Fic for fennishjournal: The Value of Surprise

[methylviolet10b]

Title: The Value of Surprise
Recipient: fennishjournal
Author: fleetwood_mouse
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): John Watson/Mary Morstan/Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Canon divergence: timeline jiggery-pokery, character non-death, etc.
Word Count: ~6900
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan have a conversation that changes everything.


It is after an utterly remarkable case that the three of us find ourselves sitting over a large dinner in the public house where we will be lodging. I personally believe that the case would be entirely forgettable were it not for the unprecedented amount of assistance I received in solving it – not only from my faithful Boswell, but his new bride, who showed a decided affinity for detective work. During the course of the day, I had repeatedly noted her perception and enthusiasm, and now I find myself discouraged to see that, despite her cleverness, she is doggedly persistent in her desire to focus on only the insignificant, sensationalist aspects of the case.

“An idyllic country village, a plot to usurp an inheritance – it’s all so exciting!” Mary Watson has abandoned the prospect of eating some time ago, but she still grips the fork in her left hand. She brandishes it from time to time in her excitement. “Like something out of a novel. What do you think you’ll call it, John?”

I snort into my drink. “Of course you’ll be writing this one up as well. Ah, if your new, married life allows you the time, that is.”

“You know I will always find time for my scribbles.” Watson smiles at me good naturedly. “Do you know, Holmes, that Mary has been reviewing my old files? She’s editing them for me; I am sure you will find my story-telling much improved.”

“The story-telling was not the problem, my dear man.” I chase an errant bit of lamb with my fork. “No, no – I apologise; I am mistaken. The story-telling was exactly the problem. Watson, may I ask what is it that so offends you about the plain and simple facts?”

“Oh, but his stories are very good,” Mary interjects. “I think they could be published – I really do!” Her eyes are bright and full of laughter, cheeks pink with wine and mirth. The signs are there for anyone to read – how happy they are together, my doctor and his wife.

“There is no doubt that it would entertain the public,” I say. “The question is, man, would it educate them? I am certain that–”

“They are very entertaining adventures – I have so enjoyed reading them.” Mary is playing the fool now, specifically to undercut my chiding. Watson stifles a laugh and wipes his mouth with the napkin. “But Mr Holmes, I have so many questions about them, if you’d care to give me your point of view.”

“Careful, my dear,” Watson says. “Once that starts, you may never hear anything else.

Mary tuts at him and shakes her head. “There was one in particular that left me wondering – the story of Doctor Trevelyan and his problem.”

“Ah, yes. ‘The Resident Patient,’ I believe I called it.” Watson takes another piece of brown bread.

"I must know, Mr. Holmes: Did it really happen just as John told it?"

I take another sip of my drink. "If my memory is correct, then yes, the basic facts of the case were much as he presented them. But I am afraid, my dear lady, that your husband's incurable romanticism has left the finer details beyond all recognition."

Watson is long used to this particular complaint of mine, and he does not pretend offence. He gives a huff of laughter and mops at the gravy on his plate.

"That is well enough." Mary is still smiling at me. She and I share this jest. We have come to share a few such jests, all of them centred on the same subject. “I daresay I might have expected as much. But it is not the case I am asking about, Mr Holmes; I am only interested in the beginning."

Watson quirks an eyebrow at this and I watch him watching his wife, leaning eagerly forward over the remains of her meal.

"What do you mean, my love?" Watson asks.

"What I mean," she says, and her eyes light up with mischief, "is the little game you described, the parlour trick. How Mr Holmes can look at you and read your mind." Her eyes have been darting between the two of us – they come to rest on me. "Tell me honestly, Mr Holmes – can you indeed follow a man's thoughts so closely as that? Just by looking at him? I find it immensely interesting."

I am not unaccustomed to empty flattery, to saccharine compliments from someone looking for an advantage, but Mary’s curiosity is nothing but genuine. Her feet are fairly swinging under the table, the picture of girlish enthusiasm.

"It is a very simple thing," I answer. "As I have already told Watson, I never would have thought to mention it had he not previously expressed such incredulity."

Watson's whiskers twitch with amusement. "I never would have believed it had I not seen it myself. It truly was remarkable, old boy."

"Remarkable it is not." I affect a certain stiffness – I must – but I will never tire of his praise, his easy smile, the steadfast warmth in his eyes. "In truth, it really is a most transparent process, particularly because our Watson is an exceedingly readable man."

