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Part 2

Scenes In Between

By: Wynsom

Another conversation between Sherlock and John Watson "missing" from Season 3, His Last Vow (episode 3). The recuperating Sherlock has been back at Baker Street for several months, secretly planning to raid Appledore. John Watson often visits to check up on his friend, but this particular visit shows promise in resolving difficult problems.

Climbing the staircase to his flat at 221B Baker Street was no longer exhausting. Sherlock bounded up two steps at a time, his long legs pumping with very little strain. Satisfied with another errand complete, Sherlock swung the rolled newspaper like a conductor's baton as he hummed a melody. Everything was almost as before.

Time had allowed his body to replenish, his acumen to sharpen, and his plan to take shape, although none of these had reached his standards of perfection. Yet, Sherlock was galvanized about raiding the vaults of Appledore and prying sensitive information from the black-hearted, blackmailer Charles Augustus Magnussen. Aspects of the plan had already been set in motion.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up. "You mustn't run, dear. You'll burst your stitches!"

"Don't fret, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's baritone voice descended with sonorous clarity. "My doctor says I'm fine!"

"Well, it doesn't hurt to play safe, Sherlock. You cause so much heartache when you do crazy things."

Sherlock wasn't going to argue with the truth. There was no point. The latest heartache was nearly dying from a gunshot wound in the gut, but at last, Sherlock was feeling the exhilaration of purpose. The thrill fed the addiction. The game would soon be on, and Sherlock was doing everything necessary to prepare himself.

"John!" His doctor was waiting in the flat.

Sherlock suppressed the tiny smile whenever he found John, like old times, at 221B Baker Street. Months ago, he might have added, "what a pleasant surprise, "but there was no need now. Since the shooting, John was visiting all the more, sometimes staying overnight in his old bedroom, mumbling an imaginative array of lame excuses about not wanting to disturb Mary or something. The excuses were not important, John's reasons to offer them were.

As much as Sherlock relished his friend's attention and enjoyed his company, it was a guilty pleasure. Sherlock knew he was being selfish and weak.

Guilt. When had Sherlock felt guilt?

From the moment they met, John's genuine appreciation for Sherlock's deductive reasoning was flattering. Sherlock was more accustomed to reactions like "piss off" or "freak," or the derision of Mycroft who always made him feel diminished, causing Sherlock to overreact with grand gestures to prove he was not a failure.

John Watson was unique. He seemed to accept, even admire Sherlock. John's praise was a reward Sherlock sought, John's approval gave Sherlock self-worth, and John's support calmed Sherlock's overwhelming drive to succeed at all costs. John not only tamed the dragon in Sherlock's soul, he had saved Sherlock from self-destructing so many times. Who wouldn't want or need such a person in one's life? Their friendship was an unexpected bonus, for which Sherlock felt the most gratitude. While sentiment had never been his strong point, Sherlock had grown fond of John Watson, enough so he was willing to put John's needs ahead of his own.

This level of caring about another caused the conundrum: "Guilt."

As he recuperated at Baker Street, Sherlock was aware how quickly he had relapsed into his former ego-centric ways. He intellectualized that he was still recovering and that he certainly was no hero, which gave him time to lick his wounds and regroup. Later, when his strength fully returned, he would again rally in his commitment to John.

Meantime, the Magnussen case, swirling secretly in his head, was looming in sharper focus and causing him worry. In a little more than five weeks, it would all be over, one way or another.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had made a bargain with the devil. With himself, he had a vow to uphold. In the past, he would have consulted his doctor for trustworthy advice, but John was not in the best of places, lately. In fact, John didn't know his place anymore.

Sherlock was also not in a good place. Although the medical reports confirmed Sherlock's physical wound had healed, on an emotional level, Sherlock was feeling off balance. He missed his sounding board. As tempted as he was to confide in his friend, Sherlock postponed taking any action that might tip the scales further. Sherlock certainly wanted to help John, but was not quite ready to give John the nudge toward reconciliation with Mary. Not just yet, anyway.

This sin of omission produced an entirely new emotion—shame—in his selfishness.

"Selfish!" John growled as he reclaimed his accustomed armchair.

Sherlock dropped in his seat, his eyes fluttered in surprise, his jaw tightened.

"I'm being selfish!" John was downcast and sheepish. "I shouldn't be bothering you with my domestic ambivalence. Been thinking I should rent a flat somewhere..." He looked up quickly. Did he just hear Sherlock sigh?

"Don't be hasty." Sherlock ran his hand through his black curly locks and shook off a sudden chill.

"You think several months hasty?" John was concerned that Sherlock looked distracted. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" Hesitantly, John stood.

"No! Fine, fine!" Sherlock's hands slapped the air downward, motioning John to remain seated. "I know you have a lot on your mind." Sherlock clutched the arms of his chair and looked about his room, searching the walls and ceiling for answers he normally could just pluck from midair. But there were none at this moment. Finally he let his eyes rest sadly on John. "Yes. Rough times right now! Yes. Don't let it tear you up."

"Too late for that!"

"Christmas usually makes one depressed..." Suddenly, Sherlock stifled a nervous laugh.

"Christmas, Sherlock?" John furrowed his brow, curious and slightly perplexed. "What does Bloody Christmas have to do with this?"

"I don't know, John. Forget it! I just find it causes unnecessary contrasts between those who are happy and those who are not. Being that it's, let's see, five weeks and four days away...and preplanning is essential..." Nearly revealing the Magnussen's Christmas deadline was a subconscious blunder. Sherlock verbally tap danced around it. "We are already being fed subliminal themes of family and happiness and promises...with visual and audio stimuli..."

John stared at him. "You think this won't be resolved by Christmas?"

