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.
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.
John had barely spoken since leaving the hospital.
Upon discharge (in the Chelsea area. Turns out Moran had decided to torture them in Chelsea, closer to home than he thought), John had been carted off by a flash-looking black car with a sharp-suited babysitter in the backseat. Could only mean one thing - Mycroft taking charge.
Though robbed of his voice, too many thoughts harassed John’s mind all at once - day and night. He’d prayed for a miracle, and there it was. On the telly screen, practically laughing at him. The news, the mindnumbing news, had shook him to his core, devastating him with an explosion of strong changes - and leaving him depleted and empty. Only a ticking brain inside a broken body, staring at the grainy face of the man he thought was his best friend.
Once again John was silent in front of the television screen, watching an endless stream of newscast repeats. Sitting back, his elbow propped on the arm of the couch and the side of his face sunk into his palm. His leg cast out in front of him and a pair of crutches leant against the wall.
What a complete and utter mug.
***
True to Mary’s word, a car arrived within minutes of her last text. The driver immediately opening the door for the very lost Frankie and motioning her inside. She spent the entire journey clutching her handbag in silence, not daring ask for fear of an answer. The whole thing had that classified feel about it, which just made the unknown feel all that more threatening.
When the car finally pulled up, the driver let Frankie out and lead her down the driveway of what looked to be an ordinary house. Though when she glanced about the street, she couldn’t for the life of her name the area. It took half an hour to drive there, for god’s sake.
The driver, for some reason, had a key to this house and let himself in, leading Frankie into the kitchen area. Where he sat her down, assured her that her things had already been brought over, and that he would bring her sister to meet her. As the man left the room, Frankie could only clasp her hands together across the table surface and stare with a perplexed frown.
***
Mary was worried. So very gut-wrenchingly worried. John was recovering physically, and as well as anyone could hope for after all he’d been put through. He was using the crutches well enough, and while he wasn’t eating or sleeping as much as she thought he should be, his lack of motivation for either activity wasn’t enough to be seriously alarming. But the way he just sat there, watching the news. The same news reports over and over, his expression never changing. It made Mary feel ill. This was just not right. She had no way to fix this. She didn’t even know where to start. Nothing she could say could make this better.
She knew she should be paying more attention to what was happening around her but she couldn’t bring herself to take it in. She was spending too much time in far corners of the house crying all the tears that John seemed unable to cry. Or maybe he should be fuming, or screaming, or something, she didn’t know what. Anything but the never ending silence. She felt so vulnerable, no matter how reassuring Mycroft’s people had been, she didn’t feel safe anymore. It was difficult to sleep at night, since half the time she went to bed alone when John stayed up to watch the news and she ended up laying there with her head racing for hours until falling into a restless, dream-befuddled sleep.
She had felt jogged back to reality when Frankie texted her. She couldn’t believe that she had forgotten about her completely. She had asked one of Mycroft’s people if they could bring her to the safe house and within minutes a car had been sent. Mary was still staring out the bedroom window, her phone in her hand when Mycroft’s aide (she really should have thought to ask for his name, but she always forgot to) stopped in the doorway and informed her that Frankie was waiting in the kitchen.
When she entered the room, Frankie was sitting and staring at the table. Mary cleared her throat lightly and walked over, sitting down without a word, and staring at her hands. It felt unreal to see her sister. Her stomach fluttered and she felt ill again, and so very tired. She wasn’t used to being at a loss for words. “I don’t know where to begin with this, Frankie.” She swallowed heavily, unable to meet her sister’s eyes, “John got out of hospital three days ago. He’s alright, but he was hurt very badly. Sebastian Moran…” She shook her head, the words refusing to come out no matter how hard she tried to force them, her tears too close to the surface to keep trying so she went a different route, “But John’s okay. He’s on crutches, but he’s okay. Sorry, it’s hard to talk about this.” She risked a glance up at Frankie’s face, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you about what happened.”
***
When her sister entered the kitchen, Frankie lifted her head and had every mind to demand an explanation on the spot. But Mary’s beaten down, and generally upset, appearance struck her silent and her somewhat tense expression faded. She looked terrible, even worse than the first time round. Her usual glow completely gone, replaced with this sickly white and puffy eyed appearance. This wasn’t ‘sunshiney Mary’, this was a sort of gloomy that put even Frankie to shame.
As Mary snivelled, she opened her handbag on the tabletop and produced a small packet of Kleenex tissues. Offering them to her, Frankie said. “You look ill, do you know that? It’s all this stress.”
Honestly, all this worrying about John. He was a big boy, he could take of himself. While her sister mopped her face, Frankie cleared her throat and lowered her voice down. “… Was it another attack?”
***
Mary gratefully took the tissues from Frankie and tried her best to compose herself. She took a deep breath in and let it out in a rush. It shook less than she thought it was going to. She ran her hands over her hair, messily pulled back in a ponytail, suddenly self conscious. When was the last time she’d looked in a mirror? She couldn’t have guessed the answer to that. “I feel ill. And shaken, and so very tired, Frankie. I don’t know how all this has happened to us.”
She bit her lip, resting her forehead on the heels of her hands, her elbows propped on the table. Her voice sounded hollow in her own ears, and she spoke the words to the table, unable to look up at her sister, sticking to the bare necessities of the story as the details were far too gruesome for her to recount, “Moran kidnapped John. And he hurt him, but he’s going to be ok. We can’t go back to the house until things have settled down, though. It isn’t safe there.”
***
Chucking her bag under the table, Frankie folded her arms across the tabletop and sucked her lips into a tight, straight line. She couldn’t pretend that she was the one to go to for rousing pep talks, and to be honest Mary didn’t look like she was in the mood to listen to someone harping on about how things would get better. There was never any promising that.
Moran. She nodded as she recollected the name from the first attack. “How the police are letting this guy slip through their fingers is beyond me.”
Again, she nodded. Though this time with an obvious look. “I sort of reckoned, with the amount of coppers swarming your place. Any idea why you’ve suddenly become a hot target?”
***
Mary shifted her hands, resting her chin against her clasped fists and finally glancing at Frankie, if only for a moment before she turned her gaze to Gladstone as he padded over to her. She dropped a hand to his head and rubbed at his ears.
Mary felt the stirrings of her typical afternoon headache beginning to dance behind her eyes. But talking to someone was still bound to be a small relief. Mary found it a bit odd that the someone was Frankie in this case, but she wasn’t going to complain. She didn’t see eye-to-eye with her sister on very many things, but she knew Frankie still cared about her.
“John had his suspicions before, but now with all of the things that have happened… Frankie, I don’t know what to think. And John is barely talking at all, let alone about what happened. I have no idea what’s going through his head and it worries me.” She shook her head, sighing almost in defeat, “John’s in watching the news. It’d be easier to show you. Come on.” She pushed the chair back from the table and stood, Gladstone getting to his feet next to her, and she lead the way into the room with the television.
