Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mary notices Mr. Holmes' strange behavior three months after marrying John.

She hasn't been sleeping well since before the wedding, and the habit has persisted even after the ceremony; often times she takes to sitting up in the late night and early dawn hours, reading as John sleeps by her side. It is during one of these times that she sees Sherlock Holmes standing outside her window in the streets below—or, rather, walking leisurely past her window with his hands deep in his pockets, his hat tipped low over his eyes, but still quite clearly Sherlock Holmes. It would have been a very normal situation were the dawn not just beginning to grace the eastern sky; as it is, the event is quite singular at this time of day.

John has always told her that Holmes is an early riser. He's on a case, Mary reassures herself. That's all. And she goes back to bed and to John, satisfied with this answer.

The next night, however, she sees him again. And the next night. He always stops at the window, looks up, and then walks on, meandering aimlessly down the street as if uncertain as to how he got there and what his destination is.

"John," Mary says the next morning over breakfast, feeling slightly uneasy and not quite sure why, "do you know whether Mr. Holmes is working on a case at the moment?"

John turns a page of the newspaper without looking at her. "I haven't spoken to him since before the wedding," he says, almost disinterestedly, "but Mrs. Hudson has sent me a letter or two, and she hasn't mentioned anything about a case."

"Oh, I see," Mary says. She traces the pattern of the tablecloth with one finger. "Why haven't you spoken to him? I thought you'd been sending him letters."

"I've stopped writing. He doesn't respond to them." John’s voice is clipped, short, and the newspaper tears somewhat when he turns the page. "Why do you ask, my dear?"

"Oh, no reason, love. I was merely curious. More tea?"

After successfully distracting John from further questions by spilling tea into his lap, Mary goes up into the bedroom and stands by the window for several long moments, calling from memory the figure of a thin, pale man wandering the streets before dawn as if he were a ghost. Maybe he is.

She remembers the first time she met him. Her first thought had not been so this is the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, or anything of the sort.

No—instead, her first thought had been oh God, how can I compare to him?

Mary isn't sure whether John realized it at the time or not, but she spent that entire evening appraising Holmes just as he had done her. Her observations had been based on what little she could discern from his actions, from what he was saying, from what little emotion he let flit, ever so briefly, over his features, despite the fact that he seemed to be able to hide behind a wall of stone when he deemed necessary (and she isn’t sure that wall will ever be possible to overcome).

All in all, at the end of the night she had been convinced that Sherlock Holmes was just as in love with her fiancé as she was.

It did not take her long after this to realize that his feelings were not unrequited.

Sometimes she thinks that she should feel angry about the situation. John is her husband, after all; he is not married to Mr. Holmes (though he probably wishes he was, she thinks, not altogether resentfully, though it is hard to repress the strong pang of jealousy she feels). She loves John, and she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loves her, too—so shouldn't she be thinking how dare Holmes try to take that away from me?

But he hasn't done anything to take it away. Of course, before the wedding his behavior had been abominable, but he hasn't spoken to John since then. He has sometimes acted rather rudely towards Mary, but she supposes that is only to be expected, and considering other aspects of Mr. Holmes' character, his behavior has been unusually mature.

To tell herself that she has more of a claim to John than Mr. Holmes does would be ridiculous; simply put, John and Holmes have known each other longer, know each other better than anyone on this earth, and love each other. A part of them will always belong to the other, and nothing can change that.

It hurts and she should feel angry for that, but she doesn't.

Rather, she feels strangely—empty. Alone. As if she is the antagonist of her own life story, not the heroine. Proper women don't entertain the sort of thoughts which she has. Two men, in love? Ridiculous. Illegal. And it is even more ridiculous to feel sorry for coming along into John's life and confusing the matter between the two boys even further.

The boys, she thinks, my boys, and even though it isn't right at all, even though it's unthinkable, she decides to get to the bottom of this whole matter, even if it means she can no longer have John (or no longer have him to myself).

"John," she says pleasantly as she knits by the firelight, "why did you decide to marry me?"

Oh, how ashen he looks! Does he wonder whether she knows of his feelings for Holmes—does he believe her to be disgusted by them? He must. Her heart aches at the thought, but she cannot put her husband at ease without revealing her own depravity, her own abnormality which she has just begun to acknowledge, and she does not think she is ready for that. Not yet.

"Why? Because I love you, my dear." John tries to replace his look of shock with one of bemusement.

"Are you happy, being here with me?" And she looks hard at him, doing her best to pierce him with her gaze just as Mr. Holmes would, and she sees him wince at her look; so he is thinking of Mr. Holmes, too.

"How can you even ask that, Mary? Aren't you happy?"

"Indescribably, love.” She looks down at her needlework as if to inspect it. “I'm sorry if I've upset you."

