And So I Sit and Drabble On

Steadfast

“Sherlock was waiting outside when I got here. He explained what happened. Are you okay?”

Once John slid into the passenger seat, there was scarcely a perceptible pause between his sitting, and Mary reaching out to touch the sore areas of his knuckles; he flexed his fingers as she did, feeling a tender stiffness. No doubt they would hurt tomorrow.

He seemed to sink back into quiet almost-guilt when she admitted that she had been scared, giving a slight nod as if to already know. Though he did not speak for the moment, his face answered instantaneously to the slightest emotion, even to his fainter secondary thoughts; as if these features were not entirely within his control. He could not, in fact, tell precisely what he was expressing; anger, regret, pride? “I’m alright, love. Bit worse for wear, but alright.”

John answered through a shallow exhale, through his mouth, as his nose was still sensitive from the man’s only successful swing. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Really, I didn’t. Getting into a fight was the last thing on my mind tonight.”

As the car turned into the connecting road, John waited before asking about Sherlock, with anxious irresolution. They hadn’t been allowed contact since arriving, and he wanted to know how he was. Though tempted to ask these things, John decided to keep most of the focus on his wife for now. “Sherlock told you about it, then.” He asked, turning his head towards her a little, but looking out of the windshield.

Mary started the car and focused mainly on driving, striving to take John at his word that he was indeed alright. She figured they were all a little shaken, but that was understandable. "I know you wouldn't go looking for a fight, John. But one found you regardless."

John seemed unsettled and Mary didn't know what to say. To say that she understood why he did it, why he likely couldn't have handled that situation any differently, felt like oversimplifying. At the same time, she couldn't let John to continue to fret about her being angry when, strangely enough, she wasn't, not really. Worried and stressed and a little piqued that she'd had to spend some savings on bail money, but not necessarily angry.

She nodded at John's words, relieved to have a way to broach the situation. "He did." In spite of everything, Mary's expression relaxed slightly, turned thoughtful. "He said you were defending his honor, actually."

"I know-" Mary started but cut herself off, hesitating briefly but deciding to continue, eyes locked on the road. "I know you faced a lot the last several years, and you kept it all inside. Even when I tried to help, you'd give an inch, sometimes, but never more than that. It's just not your way and I understand that. But this, fighting for your best friend?" Mary turned her head briefly to gaze understandingly at John, "I'm not saying it was the best thing to have happen, but I don't blame you for it. It's been a long time coming, John."

#jwatson-md

Steadfast

Without a clock in his cell, John could only describe his time inside as ‘dragging’. He and Sherlock had been separated upon arrival, to different rooms for interrogations and statements. After roughly twenty minutes of questioning, John was lead to a cell block, and that was where he remained. He stood for a little while, then sat on the metal bunk and leant light-bodied against the wall, his hands knotted together. He disappeared into something of a thoughtful, meditative state, until he blinked and raised his head, upon hearing the heavy clunk of the cell door.

An officer fully opened the door, standing aside and indicating for John to follow. “John Watson, your bail’s been posted.”

Without word, he rocked forward and stood, letting the man lead him to the front desk of the station. It was plainly obvious that Mary had come to get him, what wasn’t obvious was how she was taking the news of her husband’s arrest. There was context that she might not have known of, in this particular situation, fine sensibilities to grasp; ‘assault’ wasn’t an easy word to justify. He was soon reunited with her, without a word being said between them while Mary exchanged a final few words with the officer. As they left, John dabbed his blood-spotted nostrils with the cuff of his shirt, carrying his jacket over his other arm.

“Thank you.” He said falteringly, as they approached the car.

Mary wasn't at all sure how to initiate this conversation. John definitely retained evidence of a skirmish, blood at his nose and hair noticeably mussed. Mary bid the officer farewell and led the way outside, shoulders shrugged against the cold.

They made it to the car and Mary bit her lip preparing to speak. John beat her to it, though, voicing his gratitude. Mary sighed. The conversation with Sherlock certainly changed her initial reaction to this situation, but she wouldn't lie and pretend like nothing was at all wrong. "You really, really scared me, John." She said, unlocking the door and getting inside the car. She waited for John to join her on the passenger side before reaching for his hand, concerned at the abrasions on his knuckles.

"Sherlock was waiting outside when I got here. He explained what happened. Are you okay?"

#jwatson-md

Making bail.

“I suppose, all things considered, there could have been worse reasons to be called down here to bail him out,” She said with a sigh and a subtle, understanding smile, finally untwisting her hands and stuffing them in her pockets. “Thanks for letting me know what’s going on. I guess…” She hesitated just a little, uncertain if her words would be appreciated but then decided to continue with a tentative smile, “I guess things are slowly falling back into place for you two. From the stories John told me, this seems to be something that would have happened in the past.”

Sherlock smiled, and relaxed a little at Mary’s hesitant acceptance of the situation. “Well, he’s not been arrested for assault before. Wait, no.” Sherlock paused briefly, fact-checking. “He’s never been to jail for assault before.” He nodded that time, technically correct.

“Before… I found healthier ways of dealing with it. With his stress, be it PTSD or otherwise. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped him. Just, don’t tell him I actively worked as his undercover therapist, will you?” He chuckled quietly, blushing slightly. “I don’t think I’d ever live it down. We were just…” Sherlock paused, the smile falling away as a more serious air took over. “We were good for each other, I think. I know he was good for me.” He let his gaze drop to the concrete beneath them, incidentally collecting data from the toes Mary’s shoes.

