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The coffee shop had smelled warm and welcoming. John had always liked cafés for their unique smell. It was earthy and distinctive. Something about it made him relax, no matter how tightly wound he was.
He had come to this place often in the two months since Sherlock’s fall, even though he didn’t exactly know what drew him to it. Maybe it was just the smell mixed with the gentle music, the good cup of coffee that made him feel slightly better.
There was an upstairs area that had comfortable armchairs and looked out over the busy shopping street underneath. He loved sitting there, sipping the hot drink and watching the people pass by. Sometimes he would stay for hours, just watching these creatures that seemed so alive and so alien to him.
He wondered how many things Sherlock could have deduced from the way they walked or the way they shielded themselves against the rain with a myriad of umbrellas and hoods. But thinking of the detective hurt, so mostly John just watched, unthinkingly. It was a little like he was in a zoo, staring at the animals and wondering what drove them to run so busily through their lives.
On one of these days, when it was rainy and grey outside and the little creatures down in the street were trying their best to stay dry, a woman sat down in the chair next to him.
John didn’t pay her any mind. If he ignored her, she would go away. People always did, eventually. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to take part in the life of other human beings anymore. Without Sherlock and the life he brought him, everything seemed pointless. His therapist was concerned by his lack of interest. He was beyond caring.
The woman next to him didn’t speak for a long time, simply looked out of the window too. A part of John’s mind picked up that she was beautiful, her long blonde hair framing a heart shaped face. But mostly, he just didn’t care. He was broken; nothing and nobody could change that. Well, nobody but Sherlock.
The detective would have scoffed at his sentimentality. John was so human, so frail and dripping his stupid little feelings over everything. But then, Sherlock had been much more human than he had ever pretended to be. Thinking of the man made something claw at John’s heart. He had to distract himself, think of something else, anything that would keep his thoughts from tumbling down that road, falling into the abyss of memories and wishes that would never come true.
A warm hand touched his and he started. The woman wasn’t looking at him, she kept her face turned to the window, her gentle digits resting, lightly, on his calloused hand. He knew he should move away, not give her the impression that he was interested. But the undemanding manner in which she had initiated contact felt like balm on his soul. Grounding somehow…
They sat, side by side with just their hands touching and neither of them speaking for at least an hour. The rain outside stopped and the sun burst through the clouds. It was beautiful, really, how the rays of light were reflected on the wet pavement, casting the world into a magical shimmer.
Eventually the hand pulled away and John found himself missing the contact almost instantly. For the last hour he had felt a strange sort of connection again. The people outside still seemed alien creatures but here, in the warmth of the café, with the smell of ground coffee beans swirling around them, this woman had seemed real to him, as if he had found a kindred spirit.
She smiled at him as their eyes met, a little shyly, but unbearably kind.
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
And he did.
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It was almost Christmas when Mary and John went to the open-air ice rink together.
John stumbled a lot and in the end just held on to the edge, watching as Mary twirled over the ice, illuminated by the twinkly lights around them, cheeks red from the cold. She looked like an apparition as she moved beside him, her laughter ringing like bells.
“Hold my hand, love, I won’t let you fall.” Her voice was joyous as she grabbed his arm and pulled him back onto the ice and he couldn’t help but join in her laughter.
Eventually they stopped in front of the giant Christmas tree that was set at one end of the rink. The baubles reflected in Mary’s eyes, making them shine and sparkle in the most beautiful colours.
John got to his knee and for a moment, Mary looked worried that he might have fallen despite her promise to keep him safe on the ice.
“Mary Morstan,” he said, beaming up at her, “Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”
Tearing up, she accepted and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t planned this, didn’t even have a ring for her yet. She loved him and she wanted him and it was enough for both of them.
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Their wedding was a quiet, private affair. It suited them both better that way, with only Mary’s parents, John’s sister Harry and Mrs. Hudson, who had stayed in touch with John even after he had moved out, attending.
When Mary walked down the aisle, John’s heart stopped. She was so beautiful, her blonde hair braided into a loose crown, adorned with wild flowers. The bouquet she held was also made of the flowers she had picked herself, the day before, at her parent’s country home.