"No," he says, looking almost embarrassed. "No, Mary, I'm not upset. I'm happy."

That night, she realizes it is possible to be both happy and unhappy, to be both pleased with one's life and yet upset with the way things have turned out. Her heart seems to echo this sentiment, because she is convinced this is not the way things were meant to be.

Her heart echoes and echoes (empty, empty, empty) until she looks out the window that night and sees Mr. Holmes there, looking up at her window with the softest look she has ever seen on his face; her heart rises in her chest as something inside her swells.

She is not one to wait for divine intervention or fate to do its work, and so the next day she gets her hat and overcoat and tells John she is going out to meet a friend. He is busy with a patient at the time and merely nods as she leaves, focused on the unsettlingly extensive warts of the man under his treatment.

The trip to 221B Baker Street is not a long one, and Mary finds herself on Mr. Holmes' doorstep before she has had time to gather her thoughts. She takes a steadying breath and, before she can dissuade herself, knocks. Mr. Holmes answers the door, and she can see the dark circles beneath his eyes, most likely from his nighttime strolls; she feels warm at the thought.

"Mr. Holmes," she says, trying to sound pleasant and not at all like the horrible leech he perceives her to be.

"Mrs. Watson," he responds coolly, and that name is suddenly terrible and unfamiliar to her. She tries to shrug away the uneasiness that has risen in her throat.

"I've come to collect a few of John's things—he claims to have left them here."

"He did not come himself?"

"No," Mary says, looking carefully at Mr. Holmes, who seems to wilt. "He's quite busy these days with patients, you know."

"And his new wife, of course," he says as if he were not speaking to that very women at that moment. "Well, come in then, Mrs. Watson."

She enters the small rooms feeling terribly alien, as if she does not belong here, in this place which John and Mr. Holmes shared together for so long. She almost expects to see John sitting in the armchair by the fire as she walks in, and she wonders if John will ever be able to feel as at home in their new house together as he once did here.

"Please, have a seat." Holmes offers her a chair.

"Oh, thank you, but there's no need, I'll just collect his things and—"

"Mary." Her name sounds strange and wondrously beautiful on his lips. "We both know that isn't your true purpose in being here today. Do you disagree?"

She feels still more uneasy, but she is not surprised by this statement. "No. I should have known better than to think I could have fooled you, Sherlock." His first name passes from her mouth before she can stop it, and she has the strongest urge to snatch it back out of the air and force it down her throat, but of course that's impossible. (And he called me Mary, after all.)

He smiles thinly at her. "There are few who can. Please, tell me why you are here. Have you had some sort of trouble that you wish me to investigate?"

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort, Sherlock." His name tastes strange on her tongue, but he has allowed her to say it, and the idea of calling him Mr. Holmes now is an unwelcome one. "I will be blunt with you, because I am sure you will appreciate that rather than have me beat around the bush—I'm here because I know you are in love with my husband."

Unlike John, Sherlock shows no sign of fear at the thought of Mary knowing that he loves her husband. "So you have figured it out, have you?" he says, sounding almost impressed. "I have always known that you are not unintelligent, Mary."

She blinks, shocked by this; she feels as if the air has been strangled out of her. "Why, thank you...that is very kind, though I don't believe intelligence had much to do with it, considering the way you've been carrying on." It is the first time that Sherlock has spoken to her in a tone besides one of derision. "May I ask what has brought this change of heart upon you? If I recall correctly, the last time we spoke you shot me some very dark glances and muttered several unkind things under your breath—which, incidentally, was one of the indicators of your true feelings for John."

He sits back in the armchair, looking wonderfully languid, sprawled like a cat in the sun. "Well, as you have said, you know about my feelings for your husband. Presumably you also know of the debatable legality of those feelings. Seeing how you have not reported my being an invert to the police, I can only deduce that you are not, for reasons I must admit are beyond me, angry or disturbed by the situation."

Mary flushes pink, suddenly embarrassed. "Well," she says, defensively, "you don't think the situation is disturbing, either, do you?"

"Of course not," he says. He studies her for a moment, his gaze soft. "You are a remarkable woman."

She flushes more deeply and regrets it immediately, though she had no control over the action. "So many have said," she responds flippantly, and Sherlock laughs.

"If you don't mind my asking," he says, studying his nails imperiously, "I wonder as to how, exactly, you realized my...feelings for Watson."

John, she thinks, and says, "Well, I have always suspected—the first time we met was very telling, and I must admit I have been convinced since that moment—but your early morning strolls past our bedroom window have made the matter more than obvious, I should think."

"You've noticed me?" he asks sharply. "How? Wouldn't you have been—sleeping?" His tone of voice indicates that he finds this idea—not that of her sleeping so much as her sleeping with (his) Watson—slightly upsetting. She cannot bring herself to resent him for it.

