BBC Sherlock FanFic with OC, Marion Holmes. Post- Reichenbach. Read on.
If tu hadn’t known her before, you’d have never noticed. How the once brilliant spark of energy turned to a shadow in her now dull grey eyes. Not many have the ability, nor the right to see the subtle change-- but even someone like Anderson could see what was drastically different.
Sherlock was gone, and Mary’s vision had decided to follow.
Everyone realized fairly quickly how it could be fixed. Therapy sessions, psychiatrists, anyone specializing in this. Mycroft and John started with the lesser known, the ones who had good results. But a few months later, when the best of the best of Londres fled the private room, nearly in tears, John decided to talk to Mary.
After a few moments of silence, Mary looking away from him (pointedly o not, he didn’t know), John turned to her and asked as calmly as possible, “Why?”
There was no response, so he pressed it. “Mary.”
Still nothing. “Dammit, Mary, why.”
Finally, a quiet, “Why what?”
“You know bloody well what. Why are tu driving them away? We’re trying to help you, we want you-”
“We, John?” Mary’s voice was a dangerous low tone, barely heard over the soft and calm crackle of fire. “And who is we? You? And Mycroft? You’re not doing it for me. You’re doing it because the Yard needs help, because they’re too stupid to figure out cases without my help. tu need someone with field experience, someone with my smarts? Find someone else. I don’t want to.”
These few words were almost inaudible, and John is shocked, all is silent. Until Mary’s low murmuring resumed.
“I don’t want to be him, John. I’m not his replacement. I’m not as good as him and I can’t be. Not one person will ever be able to surpass him, in all his glory, his smarts. I don’t even want to try, because I know, I know, I never will.”
And John understood, and the matter was dropped. There were no más therapy sessions.
In the three years that passed afterwards, nothing seemed to change. Mary became más closed in, más seclusion, más reclusive, completely closed off. John and Mrs. Hudson seemed to really be the only ones who understood, and the grin, that stupid, proud, egotistical grin that always seemed to be on her face was gone. Nothing could bring it back, except for when she had little visions, little daydreams of Sherlock coming back to her, them having a civilized conversation, him asking her about what it was really like being blind. No one seemed to notice these little moments, the soft comentarios like‘“Sherlock, that was rude” that were lost to the wind, because there was nothing there. And if someone did notice, they let her be.
Then everything decided to change, due to a single conversation.
Mary usually stayed home. John knew these days that she wouldn’t set things on fire, which made him a little sad because it reminded him of the days before, but he left her at inicial anyways. He trusted the girl-- woman, John, he had to remind himself. She’s eighteen and a fully grown woman.
So he left her alone that day. It turned out to be a late night: too many people with injuries that demanded his help. And though he told Mary that he could come inicial early, she insisted he should stay. The physically injured needed his help más than she did.
He stayed at the hospital. She stayed home.
And then the hallucinations started once more.
This time, Mary heard the door from downstairs being undone hastily, thrown open and shut in a flair of dramatics. She listened as feet fell on the stairs, taking two at a time. It seemed as though he'd forgotten that the eighteenth step creaked when under pressure, because creak it did. por the time the door to flat 221B was opened, Mary had expertly manuevered herself blindly into the cocina and put the kettle on. Just waiting now, for him to say-
"Marion?"
There it was.
"Bit late, Sherlock."
"Marion, I-"
"You dicho you'd be here at 4."
"...what?"
The Fake Sherlock seemed genuinely confused, Mary thought to herself. "Had tu forgotten?"
"Marion, we never talked before."
Mary allowed herself a small smile. Fake Sherlock was being a bit of git today, wasn't he? "Well, that's what everyone else thinks."
The kettle whistled, and she took out two cups. "Maybe they're right, tu know, maybe tu are just a figment of my imagination."
"Marion, look at me, won't you? You'll see, I'm real, I'm here!"