Her dress was simple, not the shiny satin fabric that most brides seemed to favour, but cotton lace that flowed around her gentle curves.
And while John still felt painfully aware of the empty space next to him where his best man was supposed to be, he found solace in the shiny blue eyes of his bride.
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It was a spectacularly sunny Sunday morning in spring and they were lying in bed in their cottage in Sussex. The smell of lavender was wafting in through their open window and intermingled with the smell of the coffee Mary had made for them before joining him back in bed once more.
Her hand met John’s and he sighed happily. The sun illuminated Mary’s hair, making her seem soft and radiant to him. Once more he wondered if she might be an angel sent down from heaven to help him deal with Sherlock’s loss. It seemed likely, somehow.
She smiled and kissed him.
“You know, the smell of fresh coffee will always remind me of the first time we met.” Her hand squeezed his as she said it.
He made an agreeing sound, too relaxed to form actual words.
“I’m pregnant, John.”
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They painted the nursery a soft shade of blue for baby Hamish. It was a beautiful late summer afternoon and Mary was already heavy with child.
Bickering about whether or not she should mess around with paint in her condition, she grabbed a brush and painted his nose blue. He retaliated by lifting up her shirt and painting a little blue heart on her baby bump.
Laughing, they decorated the room and John marvelled when Mary started painting gentle clouds on the ceiling. He hadn’t known how artistically talented his wonderful wife was. But then, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She was his personal angel after all….
And if he still needed a cane to move around the house sometimes, it didn’t matter so much. Because they had each other and soon they would have Hamish to add to their little family.
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Lestrade called him. Which was a surprise, because they had hardly talked since Sherlock’s death.
It wasn’t his division of course, Lestrade had nothing to do with the traffic officers who had been called to the accident, but somebody must have noticed his name on the next of kin form and contacted the Detective Inspector.
John felt himself go cold as the news poured through the receiver, assaulting his ear like a leech draining the life out of his body. A drunk driver had hit the car; Mary had veered off the road and hit a tree. She had succumbed to her injuries on the way to the hospital. The other man walked (or wobbled) away almost unscathed, safe for a few bruises.
If John had been able to feel anything he probably would have felt rage, wanted the other man dead too. As it was, he felt nothing. His knees buckled and the phone fell out of his hand, the tinny voice of the DI reduced to a tiny buzzing. A buzzing like the bees as Mary had walked through the garden with him, planning on where to put the playground for Hamish.
White noise, nothing more, colourless like the rest of his life…
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The funeral was quiet, just as their wedding had been, with almost the same number of attendants. The only addition was Lestrade, who had obviously felt the need to make up for their loss of contact.
John didn’t care. It meant nothing that these people had shown up, it meant nothing that he was still alive, breathing, because if anything it had to be a cruel joke of fate, to allow him to live while everybody he loved died around him.
He covered the grave with wildflowers and felt nothing.
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Two months before the baby should have been due, Mary walked into his life again.
He woke up in the middle of the night in his small London bedsit. She was next to him, meeting his gaze with her own.
Somehow she was the same as she had always been, not translucent as ghosts were supposed to be.
“You’re dead,” he mumbled sleepily.
“I know,” she breathed back, “but Hamish doesn’t have to be.”
He didn’t understand what she meant so he fell asleep again.
In the morning, a hot cup of coffee stood on his bedside table.
Mary was gone.
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Shortly after, Sherlock returned.
By then, John was convinced that he had lost his mind. First Mary’s nightly visits and now Sherlock… It wasn’t normal.
The only obvious difference was that other people seemed to see Sherlock as well, while nobody but him could see Mary.
If this was madness, John preferred it to reality.
He moved back into 221B when Sherlock asked him to.
What else was there to do?
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“You should tell him how he feel,” Mary whispered through the night.
“I won’t cheat on you,” John retorted.
There was a long moment of silence and John thought Mary might not speak again. Sometimes they didn’t talk very much on these nightly visits.
“I am dead my love. Find happiness.”
“There is no happiness for me.”
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And yet, when Sherlock kissed him he didn’t resist.
It reminded him strangely of the time in the coffee shop, when Mary had taken his hand. He had grieved for Sherlock then and yet allowed somebody else to touch him, to comfort him through it.
