Every time I see the title of the Sherlock special I feel an anxious knot in my tummy because I know good and goddamn well what a certain segment of the fandom is saying and it makes me sick.
Ok Moffat, if ever there was a time to pull a massive misdirection, now would be the time.
“Your ledger is dripping, it’s GUSHING red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer… PATHETIC! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code. Something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away!”
-Loki to Natasha Romanoff in The Avengers
We can’t all three dance .There are limits.
No, there blimey well aren’t limits you boobs
John texts Mary as she’s sitting on a stopped train midmorning on Monday.
John never texts her when she’s off for the weekend. Their texts are perfunctory negotiations over dinner and who will do the lawn this weekend. Never checking in, checking up, caring. Not anymore.
“Are you all right? Is the baby all right?”
Mary contemplates letting John hang but decides that ultimately she still loves him even if that love leaves great bloody gouges in her heart and she often chokes on all the things they don’t say.
“Yes to both. Fucking signal problems at Horsham and something’s gone off the rails. We’re stopped but the loos and tea trolleys are still running so I’m hopeful for our continued survival.”
“Thought you were back last night?”
“Janine needed me.”
“I’m sure she did.” Mary imagines she can hear the accusation in John’s voice. She frowns at her phone and does not rise to any bait, real or perceived. "I’m at the surgery today, give us a text when you’re in so I know you’re all right?“
Mary debates her answer. She will, of course, but she isn’t sure whether this development warrants a flippant answer or a sincere one. In the end she decides against bruising the tender new skin of John’s concern. "Will do. Taking good care of us, promise.”
“For what your promises are worth.”
Mary shoves her phone back in her purse and refuses to look at it until her train gets in to St. Pancras. John hasn’t said anything further and Mary texts him only perfunctorily to let him know she’s back in London.
When he comes home that night she has dinner waiting but she doesn’t eat. Instead she watches telly in the lounge until John finishes and joins her on the settee. Only then does she get up, make a plate for herself and put away the leftovers. She eats her cold supper standing over the sink and every bite tastes like ashes.
Previous Mary/Janine Ramblings: