Chapter Text
Despite the relationship moving fairly quickly, Mary didn’t spent the night at John’s place until over a month into their relationship.
John had been charming and kind, but Mary picked up on that… thing he had early on. That air of assertiveness, that self confidence that exuded from his composure. She wasn’t surprised to discover he was a soldier. She was surprised that, despite their months of flirting, he always seemed to pull back at the last second before they crossed that line into something more serious than borderline inappropriate-for-the-workplace banter. When they finally did go out, it was for work drinks with a few other doctors and nurses and the two of them ended up sitting off to the side alone together, just chatting the night away. Both were surprised when the bartender called last drinks and they looked around to see all their colleagues were already gone.
Mary expected him to pretend nothing happened, but the next day he texted her asking if she’d like to go out sometime.
The next few weeks were filled with dinner and movies and small gestures that grew alongside their familiarity.
When they finally fell into bed together, the first time was at a hotel, John claiming both of their places were too far away from the restaurant, which Mary did find slightly charming. The next two at Mary’s apartment; apparently John was in the process of moving, and his place with still a bit chaotic. Despite that minor hiccup, the relationship was moving quickly. John seemed happier, pulled out from under whatever gray cloud had been hanging over him since they met, to the point the receptionist at work commented on it.
The first time Mary came over to his new house, it was still a bit of a mess. Most of the unpacked boxes had been moved into the kitchen, so there was just the odd bit of clutter. John made dinner and they watched half a movie before going to bed.
The next day was a Saturday. Mary went to make coffee while John dragged himself out of bed.
She’d put the kettle on, and something caught her attention in the corner of her eye. A picture, in a magnetic frame covered in hand drawn flowers and stickers on the side of the fridge. It was a young girl, maybe eight years old. Cute, with pale skin and neat dark curls, smiling and showing off a missing lower tooth. Her eyes were two different colours, one a warm brown and the other a beautiful blue/green. It looked like she was wearing a school uniform, the background was a simple blue wall.
She reached out and took the picture, trying to get a better look. She thought back on the parts of the house she’d seen in the quick tour. Nothing indicated the presence of a child, and there were no other pictures of the girl.
Did John have a daughter? What happened to her? The picture was in good condition, so it probably wasn’t taken that long ago. Immediately Mary’s mind went to the worst-case scenario, putting together the pieces; John’s depressed demeanour when he was first hired on, the moving, the reluctance to talk about like since his discharge.
“Mary?”
She looked up as John came into the kitchen. She felt guilty for looking at the picture, even though it was out in the open and he had invited her into his house.
When he noticed what she was looking at, he didn’t look angry, just… resigned. He sighed, moving over and taking the picture from her gently.
There was a long moment of silence that Mary didn’t know how to interpret, before John puts the picture back.
“She wasn’t mine, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He said, his voice full of resigned sadness. “Not really.”
“Who was she?”
He sighed again. “Let’s sit down.”
They move to the table, and John spent a long time staring at his tea, his hand tapping almost spasmodic against the side of the mug.
“Her name is Imogen.” John finally said. Mary caught the present tense and relaxed slightly. “After… After I was discharged, I needed a place to stay. Mike introduced me to a friend of his. Sherlock Holmes.”
The name catches Mary off guard. Of course, she knew who Sherlock Holmes is, even a year later his name was still occasionally in the paper, what with his recent posthumous exoneration.
“You lived with Sherlock Holmes?” She asked, dread settling in her stomach, since she knew how this story ended. “God, John I’m so sorry.”
John tried for a smile but just managed an awkward twitchy sniff. “Moved in with him, the next day. Him and his daughter. Lived with them for a couple of years. Her mother wasn’t in the picture and Sherlock was… unconventional, in his parenting style,” he gave a small, sad smile. “Tried to balance out the crazy, a bit. After he…” he swallowed thickly. When he spoke, his voice broke. “After what happened, she just… disappeared. She’s with her uncle, I think, but… I never got to say goodbye. I can’t imagine what she’s… I mean, she lost everything… I know it’s probably ridiculous-”
“John, no, god of course it isn’t ridiculous, that would have been horrible for anyone.” She cut him off, squeezing his hand. “Losing your friend, someone you lived with… it’s completely understandable that you’d be upset.” She’d never been great with comfort, it wasn’t usually part of her job description, but she’d try. She couldn’t imagine; finding some kind of peace after being at war and losing everything so violently… it wasn’t a thought she wanted to entertain.
Slowly, over the next few months John started to open up a bit, let little things slip out.
It was still hard for him to talk about Sherlock, so he used Imogen as a proxy.
Imogen liked dinosaurs, Sherlock hated the Jurassic park movies. Imogen loved the ocean and Sherlock took her to the aquarium every year for her birthday. Imogen’s favourite science was forensics, and Sherlock used the flat as his own personal science lab. He couldn’t count the times he found some kind of body part in the fridge or microwave or cutlery drawer.
She saw the photo album, visited the grave with him. She was there when he got the phone call.