His chest lurched at the memories the conversation with Mary had brought to the fore. Quickly he felt himself sinking, as if drowning in those memories, overtaken briefly by what it was, and all the potential of what it could have been (if only things were different). He shook himself out of it, walling up that portion of his life once more; this was not the time, the place, nor the company.

Sherlock looked back up at Mary, calm and confident as ever. “You should go inside. Paperwork in triplicate and all.” He offered a smile; unemotive, purely gestural. “I should head home. It was good to see you again, Mary.” Proffering his hand for her to shake, he realised how obviously quickly the conversation changed from the words she’d spoken, to the thoughts in his head. Probably rude, to leave so quickly after meeting again. Still, it was either leave or… reveal far too much. Not like he hadn’t already.

Mary tried to restrain the wince at Sherlock's self-correction and only partially succeeded. John certainly had a colorful past, that much was certain. But as Sherlock continued on with his musings of before, Mary found herself paying rapt attention.

John had never been one to give away many hints at all about how to help ease his way through difficult times, preferring to clam up and shoulder his way through on his own, and though Mary tried so hard to decipher what he needed in any given situation and had gotten quite good at it, it was suddenly quite nice to encounter the reality that Sherlock had done the same thing. Mary smiled back, miming zipping her lips shut. "Your secret is safe with me."

The undertone of the conversation turned briefly somber again and Mary's smile faded as she watched Sherlock fall back into his thoughts; clearly there were still so many jagged edges left to smooth over. But now was apparently not the time, because when Sherlock looked up it was with an air of finality. Mary nodded at him, her grateful smile returning as she took his proffered hand in both of hers. "Thank you, Sherlock. It was good to see you too. I'll let John know you stayed. He'll appreciate it."

Not wanting to lengthen the departure any further since Sherlock seemed a little strained, Mary withdrew with another nod and entered the building. Sherlock hadn't been lying about the paperwork, hadn't even exaggerated, and Mary should have known that he'd been completely serious. She filled everything out that was required and followed an officer into a small waiting room, wringing her hands half out of discomfort from the paperwork and half out of growing nervousness. She was still rather uncertain how John was taking the fallout from his actions, but all she could do was sit and try not to fret overly much.

#jwatson-md

Making bail.

Sherlock shifted awkwardly for a moment, but regained his composure quickly. “Well, not a ‘fight’, exactly. He certainly wasn’t looking for one. We were at the bar; one of the other patrons started… commenting about us. Then he recognised me. Things got… heated. He took a swing at me, I ended up getting thrown into a pile of chairs. Thus this,” he paused, indicating to the staunched cut near his hairline from one of the plastic chairs.

“While I was down, John… stepped in. You know John suffered, while I was away. After after I came back. Some of what the man said, it cut deep. John’s been hearing it for years, holding back from reacting every time. This time he didn’t hold back. The final straw, so to speak.”

Pausing again, Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, comfortable enough with Mary not to need to hide himself as much as he usually would.

“The man was drunk, abusive. He threw the first punch. John was…” He stopped again, a faint smiling curling a the edges of his lips. “He was defending my honour. As well as releasing a few years of anger upon the face of an idiot.”

Mary listened, expression troubled though not necessarily surprised. John had taken a lot of criticism and insults over the past years and Mary knew how much effort it had taken him to shoulder through it. Apparently, John could manage only up to the point where abuse was happening to Sherlock right in front of him before his restraint gave out.

Mary nodded during the brief silence, digesting the information more than agreeing with anything. The fact that John had lost control was still unnerving, but it certainly made sense under these circumstances. Mary noticed the uneasiness in Sherlock's expression, and when he next spoke, the shift to something resembling a small smile. Mary was struck with the importance of the situation at that moment.

Perhaps this was something that needed to happen. John needed to let out that pent up frustration, and though perhaps it sounded strange, maybe Sherlock needed to know that John still had his back in that way. Mary didn't approve of John's actions, but the circumstances dulled the disappointment to something reluctant and more easily understood.

"I suppose, all things considered, there could have been worse reasons to be called down here to bail him out," She said with a sigh and a subtle, understanding smile, finally untwisting her hands and stuffing them in her pockets. "Thanks for letting me know what's going on. I guess..." She hesitated just a little, uncertain if her words would be appreciated but then decided to continue with a tentative smile, "I guess things are slowly falling back into place for you two. From the stories John told me, this seems to be something that would have happened in the past."

#roleplayifconvenient

Making bail.

Sherlock stood outside the police station, dragging deeply on his cigarette. He’d been in the interview room for just over half an hour, repeatedly answering the same few questions over and over. Finally they’d set him loose, only for him to take up residence on the footpath outside. It wouldn’t do to leave John on his own; if he couldn’t be in there with him, then he’d wait out here, instead.

Mycroft had responded to his text as he’d expected, sending ‘round one of his best lawyers (though not the one Sherlock had used in court; that would give an impression John would not benefit from) instead of coming himself. For the best, for everyone. It meant, of course, that Sherlock was now standing on a street corner, leaning against the polished stone wall of the police station building, breathing out smoke and fog like a thin, black-jacketed dragon.

They can’t keep questioning him for too much longer, surely…

He slipped into deep thought for a while, hand and lips still performing the motions of smoking but his mind was elsewhere, replaying the evening in all it’s glory. It was a good night, all told. It was comforting, probably far more than it should be. Not just that John would (still) protect him to the death, but that John would go too far.

John was a good man. Is a good man, and that hadn’t changed, just because he’d nearly beaten a man to death on a bar room floor. His actions didn’t dictate whether or not he was ‘good’; he simply was.

