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Mary runs down the stairs from the room she shares with John then jumps down the last five steps. She hops into the sitting room wearing her blue football kit and bouncing a football on her knees.
John is sitting in his chair enjoying his second cup of tea. Sherlock is at the window holding his violin by its neck but not playing anything. They've both been in the same positions for at least half an hour.
“Going to the park for some football. John, you up for it today?”
“Hmm, no, not today. Have fun though,” John won't say it, but he looks forward to lazy Saturday mornings in the flat with Sherlock, sans Mary's frenetic energy.
“Lazy git, fine. Sherlock, what about you?”
Sherlock continues staring out the window until a football bounces off his head.
“Ow!” he turns and glares at Mary, “What?”
“Football, you fancy a game?”
“Me? Why on earth would I want to play football?”
“Um, I dunno, because it's fun?”
“Running back and forth kicking a ball is not fun, it's repetitive and dull and utterly pointless.”
“How would you know?” Mary asks, sticking out her tongue.
“You think I've never played sport before?” Sherlock asks, “sadly, you would be wrong, though if I must be forced to participate in team sport I have a preference for crew. It's rhythmic, good for brainwork. In any case, I get quite enough exercise in the pursuit of my primary occupation that I have no need to pursue more frivolous athletics. Though do have a good time, Mary.”
Mary smiles, well aware that this is what Sherlock sounds like when he's being nice. “I will, see you in a few hours,” and then she is dribbling the ball into the stairwell and running down the stairs and out the door.
Sherlock watches her run full speed toward the park before turning to John and slumping against the window. He sighs and John looks up. They exchange a look.
“Don't start, Sherlock. I know.”
“Shag her, John.”
John spits his tea all over his striped jumper. “Excuse me? What?” he splutters.
“Shag. Her. She is much calmer after intercourse.”
“Not that it's any of your business, but we have intercourse all the time.”
“You have intercourse an average of three times a week, and usually in the evenings before bed, which is not helpful as you sleep immediately after.”
“How do you. . .no, nevermind, I don't want to hear it.”
Sherlock smirks. “Precisely, John.”
“What?”
“I can hear you. I'm fairly certain they can hear you in Wales.”
John blushes. “Sorry.”
Sherlock waves a hand. “Don't be. I am well aware of your obligations in that regard and as I have mentioned repeatedly, though no one seems to believe me, sex does not alarm me. I am merely suggesting an increase in frequency and a change in schedule. Twice daily, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, would be optimal.”
“Twice a day? Jesus, Sherlock, it's not like walking a dog!”
Sherlock shrugs. “I could drug her.”
“Don't you dare! She's not that bad.”
Sherlock just spears John with his patented don't be an idiot look, and John sighs. Mary only moved in two weeks ago, and it's already difficult having another person in the flat, especially one as hyperactive and cheerful as Mary. She isn't doing anything wrong, exactly, it's just that he and Sherlock have their routines and things, their long hours of silence and mutual solitude, and Mary has shot it all to hell. John and Sherlock are both on edge, but they are both also aware they aren't going to get this kind of chance again and they want to make it work.
“Try,” Sherlock says.
“Fine.” John sighs.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Mary bounces up the stairs a few hours later covered in sweat and grass stains. “I'm having a shower!” she hollers on her way past the sitting room and up to the shower.
“Go,” Sherlock mouths and tilts his head in the direction of the stairs.
“Now?” John just made himself a new cup of tea.
“I suppose you could wait until tomorrow, or perhaps next week, or perhaps next month, really anytime would be acceptable,” Sherlock injects so much false cheerfulness into his reply that John can feel a cavity coming on.
“Yes, fine, I could do without the sarcasm thanks.”
“I hear the shower is a lovely place for this sort of assignation.”
“Jesus, fine.” John stands up and, with one last longing glance at his cuppa, wanders out of the sitting room and up the stairs.
The shower is already running, so John rapidly removes his trousers, pants and jumper and sneaks into the bathroom. Mary is humming some pop song John only half recognizes from the radio the nurses play in the clinic, but she hasn't noticed John yet. He slips into the shower behind her and slides his hands around her waist wet, slippery and drops a kiss on the nape of her neck.
“Mmm,” Mary relaxes backwards into him, “this day just keeps getting better and better.”
“Guess you won then?”
Mary turns around and grinds her hips against John's erection. “Mmhmmm.”
John wouldn't admit it if asked, but he really loves that Mary is shorter than he is, that he can wrap his hands around her bottom and lift her tiny frame effortlessly. They've done this before, so he doesn't even have to tell her to wrap her legs around his waist. John leans his back against the wall of the shower, holds Mary just above his cock, bounces her up and down a bit, rubbing her entrance hot, wet against his glans, teasing them both.
