Chapter Text
The attending physician at the A&E was visibly impressed when the x-rays came in. Martha Jones didn’t blame her; considering the day she’d had, the fact that she’d avoided anything more serious than a hairline fracture was nothing less than a miracle.
One that she had absolutely no intention of repeating, and now that the case was over, she was going to focus on herself and figure out just how she’d be taking things from here.
Especially in light of...well, everything else, really.
Just.
Hours after the fact, and she was still torn between feeling affronted and chagrin over having been abducted, because— really?
General Shan had specifically targeted her, because she had been mistaken for her flatmate’s girlfriend.
Perhaps it was a case of misplaced priorities, but Martha could not get over that.
She’d been kidnapped, again, and it hadn’t even been of her own merit this time.
It was embarrassing at face value, and downright mortifying when one took her resume into consideration. She, the Woman who Walked the Earth, who had survived the Year that Never Was despite having been hunted the entire damn time by an alien madman’s enforcers and flying monkeys, had been captured by some smuggling ring.
[Jack would never let her live it down. Her therapist would throw a fit.]
Well.
At least she had plenty of time for the paperwork, that was something. Good thing she had found work, too; a few light shifts were exactly what she needed.
...even if she got scandalized looks when she said it aloud because she forgot how different civilians' standards were in relation to her own. [Oops.]
Sherlock Holmes had somehow managed to find the one person in London, if not the world, who had an even worse sense of self-preservation than he did. Had somehow managed to find a flatmate who made him feel like a rational, well-adjusted adult.
Part of him felt cheated, somehow. Especially when people looked at them both and immediately assumed Martha was the stable one. Granted, he did have a tendency to unnerve people and a lack of regard for stupid plesantries, but...he wasn’t the one who brushed off abductions and fractured ribs with a sigh and a shake of the head, even after a pointed conversation about occupational hazards. [And hadn’t that been a frustrating talk?]
This case had brought some fascinating data to the fore, in regards to his flatmate. Mostly alarming in its implications, but fascinating all the same.
The report she’d verbally rattled off had been very professional, and her written debrief had been even more so. Enough for it to be evident that this was not the first time she had been in situations like this, and the speed with which she’d managed to produce it was also very telling. Her almost cavalier attitude regarding hazardous situations— really, for all she’d gotten on his case about the pills she did not have much room to talk— also provided a few more pieces to the puzzle that was his flatmate.
Fascinating, how the more information he had, the less sense she made.
Made even more complicated by her behavior— and, more specifically, the reactions she elicited.
Sherlock Holmes did not have friends. He had colleagues and associates, had relatives [some of whom he could barely stand, but he did] and enemies, but he did not have friends.
...as such, he was unsure of his frame of reference for what he was feeling at the moment, in regards to this latest mystery. He eschewed sentiment, as a general rule of thumb, but.
Martha Jones had displayed a type of hard loyalty that he could not help but be drawn towards. This was the second case it’d come up in, actually, but...it was also the most visible display of it, and he was drawing a blank as to how to react.
He did not have friends.
Seeing his flatmate passive-aggressively square off against Sebastian of all people alone would have easily had made his month, let alone everything else that happened on the case. That it happened multiple times was merely a bonus.
He did not have friends.
Her habit of muttering ‘brilliant’ was something that still caught him off-guard. She didn’t dismiss his deductions, didn’t brush them off as a parlor trick or something that made him less than human, just looked at him with the same quiet warmth and respect that she gave everyone else and it made for a very strange experience— especially after that conversation about significant others, because that easy acceptance about his disinterest was very much an outlier, as far as interactions of that sort went for him.
He did not have friends.
Thus far she’d fought a serial killer and an assassin on his behalf, as well as demonstrated that fractured ribs weren’t enough to deter her from helping with the case. Had acted more concerned over his eating habits and the milk, than her own abduction. Two cases in and she had more than proven herself a remarkable asset and ally, and…
He did not have friends. So where exactly did Martha Jones fit?