If that’s how it worked for John, then maybe there was hope for…

Sherlock was ripped from his reverie at the sound of familiar footfalls on concrete - Mary. He refocused his eyes, pushing off from the building and standing upright as he nodded to her in greeting while she closed the distance between them.

“One of Mycroft’s lawyers is with him. He’s still in questioning, but he should be out soon enough. Another 20 minutes at most; you can probably use most of that filling out the paperwork. They like it in triplicate and refuse to use carbon paper.” He sighed, bored by the mere description of the paperwork involved.

“Apologies that they had to wake you,” he said with some degree of awkwardness, more comfortable with the boring chat of this end of the legal process than facing the wife of the man who’d now been arrested largely because of Sherlock’s own existence.

Mary walked quickly around the corner of the building and toward the front door, gnawing on her lower lip. She didn't have all the details, but what she did have was enough to have her nervous and verging on frustrated tears. She caught the scent of cigarette smoke on the air and looked up from the ground to see Sherlock stepping away from the wall and toward her.

"Sherlock," Mary started but faltered as the man provided her with immediate information. Mary's chest tightened in concern at the mention of lawyers and paperwork. Somehow she'd held out hope until now that this was all just a misunderstanding. She dropped her gaze again and twisted her hands together until her forearms started to ache.

"Oh, okay." She nodded at the bit of information but didn't know what else to say to it, uncertainty stilling her tongue. Sherlock's shift in tone to something less confident drew Mary's gaze back to his face. He looked uncomfortable and Mary's concern deepened, but her need for understanding finally spurred her tongue.

"What happened, Sherlock? They wouldn't tell me details over the phone. John got in fight?"

#roleplayifconvenient

First Impressions, Again

Sherlock nodded again with a sense of finality, feeling incredibly odd at leaving on good terms. It was amazing how one grew used to conversations ending in yelled words and insults, in slammed doors and tear-stained cheeks.

“Just don’t leave it too long,” he said simply with a kindly smile. “With any luck things will be comfortable again by Christmas. It’d be nice to spend the holidays with you again. ‘Ts been a while.”

Nodding again, mainly because he saw nothing else to do in this surprisingly awkward pleasant goodbye, Sherlock chanced one last fleeting glance at John before turning, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he began the walk home.

Without further word, John parted from the farewell glance and turned his back away. As he crept back towards the front door, he drew his arms back around himself, and dealt a final shiver. He wasn’t particularly sure what caused it, between the biting cold and emotional reflex. Looking somewhat preoccupied, John exhaled a breathy ‘ha’; still able to taste the lingering tobacco in the air.

As he turned to close the door, he cast a last look to the streets. Sherlock was gone.

“Mary.” He called to her from the hall, walking back; for no reason other than to let her know that he was present still. He met her again in the living room, and walked softly to sit with her on the couch. There was a pause before John spoke, as though considering his words. He then turned his face to Mary, gilded with an earnest expression. “He’s okay. He just needed to know that this all wasn’t some kind of .. compensation.”

Several minutes passed and Mary sat chewing her lip and staring down at Oliver's sleeping face. She was sorely tempted to tiptoe after John and see if he and Sherlock were anywhere in sight, but the sleeping baby in her arms kept her stationary. Sherlock's words weighed on her the longer she sat alone in silence. Where did he fit into all of this? There was no question in her mind that she wanted it to work, for both John's and Sherlock's sakes, but the reality wasn't as simple as the conjecture.

She heard the door open and close and John's voice in the hall. Only one set of footsteps paced toward her and Mary's concern grew briefly until John entered the room and she saw that he appeared to be in a pleasant enough state, if perhaps a thoughtful one.

She turned to face him as he sat next to her in the spot that Sherlock had recently vacated. She relaxed upon hearing that Sherlock was alright, "Good, I was worried he might not listen to you. You know I genuinely do want him around John. I know how important he is to you. How much you've missed him." Mary glances down at Ollie for a moment, remembering how easily he'd been lulled into peaceful dreams when his godfather had held him. Mary smiles over at John, "We all like him rather a lot, it seems."

#marymwatson

First Impressions, Again

Only moments later, Sherlock found himself at the front of the house, pulling the front door closed before stopping to breathe, taking a few steps from the door before stopping to fumble in his pockets for the half-empty cigarette box, drawing one out and lighting it quickly, before the regret of walking out hit him.

“Sherlock - ?”

The moment he turned, John stood on reaction and remained quite still in the clearly troubled quiet that Sherlock left behind. This lasted only seconds before he uttered a pardon to Mary and his legs swiftly took him to the front door, the tall silhouette still visible behind the clouded pane. The door opened with a dull clunk, and John stepped out beneath the dark arch of evening.

He also found himself caught in a dim fog of tobacco.

“If you think I’m letting you walk away … ” John was quick to confront him, not hesitating for a moment as he approached Sherlock at his side. “For god’s sake, I need you too, you know.”

The calm cold brought his mind back to the realities of his own life and enabled him to recognise just what it was that he was doing. Sherlock was right; Mary and Ollie were incredibly important and he had responsibilities to them. He would never disregard them for the freedom that came with being ‘unattached’, but at the same time … Sherlock was incredibly important too. Had he ever told him this? “I’m trying, Sherlock. I’m really trying to make everyone happy, including me. Because .. god, I miss it.”

John weakly laughed, but his aspect visibly changed as he continued to speak; growing mournful and quiet. “I know, I know. Acted like I hated it the whole time, but I do. Never being bored, getting into unspeakable danger, the whole ‘Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson’ thing .. I-I miss it.”