“Kiss me, you horny idiot,” she breathes.
John eagerly complies, meeting Mary's mouth in a hot, wet kiss. He does not know where Mary learned to kiss, but he does know that if she keeps kissing him like that he will fall over, so he swiftly lowers her onto his cock and she breaks the kiss with a startled squeak. John's head falls back against the tile and he closes his eyes and tries to focus. Weathering the pleasure of her hot, clinging cunt while standing up is really rather difficult, but Mary loves it and John is a soldier.
“Ohhh,” she moans, then buries her head in his shoulder and giggles, “give a girl a little warning!”
John smiles. “I like the sounds you make when I don't.” He bounces her up and down on his cock three more times, drawing helpless moans and squeaks from her throat. He knows he can make her scream this way if he continues.
“Sherlock is downstairs!” she whispers into his neck, panting, clinging.
“He says they can hear us in Wales. Wouldn't want to disappoint the Welsh, would we?” John bounces her again and she stifles a shout by biting his shoulder. John growls. “Ah, Jesus, Mary, do that again and I will fall.”
“Oh will yeh?” Mary nips and sucks a bruise low into the sensitive skin of his neck beneath his ear.
“Stop that!”
“Or what?” she whispers.
John kisses her, soft, quick, grips her bottom tightly, and drives into her with force. This time, she can't stifle that scream.
“Oh, fuck,” she moans. For a moment she just clings to John and pants, then she starts doing kegels and John has to grab the shower rod to keep from falling over as her walls squeeze him from the inside.
“Dammit, Mary,” he growls.
Mary giggles and does it again, this time using her legs, still wrapped around his waist, to pull him deeper inside.
John gasps. “Is this how you want to play it, then?”
She doesn't respond, just pulls him into a kiss and sticks her tongue in his mouth as she uses her legs to fuck herself on his cock.
Oh, Christ, fine. John turns around and shoves Mary's back against the wall and starts pumping into her fast and hard. Frantic squeaks escape from her throat but she can't scream because he keeps his mouth locked on hers, swallowing the sound. Staccato whimpers tell him that she's close and he releases her mouth so he can lean back a little for a better angle and more leverage against the wall.
“John, oh, John John John John Joooooooohn!”
If anyone was having a lie-in in Wales, they're awake now.
Mary pulses around him and John almost comes, but fortunately he had his own wank in the shower this morning and isn't on a hair trigger, though with Mary, god, he feels like a fucking teenager half the time.
Mary clings to him, gasping, eventually humming happily into his shoulder. He lets her recover until her legs relax and slip down around his hips. John drives into her again and she shrieks. Her eyes fly open and John sees understanding dawn.
“Oh, god, John,” she says, knowing what's about to happen but not yet able to form a coherent sentence. John kisses her, hard.
“Bent over or against the wall?” John growls into her mouth.
Mary whimpers. John digs his fingers into her iliac crest hard enough to bruise and lifts her and slams her hips down.
“Jesus fuck oh fuck John ahhhh!”
“I'll have an answer, or I can do this all day.” It's a bloody lie. John will be lucky if he lasts a complete minute.
“Bent over,” Mary gasps.
“Sure you can stand?” John can't help a little teasing.
Mary shakes her head, eyes big, pleading. John ignores her and sucks a nipple into his mouth, biting gently, sucking water off the tip.
“Ohhhh, god, youuu,” Mary moans, “stop!”
John stops. Lifts his head and waits with a cocky grin on his face.
Mary slides down his body, still propped up by the wall, and tests her legs. They wobble, but hold. She turns and John's hands slide around her waist again. He slides them up to her breasts and pulls her back against him, settling his still hard cock between her trembling thighs.
“Bend over,” he says in his best Captain Watson voice.
Mary moans and complies. She grips the sides of the tub and pushes back against him. Cheeky. John pinches her nipples and she moans again. Mary isn't a masochist, but she's at that place where all reasonable sensation is transformed into pleasure. “John, please,” and he loves that not even she knows if she's begging for more or begging for mercy.
It doesn't matter, because more is what she's getting. John grabs her hips again - she's going to have some beautiful bruises there – and pushes into her fast and hard. Heat builds at the base of his balls and he feels them draw up tightly into his body as he nears his climax. Mary is screaming, coming, a long, high pitched warble that goes straight to his cock slamming into her over and over with grunts that cannot possibly be sexy but he doesn't fucking care.