***
Not the most direct of answers, but Frankie decided to let it lie for the time being. Their pudgy dog trotted in, looking for some attention as she could only suppose he wasn’t getting it from his master, or the guards that were looming around. It made for a miserable atmosphere, with Mary upset and John apparently not communicating. It made Frankie feel like she was meant to be the pleasant one.
Mary stood, and Frankie did the same. Leaving her bag and coat behind, she folded her arms over and floated behind her sister as she lead her into what looked like a living room. The blinds partly drawn and the television blearing away. Frankie needed to do a double take when she saw John, he looked as bad as Mary. He didn’t even look up when they walked in, just staring lifelessly. She saw that his left leg was in a recovery cast and there were bruises, imprinted on his neck.
Swallowing in the awkward silence, she lingered in the doorway and uttered rather stiffly, “You alright, John?”
***
John remained staring unblinkedly ahead, the corner of his forehead inclined into his knuckles. Not even reacting when Gladstone padded in and hopped beside him on the couch, quietly whining for affection and eventually resting his head on John’s thigh. All John did was let him.
The dog was followed shortly, Frankie apparently having arrived. He hadn’t heard the front door, then again he hadn’t been listening for it. The only acknowledgement he made was a low murmur, his eyes fixed forward and refusing to turn. It tormented him, watching all the circulating telecasts. But he couldn’t stop, as though he was finally getting the answers he had been waiting for and if he so much as blinked, he would miss it.
No matter how sick they made him feel.
***
Mary watched John’s non-reaction to Frankie’s arrival with a sharp pang of sadness. She moved past the couch and sat in the armchair, almost grateful that Gladstone had taken up the rest of the space next to John. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting next to him and having him disregard her like that. Her eyes flicked to Frankie and she gestured to the chair opposite her for Frankie to sit, before turning her gaze reluctantly on the television. The news was blaring about Sherlock Holmes’s arrest. As it had been for days.
She looked at Frankie, suddenly nervous to talk about what had happened with John sitting right there. She should have known it wouldn’t be easier to come in here. “So,” she said, nodding her head toward the television, and taking the simplest way out that she could think of. “I suppose you’ve seen the news, then?”
***
Completely missing Mary’s gesture, Frankie perched herself rigidly on the far end of John’s couch. Half-sitting on the arm, as it was the space nearest to the door. She didn’t intend on stopping in the room long, the atmosphere being as uncomfortable as it was. She glanced at the television set as Mary asked her if she had seen the news, to which Frankie grimaced.
“Hard to miss. I can’t buy a newspaper without reading different takes on the latest terrorist activities. If it’s not this lot, it’s another.” She grumbled, folding her arms back over and sighing as if the whole thing was simply ridiculous. The television cut to clips of the arrests, including the one of the ringleader - Sherlock Holmes. A name that was plastered everywhere. “Oh, and I am so sick of hearing about this ‘Sherlock’ guy. The police are stupid for not jailing him the first time around, it’s that obvious he’s mad and shouldn’t be forced upon the public. He deserves life.”
***
Pinching the corner of his forehead, John had to shut his eyes for a minute. Too much going on in one room. The telly blaring, Mary talking, Frankie going at it non-stop - the only time that woman had anything to say was when it was negative, and guaranteed to put everyone around her in a mood as black as her’s.
His closed eyes contracted into frown, squeezing harder as Frankie just kept going. She didn’t know a bloody thing, and she definitely didn’t know Sherlock. Not the way John did, or the way he thought he did. For three years he had rolled with the punches, everything the world had thrown at him. At them, with nothing but blind faith to cling onto. But he couldn’t fight them anymore, and he definitely couldn’t fight against his sister in-law’s cutting words.
“Shut the fuck up!” John snapped, throwing his hands down. Voice as sharp and sudden as a hard slap, so abrupt it made Gladstone jump. “Seriously Frankie, shut the fuck up.”
With that, he grabbed a crutch that was leaning on the wall (he hated using both of them) and stole out of the room. Leaving behind yet another uneasy silence.
***
Mary’s eyes slowly widened in appalled surprise as Frankie went off on her tangent. How could she? She was ranting about Sherlock, and John was right there. Was she trying to cause an uproar? What was she thinking? Mary gaped in stunned silence, unable to get a word in as Frankie wasn’t paying attention to her warning expression.
Mary sensed the outburst from John a split second before it happened. The way he tensed was a dead give away. Like his hackles had risen. His shouted words startled Gladstone and made Mary jump as well. He hobbled from the room and Mary couldn’t even watch him leave, her heart beating too fast and her eyes still fixed on Frankie, now with a growing fury behind them as she regretted even asking for Frankie to be allowed to come here. “Why the hell would you say something like that, Frankie?”
***
Frankie was startled, along with everyone else in the room. Stunned, in fact. Until now John had always seemed mild mannered, and at least made the effort to force politeness even if he didn’t feel it. She stared senselessly, careful to keep her mouth tightly closed (as it was at risk of hanging open in awe). More dazed than obedient, she did indeed ‘shut up’.
John stormed out, taking the thundercloud hanging over his head with him. Leaving Mary to pick up where he left off, to which Frankie became suddenly defensive and stood. “Me? What the hell is wrong with your husband?” She protested, her voice high. “It wasn’t like I was telling him stuff he didn’t already know, he was watching the news! What’s his problem?”
***
Performing at a pace that caused him more discomfort than speed, John carried on hobbling until he left the house into the back-garden. A modest affair with a slab of patio, patch of grass and an unused kid’s swing. He threw himself down onto the one bench, perched back-to-back with the wall of the house and overlooking the view of the plane.
He stared straight ahead with a blank, expressionless (if a little flushed) face and his fists curled tightly on his lap. Mulling over every word in his head, stuck somewhere between intense anger and complete devastation. He wasn’t alone for long, however, as he heard the light patterings of dog paws. Gladstone, almost identically to before, jumped his podgy body up onto the bench, and placed his head ontop of John’s thigh. Though this time, he blinked up at his master. Looking up at him with big, sad eyes. A look that was almost mournful.
A moment passed before John released the tension in his shoulders, looking down at the dog and placing his hand on his head. Slowly nodding to himself as he massaged a small circle between Gladstone’s ears, then giving his back a pat as if to thank him.
John finally managed to leave his impassive limbo, bowing his head as his face began to crumple. The emotional balance tipped, and he quietly cried.
***
Mary stayed sitting even though Frankie stood. She wasn’t as easily moved to physical reactions as her sister was. She suppressed the urge to speak over her, instead letting her finish. Mary shook her head, realization dawning on her and she covered her face with her hands.
“Oh Frankie,” her anger abruptly evaporated, leaving behind the ill feeling that she was getting all to used to experiencing lately. “John knew Sherlock. They were friends; they worked Sherlock’s cases together. John wrote the blog about Sherlock, surely you’ve heard of it?” She paused to let her words sink in to their full effect, “And now Sherlock is apparently back from the dead. John… isn’t taking the news well.”
***
“Oh jesus.”