A serving girl appears to refresh our drinks. Mary thanks her warmly and turns back to me. "That is true," she says. "And particularly so to you, I'd imagine."

I sit up straighter in my seat. Her voice is not sharp, but the remark sends a sliver of alarm through me all the same. Mary Watson has many talents beyond the revision of her husband's manuscripts. Sympathetic as she may be, I would do well not to underestimate her perception.

"Yes, well, I have known him for a long time." My voice is very steady. "With practice and the proper motivation, Watson would surely be able to do the same for me."

Watson’s laugh comes on so suddenly he nearly chokes on his brandy. He coughs, lifting a hand to his face to wipe at his watering eyes. "I most assuredly could not. Though I must thank you for the compliment, old boy."

“Not at all.” I smile wryly at him, and note that his expression mirrors my own. We are very closely attuned, he and I. Too much so, and yet never enough to satisfy.

Mary clears her throat. “If it is not too bold, I wonder if I might request a demonstration?"

There is an innocent smile on her face, but her blue eyes are dark and unreadable. I find that my mouth is suddenly very dry. My brandy does nothing to help.

It is already enough of a strain to be alone with them. He is my conductor of light; with him as a prism, who knows what Mary might see?

I can hardly stand to refuse, though; they know well what an infernal show-off I am. It would be very unusual for me to hesitate to display my skills. I must do this.

I smile, and I trust that it is not too wan. My Watson's descriptions of my talents may be very generous indeed, but they are originally based in fact, and I am a very good actor.

“A demonstration, is it?” I allow the corners of my mouth to stretch and my eyes to narrow in what must be a good approximation of a rakish smile. “Then, a demonstration you shall have.”

Mary gives a little cry and claps her hands in delight. Watson smiles at her indulgently.

I steeple my fingers and lean forward over my hands, studying Watson very closely. I am making an overly elaborate scene, to be sure, but the theatrics can only detract from the underlying risk of it all.

I am uneasy. It will not do to let it show, because Mary is a sharp and clever creature and I am a heartsick fool. Her husband is a beacon, my mooring, my heart and my compass. Other people may be utterly oblivious, as good as blind, but she knows what it is to love John Watson. I might well have given myself away to her a thousand times already.

I take a deep breath in, and let it out through my nose.

“Once we’ve finished, you ought to have that game you were thinking about, old boy.”

The flash of shock in Watson's blue eyes is immediate, and warmly gratifying. “But – how did you –?” His lips are parted in earnest surprise – I would close them with my index figure, see his eyes fall docilely shut. I would trace a line down his chin, along his jaw; pull him to me by the nape of his neck and devour his praise from that dear mouth.

I raise one finger to stop his words, and he falls silent. The glow in his eyes refuses to subside.

I begin in earnest. "When we sat down to eat, you were thinking of Mrs Hudson – yes, a simple enough inference, my dear man; do not look so surprised. The dinner was lovely, but I know you cannot taste roast lamb without thinking of her mastery in the kitchen. But the exertions of the day left you hungry, and as you began to eat, you soon forgot any discontent you might have felt.”

Mary is smiling, and Watson is hanging on my every word. Correct so far, then.

“When your hunger subsided enough for you to rejoin the conversation, there was something you wanted to say, but you could not quite find the opportunity. Your eyes searched for shifts in subject, for pauses where you could politely jump in. You never spoke up, but I saw you hesitate and reconsider many times, as if evaluating our moods. From that, I inferred that it was something you found humorous, but you were worried that it was not witty enough to meet with our approval. Most likely another horrific title under consideration for your account of this case.

“And then – it was around the second course, I believe, that your eyes fell on the billiards table in the corner. You seemed excited at first, as if you hoped you might have a chance for a game or two. Then, however, you looked at me and your face fell. You must have remembered those less-than-happy games, and how I have commiserated with you afterwards.” Commiserated – that is one word for it. Rescued might be closer to the truth. “Your ears went red, but your posture spoke of embarrassment, not shame. Therefore, I surmise that neither you nor your wife fears the consequences if you indulge. Though you won’t excuse yourself to play, of course – you would never be so rude to us, but you are beginning to wonder privately if we might not enjoy each other’s company enough to allow you a brief excursion. And you are quite right, my dear man – I have enjoyed this evening immensely, and will do my best to keep your lovely wife entertained, if she has no objections.”