She had called herself his best friend, back in Sebastian’s office.
That still did not sound quite right, but...he could get used to it.
The next few weeks after the case were quiet and mostly centered around the fallout, something for which Martha Jones was very grateful.
Locum work around healing ribs was easy, compared to...well, other similar situations she’d been in.
Plus she had the chance to make friends, which helped greatly with her attempts to branch out again. Granted, there was still a wordless gulf between them sometimes, but...that sort of thing was inevitable when her full resume was classified material. On the while, though, Martha had a relatively pleasant time getting to know her colleagues better.
However, they were not the only ones Martha reached out towards.
Her first coffee with Molly Hooper had been shortly after the latest case, and it had started out very, very awkward.
Partly because this friendship was the one she wanted to not mess up on the most, and partly because of the sea of misunderstandings that’d happened in the first five minutes.
Molly had been painfully shy and quiet, before she’d made a strange face— and then Martha realized she’d never clarified that no, she and Sherlock were not dating, thank you very much.
After that, it’d been [mostly] smooth sailing.
“But you—”
“Oh, no,” Martha had laughed [to keep from scowling in frustration], “absolutely not, no. We’re flatmates, I first met him— I think you saw, when we first met.”
Molly’d blinked. “That was—”
“Just back from Afghanistan, remember?”
“...oh.”
Just to hammer the point home, Martha had continued with a gentle shake of her head. “He’s a friend. Besides, I— it’s been a while, but...last time I came anywhere close, I was the rebound, it was ugly. We ended up deciding we’re better off as friends. And the bloke was— Sherlock reminds me of him, sometimes, and that’s just...no. I’m trying to ease my way back into the game, not...”
There. It sounded awkward and messy and clunky, but it did the job.
Bonus for it apparently endearing her to Molly, too, if the look she’d gotten afterwards was anything to go by. Plus it also helped segue into asking about dating prospects in London, which is something Martha really, really wanted to get a start on.
Nothing serious, of course, not now. Not when Martha was still dealing with reflexes that still had her unsheathing blades during particularly bad nightmares and biting back secrets— but someday.
Someday, when she was on a more even keel, Martha wanted a relationship. She’d never breathed a word of it to anyone; between her career aspirations, family drama, and everything that’d cropped up after the Doctor had stumbled into her life, it’d taken a backseat, but…
Someday, she would be better, would be more than an assortment of frayed nerves that wasn’t imploding due to sheer willpower. And then— looking back now, it was so, so easy for Martha to see the Doctor for what he’d been, back during their travels. Now that his expectations weren’t an unbearable weight, now that she had both distance and hindsight on her side, it’d been painfully simple to see the way he’d been hurting, back when they’d first met.
Now, Martha was the one who was all jagged edges clawing her way back to some semblance of a functional adult, and she refused to give anyone the burden she’d once carried.
But she had to get back into the swing of things, get used to socializing again. If she didn’t start now, people would be making even more assumptions about her relationship with Sherlock—and that prospect was incredibly unfair to him, on a number of levels.
So. Dating people was going to happen, at some point. Might as well get the logistics all squared away now, right?
Plus said talks helped her slowly talk Molly into coming out of her shell, there was that too.
Martha wasn’t exactly a wingman, but...well, she couldn’t help but be invested, okay?
Molly Hooper reminded her too much of herself, was the thing.
Of herself, back in the early days when she ran with the Doctor. Back when she’d done her best and hoped and—
Molly didn’t have to meet the same impossible standards Martha had been scrambling to achieve. Didn’t have the ghost of someone else overshadowing everything she did [didn’t have an apocalypse that had forged her into a soldier—no]. But she had that same crippling shyness around her crush, that same particular brand of eager-to-please that made it so hard to stand her ground when someone she cared about asked something of her...
Maybe it was selfish, but Martha wanted to help Molly Hooper. Help her come out of her shell, help her find her confidence and keep it even when around her crush, help her get out and see the world and meet new people. Help shift her attention to someone who would reciprocate it, instead of wasting her time and energy on someone who didn’t appreciate it.