Slowly, it dawned upon her. Of course, Frankie remembered when Sherlock Holmes had been in his prime all that time ago. On the front of every paper, singing his praises until the ‘suicide’ and, ultimately, the truth came to light. In the pictures beside him, there was always this little man that Frankie never properly looked at. But all these years later, she never would have guessed.
“God, Mary.” She sighed, shaking her head as though Mary had just done something monumentally stupid. “You married the blogger? Sherlock Holmes’ blogger?”
With that came a lesser aftershock. The way the papers printed it, ‘confirmed bachelor’, she thought that he had been .. less inclined towards women.
***
Mary bristled at Frankie’s tone, the frustration and anger and fear that had built over the last terribly stressful span of time finally culminating in a way she could hardly think to contain. How dare she? After all Mary had been through with her crippling fear over John’s kidnapping, to his touch and go recovery in the hospital, to the dreadful silence from him the last several days that she feared would never cease, she absolutely could not bear the scorn Frankie threw at him so callously.
She rose steadily to her feet, glaring at her older sister, “John was right, you do need to shut up.” She took a step forward, her hands clenched at her sides, ”John is a good man. The best. You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. How could you possibly? You’ve been too busy getting kicked out of so-called-friend after so-called-friend’s houses due to your own inability to trick anyone into tolerating you for long to pay any attention to what’s happening to people in your own damn family.” She spat the words out, livid, not caring that she was only speaking to wound. She had had it.
***
Frankie had to step back, as it all seemed to be coming out at once. She didn’t mean for a moment to cast any doubt over John’s virtue, likewise she hadn’t meant to insult either of them. But that was just the way of it, tensions high and Frankie not being known for her choice of words. She stood like an immovable statue as her sister tore into her, remaining outwardly undisturbed.
When she finished, Frankie simply nodded with her lips pursed. “Okay .. well. I’m just going to, um.. take my things upstairs.” She excused herself and swept out rather quickly. Ignoring her single bag in the hallway and fleeing immediately upstairs, with an awful sinking shame in the pit of her stomach. Going to deal with the realisations, and her inability to be ‘tolerable’ (as Mary put it), the only way she was accustomed to.
Alone.
***
Mary stood still, aghast at her own outburst as Frankie quickly picked up her things and fled upstairs. She clenched her fingers into fists to keep her hands from trembling. She didn’t know what had come over her. She felt dizzy and she sat back down to gather her wits about her, hiding her face in her hands. Her breathing sounded far too ragged in her ears and she tried to calm down. She hadn’t lost her temper in… she couldn’t remember when. She didn’t do that. Maybe she really was getting sick from all the stress. Mary kept the tears from coming but only just. She was disgusted with herself, shifting abruptly from sad to angry to overwhelmed so many times a day had worn her out completely. She’d need to apologize to Frankie, but it was best to let her have some time alone first. Mary knew this from experience.
She looked up from her hands around the room. The television was still blaring the news. She paused and watched it for a minute. Sherlock Holmes. A name that was only important to her because of what he had meant to John. John. She stood up quickly, making her way out of the room in the direction John had gone. She walked through the house; he didn’t appear to be inside and neither did Gladstone. She glanced out the window into the garden, had he gone outside? She opened the door slowly, sticking her head out. John was sitting on the bench, Gladstone beside him. Mary’s breath caught in her chest. John was crying. She slowly shut the door of the house behind her and walked over, stopping just in front of where Gladstone was laying. The dog lifted his head and jumped down off the bench to sniff at her feet. She stepped past him and sat next to John, reaching out tentatively to grasp his hand, “John? I’m so sorry about Frankie, she…” Mary swallowed thickly, hating the fact that she wasn’t sure what to say, “She didn’t know.”
***
The sorry silence only lasted so long, before Gladstone fell away from the bench only to be replaced by company a bit more reciprocating. John did bristle and rub his reddened eyes, but made little attempt to hide the fact that he was upset. He couldn’t be bothered playing it stoic anymore, and Mary had seen him under grief more than once.
His hands fell to his lap, and Mary was quick to seize. She held his left, which lay limp for seconds until it responded. Turning shakily over and closing the space between their fingers. Probably the only real interaction he had had with anyone for days. “It doesn’t make her any less right though, does it? We were stupid.” John spoke in a soft, low voice. His face flushed and teary tracks left down his cheeks. “I was stupid.”
***
Something relaxed in Mary that she had no idea had been on the verge of snapping from tension, when John finally gripped her hand in return. He was responding. Maybe she could help fix this after all.
She listened to his words, as difficult as they were to hear him say, so full of shattered faith and misery. She gripped his hand tighter, bringing her other hand over to lay on top of their joined hands, her voice sincere. “Please don’t say that, John, you weren’t stupid.” John hadn’t ever been fully or comfortably forthcoming about Sherlock, but his insistent stubbornness about the man’s authenticity had always been very plain to see. She knew that John had had his reasons for his loyalty to Sherlock, but now, with the light shed on the faked death, the kidnappings, and the terrorist activities, she knew that John’s faith had suffered the worse blow imaginable. “There was no way you could have known that this was going to happen.”
***
“No, no I was.” John uttered, as if it was simple. He had to be stupid, to put so much trust into someone. That much blind confidence. Even stupider for sticking it out as long as he had, putting his life on hold for a man that evidently didn’t give a damn. What had John done, to make Sherlock act this way?
Did he really hate him that much?
He shifted a little in place, rotating himself into Mary’s space to speak in more confidence, though he kept his eyes on the ground. “I used to think he was so.. ” John felt his eyes begin to blear, his vision blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced it away. “.. so amazing. My best friend. Now it’s like I didn’t know him at all.”
***
“Oh, John.”
Mary shifted one of her hands out of John’s grasp and placed it on his shoulder lightly. She wished she had known him when Sherlock was… well, before Sherlock had faked his death. She could have seen how they were together, what John was now remembering as a lie. She wasn’t sure what to say. She decided to make sure she understood how John felt before she tried to offer advice.
“You’ve been watching the news for days. Do you think everything they’ve been saying about Sherlock is true? You know how the media can blow things out of proportion, John. They said terrible things about you before, too.”
***
John hadn’t been fair to Mary, he knew as much. That knocked about in his head along with everything else. Sometimes he even wondered why she bothered, sticking around for a disaster of a man. Always seeing herself come second best, and to who? Sherlock Holmes. A guy that inexplicably upped and left, then set about ruining what was left of their lives. What did that say about John?
That he was stupid.
He didn’t answer her, not audibly. He simply gave a mingled shrug and glanced down, as though it didn’t matter. Not the most direct approach, but he could offer little else. “The police have been in touch. Asking about a witness statement.” He muttered, finally turning to his wife and when he spoke, his voice receded. As if he had removed to a greater distance. “They want me to goto court, Mary. They want me to stand.”
***
Mary watched the cogs whirring behind John’s eyes before he dropped his gaze too far down for her to see them any longer. He had shrugged though. Mary frowned slightly. So John didn’t know what to think, then. That didn’t help matters at all. Mary wished so badly that she could think with a clear head.
