Sherlock The Little Things

_**Author's Note:**__ Inspired by a prompt on Tumblr that I took up of John/Mary/Sherlock being in the situation of Peter/Juliet/Mark from the film "Love Actually"; because apparently, I can't resist writing fics where Sherlock is an emotionally underdeveloped man-child and can't cope with feelings._

* * *

It doesn't start at the beginning. No, that would be far too easy, far too pedestrian for Sherlock Holmes; for if it had started at the beginning, it would be more than simple enough to sweep it away as the first beginnings of amateurish lust.

Yet it doesn't. It starts gradually. He allows it to start that way—to let her seep under his skin and into his mind until he can think of little else.

It starts slowly. Most of all, it starts with blonde.

Short, blonde cropped hair that he did not notice until it was too late.

* * *

The first time he meets her, he proclaims himself to be God, only to be swiftly knocked back down to Earth by the man he terms his best friend.

Yet even though her fiancé seems determined to send him back to his non-existent grave, she appears rather amused by the antics of the evening. She's easy to read; a quick glance over her features brings up not only that she bakes her own bread, but that she's a cat person. The fact that she would get on well with Molly passes through his mind.

It's that thought that makes him turn not for Baker Street, but for St. Bart's. There, he and Molly greet one another with a smile and she relays to him what has happened during his two year absence. (She doesn't mention the engagement ring on her finger. He doesn't point it out.)

He doesn't think of Mary Morstan once.

* * *

It's the smile that does it; that wide, open, bright smile.

"We got interrupted last time," she says cheerfully, directing a beam of a smile at him. He ignores the all too eager way in which he returns the gesture.

Soon after John makes the engagement official, he decides that her smile irritates him. It irritates, and it grates on him. It's too cheerful, too warm. He should hate her, for what she's doing—what she's done.

That's perhaps the reason why her smile irritates him; because it is that smile which he thinks of most of all.

On the day of the wedding, as they're heading towards the church, John asks him to tell him truly what he thinks of her.

"Tolerable," he mutters after a moment.

John's face lights up with a grin. "That's practically a commendation, coming from you." He fixes his tie proudly. "I should get her a medal or something."

Sherlock only manages a thin smile.

* * *

After getting back from her honeymoon, it strikes him that she looks particularly beautiful. He reminds himself that all pregnant women are beautiful; it's 'the glow', as his mother terms it. It's a fact of biology. It is not something special to Mary Watson. Not special at all.

She demands to see the wedding video. He feels his heart plummet at the request. He starts avoiding her; starts making excuses.

She however, is resourceful and she is stubborn. She visits him at Baker Street and even when he claims to have lost the damn thing, she conducts a search. She finds it almost as soon as she begins the search. He reluctantly hands over his laptop; she insists on watching it in front of him.

The smile she wears slowly fades. It's easy to know why. Every photograph, every shot from the wedding video is of her.

She blanches, but says nothing. Only smiles, and says it obviously needs a bit of editing.

Sherlock makes his excuses and leaves.

* * *

She jokes about his name and his undercover work, but he can sense it. He can sense her disappointment.

That's irrelevant now though. Her own secret is out, and John is raging. Sherlock focuses his attention on his best friend for the time being, and watches him seethe and shout and rant against the unfairness of the world.

"Look at you two," John says drily. "You should've got married."

Sherlock ignores the slight ache that comes with his comment. Mary, almost stubborn in her silence, hands John her life. She quite literally puts it into his hands.

It's an admirable thing to do.

John moves back into Baker Street a few days later, Sherlock learns that from his hospital bed. He also learns that despite John's best efforts, he can focus on nothing else but Mary. And he's tried, he claims. _God, I've tried_, he says with a heavy sigh, sitting beside Sherlock's hospital bed. He looks more haggard than Sherlock has ever seen him. He asks why she didn't just tell him. That's his main question.

Sherlock finds that, for the first time, he doesn't have an answer for him.

Six months pass. It's Christmas when they reunite. Sherlock chooses to focus on the Magnussen case.

Magnussen however, is far more harmful than he first believed. He's hungry for knowledge, hungry for power and hungry for control.

Sherlock takes that all away from him with a single shot to the head.

* * *

Strangely enough, Jim Moriarty is the one who proves to be his saviour from death. He's stronger now, and he knows Sherlock's weaknesses. He knows about Molly, and he knows about Mycroft.

What he doesn't know about is Mary. He doesn't know that Mary's loyalty extends to not just her husband and her child but her friends too.

With John's help, and Mary's help, Moriarty is finally eradicated.

It's a hollow victory for Sherlock, in many ways. For now he's bored, and when he's bored, he thinks. He thinks about many things. Science, literature, crime… Mary.

He thinks about Mary a lot.

Eventually, he decides that enough is enough.

For once, Sherlock Holmes will actually _do_ something about what he feels.

If only it will help him to stop thinking so much.

* * *

Mary doesn't usually expect visitors on Christmas Eve. So it's strange, that just as she and John have put Harriet to bed and are settling down in front of the sofa with a glass of wine, the doorbell rings. John groans and tilts back his head. He pleads with her to answer the door. She laughs in response, kisses him briefly and untangles herself from his arms to jump up and answer the door.

She stops short when she sees Sherlock stood there, a stack of cards in one hand and a CD player in the other. She narrows her eyes, but says nothing.

John's voice floats from the living room.

"Who is it?"

Sherlock flips the cards over in his hand.

_Say it's carol singers,_ reads his scruffy, looped handwriting.

She does so.

"Oh," John replies. "Give them a fiver and tell them to bugger off."

Sherlock smirks at the comment of his friend and Mary gives a shrug. Silently, Sherlock puts the CD player on the step and presses play. Carols burst out of the speakers, soft and pre-recorded and most definitely _not_ carol singers. Mary raises an eyebrow, but Sherlock says nothing. He draws away the first card to reveal a second.

_I am not a sentimental man._

Mary frowns, wondering where this is going. Sherlock reveals a third card.

_But considering it is Christmas…_

Mary's frown deepens. Sherlock shows the fourth card.

_(And it is perhaps the most sentimental of all commercial holidays…)_

He gives a small smile at this. Mary's frown lightens a little, but she doesn't laugh. Sherlock shows his fifth card.

_I feel obligated to tell the truth, without hope and without agenda._

Her smile falls a little. His widens. The sixth card is revealed.

_I, Sherlock Holmes, am in love with my best friend's wife._

Moved, Mary is no longer smiling. Her eyes are damp. Sherlock gazes down and reveals his seventh card. It's the second-to-last one.

_I expect nothing of this. I only wish to relay the truth._

Slowly, he reveals the very last card. Another, smaller, smile appears on his mouth.

_Merry Christmas._

For a short moment, they stand there in silence. The CD fades to a halt, its song done. Finally, Sherlock gives a short nod, picks up the rest of his cards and moves away.

Mary hesitates at the doorway. She doesn't quite know what to do. When she had met Sherlock, she had not thought him capable of romantic emotions; especially not one as complex and as maddening as unrequited love.

She finds herself running after him, down the quiet street. He stops on hearing her footsteps and turns around. She cups at his cheeks and draws him in for a quick, chaste kiss on his mouth. She sees the relief of closure in his eyes as she draws away.

"Merry Christmas," she says quietly and she heads back inside, shutting the door behind her.

After a moment, Sherlock slowly continues his way home.

It starts with a blonde, and it ends with a kiss.

That is enough.


End file.

Sherlock, Angst, Drama