He falls to his knees when he comes, barely controlling the slide into the tub, pulling Mary down with him. He lets go of her and they slide awkwardly on the floor of the tub, all slippery trembly arms and legs. She ends up on top of him, still whimpering, and he ends up on his back. They both breathe heavily and listen to the hiss of the shower.
“Jesus,” Mary says finally, into his chest.
“Still getting my name wrong?”
“Shut up, tosser.”
“God, this is embarrassing. That isn't my name either.”
“I'd hit you, if I could move,” Mary giggles.
“We'd better try, water's going cold.”
“Yeah,” Mary agrees, but doesn't move.
“Come on, sweetheart, get up,” John pushes Mary up and she groans as she shifts onto hands and knees over John.
“I don't know what I did to deserve you, John Watson, but I must have been a very good girl in my previous life.” She drops a kiss to his flaccid cock before climbing out of the tub. Her legs are unsteady and she grabs the shower bar, but it's already weakened from John's earlier need for support and it comes right out of the wall. Mary falls to her arse on the rug as plaster rains around her. “Oh fuck!”
John, still on his back in the tub, toes off the water and laughs long and loud.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Somehow, among insults and giggles, John and Mary manage to clean up both themselves and the bathroom and get clothes on.
“Shit,” says Mary, “I'm starving.”
They share a look, knowing that at least one of them will have to brave the stairwell and the sitting room to order takeaway, and that it would be rude not to ask Sherlock if he wants something too.
John sighs. “Alright, fine, I'll go ask him. Are you going to hide up here then?”
“Nah, telly?”
“Sounds perfect.”
John wanders down to the sitting room, Mary following close behind, and finds Sherlock in his chair reading. Mary collapses onto the couch.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow at them. “Next time, try cunnilingus. It's quieter and causes less structural damage to the flat.”
Mary snorts. John blushes. “Um, we were going to order some takeaway, you want anything?”
“Dumplings, if you're ordering Chinese.”
“Right,” John nods and glances around for his phone.
“Next to your tea,” Sherlock says.
John picks up his phone from beside the ice cold cup of tea. He glares at Sherlock.
Sherlock winks at him.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
John is gentle and slow the next morning. He decides to take Sherlock's suggestion, figuring Mary is probably still sore from the previous afternoon.
“Do you always do what he tells you to?” Mary asks.
John licks along her slit, breathing in the musky scent of her sex. “He is a genius,” he says, and sucks her clit gently between his teeth.
“Oh! Oh. God. Yes he is!” Mary moans.
John takes his time, teasing her until she threatens to punch him if he doesn't let her come.
John looks up at her and wipes his mouth. “Do you want. . .?”
Mary glances down at his erection and nods. “Just, gentle, yeah?”
John smiles. He continues to rub circles around her nub with his thumb as he slides slowly into her and rocks gently until she comes with a long moan.
He pulls out and idly tugs at himself while Mary recovers. He isn't anywhere close to coming.
Fortunately, John Watson isn't the only one good with his mouth.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Sherlock winks at him again when he walks through the sitting room to start the kettle. John rolls his eyes. “Stop it. It's creepy.”
“She sat on the couch and watched telly the entire afternoon. You're doing well, John.”
“I don't need a bloody feedback form. Stop it.”
“Do lighten up, John, you should be in a good mood, considering.”
John can't fight a stupid grin as he flicks the switch on the kettle.
“That's better,” says Sherlock, snapping open the newspaper.
“Wanker,” John mutters.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Mary stops him when he tries to initiate again that afternoon. They're leaning against the counter in the kitchen and Sherlock has gone god knows where but John is going to take advantage of the opportunity.
“Has he drugged you?” she asks.
“What?”
“Your mad flatmate, has he drugged you?”
“Um, I don't think so,” John says.
“Then why have you been pawing at me like a teenager for the past twenty-four hours?”
John slips a finger inside her panties and, yes, she's wet. “I don't hear you complaining,” he says, slipping one finger inside of her.
Her head falls to his shoulder. “You're going to be the death of me.”
“Oh, definitely,” agrees John, crooking his finger into her g-spot and holding her tightly as she shudders.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
John makes it to Tuesday morning before Mary refuses to let him distract her with sex.
“I swear to god if you shag me one more time I'm going to fall into a coma. What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing,” John says, but he's a shite liar.
Mary punches him in the shoulder and he grabs her hand and pins it to the bed.
“Oi! That wasn't foreplay!”
John lets her go and sits up. “Fuck, sorry Mary. I don't really know where to start.”
“It's simple, John.” John almost jumps through the ceiling when Sherlock's lazy baritone joins the conversation from the doorway.