Her eyes fell on the cast on his leg and she felt her stomach lurch. Could John’s best friend have done something so terrible to him? Mary still had the shadow of the fading bruise from Sebastian Moran’s pistol high on her cheek bone, and the cut under her eye would leave the faintest of scars, but a scar nonetheless. If Sherlock Holmes was responsible for these things, among the countless other accusations being lodged against him, then they needed to know. John especially.
“Then you should, John.” Mary urged, her voice fervent. “Where else are you going to get any answers from?”
***
There was a genuine disarrangement in John’s face. He hadn’t properly formulated what Mary might say, or even what he expected she might say. When he had been called about the matter, he had every mind to immediately hang up. But, curiously, John let the officer on the other end of the line talk him round to considering it - and he had been ‘considering’ ever since.
Not to welcome Sherlock back with welcome arms, though he had no doubt that if he did stand for him, he would eventually have to face his old friend. But to put an end to it. Maybe then John could move on, and Sherlock could do whatever the hell he wanted to do.
With a resignated sigh John leant forward and nested his head on Mary’s chest, in an effort to disentangle himself, feel some comfort, and maybe (just maybe) think almost with composure. He sat there for many minutes, eyes closed as though he meant to fall asleep. Until he uttered, “I’ll have to, won’t I?”
***
Mary could tell immediately that John hadn’t anticipated her response, but it was her turn to be surprised when he leaned over, resting his head against her chest. She felt a pang shoot through her and she brought her arms around him, holding onto him as he sought comfort from her. She let her fingers run through his hair, smiling just barely as she realized how badly he needed a hair cut, and she kissed the top of his head lightly. It seemed to be helping, he seemed almost relaxed enough to fall asleep.
He spoke all the sudden. And she was jarred out of her meandering reverie and back to the issue at hand. “I really think it will help, John.” She rested her cheek against the top of his head, still threading her fingers slowly through his hair, “You can decide what to do with all the information once it’s on the table. No matter the outcome of the trial, knowing the truth will be better than always wondering.”
***
This guidance found him unresponsive for a short while, exhausting it in his mind while Mary held him and fondled his hair. She had always been brilliant at this sort of thing, gently pushing him towards what he needed. Even if it wasn’t what he necassarily wanted, John needed to put this whole thing to rest.
Somewhat withheld, he neither confirmed or dismissed the matter as he sank deeper into his wife’s embrace. Letting her take him out of himself, just for a little while, then maybe he could stop struggling with his own mortality and decide just what action he would take. “Thank you.” John spoke, gravely, and though the words were trivial the manner gave them significance.
He had been on his own for three months, and in that time, John had managed to single handedly detach himself from the outside world. Ignoring phone calls, emails. Even failing to care about being let go from his job at the clinic (down to continued downgrade in performance, as well as missing his shifts). Nothing could touch him anymore. Not even the papers, even though they were trying their damned best.
***
The elderly gentleman sitting next to her got up and made his way to the door of the bus. She looked around and she saw a few people climb on the bus so she refrained from shifting her bag to the seat next to her, instead leaving it open for someone to use it. She turned her attention back on the book in her hands, hoping to get lost in the words before anyone sat down and tried to speak to her. She was mid-chapter after all.
***
There were two or three people with him at the stop. Kids in uniform, just having finished school. They all moved aside to let an old man gently crane himself out of the bus, then ambling on before John could get a look in. No point in battling little kids for a bus seat.
He boarded just after them, flashing his veteran’s bus pass to the driver then casting a defeated look down the length of the aisle. Packed, absolutely stuffed with people. Why did drivers even do that, load the buses up beyond capacity? God’s sake. Not bothering himself with the hassle of trying to find a seat through that lot, John decided to tough it out a bit longer and grab onto a strap-handle. But the bus suddenly started with a jerk, the whole thing giving a rude bump and making people grab onto the nearest thing to them to avoid falling over.
But John wasn’t quite fast enough. He lurched forward and lost the support under his walking stick, meeting the floor face-first.
***
Mary’s face was buried in her book as the doors of the bus closed and two of the newly acquired passengers shuffled past her toward the back. She didn’t particularly enjoy taking the bus, she had plenty of things on her mind on any given day, and the bus offered too much distraction.
She was able to block it out pretty effectively most of the time, but when the bus lurched into motion and the last of the newest passengers stumbled and face-planted in the aisle no more than an arm’s length away, it broke her concentration immediately and her head snapped up. She hurriedly put the book down, not bothering to mark her page, and half stood to lean over him, her bag falling and spilling on the floor. She reached a hand out and helped him up, guiding him to sit next to her, her voice concerned, “Hey, are you alright? Did you lose your balance?”
***
John groaned into the ground upon impact, his face squashed into whatever people had been walking onto the bus floor. He was still in a partly-stunned state when he was jostled by the arm by one of the bus-goers, quickly giving way to a state of agitation. He grabbed onto a standing bar with one hand, using the other to make an aggressive grab for his walking cane - determined that he could pull himself up. He staggered to his feet himself, but let the woman guide him to a nearby corner seat. Slumping down miserably, with a frown that seemed permanently dug into his brow.
“I wouldn’t have if this driver didn’t ferry this thing like a complete prat.” John muttered, glaring down at his lap and holding his cane a bit too tightly. Clearly flustered, though he let it break after a deep, nasal exhale or two. Thinking that he should probably be grateful for the hand. Eventually, he muttered with his head still down. “Sorry, I meant thank you.”
***
The man sat next to her, obviously upset, his frown stark on his face and his knuckles white on his cane. Her eyes flicked to the cane again curiously. He couldn’t be more than a couple years older than her, why did he walk with a cane? She smiled at his angry muttering about the driver, agreeing completely, if silently. She rode this bus every day and the driver’s skill was certainly lacking. She ducked her head to grab her bag off the floor and scooped the contents back into it. “Oh it’s fine, it’s fine. You’re welcome. i’m just glad you’re okay.”
She sat straight again, hugging her bag against her stomach and looking over at the man. He looked familiar for some reason. He was still staring down at his lap and frowning. She struggled to find something to say to him that wasn’t horrible bus conversation. She paused, realisation dawning on her, “Oh, I’ve seen you in the papers recently. Or am I wrong?”
***
Having thought the conversation with the woman was over, John had turned to look out of the window and disappear completely from the present. It worked for a minute, even thinking about what he might have for tea that night. There might have been some chips left, had he been to the shops recently? The trail of thought is interrupted as the woman speaks, making him blink harshly back into his current existance.
To her question, he said nothing for a moment. He could rarely go anywhere anymore without getting his face recognized. “Yeah, you probably did.” John answered, as though it didn’t matter. Though his voice carried a certain heaviness to it. “You probably read the blog just like everyone else.”
***
Mary’s thoughts clicked together as he spoke. She hadn’t been living under a rock after all, of course she knew about Dr. Watson’s blog. Sherlock Holmes had been all over the news with the cases he had helped to solve, (or had set up in the first place, depending on which side of the fence you were on) and his blogger, Dr. Watson, had always made appearances right alongside him. But of course, the most recent media attention that had been turned on him had been less than favorable after the consulting detective’s expose and suicide, not that she could recall anything but speculation in the papers as to his part in the scandal. Dr. Watson hadn’t given an official statement that she had seen, at least.
