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Mariana had a secret: she fancied a bartender at the Volunteer.
They’d started working evening shifts around six months ago, and they’d caught her eye immediately. Their hair was a cloud of soft auburn curls, they had stunning hazel eyes, and they were able to speak fluently in Spanish and Italian.
When speaking in English, their voice had a soft Irish lilt to it that left Mariana’s heart fluttering with its musicality. They didn’t speak often to begin with, past asking what patrons wanted and telling them the cost, but a couple of months ago they’d overheard Mariana venting in quiet Spanish about her idiotic friends and their ridiculous pining, and had responded to ask if she meant the blond man in the corner who was staring at the dark-haired one as if he’d hung the stars.
Mariana had been flustered, both for being understood and for being spoken to by the bartender she’d spent a drunken twenty minutes whining to John about the previous week. Seeing her expression, they’d chuckled under their breath, apologising for listening in. They were still speaking in fluent Spanish, their pronunciation almost perfect.
Recovering, she’d confirmed that the two men were the pair in question, before asking where they’d learnt to speak the language. The bartender had grinned, mentioning six months spent working in Barcelona, following the year spent in Rome.
Intrigued, Mariana had switched language, asking how much Italian they’d been able to learn whilst over there, and she blushed at the impressed look they shot her before they replied, confirming that they’d gotten to grips with the language a few months in.
The pair ended up chatting for a further ten minutes, sharing stories about their experiences and laughing together, before a man had stepped up to the bar and they excused themself to take the other patron’s order. Mariana had dazedly returned to their table, only realising as Sherlock pointed it out that she’d completely forgotten to order another drink.
She’d sputtered out some excuse about them being out of the wine she was drinking and not wanting to switch, before changing the topic to the latest case. Sherlock looked doubtful, but went along with the topic change, getting slightly more excitable as he went over the details. John was completely oblivious.
Over time, she’d learnt more about the cute bartender. Their name was Darcie, they were 27 years old and originally from Cork, they’d studied Law at university but had decided against a career in it after their second year.
Mariana hadn’t crushed this hard in years, and suspected that Darcie may like her back. Sherlock and John were unaware, and for now she wanted to keep it that way, at least until she’d figured out her next steps. The last thing she needed was them trying to get involved.
And so, she kept the secret.
-
John had a secret: he was in love with his best friend.
Well, he supposed it wasn’t a true secret, as he was 99% certain Mariana had figured it out. But it was a secret from the best friend in question.
He’d had his fair share of crushes on men as well as women growing up, though had generally leaned towards girlfriends on the rare occasion he did managed to score a date. It was easier, especially during his time in the Fusiliers. He doubted any of his corps would have treated him poorly for it, but it was something he’d never fully felt comfortable sharing, and so he’d only spoken about the girls who caught his eye, quietly admiring the boys from afar.
What he felt for Sherlock was far more than admiration, though. Much as Mariana liked to joke about him being a ‘typical man’ when it came to emotional immaturity, John Watson had always known his heart when it came to love, and the rush of affection and longing he felt whenever he looked at Sherlock outweighed anything he’d felt for anyone before, aside from Mary.
He was in Love, capital L and all, with Sherlock Holmes. And he could never tell him.
For one, Sherlock was clearly uninterested with seeing anyone. In the time they’d known each other – over two years by this point – Sherlock had never shown interest in dating someone else. He’d clearly had a past of some kind with Victor, and his admiration of both Colin Hayter’s looks and Inspector Baynes’… everything, had been obvious. But there’d been no signs aside from that admiration. His comments about Colin's looks had been in passing, never brought up again. And - as far as John knew, at least - he hadn't spoken with Baynes since the adventure of Wisteria Lodge.
More specifically, Sherlock had never shown any interest in him past that of friendship, which he’d made very clear was important to him. He often referred to John as his dear friend, and he was affectionate with John, but in a purely platonic sense. He’d hug John, but would hug Mariana the same way. He’d compliment him, but nothing that he wouldn’t say to anyone showing some level of intelligence. He was perhaps more tactile than an average British man in his 30s, but that was likely a combination of his neurodiversity and his disinterest in following society's expectations of him.
No, what Sherlock felt for him was clearly founded in friendship, and that was more than enough for John. He felt beyond lucky to have Sherlock in his life at all, in any capacity. The beautiful genius who lit up the room and stole the stage wherever he went, and who somehow felt that John was special enough to be standing by him as he did so. He could live the rest of his days with Sherlock in his life as a friend alone, just so long as Sherlock remained in his life. Confessing his love for the other man was a risk, the chances of their dynamic being altered either by unrequited love or a failed relationship later down the line too high and too destructive for him to even consider.
He wouldn’t risk damaging what they had for anything, even his own yearning.
So he’d keep the secret, loudly supporting his best friend and silently caring for the love of his life.
-
Sherlock had a secret: he was in over his head and terrified.
Things had snowballed out of control from the moment he first heard of the mysterious ‘M’, caught glimpses of the Spider crawling in the shadows just out of reach. Since then, everything – from Milverton, to Armstrong – had led to more questions, more riddles to solve and gossamer threads of a web that had wrapped around him the further he dug. They’d started at his feet, pulling him towards the centre of the web, and had slowly enveloped him, cocooning his limbs as he fought both to get closer and to break free.
He had an addictive personality with several vices, and one of his most overwhelming ones was his curiosity. It had landed him in trouble many times in the past. He’d been scolded by teachers, ostracised by peers, hated by those whose secrets he’d dragged into the cold light of day.
“Curiosity killed the cat.” Mycroft would remind him, time and time again. Always cautioning him to be careful, to learn when to let go of something and leave things be.
“Satisfaction brought it back.” he’d retort each time, confident and stubborn as he proved, time and time again, his ability to figure things out, to get an answer if he just kept going.
But this time, as things grew more and more serious and the threat loomed from greater and greater heights, he wasn’t certain he’d get any satisfaction. That he’d reach a conclusion.
This was a curiosity that could very well lead to him being killed, once and for all.
And if the others knew, they could end up dead alongside him. And he would not risk the others.
Not Mariana, who he viewed with the same level of familial affection as his older brother. Whose empathy and kindness were a balm, soothing the hurts he felt from a world that didn’t understand him, didn’t accept him. Who had helped pull together the life he now cherished at 221 Baker Street, from showing them the flat that would end up being his home to setting up the business that now tied the three of them together.
And not John. John, his best friend, his conductor of light. The soldier, wielding both sword and shield, fighter and protector. The doctor, caring and gentle, but unwilling to budge when it came to Sherlock’s health and well-being, willing to fight with him to eat, to rest, to take a step back when the going was dangerous. Who was loyal to a fault to their family, willing to do whatever it took to keep them safe and together, and ready to fight anyone who challenged that. The man who had stolen Sherlock's heart without him even noticing, the perfect crime.
If they found out how dangerous things were getting, they'd refuse to let Sherlock face it alone. They'd stay with him, start pulling at the webs encasing him and hunting down their adversary.
And they would end up ensared themselves, unable to escape the fate that for Sherlock was already sealed.
So he'd keep the secret, and keep them as safe as he could.