“Sherlock! Knock much?” John quickly covers himself and Mary in the duvet.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans casually against the door. “I may have suggested to John that things would be calmer about the flat if he kept you well shagged on a regular schedule.”
“You what?” Mary's eyes widen.
Sherlock frowns. “Do you really need me to repeat myself?”
“Sorry, no,” Mary turns to John, “and you just went along with this?”
“Er, well, it seemed a harmless enough experiment.”
“Oh my god,” Mary cradles her head in her hands, “you two are idiots.”
“On the contrary,” Sherlock says, “over the past few days your periods of inactivity have increased by over 200% and you talk almost 50% less.”
Oh fuck. “Sherlock, shut up,” John says.
It's too late. Mary is burning holes in Sherlock's skull with her eyes. “I talk less, do I? Is that what you want?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock says at the same moment John says “No!”
“It's not like that!” John insists, “Mary, just let me explain.”
She turns her angry eyes on John. “In ten seconds I'm going to start screaming at whoever is still in this room. I suggest you get out.”
“Mary,” John says.
“One,” Mary says.
“We should talk about this.”
“Two.”
John snatches his jeans off the floor and pulls them on.
“Three. Four. Five.” Mary looks away.
John grabs socks and a jumper without looking and bolts out the door. Sherlock is waiting on the landing holding out John's cell phone. John grabs it and glares at him. “You are a complete moron” he hisses.
“I think we should go out for breakfast, don't you?” Sherlock says.
John glances back up the stairs. “We're going out to breakfast,” he shouts, “just call when you want us to come back, yeah?”
“Fuck off!” Mary yells down the stairs.
John and Sherlock fuck right off.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“Oh god,” John stares miserably into his eggs, “is it too early to start drinking?”
“Your local doesn't even open until two, so I'd say so, yes.”
“Sherlock, do you have even the slightest idea how badly we've cocked this up?”
“I don't see what she's so angry about. From the sound of things the only thing she has to complain about is several days of passably decent sex.”
“Passably decent, god you're an arse,” John glares at the entirely too calm consulting detective across the table. Sherlock's not eating, but he's on his third cup of coffee.
“She'll get over it, John.”
“We need to come up with one hell of an apology.”
Sherlock scoffs. “What for?”
John's fork clatters to his plate. “Really? Really, Sherlock? You really don't know? Bloody genius, you are!”
Sherlock sighs. “Explain it to me.”
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Sherlock is still here. Sherlock has not swept off to wander about London and is instead sitting here patiently waiting for John to explain why his (their?) fiancé is currently livid. That has to mean something.
“First, we meddled in her sex life without consulting her, but worse than that, we did it to manipulate her behavior, and then you went and put the cherry on the cake when you told her that she talks too much, god what the hell were you thinking!” John's voice gets steadily louder until the end when he is flat out yelling at his flatmate. Several people in Speedy's turn their heads to look or glare.
“She does talk too much. I had no idea it was possible to fill so much time with so much meaningless chatter.”
“You are going to take that opinion and any like it, and you are going to lock it up in a vault in the dungeon of your mind palace, and then you are going to throw that vault into an oubliette, and then you are going to fill that oubliette with concrete, do you understand me?” John manages not to yell, but he does end up shaking an angry finger at Sherlock.
“There is no dungeon in my mind palace.”
“Liar. There is definitely a dungeon in your mind palace.”
Sherlock smirks. Yup, dungeon. John knows Sherlock well.
“Very well,” Sherlock drawls, “I suppose not everyone can be a master of conversational efficiency like you and I.”
“Great. And also, you will apologize. We probably have a few hours. I'm of a mind to teach you to grovel.”
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “I don't grovel.”
“You do now.”
“No, I don't.”
John grits his teeth and prepares for a battle of wills with the second most stubborn man in London.
John is the first.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Mary does eventually text them, but only to say she's gone to work and they'll discuss it when she gets home. Neither of them want to go back to the flat after they leave Speedy's so they just keep walking.
“Flowers?” suggests Sherlock.
“That's the first brilliant thing you've said all day,” John says, “I was starting to forget you're supposed to be a genius.”
Sherlock glares at him, but his glare softens. “I don't want her to leave, John. I'm sorry,” he fidgets with his ring.
John sighs. “I know that. You're not the only one who messed up. We're both idiots this time.”
“She won't leave, will she?” Sherlock looks so stricken John almost wants to give him a hug.
“No, I don't think so. She may be angry for a while, but I don't think she's going to dump me. . .us. .over this.”
Sherlock pales. John didn't even know he could get paler.
“What's wrong?”
“I'm finding it hard to breathe,” Sherlock says.
“Yeah, that's usually what it feels like when someone you care about is mad at you. Me too.”
“It's awful,” Sherlock says, “I felt like this in Devonshire, and for days after we got back. Is it going to be like that again?”
John had been furious with Sherlock in Devonshire, and the mad berk deserved it after that stunt with the coffee, but that was water under the bridge now. “Possibly,” John says, “we'll get through it.”
Sherlock just hums and looks like he's going to be sick. John couldn't agree more.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Sherlock is in the kitchen prepping dinner when Mary gets home. Everyone deals with emotional stress differently. John curls up in misery and watches telly. Sherlock, apparently, cooks. John would have been less surprised if Mycroft traipsed into the flat in suspenders and heels, but he manages not to say anything about it for the entire afternoon.
Mary, on the other hand, mentions it before she even puts down her messenger bag. “Oh my god, is Sherlock cooking?”
“Yeah,” says John, trying to gauge her mood. She doesn't seem angry. That could be good, couldn't it?
She smirks. “I must have scared the piss out of him this morning.”
“A bit, yes.”
“Hmmm.” Mary puts her bag down by the door and walks into the kitchen. She wraps her arms around Sherlock's waist and he stiffens, dropping the red pepper he'd been holding onto the floor. Mary squeezes gently then lets go.
“I didn't mean it,” he says quietly, “I'm sorry.”
“Come on, let's talk,” she takes his hand and leads him back out to the sitting room, and Sherlock lets her do it. She deposits him in his chair, then sits in John's with her elbows on her knees. John uncurls from his position on the couch and turns off the telly.
“Mary,” he starts, “we are really sorry. We are idiots.”
Mary scoffs. “What are you sorry about?”
They'd rehearsed this. John prays Sherlock doesn't screw it up. “We're sorry about talking about you behind your back,” John says.
“It was disrespectful to suggest John use sex to manipulate you,” Sherlock adds.
“And there is absolutely nothing, nothing, wrong with the way you are. You've been more than patient with us and we owe you the same.”
“Nor do you talk too much,” Sherlock says, “John doesn't talk much. We spend a great deal of time not talking. I am simply unused to having someone I care about make such regular demands on my attention. I like that you want to talk to me and. . .” Sherlock hesitates, “. . .and be around me. People don't. Want to talk to me or spend time with me. I will adjust. I'm sorry.”
John lets out the breath he'd been holding. They hadn't rehearsed that bit, but, fuck, Sherlock, he nailed it all on his own.
Mary softens. A bit. “Have either of you idiots ever had a long term adult relationship?”
Sherlock glances at John and starts to speak, but Mary interrupts.
“Besides each other,” she says.
“No,” says Sherlock.
“Uh, sort of,” says John.
“I'll just take that as a no. God, I cannot believe I actually have to have this conversation with two grown men.” Mary rolls her eyes.
“What conversation?” Sherlock actually looks curious. John is just glad Mary isn't yelling.
“The one about how people in healthy adult relationships need to communicate about any problems or concerns they have with each other, Christ. And when I say communicate, I mean with words.”
“Right. You don't actually have to tell us that. We know,” John says.
“Oh, so you don't just conduct experiments on people instead of actually talking to them at other times? This was a one off?”
Sherlock and John glance guiltily at each other. “We may have done before, once or twice. Um, coworkers, mostly, Ms. Hudson once.”
Mary takes a long suffering breath. “Oh my god, my students are more mature than you lot, and most of them have criminal records.”
“So have we,” Sherlock says.
Mary snorts. “Can't say I'm surprised. Maybe I should make you write lines.”
“I shall not manipulate Mistress Mary with sex. I shall not manipulate Mistress Mary with sex. I shall not manipulate Mistress Mary with sex. I shall not man. . .” Mary shuts Sherlock up with a pillow to the face. He bats it away and sniggers.
“It's not funny,” says Mary.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
Mary cracks a smile. “Fine, maybe it's a little funny, but you aren't off the hook.”
“Anything you need, Mary,” John says, “we really are so sorry.”
“I need you to tell me what problems you two had with me in the first place that made you desperate enough to do something so stupid.”
“Um, well, nothing really, just. . .” John shoots a look at Sherlock for assistance.
Sherlock shrugs and mouths “Oubliette.”
Fine then, John's on his own. He sighs. “You didn't do anything wrong, we are both just very introverted people, and we have gotten used to long periods of silence and inactivity punctuated by short periods of case related madness, and we are having some trouble changing our habits. You are extroverted and a bit hyper and it is going to take us some time to adjust and honestly Mary we should have just talked to you about it and we really are very sorry. We don't want you to feel unwelcome here because we both really want you to stay. Forever. Stay forever. This is your home, I. . .we. . .I love you.”