[Maybe it was selfish, but Martha wanted to give her the support she’d never had herself.]
A few weeks into their friendship, and Molly Hooper still didn’t quite know what to make of Martha Jones.
She’d gone into their first coffee meeting expecting some modicum of heartbreak. Expecting to learn more about the woman the rumors said was Sherlock’s girlfriend, and find out just why she’d chosen to reach out to her.
Instead, she’d met a very self-deprecating fellow doctor with a strange sense of humor, and...she didn’t know what to make of it.
Martha was beautiful and confident and mysterious. Was strong and elegant and poised, was the sort of woman Molly couldn’t help but secretly envy.
And yet.
Martha was witty and kind and warm. Was genuinely friendly, and stubborn, and had a laundry list of stories that helped break the ice. Almost always had a quip on hand to make her laugh, or a gentle smile.
Just...sometimes it almost got overwhelming, for Molly Hooper, [plain, mousy, wallflower Molly—] having a friend like Martha Jones. Sometimes, early on, it almost felt like she was being patronized— especially when they were at a coffeeshop or a pub and someone gave them an odd look because Martha had brushed off someone hitting on her in favor of listening to Molly talk about her day.
Molly knew better, of course: she’d seen the darkness in Martha’s eyes, that first time she’d talked about her last crush. It was one of the biggest reasons she’d agreed to another coffee, at first; that feeling of bittersweet commiseration over wanting something far out of her reach.
A few weeks in, though, and Molly could confidently say they were friends without feeling even a little self-conscious.
Martha asked after her cats and Molly shared pictures, or Molly asked after her last date and Martha facepalmed and muttered darkly about how Sherlock had crashed it because of an experiment. Molly talked about incidents at work, and Martha talked about the latest headache her therapist had given her because there was no way she was writing a blog.
They spent increasing amounts of time together, and...maybe Molly was just imagining things, but maybe Martha’s confidence was rubbing off.
Actually— no, Molly wasn’t imagining it. Her coworkers noticed it too, if the new looks she was getting were any indication.
It was the way she kept her head held high more often, even if she was still easily flustered. It was the growing confidence with which she spoke with Martha over coffee, and the dating advice she offered when her friend was feeling especially frustrated. It was the way she wore new lipstick because she wanted to try something new, and didn’t remove it even after Sherlock criticized it—though, admittedly, the death glare Martha had given her flatmate helped immensely that time.
...Sherlock.
Molly didn’t know what to make of Martha Jones, and Sherlock was an embarrassingly large part as to why.
Martha was very transparent in regards to her relationship with Sherlock; she spoke of him with a warmth that, if Molly hadn’t known when they’d met, would have convinced her they were childhood friends. The way those two acted, their banter and the ease with which Martha kept up with even the wildest of Sherlock’s experiments and ideas— there was a familiarity that was almost painful to watch, for Molly. And the worst part was, it wasn’t Martha’s fault she felt like an outsider looking in.
She’d had a crush on Sherlock for a very long time now, had carried a torch that had been smoldering for longer than she cared to think about— and Martha knew and respected it. She didn’t entirely approve, but after that initial and heartfelt “you can do better, Molly. If you can, get out”, she’d been very supportive of it. Tried to duck out and leave them alone, gave her encouraging smiles. Didn’t hesitate to call her flatmate out on his more brusque moments, when a particularly scathing comment hit too close to home for Molly. By all rights, it was practically an engraved invitation for her to ask him out.
Yet the more often it happened, the more her crush dwindled.
The more often these situations cropped up, where Molly and Martha and Sherlock were together for extended periods of time, the murkier it all became, the more conflicted she felt.
Because the more time they spent together, the more obvious it was that her crush had his eyes on someone else— and she didn’t even notice.