“Incredible,” Watson breathes. It is not the first time I have done this for him, nor is it the hundredth, but his eyes are dark and wide, and his expression is enraptured, full of something I will never speak aloud, though I cannot help but see it. “Every step of… even Mrs Hudson’s dinners!”

Every step, yes. I am so accustomed to watching him that I cannot help but see beneath the surface. I cannot help but see what he hides from himself. My Watson is an honourable man, and he has a core of unbending steel. He will not allow himself to feel that which he deems dishonourable, that which the law punishes. Any burden necessary to that end is something he will bear alone. He will not mete out pain, he will not share his guilt, he will hide every outward clew of his turmoil.

But he looks at me sometimes as if I were the sun, as if I were some blinding truth too bright for his eyes. As if he would pry apart his ribs and engulf me simply to have me closer, to have me entirely is. It is overwhelming, to see this in his eyes. It might not be obvious to others, might hide under the guise of friendship or admiration, but those of us who feel it would recognise it anywhere.

It is not good for me to see so much. It makes what I must do unnecessarily difficult.

“Bravo,” says his wife. “A very pretty trick, Mr Holmes.”

The serving girl arrives to take our plates, and as if on cue, our neighbours upset a bottle of wine. They right it before too much has been spilt, but in the process, a glass falls to the floor and shatters, and the thread of our conversation is lost.

But soon the commotion calms, and we relax over our drinks, chatting sporadically. We flit from topic to topic, music and art, recent news, a rehash of the events of the day. Silence falls intermittently, but it is comfortable. I can observe my companions soaking up the noise and atmosphere of the establishment, tasting one by one all the details that had hit me in a single great pass.

When our glasses have been empty for some time, Watson the gentleman rises to have them refilled. Mary and I sit companionably, speaking very little. I simply watch her eyes track his winding progress across the room.

This is a small village, but the pub is busy this evening. Not compared to London, of course, but there is a large enough crowd that no-one in particular stands out. Our fellow patrons comprise locals and visitors alike, talking in tight clumps or sat at the bar with a solitary pipe.

There is amusement to be had as well as food and drink. Watson’s sidesteps a pair of older men, and his path takes him past the billiards table I had seen him noticing. Neither Mary nor I is surprised to see him take a moment of contemplation before striking up a casual conversation with a fellow on the periphery of that group. Nor do we blink when Watson delivers us our drinks and promptly excuses himself back into the crowd to join a game.

“Just one,” he tells us, and recedes into the crowd.

Mary and I exchange smiles over the rims of our glasses. The brandy is good, or at least it had been before it was diluted with water.

My Watson makes friends effortlessly, and I use that word in the purest sense – there are times when I am honestly sure that he does not mean to. He and I are very different in that respect; I am solitary by nature, and deliberate in the company I choose to keep. (A designation, I realise, that now includes one Mary Watson, née Morstan.)

It is a good group that Watson has found tonight. The man he approached is a tailor (given the marks on his knees and the modern cut of his often-hemmed suit that belies how much older the cloth is), and they chat easily between shots. The other fellows also like him immediately (as nearly everyone does) and the game appears to be a friendly one. His playing is quite admirable: skillful enough to win their respect, but not so much as to incur their ire. I do not think this is a conscious act of manipulation. So far as I can tell, the man does not have a deceptive bone in his body (and besides, if he did have such prodigious abilities, he might have better employed them all those months I vouched for his half of the rent). No, his playing is entirely innocent, nothing more than the balance of natural athleticism, a recent lack of practice, and an abundance of drink.

The sport is an opportunity for that particular brand of manly companionship, with which he flourishes in a way that I find impossible. When he smiles, it reaches his eyes, easy and intimate. His hair catches the low light like burnished copper, and he laughs from the depths of his chest, sudden and unguarded, lips parted invitingly.

“It’s no surprise that you have learnt to read his mind.” Startled, I turn my head, but Mary does not take her eyes off her husband. “You watch him very closely.”

Her voice is low and the din of the pub is loud. There is no reason to imagine anyone is listening, that we can even be heard. Still, I am suddenly aware that my heart is beating very quickly. She finally turns her head to look at me, and I fight the urge to worry at my lower lip.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she says. “It was a very impressive feat. "But I admit, I can't help feeling somewhat slighted."