"I do not sleep well," she says. "I'm often up in the mornings, and I happened to see you one out and about. Four days ago, to be precise."

"Careless," he murmurs. "How careless of me. I suppose it would have done well to disguise myself." He drums his fingers against the arm of the chair, looking pensive. "Well, Mary, I do believe you wished to speak with me about this matter. If you’d like me to never speak to him again, I’m glad to inform you that—"

"Oh, no, Sherlock," she says. She is beginning to enjoy saying his first name. "I would never ask you and John to ignore your feelings for each other."

"If you are implying that my feelings are anything but unrequited, then you are quite mistaken," Sherlock says. "I would never wish for you to labor under such a delusion." His voice is cool and reassuring, but his hands twist into the fabric of the chair, belying his uneasiness, his regret for his supposedly unrequited emotions.

"That's where you're wrong. John is quite as in love with you as you are with him, I am sure of it."

Saying it seems to lift a heavy weight from her heart, and she takes a deep breath of air and is surprised at the ease of its entrance. How freeing, to be rid of this secrecy. She has only one secret left.

Sherlock avoids looking at her. "If that is true, then why on earth would he have married you, my dear?"

"Don’t be naïve. You know why."

"I am quite sorry to say that I don't." His voice is perfectly steady, his face like stone, but she senses an underlying uneasiness, an undercurrent of pain in the way his eyes flit from her face to the floor and back again, as if it is unbearable to gaze at her.

"Look at me," she says, and after a moment, he does. His eyes are as gray as the sea after a storm, and Mary has trouble remembering what she had been about to say for a moment. "Sherlock, the proposed relationship between yourself and John simply isn't legal or—or proper. John is an honorable man, and he loves his country. He does not wish to be seen poorly in her eyes or in the eyes of others, though the only eyes that should truly matter to him," she adds reflectively, "are those belonging to you and myself, because I can confidently say that we are the two people in this world whom he loves the most."

"It is not possible to be in love with two people."

She thinks back over her thoughts of the past few months—of her sleepless nights before the wedding, of the insomnolence that persisted afterwards, of her improper fascination with Sherlock despite her marriage to John, of John himself—and says, "Isn't it, though?"

And he is momentarily lost for words, his gray eyes held by hers.

Sighing, thinking that she would not have made a very good heroine, anyway—much too bold—she rises to her feet and presses a soft kiss to Holmes' temple, brushing her lips over his hair as she leans away. "Come over for dinner tonight," she says, "and I will make sure that this ends how it is supposed to, one way or another."

He looks stunned and touches his fingertips to the spot where her lips had been moments before. "And how is this supposed to end, Mary?"

"With the two of you, together, of course," she says, and she wants to add with myself at your side but is too afraid to utter the words.

Holmes looks at her; the stone wall behind which he has hidden for so long seems to be crumbling. His eyes are lit up as if from within, a smile playing at the corners of his eyes. "And where will you be at the end of all this, my dear?"

She looks at him and feels like she is lost at sea (but he's holding out a life saver, Mary, my dear Mary—take it, take it). "Well," she says, slowly, "that will much decide upon you and John, but...I don't want to lose either of you." She tilts her chin up. "I don't know whether I could stand it."

He smiles at her, looking utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful in the bright sunlight filtering in through the window, and says, "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I'd much love to learn more about you, as well," and she knows that she is welcome to stay.

"Mary, what on earth is all of this for?" John asks when he walks in on her setting the table for three that night.

"Oh, nothing to worry about, dear," she says sweetly, her heart skipping in her throat, leapleapleap—"We have a guest for dinner, is all."

"A guest?" he says, but her words don’t quite register for him until Sherlock Holmes walks in, clean-shaven and in a suit (how unexpected), and says, quietly, "Hullo, Watson."

"Holmes!" John casts a glance at Mary, who is smiling quite unabashedly at the sight of the two of them standing there, one ready for what is to come and one oblivious to it. "You knew he'd be coming?"

"Of course, my dear," she says, and Sherlock gives her a rather weak, rather nervous smile; she has never seen him so vulnerable and has never felt more affection for him than she does in that instant.

Oh dear, she thinks, but it is no longer worth struggling with those feelings or with herself. Love comes unexpected and is near impossible to vanquish; she doesn't know how she would even begin to try. It is so much simpler to accept it, to give it water and room to grow, to bloom, to endure, and she intends to do just that.

"Why are you here, Holmes?" John says, turning back to Sherlock. "You haven't answered any of my letters—I haven't seen you in months—"

"And I am indescribably sorry for my behavior, but I had assumed—quite wrongly, as Mary has informed me—that you did not wish see me anymore."