“We,” says Sherlock.
Mary and John both turn wide eyes on Sherlock, but he seems so entirely unaware of the import of what he's said that they both independently decide not to pursue it at this time.
“It doesn't feel so bad when you two are ganging up on me to love me,” Mary says instead.
“Oh!” Sherlock says, the sound of deductions sliding into place. “Oh. Oh, Mary, I am so sorry. I didn't understand.”
“Well, obviously,” Mary sighs and looks at the ground, “you didn't think I actually cared about the sex, did you?”
“Wait, what? You didn't?” John has missed something.
“No. I mean, that wasn't exactly stellar of you either, but it killed me to know that the two of you were plotting against me like I was some troublesome stranger. You cut me out of the picture. I was all alone, suddenly. I'm not alone, am I? Am I just a temporary guest star on the Sherlock and John show? I want this to work and I want to stay and I love you, both of you, but do you have any idea, any idea, how scared I was about our future today?” Mary starts crying halfway through, but soldiers on. When she's finished talking, she sobs and puts her head in her hands.
John and Sherlock both stand up at the same time to rush over to her, take a few steps, stop, look at each other, shrug, and both go to their knees on opposite sides of Mary. Sherlock takes one hand. John takes the other. John kisses Mary's tears away. Sherlock rubs small circles on her back.
“Mary, you are not alone. We messed up, but I swear, we never meant to hurt you, it's just an old habit, Sherlock and me. We'll make new ones. Better ones. Together.”
“I should have known better,” Sherlock says, “and I know how you are feeling now. It is how I felt every time you and John were together, before you corrected things at the proposal.”
“Mary, you will never, ever, be alone again.”
“Never,” agrees Sherlock.
“Okay,” says Mary quietly, still sniffling.
It's Sherlock who hauls her out of the chair onto the floor between them and wraps his arms around her first, but John catches on quickly and does the same. Mary cries some more, and they just hold her until she's done. John feels like absolute shite for making her feel this way, and Sherlock obviously feels the same. From the look on his face John isn't sure who needs the cuddle more, Mary or Sherlock. Maybe, it doesn't actually matter.
After a few minutes Mary starts to squirm. “Okay,” she says, “okay. I'm okay. Thank you, I'm okay.” When John and Sherlock don't let go she laughs a little, “Really, I'm okay. I won't object to spending the evening together, but I'll be okay. You can let go.”
John and Sherlock both back up a little, but both keep hold of one of her hands. Mary smiles and kisses each of the hands holding hers. “Oh, you two, everything will be okay. Stop looking at me like I'm drowning.”
Sherlock clears his throat and drops her hand. “Right,” he says, “would you like some dinner?”
“That would be lovely,” Mary says, “I didn't even know you could cook.”
“Cooking is merely applied chemistry. Of course I can cook.”
“Of course,” Mary agrees.
And Sherlock can. Mary curls up in John's lap in his chair while Sherlock whips up some kind of lemon chicken stir fry, which he serves over orzo, all complimented by an ice cold white wine. They eat at the kitchen table, which Sherlock has cleaned and decorated with Mary's flowers in a vase. John wanted to get lilies, but Sherlock insisted on antique roses. (”Where is your sense of romance, John? Lilies? Is she your grandmother?”)
“Oh my god, Sherlock, that was amazing,” Mary says, “why don't you do that more often?”
“Dull,” Sherlock says.
“But not today?”
“I was distracted today. It kept my hands busy.”
“I'll have to think up more distractions,” Mary says with a wink.
Sherlock's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “Please don't.”
“Oh, I didn't mean it like that,” Mary says, “sorry. I'm on my third glass of wine.”
“There is plenty,” Sherlock says, “have as much as you like.”
“You're still on your first glass,” John points out, on his second himself, and pours himself a third.
“I'm not a heavy drinker. Dulls the mind, decreases reaction speed in a crisis.”
“There's no crisis here,” says Mary.
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Alcohol also loosens inhibitions, isn't that right, doctor?”
“Um, yes?” John isn't entirely sure he wants to know where Mary is going with this.
“Are you implying I have inhibitions that need loosening?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You are aware that I am exceedingly irresponsible with firearms and frequently set things on fire even while completely sober, are you not? And that is an excellent segue to dessert.” Sherlock rises and pulls a small tray of what look like tiny soufflé dishes out of the fridge. Then he pulls a striker and micro-torch out of a drawer and lights the thing before John can even shout.
“Sherlock, what are you. . .”
“Crème brulèe, John, don't get your knickers in a twist, it's supposed to be made with fire!”