Mary's gaze drifted from John to Sherlock and back again. She honestly wasn't sure whether she ought to say anything. John seemed to know what he wanted to say so she just let him say it. The effect his words had on Sherlock was not entirely unexpected, and the second Sherlock moved to hand her Ollie, Mary took him from Sherlock without hesitation. A strong rush of concern flowed through Mary upon hearing Sherlock's words. She didn't at all want him to feel like an interloper. Not at all.

Mary met Sherlock's eyes with a soft expression when he nodded at her, but she remained sitting even when John jumped up to go after him. She shut her eyes, settling Ollie more in the crook of her arm, hoping desperately that John would know what to say and that Sherlock would listen.

First Impressions, Again

With his warnings brushed off, he rose once more and felt a cold dread seize his shoulders. As Sherlock sank into that same fast and lucid tone, John winced as the man immediately launched into a starting subject that was already delicate; Mary’s miscarriage. It had happened years before she and John had met, but years later, she still retained the right to be upset.

Though (this time), Sherlock had managed to identify the emotions surrounding the events, including that of Mrs Morstan’s alzheimers disease. Not completely without tact then.

His head sank guility, his chin meeting his chest as Sherlock recognised their frantic start to marriage. Meeting and marrying Mary in the same year had not been one their better decisions; it had presented problems early on, and John often felt to be the root cause of those problems. He had been hasty after companionship and desperate for a lifestyle change, one that involved some level of stability; safety. Everything he needed, and Mary represented it in bodily form.

The mention, and confirmation, of her jealousy did not help his guilt.

John lapsed back in his seat, arms lay across the length of the chair and his fingers twiddled in agitation. He raised his eyes, lips pursued, with a look that was subtly grave. His look collided with Mary’s, and his aspect visibly changed to one less grim-faced. Sherlock’s aloof genius would take her some getting used to. “Yeah.” He gave his wife a small nod. “He’s .. um, he’s always like that.”

“I did have the distinct advantages of knowing the vaguest elements of your history and seeing your house. My read of John was far less extensive, back in the day.” He replied curtly to Mary, before turning his attention back to John, who was making something of a quiet explanation to his wife.

“Oh, god, you’ve turned into Stamford. Just don’t get fat, I’d lose far too much respect for you if that happened. Anyway, assuming we ever find any kind of… compromise, you need to keep your cholesterol reasonable; can’t have you having a heart attack chasing criminals around London.”

And there it was; the one elephant in the room left directly unaddressed. The silent unresolved issue of John’s attentions. Yes, John had said they would find a way to make it work, but words came so easily. Actions, futures, were much harder to guarantee.

It had not gone unnoticed that no-one challenged Sherlock’s verdict that Mary had won.

Mary conceded a little to Sherlock's reply with a nod of her head, "That's... well. It's still a surprise that you noticed so much. I had no idea what to expect." She looked again at John and somehow felt comforted. How many times had he seen Sherlock do that? She had no idea but that must have been why he tried to discourage it from happening. Mary pushed several of the things Sherlock had brought up out of her mind, unwilling to dwell on them right now.

She listened to Sherlock mildly scolding John, her eyes flicking between him and John and Ollie (who still rested quietly on Sherlock's shoulder, much to Mary's relief), and Sherlock's words slowly sunk in. John, off running around London chasing criminals was a troubling thought. What would she and Ollie do if something happened to him? It didn't bear thinking about. But John needed Sherlock in his life, Mary had no doubt of that, which meant going along with at least some of the things that Sherlock was wont to do. The fact of the matter was, they would need a compromise at some point.

"The idea of you running off after murderers is a little unnerving," Mary said casually with a small smile, trying not to overly draw attention to her concerns as she looked toward John, uncertain if now was the right time for that discussion. "But I agree with Sherlock. No sense adding risk of heart attack to the mix."

First Impressions, Again

The memory of Sherlock’s particular manner when he got into his deductions made the request sit uneasily with John. When his voice became harsh and strident, when he began to show off. ”Um, I don’t know if that’s .. ” He deliberately broke in with a dry, difficult voice and rose in his seat with an effort to discourage Sherlock from complying. “Maybe now’s not the time for it.”

God help if Sherlock brought up something that Mary didn’t want to relive.

“Of course now’s the time for it,” Sherlock said, frowning slightly at John, completely missing the less than subtle attempt at dissuasion. “I’m grounded to the couch as your child’s fallen asleep, and your wife has made a request. I see no good reason why not.”

Turning from John, he looked to Mary, his eyes sharp, looking her over with razor-like precision, the sleeping infant on his shoulder no hindrance to his observational skill.

After a few moments, thirty seconds at most, he nodded to himself, sitting back and regarding her as he began to speak.

“Ollie was your second pregnancy, the first ended in miscarriage, nine… maybe ten years ago. You outsourced your maternal nature to the far less risky venture of teaching; less emotional requirement while still feeling able to ‘nurture’. You were probably terrified when you were pregnant with Ollie as you imagined it was something within yourself which caused the first miscarriage, which is false, genetically you appear completely viable as a child-bearer, as if Ollie wasn’t more than enough proof already.

“You miss your mother but choose not to see her, I’d have to guess dementia -no, alzheimers; you love her but it’s too painful, and she won’t remember if you don’t show up anyway. You have few friends, most likely mainly work collegues, but if you’re honest you don’t care all that much. I doubt you miss it; Ollie is what you’ve been wanting anyway.

“You married John too soon. Oh, don’t look like that, you both know it. He was alone, you wanted to rescue him. He needed it; you did well. And, as it turned out, it worked out, despite your… dubious beginnings.”