Mary’s small smile that had bloomed across her features at being correct in placing his face, slowly crumbled and fell. After so much hounding by the press, the last thing the doctor would look forward to would be a stranger on the bus getting nosey, especially when he obviously wasn’t having the best of days. She stifled her curiosity and decided to try to steer the conversation instead to a less volatile topic than Sherlock Holmes. “I did read your blog. It was very good. I’m Mary, by the way.” She shifted her bag a bit and held out her hand to shake. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Watson. What brings you on the bus today? Headed home?"
***
Leaning forward to hang the walking cane up on the support bar, he leans back and sighs with an air of resignation. He still wasn’t entirely used to using it again, feeling practically immobile after being so active for a stretch of time. Ella, again, had diagnosed him with a limp gained from something more mental than physical - gently hinting at the PTSD. In other words, the events of three months ago had kicked John’s mental processes right into touch.
He turns his head, finally looking at the woman. If he were in a more frequently practiced state of mind, he would have observed that the woman was in fact, very pretty. Probably would have used the remainder of the bus journey trying to get her phone number. But John betrayed his ways and looked away rather quickly, barely raising his voice past a mutter when he spoke. Hardly in the mood to chat anyone up nowadays. “Yeah.” He said, lighting accepting her handshake then dropping his hand back onto his lap. “You?”
***
Mary smiled when he finally turned to look at her, even if it was only briefly before he shook her hand. The pictures in the papers really hadn’t done him justice. He had such a kind face, even if it seemed overshadowed at the moment. She couldn’t believe that this Dr. Watson had been part of some conspiracy. He just didn’t seem the sort.
“Oh yes, I’m headed home from work. I hate the bus, really, but it’s a pain vying for a parking spot at the school so I suffer through it.” She kept her voice light and conversational, seeing if she could draw him out of his melancholy. “I don’t think I’ve noticed you on this bus before. Do you take it often?” It might have been a lost cause, but she figured she’d at least try. It wasn’t every day she had an opportunity to talk to someone that London considered newsworthy, and such a handsome man at that.
***
John gave a gentle nod every other word, just to show that he was listening to her. Sort of. He had been expecting a shrug off of an answer, then silence until one of them got off. Nice of her to act friendly to someone that hadn’t been getting the best press, but he didn’t have strength enough to maintain trivial conversation. He muttered detached words nonetheless, probably seeming disinterested.
“Yeah, most days.” He said, regarding his frequenting the afternoon bus. Cabs were a luxury, modest army pension (on top of recent unemployment) considered - and he needed to get to therapy somehow. Since shaking the woman’s hand, John had since hung his head back down and concentrated on flexing his left hand, his fingers stiffly curling in and out. “Sorry. I’m not …”
He cleared his throat, trying again. “I’m not.. very talkative. Right now.”
***
He didn’t seem interested in talking in the slightest, but barely acknowledged Mary’s words to avoid being overly rude. Mary felt a pang of compassion for the man. He’d obviously seen better days, or weeks even. How had she not noticed him on the bus before? She silently scolded herself for always having her face in a book. She could have talked to him long before if she’d only been paying attention.
She shook her head, waving away his apology. “No, it’s fine, really. I tend to talk too much sometimes. I should be the one apologizing for pestering you.” She clasped her hands together over her bag, briefly considering rummaging through it for her book again, but she discounted the thought in turn. She wouldn’t absorb anything she read right now anyway. She glanced over at him again, noticing something she hadn’t before, and bit her lip, gesturing hesitantly, “Sorry, um, you’ve got a smudge on your face, from the floor. I just noticed it.” She knew she was grasping at straws to keep talking to him, but she did it anyway.
***
John was beginning to wonder if this woman (‘Mary’, as she had introduced herself) was some kind of reporter. It would make a lot more sense, why she was chasing him for trivial chat. He’d come across reporters before, the more brazen kind. Their favourite thing to do was to camp outside Baker Street and wait. Poor Mrs Hudson would get pounced on if she so much as tried to go out and buy a loaf of bread. One of the contributing factors to him moving out.
He glances away from the window, but not at her. She tells him he’s got something on his face, to which he rubs his cheek and looks at his hand. Some dust from the floor, walked on by passangers. Without word John rubs it away with his palm and sits still again, gently rocking with the motions of the moving bus.
***
Mary bit the inside of her cheek in defeat. He hadn’t even bothered to talk to her this time. She slouched ever so slightly down in her chair and grabbed her book back out of her bag, opening it to the page she had left off on. She found the paragraph she’d stopped in the middle of when Dr. Watson had fallen in the aisle and she began to read again. Every so often her eyes would flick over to him again, but only for a split second. After about five minutes she realized that she’d read the same bloody sentence three times and gave it up as a lost cause, shutting the book and stuffing it away again. She was almost to her stop anyway.
She looked over at him once again when the bus began to slow down, “Alright well, this is my stop coming up. It was good to meet you, Dr. Watson.” She smiled a genuine smile and shifted her weight to the edge of the seat, preparing to stand, “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
***
For the remainder of the silence between them John crossed his arms and turned his head to look out of the window, disappearing into his own head. The bus came to a stop a few minutes in at Camden Market, almost all of the school kids emptying off there. Probably off to the canal to take advantage of the good weather, he recalled the stalls there doing fairly good chips.
He stayed where he was, not bothering to move to an empty seat. The woman had since given up talking to him and opened her book back up, concentrating on that until she packed it away, gathering her things together to get off. John turned his head back when she said a goodbye to him, to which he nodded and made a murmur of acknowledgement. “Mm, maybe. Thanks again.”
Over the last few months, John had convinced himself that he had learnt to cope. If a certain report or newspaper article rubbed him up the wrong way, he would turn away and busy himself with something else. He wouldn't speak, and he would not stop until he had finished what he started. For example, when The Sun printed an old candid photograph of Sherlock and himself (accompanied with an article citing that he was looking for new, solo cases), John had retreated upstairs and painted the baby's room. He started and finished within hours.
This behaviour, though unhealthy and reclusive, got things done and put his mind to more important things. But his concerns had turned as of late, to Mary. Late into her pregnancy, and still going full-steam.
That morning; she had woken with (what he could only assume was) an overwhelming nesting instinct, and since then they had been walking around Westfield shopping centre. John had needed to borrow a trolley from the supermarket, as Mary couldn't carry bags and there were too many for him to tackle alone. Standing in Mothercare (for what must have been the third time that day), John stood at said trolley with his hand on the handle bar. Glancing over the many blankets, monitors, bottles and mega-size nappy packs.
He then looked to his wife, flurrying through the aisle and picking up things from onesies to tiny socks. Things they already had plenty of at home. "Babe," John spoke up, gently. "Don't you think you should slow down a bit?"