"Was the performance not to your liking?” Light, casual. Meet any accusations with indifferent jesting. “Pity, that my very best should fail to satisfy."

She chuckles at this. "I hope you don't think me rude..." Her eyes meet mine with cool clarity – she knows how little I care for such conventions. "...but I fail to see how such a familiar subject could present much of a challenge. Can you really call this your best, Mr Holmes?"

I laugh. If there is a note of relief in my voice, she is good enough not to notice.

"We are in agreement there, I suppose. Your husband is entirely too honest to be a challenge."

"Honest, yes." She looks pointedly at me. "And honourable. To a fault."

There is something Mary Watson means to tell me. I know this and yet I am scrambling to predict it, to distinguish it from the chaos, the panicked noise in my head that rivals the din of city streets. My mind, though, shies away from each lead, recoiling as if burned, leaving it to drop away.

"That he is." There is little else I can say. I take a tasteless sip of my drink; it does little to dissolve the great lump in my throat.

“He hides very little from me,” she says.

Pay attention: there is no note of resentment in her voice. The words she uses are important: “he hides,” not “can hide;” “little,” not “nothing.” This is honesty – honesty with oneself, the most famously deceitful partner. It takes strength to face an unsavoury truth, to accept it for what it is, and move from there. This is the sign of an admirable mind, of rational, clear-headed thinking.

“He is an open book in most everything, but particularly so on paper.” Another sip of her drink, but the flush of liquor has left her cheeks. Her face is solemn, her mouth a thin line. “He thinks he hides it better than he does. In truth, that which he does not think to hide might be the most damning.”

It, she says. He thinks he hides it. What can I deduce from this?

Is this to be my undoing? I have not known Mary Watson to be cruel for cruelty’s sake; her thirst would not be for vengeance but for justice. However, there is no saying whether her natural empathy would extend to this victimless crime, if it can even be called a crime at all. To say nothing of blame or guilt, my particular version of this “crime” is more nebulous a thing – a net of wispy dreams that clings tenaciously to the surface of reality. Sweet and blundering, achingly hopeful, ill-advised, and – most importantly – entirely unaccomplished.

In any case, I would not wager on sympathy in this area, not even with a woman as compassionate as Mary. I doubt that Watson would either, not even in the most desperate of his misspent days. Innocent as we are, it is a risk we can ill afford.

But I cannot believe she would opt to expose this truth; there is too much she stands to lose. She cannot betray me without implicating her husband. Or could she? Truth, after all, depends entirely on the framing – my Bohemian lifestyle, a corrupting influence, the misdirected advances of a deviant mind, and there you have it: a close call for the respectable doctor, lucky to have untangled himself from the wrong sort, and in the nick of time.

Or she might choose – the thought has crossed my mind before – not to reveal what she knows, to instead hold it over my head, to have me at her beck and call, answering her every whim. It does not seem likely, but it is not a possibility I can discount.

“I wonder,” she says, and for a moment, my heart stops – I am sure of it. “I wonder if you would be open to something more challenging.”

I am wary, but I must not let on. “What kind of challenge do you mean?”

For a moment, her mouth goes wide and gleeful. Both her hands rise, and point inward toward her chest. “What do you see, Mr Holmes… when you look at me?”

I raise my eyebrows and she grins, refusing to break our gaze.

“Very well, then,” I tell her. “I will try anything. I only ask that you don’t hope for too much.”

I lean forward to study her more closely and she smiles, lips closed – the self-conscious reflex of someone under examination. She is right; this is nothing like reading Watson, or even Inspector Lestrade or any other long-term acquaintance. She is less open, less exposed, and hardest of all, I do not have the same touchstones on which I usually rely. I had not fully appreciated the role of familiarity in such exercises. Drinking in the details, I feel every day of the years I have spent with Watson, see their screaming lack in the blank folds of her dress, the foreign lines of her brow.

But I have to start somewhere. I take a deep breath. “You quite liked the potatoes, but the lamb was not to your taste. Perhaps you prefer it in the Indian style – it would make sense. You finished your portion, of course – just like your husband – but you followed each bite with a sip of your wine. As a result, you have drunk rather more than you might have intended.” There is a faint smile on her face. She has made no move to contradict me thus far. “You remain, however, in control of your faculties. In fact, you are neither impaired nor concerned that you might be.”

Inference: Whatever else this conversation may be, it is not a drunken indiscretion. Mary Watson has something to tell me.