Sherlock paused a moment, observing Mary for just a second before continuing.

“You’ve been jealous of me from a few months in, in that even in my ‘death’ John was still loyal to my memory, likely with more dedication than he showed to you for quite some time. You most certainly questioned the nature of our relationship, although never out loud; the… bond between us being far stronger than most in assumed platonic friendships. I can’t blame you for it, but you must feel somewhat… vindicated at this point, seeing that in essence you’ve won. I am important to him, but you are his wife, and despite his attitude at times he is incredibly traditional. And, of course, despite rafts of anecdotal opinion, ‘he’s not gay’.” Sherlock chuckled a little at the old joke, made less offensive by time.

Finally, speech over, having taken longer than he’d been expecting, he looked over to John, then back to Mary.

“So. How’d I do?”

Mary's excitement wavered and she glanced in John's direction with a measure of brief concern when John attempted to dissuade Sherlock from making his observations of her. But she couldn't help it, she wanted to know, and her curiosity prevailed. "Oh, it's fine, John. Really."

Sherlock's gaze on her seemed to tangibly intensify. Mary felt herself succumbing a little to nerves in the few seconds that Sherlock stared, obviously looking for things to reveal. When he started talking, his words seemed to take extra time to sink in and make sense, so that her understanding of them was delayed just slightly, perhaps out of shock. How could he know these things? The emotional struggles with her mother she hadn't even fully explained to John! How could Sherlock see straight through her?

She frowned at his claim that she and John had married too soon (again, how could he know?), and the frown deepened as he continued to delve into somewhat uncomfortable subject matter. Everything he said hit truth. She felt herself starting to blush in earnest, embarrassed as Sherlock revealed some of her less than charitable notions toward him and her fleeting insecurities. She dropped her eyes to the floor, quite unwilling to look over at John just now, and more than unable to keep Sherlock's piercing gaze. At last, Sherlock finished.

Mary swallowed, stalling. The silence hanging in the room was quickly becoming tense and that's not what Mary wanted to happen but her words just wouldn't come. She made herself look up at Sherlock, eyes flicking to Ollie briefly out of habit. Injured pride told Mary to deny several things right off the bat, but what would be the point? Her reactions had already confirmed the truth of it. Mary took a deep breath and let it out, deciding to forego being offended. She'd asked for this, after all, and Sherlock had only delivered. And rather impressively, at that.

"Well..." She began uncertainly, risking an almost apologetic glance at John, before returning her now slightly more awed expression back on Sherlock, "I have no idea how you did that, but you aren't wrong."

First Impressions, Again

He fixed onto that single fragment of Mary’s conversation, and cast a glance to Sherlock. “Remember ‘The Cat and Mouse Killer’?”

The glance moved to Mary, and when he turned it was with a smile so keenly fixed and enthusiastic. “A bloke’s wife goes missing, he starts a massive appeal. Sherlock takes one look at the coverage over daytime television and somehow knows that the husband killed her.” His eyes fell with finality back onto Sherlock. “What was it you said? He was ‘arrogant’ and ‘believed his own story’?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little, but a fine smirk grew on his lips simultaneously, drawing any sense of irritation from his expression. “It was patently obvious, John. Without getting into details - apparently the pig was banned from conversation, I doubt dismemberment would be an appropriate after dinner mint - it was utterly clear he was guilty. For one, basic human behaviour; most people who are falsely accused want their faces out of the papers, as people will remember you as ‘that person’ even if you were innocent. Intentionally choosing popular media? Two, getting the children involved. If she’d run off as he claimed, there would be a paper-trail, but aside from that… surely, if you left John, and he kept Ollie, if he started using Ollie on public media as a weapon to smear your name, you would come forward, yes? I’m inclined to say it’s a ‘mother’ thing, but it’s likely applicable regardless of gender. You would, at the very least, have a lawyer put up a statement asking that he ceases to use your childrens’ images to front his own cause, even if you did it without revealing where you were et cetera. Thirdly, the bravado, good god. No-one’s that confident in those situations unless they’re a genius, a liar, or deluded. Or a combination of the three. Taking the cameras into his -house-, documenting his attempts to find her. It was all so blatantly for show. As far as I’m aware there are no attempts for him to find her, well why would he have, when there wasn’t a camera present. It would have been less suspicious if he was trading in snake oil. Finally, he had all the motive in the world, and she had none. He got the children, some degree of fame, he got rid of her; she, apparently, left with nothing. Totally nonsensical. Add to that points one to three, and there was absolutely no doubt that he’d done it. Why the police failed to prove that for so long is beyond me.”

Finally, reminiscience over, he rolled his eyes. “I should have stopped being surprised at how useless they are years ago.”

Mary listened to John's summary with an interest that only deepened as Sherlock took over the tale. Well, the important details of the tale, at least. She nodded at the assumption that if she were in the same position as the alleged run-away mother that she would indeed have come forward if John were to drag Ollie into the media. It was quite the thought, though. How could anyone ever do such a thing? And yet these types of murders happened all the time. Dreadful.

Sherlock came to the end of his impressively long speech and Mary couldn't help but laugh incredulously, "That's amazing. All that from a single news story? You truly have a gift for parsing something out of what seems like almost nothing, Sherlock." Mary's attention shifted to John, "I remember you told me he did the same thing to you when you met. Picked up impossible clues to tell your life's story after only a few minutes." Mary pauses, looking back to Sherlock with an almost excited glint in her eyes, "What can you tell about my life, then?"

First Impressions, Again

In spite of all John’s reasons, of his absolute certainty, Sherlock managed to settle Ollie almost immediately; accomplishing what was usually a night-long performance in record time.