(Thread with Mary and Anthea, with an appearance by Mycroft)
Mary woke in a daze. Her head was pounding and she lay on the floor with her eyes shut, not able to move immediately. Something in her must have changed when she’d awakened though, as a trembling Gladstone approached and started snuffling at her face. She lifted a half-numb hand to wave him off, but it changed into a grab halfway through and she held him to her, opening her eyes. She couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a minute or two, but it had disoriented her. Gladstone’s warm, if still shaking, presence by her side helped to ground her, and for a bleary, overwhelmed moment she almost laughed at the fact that she was comforting the dog after Moran’s attack instead of the other way around.
Text: Mycroft Holmes:
This is Mary. Moran was just here. Please hurry. I think he took John.
She hit send on the message and sat back down, curling her fingers back into Gladstone’s fur and hugging the dog tightly, silently praying that help wouldn’t be long in coming.
***
This whole ordeal was turning out to be rather inconvenient. Mycroft’s surveillance had been revoltingly slow [what else was new- those so-called ‘specially trained’ buffoons couldn’t do anything by themselves] and heads were going to roll.
Text from- John Watson:
This is Mary. Moran was just here. Please hurry. I think he took John.
He had nearly forgotten about the wife- perhaps he was getting slow.. Pushing that thought aside, he sent another text out.
If you will, please stay where you are. Assistance arriving momentarily. MH
And to think, he had rather been hoping for the night off.
***
Mary got up from the floor, her nervous energy making it too difficult to stay put for long. She paced to the window and glanced outside again, before turning and leaving the room, Gladstone dogging her heels, his collar jingling. She walked past the bathroom and down the stairs, comforted by the empty feeling of the house. Moran hadn’t lingered, she was sure of it. John’s phone buzzed in her hand and she pushed the button, glancing at the screen.
Text from Mycroft Holmes:
If you will, please stay where you are. Assistance arriving momentarily. MH
She sighed with a nervous sense of relief. Help was on its way. She wanted very badly to ask questions. Where was John, what was going on, who was coming to their home to help, but she couldn’t fit it all in one message so she didn’t even try, already impatient to leave to somewhere safer.
Text to Mycroft Holmes:
I am waiting by the door. I hope your assistance plans on taking me with them because I can’t stand to stay here right now. -MW
She hit send right as headlights flashed by outside and her head snapped up to look onto the street. She saw a few shadowy forms ghost past the house before there was a knock on the door. She was afraid to open it.
***
Anthea was dwarfed by the size of the two buffoons that Mr. Holmes had set with her to retrieve Dr. Watson’s wife, Mary. The normally roomy car was suddenly crowded by the mass of muscle and lack of brain which made her fairly unhappy. More or less she was concerned for Mary and her safety. Well, Dr. Watson’s safety as well. Pulling up to the curb of their home, Anthea stepped out first, the two muscles following closely behind. She knocked on the door and waited for Mary to answer. When she knocked, there was no answer, but Anthea knew Mary was there. She’s probably frightened, she thought to herself.
“Mary?” Anthea called out, “It’s…Becky, Mycroft’s PA. Please open the door, I’ve two men here who are going to sweep the house.”
She waited, her fingers twitching on the blackberry. She stuffed the phone in her pocket, now was not the time to be cold and callous.
***
Mary sighed in relief as she heard the woman’s voice on the other side of the door mention Mycroft’s name. Thank God, she thought and unlocked the door, opening it slowly and flicking on the entryway light. She blinked in the sudden brightness and stepped out of the way to let Mycroft’s people in the house.
“He’s not here, he ran off. Moran I mean. John isn’t here either. I don’t know where he is, or if he was taken. Do you have any idea what is happening? Has Mycroft heard anything at all?” She knew she was accosting the poor PA, her anxiety flooding her at the same time the relief at no longer being alone rushed into her. She folded her arms closely to her chest and tried not to look so desperate.
***
Instantly, once the door opened Anthea stepped aside for the men to come in, instantly the began sweeping the place, walking around the perimeter of the room, scanning shelves, objects, furniture-anything that may have been recently misplaced. Anthea straightened up and looked at the frightened woman, arms crossed, and gave her the warmest smile she could muster (which, in her opinion was still rather cold)
“Mary,” she said calmly, trying to soothe her, “Did you see him at all? Did he take anything else? Does anything look out of place?” she glanced back towards the back as one man headed toward the kitchen. She asked if she knew what was happening and Anthea gave her grim smile “Not here,” she said, “If you would, please come with me.”
Her fingers ached for her Blackberry in her pocket, but she knew that now would not be the time to play with the keys. Mycroft had informed her this was top priority at the moment, so her emails would have to wait. Unsure what to do with her hands, she clasped them together in front of her and waited. “Please,” she said, “Time is of the utmost importance.”
***
Mary stood in the entryway, trying to keep her wits about her as she watched the large men begin moving around the house, searching for evidence of Moran’s visit. She regarded the cold woman before her with a small frown, not sure what to make of her. “I was upstairs. He came in the room. I think to make sure I didn’t call anyone for help. But I’d already received the message from Mycroft and once he saw it he left.” She decided to leave out the part where she’d tried to shoot him.
She grabbed her jacket from the peg on the wall and put it on slowly, not giving in to the other woman’s impatience. She was hardly dressed to go out, but she barely noticed. She slipped John’s phone into the pocket and reached for Gladstone’s leash, hesitating only slightly before clipping it to his collar without a word. She couldn’t just leave him here, after all. She stood straight again and met the other woman’s eyes, half daring her to comment on her unspoken demand to bring the dog along, “Where exactly are we going?”
***
Anthea nodded as she told her what had occurred. It was nothing she already didn’t know, or what she could deduce from what little information Mr. Holmes had given her. She adjusted her coat just a little bit before the two loons came out, one holding a gun.
“Recently fired, ma’am,” he said, holding it up. Anthea turned back to Mary, a thin eyebrow raised in questioning. She didn’t even need to ask a question. Anthea was sure either she or John had fired it, she would have told her if it’d been Moran.
She watched as Mary clipped the leash on the dog standing near her. Anthea didn’t say anything as she did so. If the dog wanted to go, then it would go, she’d just have to switch the destination. She was sure the house Mr. Holmes had originally picked for them to meet at would not appreciate the furry animal destroying the marble floors.
“I’m afraid it’s classified,” Anthea said, when she asked where they were going. In truth, she didn’t know either. Instead, Anthea stepped patiently aside from the door, waiting for Mary to leave first. Once they were in the car again, Anthea would be able to touch her phone and text Mr. Holmes to set a location. It was safer this way.
***
Mary pulled her jacket tight around her and tugged on Gladstone’s leash, giving the other woman an uneasy look when she wouldn’t tell her where they are going. She headed out the door, Gladstone following at her heels, and made her way to the ominous black car parked right in front of the house. In the face of all that had happened, her anger over the recent events had burned down to only coals, slowly consumed by fear and uncertainty.