"Perhaps not." Sherlock shrugged, mentally deciding an appropriate gift, must be reconciled on Christmas.

"That doesn't take any amazing feats of deduction!" John scrutinized his friend's face, noting the ice blue eyes were clear and focused, the complexion held normal coloration and temperature, and that no other physical anomalies like tremors or lateral weakness indicative of health complications were apparent. While all seemed well, John sensed Sherlock was harboring something else, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But stating the obvious was certainly atypical of pre-traumatized Sherlock, which was one of the reasons why John was checking up on him with great frequency.

"The way things are going, it seems a solid prediction." Sherlock's truth stung.

After a sharp intake of breath, anger edged John's tone. "Don't you think I have good reason?"

"Absolutely!"

"Well, then," John released the sudden pressure, his rage, with a long exhale and sunk deeper into the chair. He closed his eyes. His let his words stumbled through the darkness. "I do have lots on my mind, but… it's not so much on my mind as in my heart. I feel selfish when I say I want to go back to her. I want to forgive her…. I don't want to know WHO she was. I just want to know who she is NOW!" John rolled his head from side to side, though his eyes remained clenched shut, as though he customarily rehearsed these words only when enveloped in obscurity. "I'mmmm…I'm, I'm torn with the feeling that if I go back to her, I am betraying you."

When John reopened his eyes, Sherlock was gazing kindly at him over steepled fingers.

"You know my opinion, John." Sherlock's tone was gentle. "We share the same addiction. We are predisposed to danger. The moment adrenaline courses through our veins from the thrill of the challenge, the excitement of battle, we feel most alive. I admit you mask it better, and seem more normalized."

"Glad I'm sane in your eyes."

Sherlock studied his friend for a moment. "John, you are the most sane and humane person I have ever encountered, yet your have the courage of an warrior for whom the mundane is pathetically mind numbing. Since your training and experiences in Afghanistan, you have found your calling. You cannot submerge this tendency within the routine of the common masses. You cannot go back to an ordinary life."

John fidgeted uncomfortably.

Sherlock leaned forward tapping John's knee. "This does not make you evil. It makes you extraordinary."

Troubled by such unnerving, but possibly accurate, psychoanalysis, John was more deeply touched by Sherlock's revelation. "Extraordinary?"

"Listen, listen to me, John!" Sherlock continued softly. "When I heard your outburst that first day in the flat... you threw down your cane in disgust and shouted angrily about your leg to Mrs. Hudson...I froze on the threshold. Your anger brought me back upstairs. Did you ever wonder why I invited you on our first case together. It was obvious you craved excitement."

John nodded in agreement, appreciatively.

"So, choosing Mary, who masterfully disguised her perilous past with superficial innocence, only demonstrates further that even on a subconscious level you are attracted to risk. Without realizing it you have surrounded yourself with a high-functioning sociopath as a 'best friend' and a wife who's led a double life. Both can and probably will lead you down hazardous paths. You must see that this is what you prefer."

"You and Mary see this in me, but I tell you, it's been a shock to me!"

"That's because, since you are socially attuned to others in your commitment to heal them, you assume you are similar. But, you are not, and you've known it all along. You said it yourself when we were on the bench investigating the Royal Guardsman. You sensed there was something more about Mary."

"I didn't think you were listening since you had apparently vanished..."

"I heard you as I was leaving."

"Did you hear everything?"

"I guess I was out of earshot when you called me a complete dick-head." Sherlock smiled knowingly

"Well, it's true," John chuckled despite himself. "But the wisest and best one I've ever known."

Sherlock cringed with the praise. "You lionize me, John, and for that I am most honored. However, I must advise you that I have not been acting wisely or best on your behalf. Rather, your selfishness is minuscule compared to mine."

John's face, open with trusting expectation, crumbled the wall of resistance Sherlock had built. "I am ashamed I have not helped you enough with your dilemma. You belong with Mary. She is worth fighting for, and no one has a right to come between you, not even I."

"We talk a bit, although most times, I'm at a loss at what to say." John's voice was husky with emotion. "This silence between us smarts, and Mary's eyes are sad, but she is very, very patient."

Sherlock did not interrupt. He listened attentively, his face softened with an unusually tender expression that both comforted John and encouraged him to continue.

"I stay at our flat sometimes, the office other times. You know when I'm here. I really don't know where I should be. I've asked her to give me time to process everything. She pleads with me to forgive her. I know she's afraid that when I read the memory stick, I will find her abhorrent."

John clenched his fists suddenly. "Why, Sherlock? Why did she do it?"

"You make her vulnerable to Magnussen."

John nodded. "Her 'pressure point,' just as she is mine. But so are you—the both of you make me vulnerable to Magnussen!"

"She feared…was afraid of losing you."

"Afraid." John repeated. "Hmmmm. It's the oddest thing, Sherlock. I am not afraid of her: my wife, a black ops agent, capable of assassinating anybody who gets in her way, including me and my best friend. You would think I'd be trembling in my boots. Setting her off can make me a victim. Absurd, maybe, but I don't fear her?"

"That person vanished five years ago. The person you now love is the Mary Watson we have both grown to know and care for."

John wiped a small tear off his check. "I might carry this memory stick in my pocket, but I carry memories of her voice, her laugh, her beautiful eyes with me everywhere, and I cannot shake this longing."

"That longing is for belonging." Sherlock felt renewed strength as he listened carefully to his inner voice about what John needed most.

"You must decide the WHEN, but, John, there is no question. You belong with Mary."

Sherlock stood. "It's time to go home!"

John stood, clapped his friend upon the shoulder and smiled. "Soon!"

"Christmas!" Sherlock smiled back.