Past Lives
Mary was out of her scrubs, hair setting in her little granny curlers, making her way through some true crime novel on the sofa. It was something Janine gave her to read. Janine was a sharp wit, and a good laugh, but goodness…
“Tch.” She frowned. “Well that’s just rubbish.”
It was half as bad as a male gaze action film, what with the female assassins flipping around in their high heels. Images peeled up from the page: insurgents with hair styled in neat waves, eyeliner flicked perfectly, tight leather pants.
Sometimes, even after a hot shower, Mary could still taste the fibers of her sweaty balaclava in her mouth. In those moments, she’d sink to the bath mat and stroke her fingers through her wet curls. God, it was so long. Mary used to be shorn like a prisoner. If she closed her eyes she could still picture one of those two-a-penny flats, the rot in the floorboards and mildew on the bathroom ceiling. AJ would be crouched behind her, efficiently working the cordless shears over her head.
It was a luxury to be attached to hair. One that she hadn’t held since Rosamund became R. That girl-child in her was coming back to the surface again, tasting sunshine and safety. It was for that little girl that she styled her hair. It was for that little girl in her heart that she let John spoil her. It was for that little girl that she had braved civilian life. Give her a chance. Just a fucking chance.
Mary blew out a steadying breath. The soapy crime novels were challenging, but maybe it was good for her. Maybe it decontextualized everything, reformatted the trauma. Maybe it distracted her long enough that she could focus on other things.
Ding Ding Ding
The oven pinged, and Mary was more than happy to step away. Their house was an unrenovated relic from the 60s. The promise that they’d update the kitchen had gone by the wayside when Sherlock returned, so Mary was stuck with her vintage appliances. It was like stepping back in time. The Beatles in their adorable boy-band era. The mini skirts and the mod makeup. Mary pulled the roast from the oven. Even the casserole dish was vintage, a gift from John’s Mum, and it was piled high with roast chicken and potatoes. It sat cooling on the stovetop while Mary poured herself a glass of white.
Her phone buzzed, and it was just a GIF from Sherlock. Ever since he had discovered that his adoring public had made memes and GIFs of him and John, Sherlock had taken to replying to everything with a react of his own smug face. Cheeky bastard.
This time, after lamenting John’s behavior yesterday and the capital letters BORING case Lestrade had insisted on consulting him for, Sherlock had sent along a GIF of John’s perplexed frown—clearly captured during one of Sherlock’s lectures. Mary grinned. It was adorable.
God he’s a looker.
Ha! SH
Not a moment later, Sherlock texted again.
He is quite pretty, isn’t he? Our John. SH
Oh, so it’s OUR John now, eh?
Mary grinned and sent Sherlock a picture of John from the Honeymoon. The two of them had taken a trip to the beach on much warmer shores, and John tanned quickly. That English skin of his hadn’t betrayed him, and the combination of his grey-gold hair, blue eyes, and hatred of shirts at the beach…Mary had never wanted to leave. The picture captured the silver of his scar tissue, and the living strength of his muscles. Mary bit her lip as Sherlock’s reply bubble popped up, fell, and then came back to life.
She heard John’s approach long before he opened the door.
“I’m home, love!” John trailed into the kitchen, totally unaware that he was following his nose like a hound. First his coat, then his little work bag, shed from him, then he was sweeping Mary into his arms. She giggled, forcing herself to relax her instincts as his arms tightened and he propped her up on the countertop.
“Hello wife,” He murmured, and suddenly they were newlyweds all over again. His kiss was searching, longing. Mary scratched her fingertips through John’s cropped hair. He knew better than to touch her curlers, but he stroked gentle hands down her back.
“Off, you!” She scolded, grinning. “You’re going to burn your hand on the casserole.”
“It would be worth it.” John nipped back in to steal another kiss before Mary batted him away. “You know I don’t expect you to do this, right? You’re lovely, and thank you, but you work so hard Mary…”
“Christ, John, let someone else care for you for once.” Mary rolled her eyes and twisted off the counter to fetch plates and silverware for the two of them. “I have it on good authority that you scraped a certain brooding public hero off his arse yesterday and doted on him.”
John turned pink and cleared his throat. “Yes, well—”
“Sometimes I like to cook for you, you know?” She chided, serving him a plate and steering him to the table.