She climbed in the car and pulled Gladstone in after her, tugging him half onto her lap to make room for Betty, or Becky, or whatever her name had been. Mary couldn’t remember and honestly didn’t have it in her to care. She watched out the window as the car pulled away from the house, nervously chewing on her knuckle and burying her fingers in Gladstone’s warm fur, her thoughts tangled with endless worry.
***
Anthea nodded her head and stepped out behind Mary, the two muscles following her out. She made sure the place was shut tight before climbing into the car behind Mary, scooting up close to the fluffily dog that she’d been adamant on bringing along. Tapping on the window she leaned over to the driver.
“12 Chelsea Park Gardens,” Anthea said, picking a safe house that backed up to somewhat of a park. The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb, Anthea settling back into her seat. Quickly (and thankfully) she pulled out her phone and shot a text off to Mr. Holmes
Text to Mycroft
Dr. Watson’s wife is currently with us. She and her dog are heading to Chelsea safe house.
-Anthea.
She stuck her phone back into her back into her pocket (regretfully) and smiled the best she could at Mary before turning her face back out the window. She hoped Mr. Holmes would meet them there. She wasn’t very good with social interactions.
***
The drive to the safe house was uneventful, and Mary got settled in as quickly as possible, shutting herself in the bedroom with Gladstone to avoid any more dealings with the other woman. Not that she was paying much attention to Mary anyway, she appeared to be glued to her phone. Mary had wanted answers but it was clear that no one had any. Mary called Gladstone up on the bed and tried to rest, but her worries were many and daunting, and she tossed and turned almost until the sun rose before finally falling into a fitful and nightmare riddled sleep.
Mary awakened to afternoon sunlight streaming through her window and she glanced blearily around the room for a clock, but there wasn’t one. She sat up on the bed, disturbing a sleeping Gladstone only slightly, before reaching over to grab John’s phone off the nightstand where she’d placed it the night before . She regretted not bringing her own phone, but there was nothing for it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly before leaving the house. She pressed the button to light up the screen. 2:30PM. She felt slightly sick to her stomach. It had been over twelve hours since Moran had shown up at the house again. Over twelve hours since John had been taken. She slipped out of bed and walked across to the door, hoping someone would have answers for her by now.
Mary paces the lounge, her mind on other things. She glances out the window for the twentieth time in the last fifteen minutes. Frankie hadn’t said what time she’d be arriving and Mary couldn’t shake her nervous energy that it must be any moment. She looks at her phone in her hand again, but still no messages.
She hasn’t seen Frankie for… “Has it really been three years?” She thinks, her brow furrowing. She knows she shouldn’t be nervous, but John has never met Frankie before and she glances from her phone back out the window with growing unease, just wanting the introductions to be over already. The light has completely faded from the sky, dinner long eaten. “What is taking her so long?”
***
Frankie steps out of the cab after (barely) paying the driver, wrapping her rather moth-eaten old coat tighter around herself as she glances up at the house. Oh yes, definately something she could see her little sister living in. Something nice, with a garden. There’s probably polka dotted curtains in there somewhere.
She isn’t carrying any luggage apart from her modestly sized handbag, and even that only contained some make-up, a packet of cigarettes and lighter with no gas in it. She hopes this husband of Mary’s smokes - she’s absolutely gasping for a cigarette.
Passing through the cutesy front garden, down the patio, Frankie folds her arms tightly, sighs, and rings the doorbell.
***
Mary jumps at the sound of the doorbell, cursing her nervousness. She passes by the stairs on the way to the front door, calling to John upstairs, “John? Frankie’s here!” She hurries to the door and pauses with her hand on the knob for only a moment before taking a steadying breath and turning it, throwing the door wide.
“Frankie. I was starting to worry that you’d gotten lost or something.”
***
“Hmm, what?”
Immediately upon hearing the shrill shouting John sits up, having dropped off on the bed upstairs. Apparently relaxed enough to fall asleep, which was more than could be said for his wife who had spent the whole day fretting. He’d suggested folding out the couch, and she’d dismissed that and insisted on making a bed up in the spare room. Everywhere was cleaned, and he wasn’t allowed to put his housecoat on - apparently it was ‘natty’. Mary had been just so incredibly tense since getting those texts from Frankie.
John isn’t worried, even though he had never actually met Frankie and knew little about her. He gets along alright with Mary’s parents, and… tolerates the rest of Mary’s sisters. How bad could one more be?
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, mouth stretching out in a yawn as he rubs his dozy eyes.
***
The door swings open, and Frankie forces a painfully stiff smile. “Oh no, no. Taxi had a Sat-Nav.” She says with no real tone, lingering before stepping past Mary when she moves aside. The warmth from inside the house being a pleasant reprieve from some of the absolute dumps she had been staying in over the last few months.
Though her arms are folded under her chest, they flinch with hesitation as though she had thought to maybe hug her sister after not seeing her for so long. But she wimps out at the last second, the painful smile coming back. “You alright then, Mary? How’s that husband of yours?”
***
Mary shuts the door after her sister enters and stands to the side rather awkwardly clasping and unclasping her hands before gesturing for Frankie to go on ahead to the sitting room. “I’ve been well, thanks. John should be down in just a minute, I think he must have fallen asleep without meaning to. He does that.” She licks her lips nervously, cutting off her fretful babble as she sits on the sofa.
She can hear John on the stairs and she’s insanely grateful that he’ll be in the room soon and less of Frankie’s attention will be focused on her. She tries hard not to notice the state of her sister’s clothes, but it’s difficult to ignore. ”I know you said not to worry about dinner, but,” she nods her head toward the kitchen, “I can get you something. Or tea if you’d like?” She perches on the edge of the sofa as if to rush out of the room at the first opportunity.
***
Shuffling down the stairs with his hand trailing down the banister, he stops once on the ground floor and straightens the front of his cardigan out. Best be making a good first impression. They’re in the living room, John can hear as much - also picking up Mary offering their guest a cup of tea. To which John spares a quick trip into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Even if Frankie doesn’t want one, he knows he does.
While it boils, he thinks to make his entrance. Walking into the sitting area, John dips his head in greeting and smiles between the both of them. “Hello, Francesca.” He says, polite as possible as he extends his hand out to Mary’s sister. “Nice meeting you.”
***
This meeting can’t get any more uncomfortable. Frankie on one end of the room, Mary on the other - practically itching to get out. She doesn’t sit, only stands in front of the sofa and glancing around the nice little room with her arms crossed. Very comfortable looking. “A cup of tea would be lovely.” She responds, just before Mary’s husband makes his appearance.
Ah, there he is. The one she’s been hearing about, Mary’s ‘catch’. The hero soldier. Frankie stands back for a moment, having a looking at this John. He isn’t exactly what she pictured when she heard he’d been an army boy, those lot usually having blaring tans and rippling biceps. John just looked … soft. Really homely, standing there in his cardigan.
“Hello.” Frankie speaks, leaning forward to shake his hand then shedding away her tattered coat. Showing off the black, timeworn top. The clothes underneith not being in much better condition than her coat. “And it’s Frankie, John. Just Frankie.”