A confused thought flitted over her mind. Mostly Fake Sherlock didn't deny it. Mostly that was when the conversation was over. But confusion flooded with hurt and anger. He really had forgotten.
"Marion, look--"
"I can't."
Fake Sherlock was silenced for a short amount of time. "Why not?"
She gave the hallucination a weak, hollowed, grim chuckle. "Blind, tu annoying git. 'Member that?"
Nothing was dicho for a little while as Mary stirred sugar into what might have been her cup. After a few más seconds, she grew a little sad. Had she scared this vision off too? She hoped not. She didn't like being alone. "You still there?"
"Yes," it muttered softly. "Yes, I'm here."
And afterwards, she could have sworn it said, "And I'll never leave tu again."
They didn't talk much after that, except for her explaining to it about the reciente cases, about John, and Molly. This one seemed a little strange, like it had missed out on the last three years, and wanted to know everything all over again. Mary didn't mind. She liked to pretend it was actually her brother, back from his grave, back to take care of her once more.
When they got to the parts of how she was blind, she hesitated. She didn't like this part much. It seemed to understand-- had she dicho that out loud?-- and it came over to her side of the sofá and 'sat down' siguiente to her. In her mind she could see what he looked like- black curls tousled and clumped with dirt, grey blue eyes faded, discolored, old and wise and sad. She smelled his usual musk, the streets of Londres practically coming from him in waves of stench. She felt him put his arms around her, pulling her into an awkward, brotherly hug...
...wait.
She could actually feel that. This wasn't just her imagination, this, this was real! She wasn't pretending that that musky smell was surrounding her because it actually was! This was not a fake Sherlock, not fake at all, no wonder he seemed so confused, because he didn't actually know, and oh, everything fell into place and the world was balanced again.
"'L-lock?" she cried softly into it's-his shoulder, a childhood nickname she'd dado him years ago.
"Yes, Marion. I'm here."
And for the first time in three years, Mary knew everything was alright and everything was seguro and Sherlock was alive and well and--
"I'm here and I'll never leave again."
Three months have passed since then. That night, John got inicial from the clinic, saw Mary, saw Sherlock, put Mary to bed, and promptly punched Sherlock in the face. The fight lasted for a few days until Sherlock got so fed up with John completely ignoring him, he did the first thing that came to mind to get the doctor's attention-- he kissed him full on the lips.
John responded enthusiastically.
They started dating.
They stopped fighting (about that, anyways).
Mary went back to her old self- the fuego department was called multiple times, and the three of them got away without arsonist charges only because Mary was blind.
Oh, she got that fixed soon enough.
The coversation that convinced her was short and sweet, and something like this:
"Marion, why don't tu want to see?"
"I... I didn't want to have to live up to it. To yours and Mycroft's reputations."
"Well who on earth dicho tu had to?"
"Society."
"Society? When have the Holmes' ever listened to society? Marion, tu are you. tu are not me, nor Mycroft, nor John o Donovan o Greg o Anderson. You're Marion Blithe Holmes, the world's only consulting detective's sister. And tu may not be as smart as I am, but tu get to the same conclusions I do most of the time. The way tu do it doesn't matter. Just getting it done is good enough, I'd say-- and you're not going to get it done if tu are blind."
"Alright."
And it was decided.
So today, in therapy, Sherlock on her left, John on her right, Mary was told to take a few deep breaths and close her eyes, like she always is at the end of each session. Then she opened them, and the first words she dicho were, "Shut the blinds, please."
The therapist did so, confused. "Why'd tu ask me to do that?"
And with a familiar, prideful, cocky smile spreading on her face, Mary replied, "It was too bright in here. I could see how ugly your furniture was."
With that, she strode out happily, 'accidentally' leaving her walking stick in the room behind her.
They went home. Celebrated. And fell asleep.
The siguiente morning, John opened his laptop screen and checked his blog. Nothing had happened, really, because he hasn't updated it for three years. He opened up a new post, and typed the words:
"In desperate need of a case. Anyone got something good?"