“Marriage suits you, by the way. The lines in your forehead are more pronounced than in most women your age – a life of many worries – but they are smooth tonight. In fact, I have not seen them wrinkle all day.” They wrinkle now; I should have foreseen that she would not take this as a compliment. Vanity. Nonetheless. “You and Watson are comfortable together. You no longer blush to look at him – that period of your lives is over, I am afraid – but you are attentive to each other. You mirror his movements unconsciously, and he does the same to you. You watch him even out of the corner of your eye, and I believe you are unaware that you do so. His posture is different when you are near. As is his smile.

My mind catches up to my mouth. I struggle not to cut myself off too abruptly. I may have said too much; I must continue, I must hide it.

“And you seem to be well-matched.” My ears are burning, but I force the hot shame down. “The day’s activities have left you energised rather than fatigued, just like Watson. I thought when we first met that you might be suited to this kind of work. What I have seen to-day only supports that conclusion.”

This is as good a place as any to finish, after I have dragged myself up from one hole and before I can dig another. I lift my glass to my lips and take a sip, meeting her eyes across the table. She smiles.

“Very good, Mr Holmes.” She does not praise me with the same innocent enthusiasm as her husband, but something in her voice tells me the sentiment is genuine. “Although… I can’t help but notice…”

I tip my glass to her in a joking salute. “Do your worst, then.”

“I do hate to complain, Mr Holmes, but while you started both John’s and mine on the same subject, I notice that by the end, you seem to be reading my form rather than my mind. Not that it is any less extraordinary.” She is quick to add this, but I take no offence either way.

“I suppose you are right.” I smile wryly. “I’m afraid not everyone can be so perfectly transparent as our Watson.”

“To say nothing of the value of long companionship.” The corner of her mouth twitches upward.

I fight the urge to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I had intended not to draw attention to our intimacy. I give her a curt nod.

“It makes me wonder…” She folds her fingers. “I don’t mean to be impudent, Mr Holmes, but there are many things about me that you have failed to see. And… I can’t help but wonder how your perception might improve with time.”

I sip my drink and say nothing. Watson is doing fantastically at billiards – we won’t have very long now. It is all too easy to unfocus my eyes and drift away. I am still and quiet for so long that Mary finally loses patience with me.

“Have I underestimated your famous curiousity?” She raises her eyebrows. “Have you no desire to know what you may have missed?”

This is the reaction I wanted. A smile rises unbidden to my lips. “Dear lady, there was no need for me to ask. Anyone who phrases a statement as you just did, who invites a question in that way is dying to be asked. You would have shared your story whether I enquired or not.”

She is startled into laughter – a full and hearty sound that draws the eyes of our neighbours. It is decidedly unladylike. She curls her fingers over her lips in affected embarrassment, but her eyes sparkle, and she leans in closer.

I find I have been mimicking her posture. Our faces are suddenly very near. Her blue eyes are set on mine and I feel no urge to look away.

“Tell me what else you see.” Her voice is low, audible only to my ears.

I draw in a breath, I measure my courage, and I speak.

“I see a woman of uncommonly sharp intuition, of perception that aided us greatly in putting to-day’s matter to rest. I see, as I have already told you, that you have a decided genius that is inclined toward investigative work. You would make a fine detective.” She flushes prettily, though the room is almost too dark for it to be seen. “I see that you are kind and sympathetic, extraordinarily so, and I know that you provided great comfort to Matheson’s family to-day. What’s more, I saw that you did so instinctively and unobtrusively, without any conscious choice, and managing to spare them feelings of guilt or obligation.”

She reaches out, lays her lily-white hand over mine and squeezes.

When I swallow, I feel the movement all the way down to my chest. “I see a woman who has made my dearest friend very happy.” My throat is tight with emotion and for a moment, panic claws at my lungs; I fight it down. “I see – how you have changed his life. He is different now. Forgetting the pain and the sorrow.” My eyes burn. “I see that I owe you… a large debt of gratitude.”

For being what I could not. For doing that which I could not, lest I expose him to more suffering and hurt. For allowing me to see him still, knowing (surely knowing) what I am and what he is to me; for not denying me that which both tortures and sustains me.

Her small hand grasps mine and I look up. Her eyes are bright and deep, brimming with… tears? There is a pained smile on her face that echoes the clasping pressure in my chest.

