.
Sherlock’s smile became warmer. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she whispered. She moved over to his side of the sofa and leaned against his shoulder. Sherlock put his arm around her, resting his head against hers. The pain in his side was slowly becoming numb and even though the rational side of his brain knew it was due to the pain killers, a part of him believed it was Mary’s closeness that did it.
He would make Magnussen regret using his chosen family against his biological one and he would make him pay for trying. Sherlock had probably never been more determined about anything in his life.