Three years. Three months. Three flatmates.
All is well.
If tu hadn’t known her before, you’d have never noticed. How the once brilliant spark of energy turned to a shadow in her now dull grey eyes. Not many have the ability, nor the right to see the subtle change-- but even someone like Anderson could see what was drastically different.
Sherlock was gone, and Mary’s vision had decided to follow.
Everyone realized fairly quickly how it could be fixed. Therapy sessions, psychiatrists, anyone specializing in this. Mycroft and John started with the lesser known, the ones who had good results. But a few months later, when the best of the best of Londres fled the private room, nearly in tears, John decided to talk to Mary.
After a few moments of silence, Mary looking away from him (pointedly o not, he didn’t know), John turned to her and asked as calmly as possible, “Why?”
There was no response, so he pressed it. “Mary.”
Still nothing. “Dammit, Mary, why.”
Finally, a quiet, “Why what?”
“You know bloody well what. Why are tu driving them away? We’re trying to help you, we want you-”
“We, John?” Mary’s voice was a dangerous low tone, barely heard over the soft and calm crackle of fire. “And who is we? You? And Mycroft? You’re not doing it for me. You’re doing it because the Yard needs help, because they’re too stupid to figure out cases without my help. tu need someone with field experience, someone with my smarts? Find someone else. I don’t want to.”
These few words were almost inaudible, and John is shocked, all is silent. Until Mary’s low murmuring resumed.
“I don’t want to be him, John. I’m not his replacement. I’m not as good as him and I can’t be. Not one person will ever be able to surpass him, in all his glory, his smarts. I don’t even want to try, because I know, I know, I never will.”
And John understood, and the matter was dropped. There were no más therapy sessions.
In the three years that passed afterwards, nothing seemed to change. Mary became más closed in, más seclusion, más reclusive, completely closed off. John and Mrs. Hudson seemed to really be the only ones who understood, and the grin, that stupid, proud, egotistical grin that always seemed to be on her face was gone. Nothing could bring it back, except for when she had little visions, little daydreams of Sherlock coming back to her, them having a civilized conversation, him asking her about what it was really like being blind. No one seemed to notice these little moments, the soft comentarios like‘“Sherlock, that was rude” that were lost to the wind, because there was nothing there. And if someone did notice, they let her be.
Then everything decided to change, due to a single conversation.
Mary usually stayed home. John knew these days that she wouldn’t set things on fire, which made him a little sad because it reminded him of the days before, but he left her at inicial anyways. He trusted the girl-- woman, John, he had to remind himself. She’s eighteen and a fully grown woman.
So he left her alone that day. It turned out to be a late night: too many people with injuries that demanded his help. And though he told Mary that he could come inicial early, she insisted he should stay. The physically injured needed his help más than she did.
He stayed at the hospital. She stayed home.
And then the hallucinations started once more.
This time, Mary heard the door from downstairs being undone hastily, thrown open and shut in a flair of dramatics. She listened as feet fell on the stairs, taking two at a time. It seemed as though he'd forgotten that the eighteenth step creaked when under pressure, because creak it did. por the time the door to flat 221B was opened, Mary had expertly manuevered herself blindly into the cocina and put the kettle on. Just waiting now, for him to say-
"Marion?"
There it was.
"Bit late, Sherlock."
"Marion, I-"
"You dicho you'd be here at 4."
"...what?"
The Fake Sherlock seemed genuinely confused, Mary thought to herself. "Had tu forgotten?"
"Marion, we never talked before."
Mary allowed herself a small smile. Fake Sherlock was being a bit of git today, wasn't he? "Well, that's what everyone else thinks."
The kettle whistled, and she took out two cups. "Maybe they're right, tu know, maybe tu are just a figment of my imagination."
"Marion, look at me, won't you? You'll see, I'm real, I'm here!"
A confused thought flitted over her mind. Mostly Fake Sherlock didn't deny it. Mostly that was when the conversation was over. But confusion flooded with hurt and anger. He really had forgotten.
"Marion, look--"
"I can't."
Fake Sherlock was silenced for a short amount of time. "Why not?"
She gave the hallucination a weak, hollowed, grim chuckle. "Blind, tu annoying git. 'Member that?"
Nothing was dicho for a little while as Mary stirred sugar into what might have been her cup. After a few más seconds, she grew a little sad. Had she scared this vision off too? She hoped not. She didn't like being alone. "You still there?"
"Yes," it muttered softly. "Yes, I'm here."
And afterwards, she could have sworn it said, "And I'll never leave tu again."
They didn't talk much after that, except for her explaining to it about the reciente cases, about John, and Molly. This one seemed a little strange, like it had missed out on the last three years, and wanted to know everything all over again. Mary didn't mind. She liked to pretend it was actually her brother, back from his grave, back to take care of her once more.
When they got to the parts of how she was blind, she hesitated. She didn't like this part much. It seemed to understand-- had she dicho that out loud?-- and it came over to her side of the sofá and 'sat down' siguiente to her. In her mind she could see what he looked like- black curls tousled and clumped with dirt, grey blue eyes faded, discolored, old and wise and sad. She smelled his usual musk, the streets of Londres practically coming from him in waves of stench. She felt him put his arms around her, pulling her into an awkward, brotherly hug...
...wait.
She could actually feel that. This wasn't just her imagination, this, this was real! She wasn't pretending that that musky smell was surrounding her because it actually was! This was not a fake Sherlock, not fake at all, no wonder he seemed so confused, because he didn't actually know, and oh, everything fell into place and the world was balanced again.
"'L-lock?" she cried softly into it's-his shoulder, a childhood nickname she'd dado him years ago.
"Yes, Marion. I'm here."
And for the first time in three years, Mary knew everything was alright and everything was seguro and Sherlock was alive and well and--
"I'm here and I'll never leave again."
Three months have passed since then. That night, John got inicial from the clinic, saw Mary, saw Sherlock, put Mary to bed, and promptly punched Sherlock in the face. The fight lasted for a few days until Sherlock got so fed up with John completely ignoring him, he did the first thing that came to mind to get the doctor's attention-- he kissed him full on the lips.
John responded enthusiastically.
They started dating.
They stopped fighting (about that, anyways).
Mary went back to her old self- the fuego department was called multiple times, and the three of them got away without arsonist charges only because Mary was blind.
Oh, she got that fixed soon enough.
The coversation that convinced her was short and sweet, and something like this:
"Marion, why don't tu want to see?"
"I... I didn't want to have to live up to it. To yours and Mycroft's reputations."
"Well who on earth dicho tu had to?"
"Society."
"Society? When have the Holmes' ever listened to society? Marion, tu are you. tu are not me, nor Mycroft, nor John o Donovan o Greg o Anderson. You're Marion Blithe Holmes, the world's only consulting detective's sister. And tu may not be as smart as I am, but tu get to the same conclusions I do most of the time. The way tu do it doesn't matter. Just getting it done is good enough, I'd say-- and you're not going to get it done if tu are blind."
"Alright."
And it was decided.
So today, in therapy, Sherlock on her left, John on her right, Mary was told to take a few deep breaths and close her eyes, like she always is at the end of each session. Then she opened them, and the first words she dicho were, "Shut the blinds, please."
The therapist did so, confused. "Why'd tu ask me to do that?"
And with a familiar, prideful, cocky smile spreading on her face, Mary replied, "It was too bright in here. I could see how ugly your furniture was."
With that, she strode out happily, 'accidentally' leaving her walking stick in the room behind her.
They went home. Celebrated. And fell asleep.
The siguiente morning, John opened his laptop screen and checked his blog. Nothing had happened, really, because he hasn't updated it for three years. He opened up a new post, and typed the words:
"In desperate need of a case. Anyone got something good?"
Three years. Three months. Three flatmates.
All is well.