At first, Molly had thought she was seeing things. Blamed it on an overactive imagination, on having seen one too many romantic comedies, because she was unfortunate in love but there was no way her luck could possibly be this bad.
But no.
Whenever Martha was around, Sherlock tracked her movement out of the corner of his eye. Whenever she left, he always seemed just a hair distracted with what he was doing— and then relaxed marginally when she got back. No matter what Molly did, Sherlock’s focus wasn’t on her whenever his flatmate was in the room.
It hurt.
Especially when combined with the reminder of Martha’s own platonic indifference to the man. More than once, Molly had been privy to Martha’s rants on the matter, from her annoyance about people’s assumptions to the way said assumptions had netted her fractured ribs [and hadn’t that been terrifying to hear?] that were only mostly healed.
They were friends, no doubt— but the situation around Sherlock was one that put a strain on it that she struggled to work around. Because at the end of the day, Martha tried to be a good friend and didn’t deserve the resentment that sometimes wanted to fester if Molly let herself dwell on it for too long.
It was a painful realization, accepting the reality of her crush, but.
She had to move on. Even if she’d held out and hoped for so, so long, that Sherlock would notice her— she couldn’t blame Martha for it.
Not when Martha had honestly, genuinely tried to help. Not when Molly could still see the ghost of old wounds, sometimes, during their talks over coffee, whenever Martha started to get maudlin and talked quietly of her own experiences as the rebound.
Molly still didn’t know the full story, and probably never would; Martha was very chary about it. Tended to talk around her memories, preferred to listen to Molly’s woes than speak of her own. But she had a good idea of what had gone down, and when she did, the last traces of envy she’d felt vanished.
It still hurt.
But Molly Hooper would move on. [Somehow.]
Martha had been nothing less than supportive, when she found out, and that, combined with her burgeoning confidence, meant that now they were comparing notes as to how to find someone.
It was a very strange experience, for Molly. Partly because she was still very new in her forays into finding someone that wasn’t Sherlock, partly because Martha still tried to be her wingman, but mostly because of the spectacle that Martha made when doing so.
It was bizarre enough to help jar Molly out of her melancholy, and entertaining enough to make up for the headache it caused. [Really, Martha could’ve had her pick of almost anyone, just what was she playing at? Oh, right.]
Well.
Silver lining, at least she’d found someone: she hadn’t expected to bump into Jim from IT while keeping an eye on Martha’s latest victim [that poor man had been trying to flirt for over five minutes and she had yet to cotton on], but she certainly wasn’t complaining.
In her defense, Martha Jones knew what she was doing. In theory.
She was self-aware enough to know that easing back into dating was the best way to go, but beyond that it was a veritable minefield. It didn’t help that she’d probably spent too much time with Jack, either; he was a terrible flirt and apparently some habits had rubbed off.
Molly had seemed incredulous, at first. Then increasingly amused, even as she pulled her aside and mentioned just how many times she’d apparently ignored someone trying to get her attention.
...this was going to be even harder than she’d thought, wasn’t it.
Oh, bother.
Martha’s friendship with Molly was pretty comfortable, by now. Even more so than the budding friendship she had with her coworkers, about on par with the way she’d been warming up to Mrs. Hudson, actually.
So far, so good on the ‘reintegrating as a civilian’ thing. Up until Sally Donovan entered the same pub she was in, at any rate.
After a few hurried house rules, such as the ‘I know he can be difficult but please don’t call my best friend a freak in front of me’ thing, the ‘he’s an asshole and I’m going to say whatever the hell I want, also I thought you were dating’ thing, and the ‘oh for crying out loud it’s not like that’ thing, it turned out that they...actually almost got along.
Not entirely, because of the point of contention that was Sherlock Holmes, but apart from that?
There was quite a bit to commiserate about. Sally’s experience as a police officer held a few parallels with Martha’s own as a doctor, and there was no small amount of venting because of it. It was nearly the exact opposite of her friendship with Molly, not kind or sweet in the least, just...moments of shared anger with someone who could understand exactly what it felt like when someone tried to talk over them, or treated them differently than their coworkers, or— well. The list went on.
