Mr. Darcy
“I’m not stepping in your hellhole of a flat until you clean it.” Mary’s arms were crossed. Not good? Couldn’t be good, right? But there was a smile on her face, a real one.
Sherlock flicked his eyes to John, who was nodding emphatically.
“It’s important to the entire scientific community that I do not tamper with this stage of my experiments. It has to take its course.”
“It’s a biohazard, love.” Mary grabbed Sherlock by the hand and did exactly what she said she would not do, blazing through the door of 221B and holding her breath as they ambled over to Sherlock’s bedroom. John followed with caution, narrating his displeasure at what he perceived to be garbage in the hall, but were clearly partially-completed projects. Half a composition here, jar of acrylic nails there, and stacks of petri dishes. All research. All essential. Come on, Watson—think!
“If you won’t clean, there’s only one thing to do.” Mary patted him on the shoulder and pointed at his suitcase. “Pack!”
The window creaked as it was propped open, and London air swept into the room. Not quite fresh air, but it brought a breeze. John was leaning in the door frame as Mary bustled about, tsking at Sherlock’s slowness. Silk shirts. High-quality cotton pants. Wool trousers. Only natural fibers. The tapping of Mary’s foot was driving him mad.
“What are you having him do?” John asked.
“Well he can’t very well stay here, now can he?”
“I am not staying with Mycroft.” Sherlock stopped packing and grimaced.
“No, of course not.” Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re staying with us. Obviously!”
“Mary,” John looked slightly panicked. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, and he felt something in his chest squeeze. The last time the two of them had been alone together was written all over his skin. John’s mouth…the way it had made him feel…
Some people called that butterflies—but Sherlock knew it was just chemicals. Pheromones. Hormones.
“End of story.” With that, Mary zipped Sherlock’s case and shoved it into his hands. “There you are, love.”
Before he knew it, she was shooing him into their stout little cottage where everything had a place and Sherlock was simply just being filed into his.
It smelled like John. The sofa. The air. The plain dressing gown he pilfered from the master bedroom. Sherlock perched on the sofa, steepling his fingers and thinking. 221B used to smell like John, too. Before Sherlock took that fateful swan dive off the roof, their lives were all tangled up. Now, his home didn’t smell like John’s deodorant or shaving cream. It didn’t have his favorite mug or his ugly jumpers. It was a glass perpetually half-empty.
Sherlock was drowning a little without him, if he was honest. And honestly? He’d lie if asked.
“Movie night?” Mary asked, already holding a bag of popcorn. Without waiting for an answer, she got into Sherlock’s personal space and shoved him into the arm of the sofa, pulling John behind her like a lost puppy. John looked lost too, bereft, glancing over Mary’s head at Sherlock. Sherlock might be shit at understanding social ques, but he knew the look of someone attempting to read them.
John got the clicker. “I’m not putting anything crime, horror, or mystery related on here because I know that’s going to turn into an utter nightmare.”
“Put on 2005 Pride & Prejudice.” Mary nearly shouted, and Sherlock stiffened. Sometimes it was easier to relate to her with a phone screen in the way. Here, in her home, she was boisterous and tactile and…a lot. The movie clicked on, and he was sure they’d all seen it at before. Maybe that was the point.
The room’s focus shifted to the television and suddenly Sherlock didn’t feel as horribly on display. Eventually, he relaxed into the sofa, toeing off his boots to curl his feet beneath him. Mary was eating popcorn, and didn’t seem to think anything of it when she picked up a piece and held it out to him. Carefully, Sherlock opened his mouth and let her feed him.
“Christ,” John muttered, returning his attention to the movie.
Eventually, even John let down his guard and started stroking Mary’s knee over her jeans. It made for a more interesting watch than the movie. Spiral in, spiral out, and then his hand crept over her thigh. Mary set the empty bag of popcorn down and leaned her head on John’s shoulder. That strong arm moved to wrap around her back, putting John’s hand so close to Sherlock’s face.
It was hard to ignore. Mrs. Bennett was becoming shrill about something on-screen, nigh unintelligible. John’s hand crept into Sherlock’s locks and all his bones went liquid. He slumped into Mary’s side, nose in her berries and cream hair. Blunt fingernails scratched at his scalp and he gave a rumbling groan.
Mary hummed her approval, but kept watching the film. How could she focus, squished between them? John’s fingers were just playing with his hair, touching for the joy of touching. Sherlock was gently passing away.
When Fitzwilliam Darcy walked across that dewy field and Mary cut him a sly look. If she was surprised that their faces were so close together, she didn’t say. “Remind you of anyone, love?”
“You’re implying that I remind you of Mr. Darcy?”
“Oh god, Mary.” John covered his face to hide his flush. “Don’t say that.”
“What? He’s rich, tall as sin, fit and clearly neurodivergent.”
John groaned and stole back his hand. Damn.
“What do you think, John?” Sherlock found himself smiling. “Do I make a good Darcy?”
“It’s that goddamn coat. Merciful Lord, the both of you…”
“Not good?” Sherlock questioned. Mary just rolled her eyes and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
“Don’t listen to him, he’s practicing to be an old man.” She sprang from the couch to go get something—water, food, not worth deduction when Sherlock just wanted to look at John.
“I’m just nervous.”
“Sentiment. Not really useful, is it?” Sherlock mumbled.
“What did you say?” John scooted closer.
“S-sentiment,” Sherlock tried. John was so close. If he leaned down, he could take his mouth like a chess move.
“What about it?” John was staring at Sherlock’s lips in earnest now. “Are you feeling…sentimental?”
“Um,” Sherlock was fairly certain that all the air had left the room.