“And yet…” She swallows, but fails to banish the thickness from her voice. “And yet there is one thing that you fail to see.”

“And what is that?”

Mary blinks and I see how her eyes flutter beneath their lids. She takes a steadying breath through her nose, but her small shoulders are trembling. “A wife who cares deeply for her husband. Who will gladly do anything to make him happy. Truly happy, Mr Holmes; do not misunderstand me – I am speaking of true happiness, not some tawdry imitation. I have seen enough to recognise what that means for him, why it is something that he might achieve though others fail.” She takes a deep breath, obviously gathering her courage, but she does not look away. “You see a woman who cares as little for convention as you do. Who will not let it stand in the way of happiness. Whatever it might entail. ”

My pulse jumps. I can taste my heart, heady and dangerous on my tongue. There is nothing I can say to her, no response I can give – she has offered me everything, and I do not know how to react.

But her eyes are on mine and it is clear that there is no need to answer. She has understood me – her face is kind and open and sweet with understanding, and looking at her, something crumbles inside me, some ancient and exhausted wall. From behind it, a rushing deluge of tenderness and long-dashed hopes, fierce affection and desperation borne of loneliness and necessity, ardour and faith, yearning weakness and devotion. I am not certain I will be able to remain upright. My vision blurs and I feel my eyes close.

She runs her thumb across my knuckles and I look up, blinking. Our gazes meet and she smiles bravely. It is no small thing, what she has done. My voice still eludes me, so I link my fingers through hers.

I see her eyes dart over my shoulder – I sense movement there, and from the softening of her features, I know that it is Watson. I turn and see that there are smudges of chalk on his waistcoat and on his fingers, where it will linger beneath his nails. His eyes are happy – he has won his game – but at the sight the two of us, his features draw together with puzzlement.

“What is the matter?” His concern is immediate and solicitous, and why should it be anything else? Here he has found the two people who love him most in this world, hands clasped together, both with tears in their eyes. Looking at him, I feel drunk and cast a-sea. I do not trust myself to speak.

“Nothing at all, my darling,” says Mary, and gives my hand one final squeeze. “Our friend Mr Holmes was only concerned for me. I have had a rather lot to drink. Maybe we had better retire.”

“Of course.” Watson is at her side in an instant, hands bracing her to help her stand, ready to catch her should she stumble. Not an inkling of suspicion, not a sideways glance at either of us. He is a singularly trusting man. Sometimes it is all I can do to hope that I am deserving of it.

They bid me goodnight and Mary smiles at me from under heavy lashes. I know the room where they will be sleeping. She knows I do. And I know that my Watson will let me in at any hour of the night. I am unable to predict Mary’s precise reaction, but it is impossible to mistake the invitation in her eyes.

When they reach the stairs, Watson turns and sends me a grateful glance. I nod and raise my glass to him. He helps her up the steps and her small hands grip his waist, slide along the muscles of his upper arm.

I watch his broad shoulders retreat, and I strive to calm the whirlpool in my chest. My pulse has slowed to a normal rate, but I cannot seem to get enough air. My breaths feel too shallow and short, and the air is as thin as on a mountaintop, making me giddy. My fingers tighten spasmodically around the glass. I purse my lips and fight something that feels very much like a smile.

The next time I raise the drink to my lips, I find that it is empty. It is refilled shortly, and with good brandy – this time, I am able to recognise the taste. It burns across my tongue and dissolves like embers in the back of my throat, thrums gleefully through my mind. My lips feel too full, my skin too exposed. My blood races riotous through my veins and every nerve seems to prickle.

I could dance, I think. My shoulders have not been this light in many years. The great leaden weight that had settled in the notch of my sternum is gone. My chest feels light and hollow, full of sweet spring air.

All this hope that I never dared entertain. These foolish dreams now justified, this unlikely love doubled and trebled. I doubt any other man on earth is this lucky.

The thought emboldens me, and before I can think twice, I have left my drink and risen from the table. Part of me longs for the courage it can bestow, but I have already wasted enough time, and knowing that will make me sufficiently brave.

As I cross the room, I give a stretch and a yawn – uncouth perhaps, but it stops curious eyes from lingering overlong. Surely enough time has passed that this will not arouse suspicion.

I take the stairs one at a time, struggling all the while to disguise my haste only to find that it has disappeared entirely once I reach the hallway. It had not seemed so cavernous earlier that day. Surely my every footstep had not echoed like this. I am certain it will take me forever to traverse its length.