He had no idea how Sherlock had done it, but it was .. amazing.

There was a pause between words, and John’s amazement seemed to intensify. His eyes large as he looked up at the man, and he accidentally breathed out a small, inarticulate sound of awe. He heard himself, and broke the awed stillness, clearing his throat and resuming a more casual air. “Oh, um. Wow, that was .. good.”

Sherlock smirked at the blatant stares of the parents stood either side of him. “What can I say - maybe he likes the altitude.” His smirk grew a little, and he rocked on his heels slightly, peering down out the corner of his eye to watch as Ollie’s eyes slowly closed, a snuffled noise coming from the tiny infant as it closed one fist tightly on a handful of Sherlock’s shirt.

Well, that’s won Mary over, Sherlock thought to himself, tearing his gaze from child to mother. Unintentional, but still. Maternal love in my favour; who’d have thought it.

“I think dinner’s done. Any chance we could move back to the sitting room? Feels like I’m going to have an attachment for the next while.”

Mary was pleased by John's halting reaction. He certainly hadn't expected this outcome either. Mary's gaze was drawn back to Ollie, nestled so calmly against Sherlock's chest. It was good. Ollie needed to get to know his godfather, and it was even better that it was going so well this early on. Mary's eyes met Sherlock's with a certain measure of fond consideration and she nodded at Sherlock's words.

"Yes, I agree, let's go sit." Mary stood from the table with a glance toward John and gestured the others ahead of her into the sitting room. She felt a little like she should offer to take Ollie back, but chances were he'd start fussing again. Best not to risk the crying, and at least Sherlock seemed fine with the current arrangement, at least for now. Mary was still a bit pleasantly surprised about that and it showed with every glance in Sherlock and Ollie's direction.

"You just say something when you want us to take him, Sherlock." Mary mentioned with a smile as she sat down on the end of the couch, "He likes to fall asleep on John and trap him for hours." Mary shot a fond smile over at John, "I think John likes the excuse to sit with him and watch bad telly, though."

First Impressions, Again

“Keys to cities are symbolic, John. They may open one door in a town hall, but that’s about all. The point is that’s it’s a sign of respect, that’s all.” He frowned a little while longer, but his face returned to neutral as Mary re-entered the room, Ollie starting to fuss about, seemingly growing more agitated as the moments passed for no directly apparent reason.

Eyes on the infant, Sherlock listened vaguely to the exchange of the others. Babies had never been of particular interest (why would they have been?), but it was… curious, to see such a tiny human, swaddled in tiny clothes. And that ridiculous oversized head. Far more interesting in person, even moreso when you knew said human’s creator’s.

His frown returned for just a moment. Best not to put too much traction into that particular line of thought.

He was dragged back from his (blissfully ignorant) reverie by the endless amplitudinal increase. It really was the most awful sound. Some dinner, if this was the evening’s entertainment.

After a few more moments of severely tried patience, Sherlock stood from the same manner, his demeanour clearly displaying his irritation at having to put up with the noise of it. Looking John and the infant over for a few moments (oddly, his focus more on Ollie this time), he sighed a little, nodding to himself in validation of his current thought process.

Unbuttoning the cuffs on both wrists of his shirt, he held out his arms slightly, clearly beckoning. “Pass him here, then. Either he quiets down or I need a cigarette, and I failed to bring any with me.”

At John’s immediate hesitation, Sherlock rolled his eyes, his expression now heavy with the implication of I know how to hold a baby, John. After a few more moments, and a few chanced glances to his ‘other half’, John somewhat tenuously handed Oliver to Sherlock, who promptly placed him against his chest, Ollie’s head resting on the crest of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Resting.

Quietly.

Looking down out the corner of his eye, Sherlock glanced at Ollie, the baby’s eyes bleary but open, apparently staring unfocused at the furniture on the corner of the room. Sherlock shifted a little, keeping one hand firmly against the child’s back, the other arm supporting his weight with his forearm.

Sherlock hummed lightly to himself, utterly content at the sudden total silence which filled the room, Ollie’s slight sighs on exhalation the only real point of noise.

“There,” Sherlock said after a few moments, to no-one in particular. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Mary frowned down at Ollie in concern as he began to struggle again, but she handed him over when John stood and reached out for him. The exchange didn't seem to help. "He was settled upstairs just a moment ago, I'm not sure what's gotten into him."

Mary moved to sit down, but her attention was firmly placed on John as he paced the floor, the small amount of food remaining on her plate forgotten. Poor Ollie was distraught and it set Mary on edge. She gritted her teeth, fretting. Ollie's shrill little cry was simply heartbreaking and John's patient shushing just wasn't doing the trick.

Mary's attention was drawn to Sherlock when the man stood up, clearly irritated, and Mary's spirits fell. She hadn't anticipated Ollie being a nuisance and bothering him and she worried for a moment what Sherlock was going to say.

She had not expected Sherlock to reach out for the baby.

John met her eyes and she glanced between John and Sherlock and back again with a bemused expression, finally offering an small, agreeable nod of her head since John still seemed unsure. It couldn't very well hurt to try, after all. Ollie was maxed out on pique as it was. "Might as well, don't you think?"

John passed the baby over and Ollie settled quite well against Sherlock's shoulder, hiccuped once, and went quiet. Mary grinned in the somewhat dumbfounded silence that followed, relaxing with a sense of relief as the tension from the shrill crying seeped out of the room. This turn of events was unexpected, but hardly a poor one. After a lingering look at Sherlock and Ollie, Mary glanced at John with a an impressed look on her face. "Will you look at that? Sherlock has us both beat." An inquisitive and pleased glance at Sherlock followed, "How did you manage that?"

