“I like to think you’d pick me. You already did, didn’t you, when you asked me to marry you. You chose me. I won. Didn’t I?”
Summary: Mary’s thoughts on her marriage with John.
I’m not stupid, you know.
I may not be The Only Consulting Detective in the World but some things are still fairly obvious to me. You think I don’t notice the way you look at him. The only reason why this doesn’t bother me as much is because you don’t notice the way he looks at you.
You’re standing over there at the window. He’s just left. “It’s raining,” you say. “I know,” I say. I know you’re not watching the rain. You’re not fascinated by this outburst of nature. You stare at him, his tall dark figure vanishing in the grey of the afternoon. He had come over to tell you that the case was solved and you had made some tea for him. You didn’t even look at me, didn’t even ask me if I wanted some tea as well, do you know that?
It hurts, John
You turn around and smile at me, but it’s not as genuine, not as real as it is when you smile at Sherlock. He hugged you briefly before he left. His nose buried in your shoulder, his fingers pressing against the small of your back. I saw it all.
I don’t hate him. I don’t hate you either. It’s all bearable because neither of you seem to know how the other feels. And that makes it okay, really.
You press your hand against the window pane and I imagine that you imagine it was him you were touching. Softly caressing his bloody cheekbones, kissing those perfect cupid bow lips.
It was more difficult for me when I realized it first. I wanted to kill Sherlock, for the way his eyes lit up whenever you were in the room, for the way your smile seemed to deepen as soon as you spotted him. But you proposed to me and Sherlock came to our wedding and for a while I thought the little crush you had had on your flatmate and best friend was over.
I step beside you and you wrap your arms around me from behind. We fit perfectly like that. “I love you,” you whisper into my ear and I know that it’s true and I smile. We both stare outside now, the rain pounding against the window. Your grip around me tightens.
I’ve lost count of the number of times you would jump out of bed in the middle of the night, mumbling something about Sherlock and a case and just leaving me behind. At first I was angry at you, mad for always putting Sherlock first. I am your wife, the one you love, the one that should be your priority. Sometimes I still want to yell at you, make you pay attention to me and only me.
There is a certain kind of loneliness about you. It’s in your eyes, when you think I can’t see you, it’s in the way you straighten your shoulders before stepping outside of our flat, as if getting ready for another battle, another war.
I try not to be around when Sherlock shows up. Whenever he steps into the room, I can practically hear it click. You slightly cock your head, he raises an eyebrow or crooks a faint smile and suddenly, just like that, you’re a whole person again and I can see the loneliness in your eyes slowly fading away. You need each other in order to live, to breathe, to be.
But you also need me. You need the warmth, the comfort, the promise of a safe and happy life. You need the ordinary, but crave the danger. You need me. And so I remain quiet. I don’t get jealous (not much anyway) and I don’t try to keep Sherlock away from you (although I wish I could).
Sherlock will never tell you how he feels. Although you fantasize about it, probably. Him, flustered and embarrassed, uttering a confession, clumsily stumbling over his words, choking on his tongue. What would you do, John?
Would you give in, throw your arms around his neck and kiss him, tell him you feel the same? Would you take him to bed, make love to him, lace your fingers together? Or would you back away and call him an idiot, tell him that you’re married to me, that you love me, that you don’t want him?
Who would you choose?
I like to think you’d pick me. You already did, didn’t you, when you asked me to marry you. You chose me. I won. Didn’t I?
The rain has stopped and sun breaks through the clouds, the streets, wet from rain, glistening in the sunlight. Your phone buzzes, a text from Sherlock. “I’ll be back tonight,” you murmur and kiss my cheek. You hum as you put your jacket on, you seem ten years younger.
And just like that, I know that I already lost.