Chapter Text
Mary, February 1968
Sherlock Holmes woke to an unusual sound. He reached across the bed searching for Watson but found cold sheets instead. Still groggy, he looked over at the alarm clock. The time was eight thirty, so it was not unusual for Watson to be up. Then he registered the sound. Watson was crying.
He jumped out of bed and hurriedly put a robe over his nude body.
Walking into the living room he found Watson curled up on the couch crying with the Sunday paper scattered out on the floor.
He noticed the obituaries lying at Watson’s feet.
Watson heard him come in and instantly got up and collapsed into his arms.
“She’s gone,” he cried, “Mary was killed in a car accident.”
Sherlock held him tight and murmured how sorry he was. He knew Mary had to be Mary Morstan, Watson’s ex fiancée.
After a moment he guided Watson back to the couch where they both sat down.
“It was a notice in the paper,” Watson said. “It happened the other night.”
Watson suddenly sprung off the sofa.
“I have to call her parents…no, I have to go see them.”
He then went to the bathroom to shower.
Sherlock headed to the bedroom to dress.
Once they were dressed, Sherlock offered to drive him to Morstan’s home.
“I do not think you are in a condition to drive,” Sherlock said.
“I think you are right,” Watson replied.
On the drive there, Watson broke into tears as they passed certain landmarks that he said made him think of his time with Mary, a lake they had sailed in, a restaurant they favored, a park they loved. When Sherlock pulled into the driveway of a modest Tudor home, Watson grabbed his hand and said: “Give me a moment.”
“Take your time,” he replied.
They sat holding hands until Watson took a deep breath and said:
“Let’s go in.”
The door opened and a fair-haired middle-aged woman answered the door. She hugged Watson at once “I am so glad you came.”
“I am so sorry…”
A tall middle-aged man joined them.
“Who is it, Margaret?” he asked before seeing Watson, and then added “Oh John, it is good of you to come.”
Margaret ushered them into the foyer. “Everyone is in the family room.” And then she embraced Watson again with tears flowing from them both.
“Harold and I called you so many times but could not reach you” Margaret said.
“Yes,” Harold said, “I even called a couple of times after midnight.”
A young man came out of the adjoining room into the foyer.
“John!” he said “I am so sorry I could not reach you. I stopped by your flat twice.”
“I do apologize,” Watson replied, “I am doing locum work and am rarely at my place.”
He looked at Sherlock and introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Morstan and Mary’s brother Charles.
“This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was kind enough to drive me here.” Watson said.
They entered the family room which was crowded with family and friends. They all seemed pleased to see Watson and greeted him warmly. Mr. Morstan patted Watson on the back.
“It is so strange, he said, “I never felt sad about the broken engagement because I knew you two would find your way back together but now…” And he had to break off the sentence and sit down. Holmes put his hands in his pockets and stared out the French doors as if something interesting was suddenly there.
Watson went around the room greeting and hugging each person.
A maid entered the room and said refreshments were ready in the dining room. People straggled in and out and broke up into tiny groups for conversation. A young woman approached Watson.
“I was quite put out with you for disappearing after the breakup,” she said, “no one chose sides and you are still a friend.”
Watson smiled sadly and nodded.
Another young woman who was standing nearby took Watson’s hand.
“Phyllis is right,” she said “we have lost Mary and we do not want to lose you. You know our number too. We must stay connected.”
Holmes tried to suppress the bile that was rising in him but failed. They are circling like vultures he thought.
To quiet his mind Holmes looked around the room at the pictures on the wall. Family pictures and he saw that Mary was pretty in the conventional sense. He noticed there were no pictures of Watson.
An hour passed when they said goodbye. More tears shed as Watson hugged the Morstan’s goodbye. He said he would see them at the funeral and they left.
Watson surprised Holmes by asking for his car keys.
“I think I can drive back now,” he said.
“I think it is still best if I drove,” Holmes replied.
“Give me my keys please,” Watson said.
Holmes looked up at him and saw determination in Watson’s eyes. They stood there for a moment exchanging a glance that made Holmes feel slightly uneasy. He masked his unease with a little smile and handed over the keys.
The first few minutes of the drive were in silence.
“The Morstans seem like a loving family,” Holmes said.
“They are,” Watson replied, “and it hurts me how often they tried to reach me. Charles even drove to my flat!”
“You didn’t know,” Holmes said, “It is no fault of your own.”
Watson shook his head.
“Phyllis was right. I cannot disappear from my friend’s lives.”
Holmes did not want to ask what that meant so he said nothing.
The silence continued until Watson pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street. He did not park the car.
“I am going to spend the night at my flat,” he said, “there are some more friends I want to call.”
“You can do that here,” Holmes replied.
Watson shook his head.
“I do not want to impose any more grief on you.”
Holmes returned the headshake. “It is not an imposition. You do not need to be alone.”
“I do need to be alone,” Watson said, “just for tonight, Sherlock.”
“So not disappearing from you friends means I can disappear?”
Watson closed his eyes and rubbed them. When he opened them, tears fell.
“Please…” he said.
“I want to comfort you.” Holmes replied.
Watson did not answer him but instead held his stare. Watson sighed and then parked the car.
When they entered the flat and hung up their coats Holmes thought Watson would start to make the phone calls he had mentioned in the car. Instead, he went to the guest bedroom and quietly closed the door.
Holmes sat on the sofa not knowing what to do. Then he heard the sobbing and it dawned on him that he had pushed too far. And now he searched for some kind of way to make things right. He went and knocked lightly on the door. The sobbing stopped. He slowly entered.
“I am going to visit Mycroft,” he said, “I will leave his number if you need to reach me.”
Watson had been lying face down on the bed. He sat up and looked at Holmes.
“Thank you,” he said.
He had been at Mycroft’s for two hours listening to his complaints about the latest political shenanigans at Whitehall, when the doorbell rang. He was surprised when he heard Watson’s voice.
“I am so sorry about your ex,” Mycroft was saying as Holmes went to the door.
“Thank you,” Watson replied and then looked at Holmes.
“I thought we might take a walk,” Watson said to him.
“A walk?” Mycroft said, “in this cold weather?”
Holmes moved swiftly, gathering Watson in his arms for an embrace that they held for a moment. Holmes looked over Watson’s shoulder at Mycroft who looked at his feet and then the wall and then made a harrumph sound.
When they broke apart Holmes turned to Mycroft saying “we are going for a walk. I will talk to you later.”
Mycroft nodded and Holmes heard the door close behind them.