First Impressions, Again

Remembrance of that miserable time faintly returned to him as his sight drifted away from his guest, who was trying to make his reasons plain and comprehensible. A .. discourtesyon Sherlock’s behalf, but John was reminded that the man had more-than made amends. Hearing the experience from his own lips, John raised his eyes back to him; a shadow of those old moods on his face. He spent no less than five seconds eyeing Sherlock blandly.

Silence, then a deep sigh that faded into a comment. “Could have been a lot worse, I suppose.” John broke in, lifting his eyebrows with the faintest perturbation as he resumed his straighter posture. Dismayed? He might have been, for all of two minutes. He certainly wasn’t beyond looking at those events with the gratitude that his present life was not flowing in the same vein.

“I could have been interrogated by that one copper I took a swing at. He would have jumped at the chance of getting me back for that broken nose, I’m sure.” A faint lightning of humour came over John’s face, and he smirked.

“I doubt the chief super would have interrogated you just for wife-beating, even if he thought you did it. He was only there for me, and even then only there because I’d disgraced his entire line of work and virtually all of his subordinates. Lazy git apparently hadn’t even seen the news; the Reichenbach case was ridiculously well televised - you think shaking hands and being thanked by the NSY DI wasn’t enough of a giveaway that I was working with them?” He rolled his eyes at the inanity of the man who’d taken such pride in his arrest.

“Should have been grateful, the stupid sod. The Yard’s arrest rate for homicide and serious crime has fallen by three percent a year since I left, and their funding’s been cut twice. Considering I wasn’t even paid I think I rather deserved the key to the city, not some mouthy twat lording it over my home.”

His mouth twitched a little, having not been quite that vitriolic about the arrest for quite some time. Still, it felt well-deserved.

“Was a good thing you punched him.”

Mary tried to shake off the lingering sense of discomfort as she climbed the stairs to tend to Oliver, hoping that the two men in the dining room would be finished with that particular conversation by the time she returned. Time had dulled the pangs of those memories, but she had no real interest in discussing what had happened any more this evening. She preferred to focus on the positive just now.

Entering the nursery, Mary didn't bother turning on the light in the room, the light streaming in from the hallway sufficed. She stepped nimbly past the footstool of the rocking chair and approached the side of the cot. "Hey, now, it's alright." She picked Ollie up, cooing at him, "It got dark while you were napping, that's all. No need to fuss."

She changed him and he calmed considerably, and she ventured back downstairs with Ollie held against her shoulder, wide awake. Mary made her way back into the dining room, noticing from the tones of voice that the topic must have changed. She sighed in relief.

She entered the room and caught the tail end of the conversation. She'd opened her mouth to say something about Ollie joining them, but she faltered and looked curiously to John, "Wait, who did you punch?"

First Impressions, Again

“It was only a pig, John. The human remains always had the required paperwork from Barts,” he pointed out, quirking one eyebrow a little. “I stole from a meatworks plant, not a cemetery. Anyway, you’re the one who ran around with a gun more often than not, you can hardly be the moral or legal authority.” He spoke without malice; just proving a point.

“Fine; yelped. In a particularly high-pitched and petrified-sounding way.”

Sherlock took another forkful of the risotto, looking around the room for a moment, becoming growingly more aware of the details of his surroundings as the company became more comfortable. Biting his lip slightly, he noticed a detail he’d missed before now - the 3/4” tall stab wound in the wall, driven with great force by someone approximately 6’ tall.

Sebastian Moran; the note. Of course.

Aware that his attention had dwindled from both food and company, Sherlock reasserted himself, dragging himself back to the current time.

“I, ah… I feel I owe you something of an apology. The note that Sebastian left after he attacked Mary; I took it, when you were at the hospital. I needed to find Jim, and that was the best clue I had. I know it made things difficult with Lestrade when you expected to have evidence but found none.”

Mary contented herself with watching John splutter out his explanations as she continued to eat. Her eyebrows rose a little now and then as certain details came from either of the two men, but they spoke with such fluid candor that she couldn't bring herself to interrupt until they'd come to a pause.

"Yelping is much better than squealing, dear, don't worry." Mary reached over and patted John's hand lightly as she smiled an encouraging (if still quite amused) smile, and allowed the amusement at John's expense to cease. Silence descended around the table for a moment as they all ate in peace, but when Sherlock spoke again, Mary looked up with a falling expression. The memories of the attack had been dampened by the passage of time, but they still brought with them a decided lack of good-humor that she wasn't quite equipped to handle revisiting twice in one evening.

Mary glanced at John and was about to say something, anything really, to fill the awkward silence, when Ollie did it for her. The perturbed wail over the baby monitor broke through the room and Mary winced, offering an unsure smile to John and Sherlock in turn as she stood and pushed her chair back from the table.

"I'll, uh... I'll just go tend to Ollie and then I'll be right back." Ollie's determined cry hastened her departure from the table, but she had enough forethought to switch the monitor off before leaving the room, letting the atmosphere of the dining room fall back into quiet.

First Impressions, Again

“Oh god, that.”

John shuddered, but slipped into a turn of gentle humour. Tactfully, he waited until he had swallowed his forkful before placing his input. “That tub stank for weeks, and yeah, obviously I couldn’t write anything about that. If Scotland Yard were reading, which they were, he would have been banged up for stealing from London’s meat traders.”