"Why would I have written you if I did not want to see you?" John leans rather heavily on his cane.

"Out of propriety. Out of an old friendship."

"How could you think—"

"It would seem that I am quite blind to matters such as these...unlike your lovely wife, who is wonderfully perceptive."

Mary flushes to the roots of her hair and notices that Sherlock cannot help but give her a smugly superior look.

John looks thunderstruck by Sherlock praising Mary thus. He doesn't speak.

"Dinner?" Mary says brightly, rather enjoying John's confusion, and Sherlock says, "Indeed, my dear," and the two of them exchange smirks over John's look of consternation.

The meal is a quiet affair. John regards the two of them in suspicious silence as they eat and chatter cheerfully. Most likely he thinks they are attempting to make amends in order to make him happy; it may have started that way, and Mary certainly only took notice of Sherlock because John did, but she cannot truthfully say that is the case any longer.

Sitting at the table with the both of them, John to her left and Holmes to her right, Mary feels a wonderful feeling of fullness—the emptiness within her fades like the sun as it sets, and she lets it go without remorse. Giving up all sense of propriety, which has never done her any good, anyhow, she runs one foot up John's leg and one up Sherlock's, biting back a laugh as John accepts it without question and Sherlock casts her a surprised glance. My boys, she thinks again, in an almost motherly fashion, now to just get John to realize it.

Finally it seems John cannot handle the strangeness of the situation any longer. He sets down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin carefully, as if focusing on it so as to avoid lashing out in frustration, and asks, "Holmes, please. Why are you here?"

Sherlock sets down his fork, as well, and looks at Mary. "Well," he says.

"Well," she echoes, "it's rather my story to tell, isn't it? John, I invited Sherlock—Mr. Holmes—over tonight."

He sighs. "Whatever for, Mary?"

"Well," Mary says again, "it became achingly obvious to me that you were in love with him."

The moment is more painful than it should be—John goes pale and clutches at his collar, perhaps wondering if Sherlock is there to take him to the police, and Sherlock watches John intently to find out for himself if what Mary has told him is true. His eyes soften when he sees that it is, and Mary feels a surge of emotion that can only be defined as part happiness, part relief (and part jealousy and sorrow).

"John, calm down," she says sharply, not only for John's benefit but for her own, as well.

John casts his gaze around the room helplessly. "You did know," he says, "all this time—Mary, I'm sorry—"

"I'm not angry. Or disgusted. Please, just calm down for a moment."

He glares at her, his hand flitting about nervously. "How can you not be angry?" he asks. "How can you not be furious with me, for ruining your life, and Holmes', and my own—"

"No one's life has been ruined, old boy," Sherlock says, and he looks rather unnerved by John's reaction. "I do think several are about to be fixed."

John falls silent, still horribly pale, his face still pained. "So you do know," he says after a moment, his voice hoarse, his eyes on Mary. "You know."

"Yes, and I'm not angry. I know I should be, perhaps, but I'm not. You cannot fight love. It's simply not possible."

John's eyes are either filled with tears or merely reflecting the light of the candles on the table; Mary is more inclined to believe the former.

"Listen," she says, and she is speaking rapidly now, eager to get this strange business out of the way, "John, I love you. Nothing can ever change that. I know you love me. I know you love Sherlock."

John looks absolutely sick until he hears Sherlock say, "And she knows I love you, as well."

The look of sheer, undistilled shock that crosses John's features is enough to make Mary want to cry. "If you'll excuse me," she says, "I think you two have some things to discuss." And she exits the room, running her hand over John's forehead as she leaves. Sherlock's eyes linger on her fingertips.

She is brushing away the last of her tears when John walks out of the dining room ten minutes later, looking dazed. "Mary—"

"John," she says, and takes his hands.

"I do not deserve you." He doesn't look at her.

"No one really does," she says lightly. "I'm afraid I'll just have to accept the fact that I'm settling for the two of you."

Sherlock, still in the dining room, lets out a laugh and says, "Watson, honestly, where on earth did you find her?"

It is not easy at first—but then again, nothing truly is. The face they present to the world is that of a doctor, his wife, and his closest friend, nothing more. The true nature of their friendship somehow remains hidden from the world at large, despite the time Sherlock went missing for two days and Mary threw her arms around his neck and kissed him in the middle of London upon his return or the time Sherlock nearly tore London apart, Mary at his side with a pistol in hand, to rescue John when he was kidnapped by a world-class criminal.

Sometimes Mary wonders what it would have been like to lead a normal life.

Other times she sees John and Sherlock entangled in each other's arms and the bed sheets, their chests rising and falling in unison—"Come to bed, Mary"—and she decides she'd not be able to bear it any other way.