#jwatson-md

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.

***

***

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.”

***