At long range, he passed Sherlock a silent, knowing look; his brow sternly contracted. /And yes, I know you stole it. Don’t pretend you didn’t./

His eyes fell away with sentimental resignation, it was a funny old memory by now. John hovered back over his plate, muttering as he poked a cluster of rice around. ”I couldn’t shower without smelling like putrefied swine.”

“Of course I stole it. For one, buying an entire pig carcass would leave a papertrail; even the folk who butcher them themselves usually don’t want the head. Secondly, do you know how much an entire pig carcass costs? You were the one who was always going on about my exorbitant spending habits.” Sherlock smirked, chuckling a little under his breath before taking another mouthful of the rice.

“If I’d come home,” he started again, pausing to swallow, “and announced ‘I’ve just spent a couple ‘hundred pounds on a dead pig, which we can’t eat, and also you can’t use the bath for a few days’, I doubt you’d have been very impressed. The squeal was much more rewarding.”

Mary listened in stifled amusement to the conversation for a moment, gauging John's reaction more than anything as she continued to eat. Stories about dead pigs, while not anywhere near appropriate dinner conversation, were thankfully not enough to put her off her appetite.

"Yes, the squealing, John, that's the part of the story I was interested in hearing about." Mary teased with an almost mischievous smile, "There are plenty of other questions, like what on earth was the pig for, and how did you manage to steal it and get it all the way to Baker Street," A glance at Sherlock before looking back at John, "But the pressing element of the story is clearly the squealing. Sherlock thinks that why you never told me."

First Impressions, Again

When Sherlock broke in with his blunt notes, John’s shoulders seem to sink; heavy with the embarrassment of being clumsily caught out. Clearly, his concerned glances had been less than well-hidden. With the possible interpretation that John no longer had the right to observe Sherlock with a doctor’s eye, no matter how good the intentions. That level of trust had yet to be rebuilt.

“Okay.” He answered, lowering his tone to a mutter and looking to ‘passively’ return to his food. “Good to know.”

His serenity was ruffled, but not at all discomposed. The evening had to move peacefully and prosperously on, and with that in mind, John cleared his throat and turned to Sherlock once again after a too-heavy pause. ”So, these cases. I heard you’ve had a few coming in?” Quickly, John reckoned the balance by including Mary, who had fallen short of words. “I used to, um .. used to tell Mary all about them.”

Satisfied to leave the matter rest, Sherlock nodded. “Only a couple, really. It’s not like it used to be, not yet. At this stage anyone with any kind of official standing is too scared to come near me, which, well. More fool them. But it’s been enough to get by. The rent gets paid, my phone has service. It’s not the dollar figures I was working with beforehand, but…” he sighed a little, attempting to remind himself of the positive. “It will do for now.”

“And yes, Mary was telling me about your storytelling. I told her you missed out the one about the pig carcass in the bath-tub; remember?” He offered a small smile to them both in turn.

Assured that the conversation was delving back into more comfortable territory after the long pause, Mary's contented interest picked up again and she smiled at John when he mentioned her. Sherlock's answer to John's question differed from his answer to her when she'd asked a similar one. He seemed to be concentrating on the good of the situation a bit more this time. That was promising.

She returned Sherlock's smile with a knowing one of her own before turning an innocent, though inquisitive, expression on John. "Yes, why have you never told me that story, John? Certainly sounds like one you wouldn't have forgotten about easily. Sherlock mentioned that you didn't take the discovery of the pig very well...?"

First Impressions, Again

At Sherlock’s dismissal of the wine, John held a gaze on him and said, with a humourous inflection in his voice. “What, you’re a teetotaler now?” A smile flickered over his face, just before he turned away to fill Mary’s glass up.

“Oh it’s just basic risotto, hardly Gordon Ramsay standard.” He replied half-laughingly as he concluded pouring her wine, then setting the bottle down. When he tried the food for himself, he noted with hearty pleasure that it was indeed delicious. The rice was perhaps a tad overdone, thanks to minutes of stalling, but hardly enough to declare it ruined. He added, with a note of self-satisfaction. “Not bad though.”

The subject at hand reminded John quickly of how sensitive he was to Sherlock’s current appearance. He had always been very thin, but now he seemed near skeletal. John lowered his head, seemingly digging into his food, though with an inconspicuous sidelong-blink every now and then, towards Sherlock. Even for Sherlock, that level of ‘wasting away’ was bad. When presented to him, he had looked at the meal as though it was made of gold. Risotto. Risotto. The meal Sherlock had eaten a thousand times in the past.

It begged the question, /When the hell did he eat last?/

Sherlock’s expression fell serious for a moment, and he frowned for just a second, slightly irritated at the implication that there was something wrong with that. “Yes, I am, actually,” he said curtly, letting the issue fall to the wayside as conversation continued.

Enjoying the meal, as delicious, warm and satisfying as it was, was made somewhat more difficult by the constant glances coming from the head of the table. Can a man not eat without it being a spectacle, John?

At the 7th glance in just over a minute, held slightly longer than the ones before, the reason for it became too utterly obvious to deny, the concern (as a doctor or as a friend?) clear in those flashes of blue iris.

“Yesterday,” Sherlock said, answering John’s unspoken question. “But if you’re referring to full meals, then Tuesday, from Angelo’s. I pick something up once a week or so. If it means you’d stop watching me eat, I’d much rather you just asked out loud next time.”

Ice broken, he decided to continue, his tone neutral despite the nature of the conversation. It was information, not pity-seeking. “And yes, I am aware of how thin I am at the moment. And just to save you thinking them, the answers to what you would have asked next: no, I don’t have any significant long-term health problems, no, I’m not using, and yes, your risotto is lovely. Can we now move on?”