He was aware, both now and back then, that it might be better to pull away, to protect his heart. But he couldn’t follow his rational mind, not back then and certainly not now.
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“I talk to Mary at night,” he confessed, lying next to Sherlock.
They hadn’t had sex yet - John wasn’t ready for that. But they found comfort in holding each other close, breathing the other person in.
Sherlock smelled to him like the coffee shop. Of course he didn’t really smell the same, but the emotions were similar. They evoked safety and a distinct feeling of being at home.
The detective didn’t reply to his confession, just pulled him closer into his arms.
“She says she’s going to give me Hamish before she leaves…” John trailed off, realising how ridiculous that sounded.
He snuggled into Sherlock’s embrace and for a moment, it was enough.
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At night, Mary still appeared, even if he slept in Sherlock’s arms.
She never judged him for being with somebody else.
“I’m due any day now,” she told him as she lay on the bed next to the two men.
He touched her face and marvelled at how real she felt, how beautiful she still was.
“Don’t leave me, Mary,” he whispered through the darkness.
Her eyes sparkled with sadness.
“I wanted to be a mother, John and I will be. But once Hamish is born, I have to leave.”
He nodded.
A part of him had known.
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When he woke up, there was coffee on both his and Sherlock’s side of the bed.
“Did you make coffee?” John asked, his voice still sleepy. It seemed a little out of character for Sherlock, but he assumed that the man could have changed during his absence.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“I thought you must have gotten up and made it. I just woke up myself.”
They eyed each other wearily for a moment, both of them checking if the other was lying. When they were satisfied of the other person’s truthfulness, Sherlock shrugged.
“Mrs. Hudson must have sneaked in and left it. She always did want us to be together like this.”
John knew better, but he stayed quiet.
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The last time Mary visited him, she held a bundle in her arms.
Hamish was beautiful, a perfect baby boy, looking up at John with big blue eyes.
And for the first time in what seemed like forever, John felt something.
He held the little boy to his chest and he cried.
He cried for Sherlock leaving him and he cried for Mary. He cried for months of loneliness and months of happiness past. He cried for the bundle of possibility in his arms that would have been absolutely perfect.
But Hamish would never be alive; he was a ghost, quite possibly a figment of his imagination.
After an indeterminable amount of time, John’s tears stopped flowing, his sobs becoming less violent.
Mary touched his hand, gentle fingers caressing him, just as she had done so long ago in the coffee shop.
“I’m sorry I left you, John,” she whispered as she kissed his forehead.
He nodded.
“Not your fault,” he mumbled, his voice rough from crying.
She had said she would only stay until the baby came. He knew this was her last visit.
“Stay,” he repeated, desperately.
She just shook her head sadly.
“I can’t, my love. But you can be happy here. You have Sherlock, who loves you more than you can even imagine. And you have Hamish. Take good care of him for me, alright?”
He looked at her, dumbstruck.
“Mary, he’s a ghost, just like you. He won’t be here when you leave, he died with you.”
She gave him a small smile and pulled at his hand.
“Come with me?”
He followed her up the stairs to what had once been his bedroom. When he stepped inside, he gasped in shock.
It looked just like the nursery they had painted together in what felt like another lifetime. There was a beautiful crib and several cuddly toys as well as a changing table, a rocking chair and a little white dresser.
But most of all, there were puffy white clouds on the ceiling, just like the ones Mary had painted in their little cottage.
Gently, she took Hamish from his embrace. He had fallen asleep on the way upstairs.
Hugging him close she began whispering in his ear.
“I have to go now, baby. Remember me, will you?”
Tears were streaming down her perfectly heart shaped face, her blonde hair shimmering silver in the moonlight.
“You are so loved, little Hamish Watson. No child has ever been loved more. Loved into being. Goodbye.”
And with these words, she turned to John and handed Hamish back to him, all the while becoming more and more translucent. When she said her final words, her voice sounded like the wind whispering through the trees of their cottage.
“Take good care of him. I love you.”
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In the morning, Sherlock found John sitting in a perfect nursery that hadn’t been there the night before, holding a baby boy in his arms, who shouldn’t be alive.
He embraced them both.
What else was there to do?