The idea does not lack for appeal. I am a stranger to the Watson’s bed in particular and the marriage bed in general. I boast expert knowledge in many areas, but this is not one of them.

The thought of my inexperience is sobering, but there is nothing for ignorance but doing. I know this for a fact – I am, after all, a scientist – and I can think of no better teachers than those on the other side of the door.

My heart is beating allegretto against my ribs. I see my hand rise as if of its own volition. My breath catches in my throat as my knuckles rap against the hard wood. I hear Watson’s hand on the door.




“Do you remember how he was?” A loud whisper, the barest of efforts. The soft heaviness of blankets.

John’s solid weight pressed close behind me, warm and reassuring. A slender calf between my knees, Mary’s skin smooth and cool. John’s breath tickling my ear.

“Quiet, dear – you’ll wake him.”

Morning light, late winter. Baker Street. I close my eyes tighter, curl into myself.

“But you do, John, don’t you? How he was that first time.”

“Shh… he sleeps little enough as it is.” This is true. It is odd for me to be the last one of us abed. John does not often wake before me, but these days, he sleeps less soundly than in his younger years, and he rises earlier. Still,the dreams and fevers of his convalescence are distant memories now; these days, he sleeps cradled by the two people who love him most.

Except for nights like last, when I am early enough to bed to take my place between them. We are most comfortable like this – John is furnace hot and apt to throw off the blankets. Gone slightly softer with age, I am still little more than skin and bones and I will freeze without any cover. Winter nights, Mary and I warm each other beneath the down quilt, John’s arm draped over us, body curled as close as his natural heat will comfortably allow.

“I know you do,” she chides. “I remember you watching him.”

“Hush, my love.” There is a smile in my John’s voice; despite his mother-hennishness, part of him would like nothing more to wake me, and for more than reminiscing.

“You stared at him for so long, I was sure I would find it in your next story.” Her tone is fond and lively, her voice low. “Sherlock Holmes in the light of morning. The sun glinted off his aristocratic features, as brilliant as his remarkable mind. His hands–”

A sudden shift of weight – Mary’s voice goes muffled, cut off in a bark of high-pitched laughter, and John’s arm around my ribs is replaced by the pressure of his good shoulder against my back. She squirms under his hand. My shins take a few blows in their playful struggle, but I do not move.

“–mmf–hmn–breath-taking!” Mary forces the word out between giggles. I fight a smile. It won’t do to let them know I am awake (though I can hardly give credence to their believing otherwise).

I hear John trying to stifle a chuckle. His hand is back at my hip, stroking absently, and Mary’s respiration is returning to normal, the hitch of laughter receding.

“He was lovely,” she says. “Absolutely lovely.” She yawns and settles back onto her pillow, where I can feel the tickle of her breath on my brow. “Like a great, gangly fawn.”

A fawn?

My mouth twitches before I can check my reaction. Mary is laughing again – this time, free and unfettered. She knows I am awake. It is my turn to be teased.

John snorts and ducks his head against my shoulder. Mary strokes a small finger along my hairline, traces down the tip of my nose.

“All arms and legs and knees, trying to take up less space. So nervous and self-conscious.” Behind me, John’s chest is shaking with suppressed laughter. I am determined not to rise to the bait. “Looking up at you with eyes as big as saucers.”

“You’re being cruel, my darling.” John presses a kiss to the nape of my neck – his whiskers tickle so uniquely – and he squeezes my hip. But I will stay asleep; my eyes will remain closed until the waking world is more to my liking. Until it makes a more promising offer.

“But he was so sweet.” Mary is touching my jaw now, fingering a day’s worth of stubble, greying and grizzled. She brings her other hand up to cup my face. “As innocent as a babe, and so in love. I could have died, just watching the two of you.”

“A sweet little death it would have been.” My voice is thick and low with sleep. When I open my eyes, Mary is smiling into them.

“See how uncouth he’s become with age?” She pouts. “I don’t like it, John. Can’t we get the old one back?”

I take her by the shoulders, small bones delicate in my hands. “Not unless you would wish away everything I have learnt since then.”

“You’ve always been a quick study,” John says. He presses his nose into the hair at the nape of my neck, breath hot on my skin, and I shiver. “I’m sure you’d pick it all up as quickly as you did the first time.”