“God, you two should just snog already,” Mary laughed. Suddenly she slipped between the couch and the coffee table and sat on Sherlock’s lap. They all ignored the soft grunt of his breath as she settled against him, and thank god, because she just got closer. “I really do think it would help us all if you two stopped the cat and mouse game already.”
“Cat and mouse is too simple for the game John is playing with me.” Sherlock protested.
“Me?” John guffawed. “I’m playing a game with you? That’s rich, that is!”
“This,” Mary’s nose touched Sherlocks, and he was going cross-eyed trying to look at it. “This is the problem. Right here. Both of you, stubborn bastards.”
Her weight was a warm seatbelt. It made him stay put. A jolt of panic swept through him as he realized that he could escape, it would just involve throwing John’s lovely bride to the floor like a sack of flour. That would be very not good, wouldn’t it? Mary relaxed, curling into him in a way that brought their hips even closer. The warm weight of her breath on his mouth was enticing. The fact that John was watching was even better.
Mary put her hands on Sherlock’s face and tugged him into a kiss. It was sweet, and then it was hot, and then it was overwhelming. The tip of her tongue tested the seam of his lips, and when he went pliant for her, she plundered him like treasure. Part of him was sure she was just messing with him, but the soft sound she made as he skated nervous hands down her back was so real.
Janine had been theater to him. No different than kissing a costar. This was Mary Watson, highly trained assassin and John’s wife. So clever, so brave, so strong. These lips, John had kissed, these hand had killed. Interest spiked in his gut, sudden and loud.
Sherlock surged up into Mary in a fit of passion, slanting his face against hers so they fit better. Their teeth clacked, and she laughed against his mouth like Christmas bells.
“Mary,” He murmured, “Mary, Mary.”
Her hand drew up his side, sparking his nerve endings like fireworks. The impact of those explosions went red and harsh as her thumb pressed into his bruise. Sherlock hissed against her mouth, he couldn’t help it.
“Alright, that’s it!” John was on his feet. “Up! Up, the both of you.”
This was the moment where Sherlock should probably feel shame, but he couldn’t find the thread of it—or a single fuck to give. Mary’s mouth was kissed pink, a girlish smile on her face. With one glance at his wife, John cut in, fingers going right for the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Mother of pearl and silk thread, each button caught the ambient shine of the telly.
“That’s rather forward, John…” Sherlock attempted a wry smile.
“Christ, look at you! You’re grimacing. How long have your ribs hurt?” Oh no. This was not John, it was Dr. Watson, M.D., firmly in his surgery office. The clinical disdain on his face was LOUD. “I won’t ask you if you saw a health professional about this because I know full well you did not.”
The shirt was peeled back over his shoulders with care and draped over the sofa’s arm. Mary flicked on the overhead light, and the look of pursed lips and furrowed brows in Sherlock’s direction was decidedly not good.
“It’s fine.” He asserted, not self conscious of his body but feeling strangely on display. John’s hands smoothed carefully over his back, gliding over his shoulders.
“Breathe deeply, then tell me how it feels.”
Sherlock knew exactly how that was going to feel. Bracing, he took a deep breath, wincing when the pressure on his side steadily increased, pain growing sharp, darkness dancing in his periphery. “It feels bad.”
“Sherlock.” John snapped.
“It’s painful.”
“Out of ten?”
“No.”
“Sherlock,” Mary chided, gliding back into the room with a full cup of water and a bottle of paracetamol. “Let us help you, idiot.”
“I don’t need—”
“Stop right there, I swear…” John swept away from him, striding toward the kitchen. When he swallowed the paracetamol, Sherlock just kept his eyes shut. Too much input. John’s indignant fury, the radiator’s kiss on his skin, the sound of Mary humming, the whack of footsteps upon the hardwood, the, the, the—oh!
Cold. Slick. Ice. Yes, an ice cube in his hand, fingers curling his own until he made a fist around it. A chilly icepack wrapped in a dish towel, held to his back. The tandem chill cut through the consciousness stream like an oar through sea spray, moving him right along.
“I’m not angry with you, per se.” John amended, and it sounded suspiciously like an apology. “I just wish you had come to me for help.”
When Sherlock looked at John again, he was concerned and contrite. It was a bad look for John.
“You’re busy.”
“I’m never too busy for you.” The words were spoken softly, but the impact was loud. Water dripped through his clenched fingers to the floorboards, but at least the panic was gone.
“You need to rest, darling.” Mary steered him by the elbow into the guest room and started pointing out amenities for his stay like an overbearing bread and breakfast host. Of course Sherlock new where the towels were kept, where to find a spare toothbrush if he hadn’t packed one, where the extra blankets lived. Of course he knew. This was John’s house. Still, he didn’t say a word and just let Mary keep going. It seemed to sustain her.
It wasn’t long before Sherlock found himself tucked under someone’s Nan’s quilt, lights off, thinking in the darkness. Insomnia didn’t just go away because he needed rest. Instead, it was a calculating predator, knowing just when to strike to leave him the most vulnerable. Eyes wide, Sherlock studied the lace edges of the curtains, the floral wallpaper, the wicker and wood rocker…it felt like they were all staying in an old lady’s home.
The parts of John that Sherlock liked best wouldn’t be reflected here. A wicked taste for danger can’t be hung on the wall. But it sure shouldn’t look like ugly 1990s wallpaper.
Or maybe this was John—John and his cuppa in the morning, John and his hideous jumpers, practicing his ‘old man’ scowl. John at his most comfortable was probably the prototype for someone’s veteran Grandad.
Sherlock laughed into the pillow until his breaths came out gasping.
Only then did he notice.
A bitten-off sound, a subtle creak, a low whisper…
Maybe that was in his head.
Just when he was getting curious, the itch for action returning to his legs, did his brain finally fall from the clutches of insomnia into a dreamless, depthless sleep.