“Mary, I don’t know that I deserve you.”
For a moment, Mary paused. Her fork dangled from her fingers. That little girl in her heart was staring at her in her mind’s eye. The balaclava-clad, black wraith of her past was there too, looking at her from on top a mountain of bodies. John, precious John, did not know if he deserved her killer’s hands holding his.
Live, said the child and the wraith. Live, Mary. Live.
So she sat with her full plate and let her husband—her fucking lovely husband—pour her more wine and said, “nonsense.”
“Mary, I want to apologize.” John set his fork and knife down, not ready to eat.
“Whatever for?”
“I didn’t want to talk about Sherlock, but that’s not fair.” John rolled up the sleeves of his button down. “We need to have a proper chat about what’s going on between the three of us before someone’s feelings get hurt.”
Mary chewed and washed her bite down with wine. “Alright.”
“I have feelings for him.” John murmured, as if the words were heavy and new.
“I know,” She reached out to him, looping her fingers over his hand.
“You can’t just be…okay with that.” The furrow was deepening between his brows. “You can’t just sacrifice your own happiness for me, Mary. I can’t have my cake and then take another cake and eat them both.”
“Fairly sure that’s not the saying, love.”
“Come on,” He sighed. “You know what I mean.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “How many times have you and Sherlock been hot on the trail of cheating spouses or uncovered sordid affairs? Loads of times. Does this feel like any of that?” She opened her phone and passed it to him, her texts with Sherlock open on screen. All the jokes that passed between them. John was shaking his head.
Mary continued, “Who, but the three of us, can understand the three of us? John, he made a vow to us on our wedding day. To protect us both. Beyond the sins of my past, he honored that promise. Killed for it. When are we just going to drop the lines other people have drawn and let him in?”
John blinked at her, lips parted.
“I love you enough to embrace and love that you also…love Sherlock.” She murmured, searching his eyes.
“Are you sure?” His voice shook.
“Love, there are days I miss being part of A.G.R.A.—as much as I know you hate that thought. I miss our closeness…I miss that blood-sworn intimacy before things went from shit to fucked.”
“Mary…”
“Sherlock and I are close.” When John’s brows shot up, Mary amended, “Well, extremely close for his standards, let alone mine.”
The tension broke, and they began to eat. John’s socked foot brushed against her ankle beneath the table.
In the aftermath, they found comfort in the quiet. Mary disappeared to their bathroom to let our her curlers and finish styling her hair. John came into the bathroom smelling a bit like dawn dish soap and latex. His hands found her hips while she brushed her teeth, nose trailing along her nape.
“I fucking love you, Mary Watson.” He pressed a kiss to her skin, sealing the words to the top of her spine. “I love you.”
Mary spit, wiped her mouth, and twisted to give him a minty kiss on the mouth.
“As you damn well should.” She joked, but her heart fluttered. John took her hand and kissed the dead center of her palm before licking at a bit of toothpaste that had gotten on her thumb. Mary laughed and leaned up on her toes to kiss his nose.
“What happens next, love?” John said breathlessly. “Do you really imagine Sherlock Holmes, particular as he is, is going to want to get tangled up in this?”
Mary pecked John on the cheek, then his chin. “Hmm, I think we should invite him to just do what he likes.”
“Prepare to have corpse bits in our fridge by week’s end, then.”
“Mmm,” Mary leaned up to smell the heady, masculine smell of him, nose tucked into his neck. “Maybe then you’ll finally get around to redoing the kitchen. Two fridges, one per person you love.”
“He’s going to be petulant, and possessive, and he’ll drive you mad.” John protested.
“But he’s brilliant. And loyal. And singularly himself.” Mary replied. “He’s Sherlock. I do believe I’ve met him.”
John sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “What would I do without you, my love?”
In her mind’s eye, where those past selves lived, the wraith looked up at her from the pile of the dead. Sometimes, she longed to join those bodies. Put things right for the hellish way she had lived her life all those years…
But then John put his arms around her, solid, present, and she let herself melt for him. The time had come for her to lay down her arms. She wasn’t R anymore. She was Mary. Mary Watson. She could give herself the luxury of being loved like this, by the men who had sworn vows to protect her.