I never expected that I would marry, never intended to cloud my judgement thus. I never thought that I might wake beside another – indeed, I never imagined that I might want to do so.

I can still remember the way his arms felt that first morning, all those years ago. Wrapped comfortably around me, as natural as anything, sleep-heavy and warmly proprietary. The marvel of his golden skin in the dawn light.

No matter how much I see, there are yet many things that I cannot predict. The thought used to fill my scientist’s mind with dread, but now I see things differently.

The day outside is already cold, but we are as comfortable as you please in our little nest of blankets. I doubt we will rise for some time. Mary’s fingers skim across my ribs, finding John’s to twist and twine together. He kisses at my neck and burrows in closer, solid and real and mine. She presses her cheek to my chest, and I nuzzle into her hair. She sighs, and her clever fingers begin to wander.

Why would I want to predict this? John has shown me the sustaining value of a little surprise. Life is the most worthwhile when it offers you things you never would have asked for.

Comments

[ob-af.livejournal.com]

The tension (and relief, plus eventual happiness) Holmes feels throughout this fic is brilliantly done. His feelings before going to their door the first time- so intense. Also, you describe Marys eyes beautifully, and she's amazing in this whole story basically. So good.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your lovely comment - it warmed my heart :)

[bk7brokemybrain.livejournal.com]

Wow. Wonderful suspense and a very sweet resolution. Coming from Holmes's POV throughout, it was especially gratifying to see how joyous he became, never expecting or even imagining this kind of happiness.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for saying so!

[tripleransom.livejournal.com]

Lovely, simply lovely and told with great skill.

I adore how Holmes goes from observing to deducing, despair to hopefulness and finally, happiness. It's hard to work out a threesome fic with any degree of believability, but you've done it perfectly, anon.

I especially like the way you took them on into the retirement era. I'll reread this one over and over.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your kind comment! I'm so happy that my fic has reread value for you :)

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Thank you for a very enjoyable read. What excellent work you've done of each of them.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! Glad you enjoyed it :)

[mistyzeo.livejournal.com]

This is a lovely, lovely picture of their mutual regard for one another. :33333 Such loves.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your sweet comment! I'm so happy you enjoyed it.

[gardnerhill.livejournal.com]

I adore a good Jamlock and this is beautiful stuff. I love the way the realisation just unknots Holmes into happiness even before he stands to take the first step to his marriage chamber.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your lovely comment! And I apologize for the absurdly late reply.

[spacemutineer.livejournal.com]

“Tell me what else you see.”

Oh, this is delicious. The delicacy of Mary's proposition and Holmes' subtle acceptance is just so.... MMMMM. You've hit all the right buttons here, especially in that conversation. SO GOOD.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your kind words! And I apologize for the absurdly late reply!

[fennishjournal.livejournal.com]

Oh, how perfect! Thank you so much!

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

I am so glad you enjoyed it! And very sorry to respond so late, but yes, glad. Thank you!

[mazaher.livejournal.com]

*Fantastic*!!! A threesome in Victorian times is rather hard to introduce (although, I suspect, much less hard to perform once started), but you flawlessly managed to have Mrs. Watson in person introduce it, and in a public place, no less. This is an Olympic-level threesome. Thank you so much!

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

No, thank *you* for your kind words! And I am sorry for the late reply :-P

[mazaher.livejournal.com]

It's a chance to re-read the story =)

[bookblather.livejournal.com]

I posted on Tumblr about two months ago requesting exactly this story.

AND THEN YOU WROTE IT. AND IT IS FANTABULOUS.

GOD BLESS YOU YOU MARVELOUS PERSON YOU. I'm telling everyone about it.

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Oh, I am so glad! I know that feeling and am happy I could provide it. Thank you for your kind words and I am so sorry for this late reply!

[hardboiledbaby]

Masterfully done! A delight to read, thank you!

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your kind words! And I apologize for the absurdly late reply!

[wiggleofjudas.livejournal.com]

fantastic! read this on an airplane flight and it made the time, well, fly by. thank you very much for this keen and perceptive story. <3

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Aww, thank you so much! I'm glad it could make your flight time fly, and sorry for the late response!

[angelislington.livejournal.com]

Bravo bravo!

Such a beautifully written, achingly sweet story, and just what I was looking for, THANK YOU :D

[fleetwood-mouse.livejournal.com]

Wow, thank you so much! I'm sorry to respond so late, but thank you!