Sometimes it became a "who had the worst day at work" session. Other times, bits and pieces of their personal lives slipped out. Martha did her best to not judge Sally for her taste in men [wasn’t like she had much room to talk, considering her own life choices], and Sally gritted her teeth and side-eyed Martha whenever Sherlock came up.
Typically, Martha won those rounds. Also typically, Sally questioned her sanity afterwards, since Martha tended to tell these stories with a very discongruous smile, but still. It was fun. It was a very different type of support she provided than with Molly or Jack, but one she still enjoyed.
So far, so good.
She might not be finding a boyfriend anytime soon, not like the way Molly had managed, but...branching out the way she was felt a lot better than the alternative.
Even if some of those friends were less conventional than others.
Sherlock Holmes frowned at the police report.
He had been irritated to learn that General Shan had managed to escape during the chaos that was their latest case. Had been hoping to give chase, had been hoping to see where exactly she and the Black Lotus gang fit, what niche they filled and what circles they moved in.
That avenue was now closed to him; the closest he could possibly get now would be via the autopsy report.
All signs had pointed to Shan being a major player, yet she’d been shot and disposed of with the same regard Sherlock had for his own experiments.
Curious.
And a dead end, as well: Sherlock highly doubted anything would come of the ballistics report, considering the professionalism with which the body had been handled.
Who exactly had General Shan crossed, and how?
This wasn’t the only instance an anomaly had cropped up in London, either: his attempt to research just where Jefferson Hope had gotten his poison had led him to a shell company, and the man himself had apparently died of an aneurysm several hours into police custody.
Plausible, at face value at the time. But now, taking everything else into consideration? Martha had also shared her own insights and reasoning for the decisions she’d made during their latest case; while some of it displayed impressive risk-taking behavior, most of it lined up neatly with his own deductions.
Something very strange was afoot, and he looked forward to getting to the bottom of it.
Martha Jones didn’t tense, when the sleek black car pulled up again as she made her way home from work. Didn’t flinch, didn’t cast about for escape routes, didn’t do anything other than sigh and readjust her grip on her cane as the door opened.
“We really need to stop meeting like this.” She said dryly, and Anthea glanced over in amusement for a moment before turning back to her phone.
The mere sight of Mycroft still caused her to tense. Perhaps as if to accommodate for this, it appeared that the man had his assistant speaking with her instead; this was the fifth time this week they’d met.
This would be something that both Holmes brothers would soon come to regret, when the unholy alliance that was Martha’s friendship with Anthea manifested itself.
“How are your ribs?”
“Fine. How did that thing with the...German Chancellor, was it?”
“Classified.” Anthea replied, and Martha shook her head with a smile and leaned back.
“I take it Mycroft had more paperwork after that round?”
“I am not at liberty to disclose.” Martha...probably shouldn’t have been able to pick up on her tone and inflection so easily.
“Of course he did.”
“You have not scheduled a checkup.” Anthea said with all the subtlety of a battering ram, and Martha sighed.
“Okay, the rest I can work with, but the medical records thing is just creepy.”
“He worries.” Anthea said lightly, and Martha shook her head as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Yeah, about Sherlock. I can take care of myself even if he did care about the flatmate.” She retorted, and frowned at the disbelieving glance she got. “Really.”
“It would be much appreciated if you could check regardless.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”
She had done nothing to deserve that look, thank you very much.
Fortunately, by then they’d arrived at her flat.
“Thank you for the lift, but can I suggest tea, next time?"
Anthea gave a noncommittal hum that was as close to a 'yes' as she'd get from this quarter, and Martha sighed as she exited the car.
Things had been quieter lately, sure, but that was no reason why she should be popping up on anyone’s radar. Really, everything was great: she was settling in very well, was making friends and meeting people and her ribs hadn't given her issues in weeks now.
[So why was part of her waiting for the other shoe to drop?]