The Only Life Worth Living

John/Mary quickie to deal with my sherlock withdrawal

Sorry this has taken me so long (prompt was received Aug 5, so at least it’s been less than a month?). Hope this is something like what you had in mind. All aboard the angst train, folks.

The waiting was always the hardest part. There was something about that phrase - had he read it somewhere, heard it in a song, maybe? Whatever It didn’t matter, because it was the truth. Waiting for Mary to come back from wherever in her personal timeline she’d been unwillinglhy flung was always the hardest part.

The second hardest part was trying to live a normal-ish kind of life, not knowing when his wife might suddenly vanish. It usually happened at night when she was sleeping, but not always. It was the reason she never held Rosie in her arms unless he was right there. She’d never actually vanished while holding their three-month-old daughter, but the fear was real. It took only one dropped platter of roast beef for her to realize just how dangerous it could be.

It was heartbreaking, but it was their reality. Whatever quirk in Mary’s biology or neurochemistry caused her to travel in time at random had come upon her after Rosie had been born, else she was adamant that she’d never have risked a pregnancy. She’d gone so far as to have a hysterectomy after her third unplanned trip - two to her own past, one to her future where John’s future self had apparently explained things to her. “No more babies, I won’t risk it, not knowing if this…affliction…might affect them.”

There had been tears in her eyes when she spoke, but her voice had been steady. And John, helpless, terrified, longing to lash out but having no target but whatever cosmic force had inflicted this on them, could do nothing but agree.

Rosie cried every time her mother vanished, until she turned five and could better understand that it wasn’t something Mary was doing on purpose. Not that it stopped her crying entirely, but she did it with less and less frequency as she grew older. It could be unnerving when a Mary from the far future appeared - silver haired, wrinkled, but her blue eyes always filled with love - and it was terrifying the few times the Mary that flashed back into existence was injured or ill, but she always came back and they always welcomed her home and filled her in on what she’d missed, at least when it was the ‘right’ Mary.

They knew she was fated to outlive her husband the first time her silver-haired edition appeared, bursting into uncharacteristic tears at the sight of John helping Rosie with her maths homework. They knew the version that escorted Rosie down the aisle on her wedding day was a Mary who’d just left her three-year-old playing ‘knock down the blocks over and over again’ game with her father. And the Mary that was there when Rosie’s first daughter was born was the one who’d just experienced her second trip into her future.

Yes, the waiting was the hardest part…but the best part was whenever she came back to him and Rosie, whether it was the Mary that had vanished for a few hours or a few days, or whether it was one of her future selves.

I compromised lol, and just added 4 sentences since this was definitely 2. ❤️ 

“What about we compromise? I’ll kill them first, and if it turns out they were friendly, I’ll apologize,” Mary suggested sarcastically. 

“Why can’t we just wait for Sherlock and Greg to get here with backup?” John questioned nervously.

“Because the men who kidnapped you, beat you, and tied you up are in the next room and I’m an ex assassin, that’s why,” she said with a laugh, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek before readying her gun. 

John: I’m taking Mary home

Mary: You’re What?

John: Mary’s taking me home

Mary Watson, hands on her hips, glaring at the black screen of her computer, looked up at her husband, his arms outstretched, trying to look as inoffensive as possible. (One could never tell how a mood-swing would go, and if a hug would not help, he’d prefer to be out of arms-length and well away from anything in throwing-distance, he’d learned that with the first pregnancy). 

After a moment, her shoulders slumped, and she nodded with a heavy sigh. 

“It’s okay,” he came around the couch and drew her close, soothing her back. “You can re-write it.”

“It’s so much woooooooooork,” Mary sobbed, frustrated. “I can’t believe these…the computer is just,” she tried to kick it, but only succeeded in nudging the coffee table it balanced on. “It’s rubbish.”

“It is rubbish,” he agreed. “Let’s go out for a while. I’ll get Rosie up and ready, and we’ll all go to lunch. Maybe we can swing by the shops and price some new computers too. And after that, you can dictate to me what you remember.”

“I’d rather sit and sulk,” she groused, but she quirked a smile. “But your idea will be more fun in the long-run.” she took a deep, cleansing breath. “You get Rosie up, and I’ll go get dressed.” 

John smiled, kissing her gently, hands cupping her ever-growing belly, their second child. He traced a path up to the scar that just barely showed above the neckline of her pajama top. She covered her hand in his, both of them reminded again of how close they each came to losing the wonderful life they had together. 

“Meet you here in ten,” she murmured, kissing him once more, tenderly. 

warstan + hamilton ( its quiet uptown ) : 3/3

The Waltz when sung.

One year.  One year since Mary had died.  A year, John thought, staring at his wife’ grave, was long enough to grieve.  He didn’t want to grieve any longer.  He wanted to hold his daughter without a stabbing pain his chest as he realized that Mary would never see her grow up, that she had missed Rosie’s first tooth, first beaker, first word (‘murder’, she’d unfortunately been left in the care of Sherlock for about half an hour one day while he’d been in the midst of a case), the first time he’d left her when one of his regular patients was admitted to hospital (though he’d still been on bereavement leave at the time, he knew that he still had a duty to his patients).  

“I miss you,” he whispers, an edge in his voice as he feels himself begin to cry.  He sniffs, wiping his face as he hears someone approaching.

“And this is where Mummy is now, remember?”  John hears the baritone voice of his friend coming closer.

“Mmm-ma,” Rosie replies, and John hears Sherlock murmuring to her.

John rests his hand on the headstone, turning to see his best friend and daughter coming up behind him.  He reaches to take Rosie’s free hand.  “Da-da,” her smile is blinding, and looks nearly identical to what he imagines Mary would have looked like at her age.

“Hello, sweetheart,” John whispers, unable to stop the tears from falling.  “Do you know where we are?”

“Mmma-ma,” Rosie repeats, and John wonders if she knows that her mother is buried in the cold earth beneath them or if she is simply parroting the words back to him.  She squirms, and John reluctantly lets go.  She runs off, far more interested in the snow and the birds than the grave of a mother she’ll never know.  Sherlock is still standing quietly beside him.

“John,” he starts, rather awkwardly, but John holds his up, stopping the sentence before it begins.  It’s an old apology, one that if he hears it again he might just punch the other man.

“This was her choice, Sherlock.  Her last gift was to you,” John’s voice wavers, but his words are clearly articulated.  Sherlock exhales, and John knew that he’d been right.