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John Watson walks at night.
On an average night, it’s a few laps around the block. Some fresh air to clear his head, some time for the silence of the cold London streets to settle into his skin.
On a bad night, it’s a stroll through the seedier parts of town. He courts lady danger—and often comes away having pulled. And while a scuffle with a low-life mugger or desperate junky isn’t exactly a visit to a mistress, John leaves these exchanges feeling sated and guilty in equal measure.
On a really bad night, it’s a trek to Baker Street. He never goes in, just watches the windows from the pavement. He hasn’t decided if it hurts more on the evenings the lights are extinguished or left glowing brightly.
He always returns home before dawn. Always before Mary wakes. He slips into bed and dozes—or doesn’t—and waits for her to stir.
He knows she knows.
Smart as Sherlock—Mary is—and, it turns out, just as ruthless. She knows from the bags under his eyes, or the placement of his keys on the hook, or the odd smudges of grease on his coat. John is sure Mary knows he doesn’t sleep anymore—at least not when or where he should. Not next to her.
But she doesn’t say anything and not just from old habit (the CIA doesn’t employ operatives with loose lips, after all). See, she would have said something before. Back when her real name was Mary and Magnussen still had his brains tucked neatly inside his skull. She would have mentioned his sleepless nights over John’s second cup of coffee, looking sweet and concerned and innocent. She would have asked him about bad dreams or offered to pick up some melatonin or suggested going to see Ella for a top up. She would have done a magnificent job of pretending.
She’s really very good.
But the new Mary doesn’t have to hide. The new Mary no longer muffles her intelligence when presented with a mystery, doesn’t smooth the calculating crush of her brows. There’s a sharpness to her that wasn’t there before—one that can’t be concealed by the maternal glow and round belly.
She knows, and still, she doesn’t ask. She eyes him over the paper, sipping her coffee, and smiles and doesn’t question his nighttime sojourns, because they both know. None of those things—rehashing nightmares, bottles of sedatives, visits to the therapist—are going to help.
None of those will reconcile the truth. Reconcile the fact that she is cunning and ruthless and a murderer … and he loves her still. He loves her.
What the hell does that say about him?
It’s a question not easily answered. So he walks. And he thinks.
Mary doesn’t need to name it. Doesn’t need to pretend. For once, her silence isn’t deception. It’s honesty.