***
Mary stands up out of sheer inability to sit any longer as John shakes her sister’s hand. She hadn’t failed to see the flash of skepticism on Frankie’s face when John had walked in and the twisting in her stomach was particularly sharp. Mary wishes she knew what the look had been for. She can’t help but feel defensive with her older sisters, but there’s no sense bringing it up and she knows it.
Frankie shrugs out of her coat and Mary notices the rest of her clothes are just as worn as the jacket and she drops her gaze. Mary tells herself she doesn’t really want to know the whole story. It’s safer just assuming that whatever the story is, it’s unpleasant and nothing Mary could say would help anyway. She’s tried before, after all, granted a long time ago, with less than satisfactory results.
“I’ll go get the tea, then, shall I?” She scurries from the room, feeling sheepish for not having the strength to stay in the room and leaving John by himself with Frankie.
***
“Alright then.. Frankie.” John says, dropping his hand and looking around to consider where he’s going to sit. He chooses the double-seat couch just behind him, angled with the other one and just across from the single armchair. A coffee table plonked between them.
He nods Mary out of the room, then finding himself in something of an uncomfortable silence with an in-law that he barely knows. Dropping his eyes down to his lap, he supposes the best thing he can do is try and take advantage of the time alone with Frankie, try and get to know her a bit. Though by the look of her, that might be a challenge. She seems to have that ‘ice queen’ glare going on.
Clearing his throat, John looks up again. Leaning forward and clasping his hands together, trying to look eager. “So, uh. I don’t get to hear a lot about you. You’re the oldest of the five, aren’t you?”
***
“Second oldest.” Frankie says in a throw-away tone, sitting down when John does as though it was finally her permission to do so. Not next to him but on the side couch, keeping her coat folded across her lap and her hands tucked under it. Her eyes drop, feeling him look at her. Probably drawing his impression of a scruffy, middle-aged woman that has to comb her hair with her fingers.
Her voice offers practically no emotion, despite the subject matter that could be considered somewhat personal. “Yeah well, you wouldn’t.” She tosses her hair, turning John a dry grin. Dropping it quickly. “I’m the black sheep. You’re lucky that you got one of daddy’s angels.”
***
Mary stands in the kitchen, tapping her fingers on the counter, waiting for the water to finish boiling. She had made her hasty retreat to the kitchen a tad prematurely. She feels her face flush when she hears John’s question, he really can’t seem to keep her family straight, it’s baffling to her. And of course, there it is, Frankie’s wry response, making herself the victim yet again. It never changes. Mary sighs and grabs the kettle, her thoughts busy on other things as she makes the tea.
She finishes with hers and John’s cups and pauses, staring at the third cup. She hasn’t made tea for Frankie in ages. She sets the cups on a tray along with some milk and sugar for Frankie to make her own cup and heads back into the sitting room, trying to not look as riled up as she feels as she avoids eye contact and sets the tray on the table. “Here’s the tea. Sorry Frankie, I don’t remember how you take yours.”
***
Sitting back in his seat, John blinks slowly, his smile wavering. Not quite sure how to react. “Oh.. alright.” He responds after a beat - Mary then making her very well-timed entrance back into the room. Very much happy to engage himself in something other than the awkward one-on-one chatter, he shifts over.
She places the tray down - two already premade. As Mary explains, he leans forward and plucks up his own, muttering a “Thanks love.” inbetween exchanges.
***
She’s managed to put a dent in his effort. Not intentionally, as she supposes she should be very grateful that this man is letting a perfect stranger stay under his roof - despite this stranger being kinned by marriage. Frankie can only suppose he’s too polite and is too quick to let a bit of bluntness ruffle his feathers. That, on top of decorated war hero. Oh, trust Mary to pick Prince William.
“Thank you.” Frankie says when her sister brings the tea in, not responding to the apology as she feels it best to just get on with it. The atmosphere being tense enough. She shifts to the edge of the sofa cushion, leaning forward and spooning three sugars into a black cup of tea. Normally, she takes milk and only a pinch of sweetener. But, having slept rough in a bus shelter the night previous, she could do with the energy kick.
“Look, I won’t be bothering you for too long. I promise.” She says to the both of them, both hands around the mug - cherishing the warmth. “Just a few days, until I can get a loan or something. I’ve got friends, they’ll help me out.”
Or until she shacks up with another bloke.
***
Mary sits next to John on the couch, perhaps a bit too close, but she’s comforted by him right next to her and she doesn’t move over. She knows he’s used to her crowding him when she’s stressed so she doesn’t worry too much about it and instead just hopes that Frankie doesn’t deign it necessary to say anything uncouth. She grabs her teacup, almost spilling its contents in her haste, and proceeds to blow on it gently to cool it a bit.
“It really is fine with us if you stay, Frankie. John made up the guest room upstairs for you. It’s just,” Mary tries to swallow the lump in her throat but it doesn’t quite go down all the way, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you and all. I mean, we didn’t really leave on the best of terms last time. I’m a bit on edge.” She refrains from looking at John, but only just. She glances at her tea instead. “We can always try to make the best of this visit, you know.” She feels her face flush as soon as the words are out of her mouth. She silently berates her instinct to ‘fix’ everything, and instead of saying anything else, she sips at her tea.
***
A guest bed? Sounds heavenly in contrast to an iron bench. For a few seconds, Frankie casts her eyes down to cup level, seemingly humbled that they’d put that much forethought into her visit. She would have been happy enough with the couch.
It, however, lasts only for a few seconds. “I know.” She quietly says, eyes up. “Well I’m not going to bite you, Mary. You know I only save that for headmasters and custody officers.” Terrible attempt at breaking the ice with a joke (that was probably in bad taste), she had never really been much good at this sort of thing. “You’re not the only one that feels weird about this.”
***
Mary watches Frankie’s reaction with a touch of surprise. Her sister looks genuinely grateful, if only for a second. Maybe this will be a tolerable experience after all. But of course she goes on to ruin it by opening her mouth, but Mary can’t help but laugh and shake her head. Frankie is at least trying, and that’s more than Mary had expected from her. She decides to put forth more effort as well and tries to relax a bit.
“Alright then. Let’s um. Well, we can show you the house I suppose, once you’re done with your tea. You can put your things in the guest room and freshen up if you want.” She glances over at John with only a half-forced smile, silently willing him to just act as if everything is normal. “Mind if I give Frankie the grand tour?”
***
There isn’t much John can do now that Mary and Frankie are engaged in conversation. Not wanting to interfere with what he supposes is a long-awaited chat between two sisters, he nurses his tea and pretends to be extraordinarily interested in the seam of his jeans. Wrinkling his nose as he faffs, plucking stray cardigan-fluff away and dusting the top of his thigh off.
“Hm?” He plucks his head up once his attention is needed. “Oh, yeah. Tour away. I’ll just, um.. do the rest of the dishes, then.” John gives her half a smile back, patting her knee to try and give her confidence a little boost just before standing up himself. He looks down at Frankie, fingers fidgeting at his side. “You sure you don’t want anything to eat? There’s some lasagna left over, if you fancy it.”