Mary snickers.
Sherlock doesn't burn the crème brulèe even a little bit. It's perfect.
“I'm not sure how I feel about irresponsible use of firearms,” Mary says, “but I think I approve of setting things on fire. If you have a few more glasses of wine, do we get bananas foster?”
Sherlock grins. “No bananas, I'm afraid, but if you like I can demonstrate the same technique on my hand, no extra wine required.”
“No, nope, no experiments over dinner, Sherlock,” John protests.
“It's not an experiment if I already know exactly what's going to happen. Alcohol burns at well below the temperature required to cause permanent damage to my epidermis and the water in the alcohol solution will insulate my skin long after the alcohol burns off. It's a harmless trick.”
“You are not setting yourself on fire!”
“I think John needs another glass of wine,” Mary says.
Sherlock smirks.
“I could finish this whole bottle and I still wouldn't let you light yourself on fire.”
“Yes, but if you finished the whole bottle, you might be too drunk to stop me. Plus, I have two more bottles.”
Mary giggles and empties the rest of the bottle evenly into John and Sherlock's glasses. “Open another.”
John does not let Sherlock set himself on fire, but he does eventually relent and let him light the table top after it's cleared. It goes up in a flash of hot blue flame and burns out quickly, just as Sherlock promised.
“Ooooh, let's light something else!” Mary claps her hands together.
“Oh god,” John groans, “No. No. No. No. No. Oh my god we are not setting things on fire.”
“His tiny blowtorch is so sweet!” Mary clicks the starter and manages to light the thing before John wrestles it out of her hands.
“Sherlock! A little help?”
Sherlock just chuckles and leans against the counter. Mary pouts and sidles up beside him. “John is no fun,” she says.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I cannot speak from personal experience, but from where I sit in my room, my chair, and occasionally, halfway down the street, it sounds like John is a great deal of fun.”
John snorts wine through his nose; it burns and he coughs.
Mary is a little slower on the uptake, but Sherlock's meaning eventually dawns on her and she blushes. Not one to back down, she retorts: “It's not like you to draw conclusions with insufficient data.”
It's Sherlock's turn to choke on his wine. “My data is more than sufficient,” he says when he recovers.
“Self-report studies are notoriously unreliable, especially when you only have one subject. That's more of a case study really, barely a series of anecdotes.”
“Those are some big words for a drunk English teacher,” Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.
“I certified in science too. Besides, you blokes don't love me because I'm stupid.”
“I thought experiments were off the table,” Sherlock says.
“They are, but there are plenty of other things to do on the table,” Mary giggles.
“Oh dear God, Mary. Sherlock, sorry, I'll just take her to bed,” John reaches out to grab her but she twists past him and skips out of the kitchen.
“I've spent quite enough time in bed with you this week, ta!” Mary sticks her tongue out at John and Sherlock chuckles.
“Mary, you're pissed,” John says.
“So?”
“So maybe now isn't the best time to be initiating that sort of discussion!”
“What discussion?”
“John thinks you're suggesting a threesome,” Sherlock explains.
“What!” Mary's eyes widen and she grabs her stomach as she is overcome with giggles, “Oh god, no, John, I was just having a go at Sherlock! Sherlock, you're not upset about it are you?”
“Not in the least. I look forward to that conversation when you're sober.” Sherlock strides over to the window and picks up his violin like he's thinking of playing something. He winks at John.
“I told you to stop that! And there will be no threesomes in this household!” John may have had a bit to drink, but there isn't a level of drunk to cover that in all the bottles in all the world.
Sherlock and Mary laugh at him, her high pitched giggle a pleasant counterpoint to his baritone chuckle.
“Oh yeah, you two are a regular riot,” John crosses his arms and leans in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Are you kidding?” Mary cackles, “that couldn't have gone better if Sherlock and I had planned it.”
Sherlock smiles thinly at John. “Not to worry, John, still not my area.”
“Good. Great. Glad to hear it.”
“What's that mean?” Mary asks.
“Sex,” Sherlock replies, drawing a terrible screeching from his violin, “is not my area.”
“You mean you're not any good at it or you don't like it?”
“The latter, although I suppose it's possible the former is also true. I wouldn't know.”
“Wait, are you saying that you're a virgin? How old are you?”
“I'm thirty-eight, and there is nothing wrong with me, I simply have better things to do with my time.”
“Oh,” says Mary, “sorry. Didn't mean to offend.”
“I am not offended,” Sherlock saws at his violin and frowns, “but I don't understand why everyone is so shocked and appalled by my lack of sexual conquests. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn't, but you're very attractive, so I can see why people would find it surprising.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and plays a bit of a reel, “It's nice of you to say so, Mary, but unnecessary.”
“No, Sherlock, really, I'm serious.”
Sherlock drops his violin to his side and furrows his brow at her. “Are you?”
“Yeah. Why would I lie?”
Sherlock frowns. “People often say complimentary things to those they care about in order to manipulate them or buoy their self-esteem, regardless of whether or not those things are objectively true.”
“Well I'm not trying to manipulate you and I don't think you need any help with your self-esteem. I was just giving you a compliment.”
“Ah,” says Sherlock. He tucks his violin back under his chin and plucks at it absently.
“So what's the deal with this 'not my area' crap?” Mary decides to pry.
“Mary, you're being rude,” John admonishes.
“Oi, he stuck his big consulting nose into my business, so I think a little turnabout is fair play!”
John shrugs. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”
“Fine.” Mary turns back to Sherlock. “So?”
Sherlock sighs and puts down his violin. “Whatever it is that the rest of humanity finds so fascinating about sex, I simply don't. I am perfectly capable of sexual performance, but do not seem to require sex like everyone else.”
“Is that why you've never had a relationship before?”
“Among other reasons, yes. To be honest, our current arrangement is ideal.”
“Huh,” says Mary, gnawing on her pinky finger thoughtfully. It's a nasty habit John can't stand.
“Interrogation over?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“Well, do you have any physical desires in a relationship? I mean, do you like to cuddle or anything like that?”
John snorts. “Are you serious?”
Sherlock glares at him. “Why wouldn't I like to cuddle?”
“Really, Sherlock? I've been living with you for almost three years and I have never seen you cuddle with anyone. Or is that what you're doing when you go walkabout? Finding someone to snuggle?”
“John, you're being a dick,” Mary says.
“No I'm not. It's Sherlock. He's bored and taking the piss.”
“Hey John,” Mary says, like she is about to explain something incredibly obvious to an especially slow child, “Do you remember the child development bit of your training, Harlow's experiment with the baby monkeys?”
“Er, no?”
“Three groups of baby rhesus monkeys,” Sherlock intones, “the control group stayed with their mothers, the first experimental group was given a terry cloth mother, and the last group was given nothing but a wire frame. All were fed an identical diet and given everything else needed to develop normally. Despite this, the last group developed behavioral abnormalities and a marked inability to form social attachments when reintroduced to family groups. In layman's terms, Harlow drove them mad. It's theorized psychopaths have similar origins.”
“That's horrible,” John says, “Jesus.”
“Babies in orphanages die from lack of human touch,” Mary says.
“Yeah, I knew that. It's awful. Why are we talking about this again? Are you suggesting Sherlock is going to drop dead one day if he doesn't get enough cuddles?” John chuckles. It's still a ridiculous idea.
“No,” Mary frowns at him, “but I am suggesting that you could give him a hug once in a while, you prick.”
“Mary,” John says, somewhat helplessly, “I'm English and ex-army. I don't hug other blokes. It just isn't on.”
“He's English and he hugs you all the time,” Mary points out.
It's true. Sherlock frequently hugs John after a case, either a quick full body embrace followed by holding John at arms length by the shoulders while he rambles about the case, or a casual squeeze with one lanky arm slung around John's shoulders.
“Yeah, okay,” John relents, “but I'm pretty sure one of his parents was French.”
“You two are aware I am still in the room, yes?”
“Sorry, Sherlock, I think Mary is meddling.”
“Mary, while I do appreciate what you're trying to do, I am perfectly capable of vocalizing my own needs, should they arise. I find John's proper English repression rather charming, actually.”
“I am not repressed!”
Mary and Sherlock both roll their eyes simultaneously, then lock eyes.
“There will be no threesomes in this household!”they both shout at John before dissolving into giggles and chuckles again.
“Jesus,” John pulls a hand across his face, “what am I going to do with you two?”
* * * * * * * * * *
John and Mary eventually go to bed, but Sherlock stays at the window playing fragments of things on his violin. He can't seem to concentrate on any one thing. He is glad Mary seems to have forgiven his gaffe, but he feels thin, drawn, exhausted. He quashes the desire to sneak up the stairs and crawl into bed with Mary and John the way he used to crawl into bed with Mycroft as a child. Even the thought is utterly humiliating.
Mary Morstan: the only person he knows with observation skills approaching his own. He managed to use humor to distract her from her course this evening, but probably only because she was drunk. She will figure it out, eventually. Thank god John is an idiot.
The exhaustion finally catches up with him and Sherlock curls up on the couch, alone, and tries not to think about baby monkeys.