Fic for penaltywaltz: Your Friend is Your Needs Answered

[holmesticemods]

Title: Your Friend is Your Needs Answered
Recipient: penaltywaltz
Author: milverton / AlgySwinburne
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Mary Morstan/Janine, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade (mentioned), Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Summary: Old friends, new flames.
A/N: Dear penaltywaltz: I glanced at your AO3 and Tumblr to see which femslash pairing I could take a stab at and loved the idea of Mary/Janine. I also see you’re a Molly fan, so I gave her a bit of lovin’ too. Apologies for the slight angst at the start; it is ephemeral, I promise. Happy Holmestice! (Title is a line lifted from "On Friendship" by Kahlil Gibran.)

--

1.

Janine stifles a yawn.

She’ll need another drink if she’s meant to sit here listening to her sister bang on about her incredible, spectacular, can-do-no-wrong sons, as she is wont to do. Janine loves her nephews, but they’ve not even graduated secondary school. No one is incredible in secondary school. Everyone is a spotty little know-it-all prick.

“--Oxford’s probably the choice for Elijah, he wants to go into politics, god fucking bless--”

“Excuse me,” Janine pipes up, flagging down their waitress. The waitress swishes over, and Janine is once again stricken by how cute she is: fey and moon-faced, rail-thin with radiant skin and pin-straight black hair. Janine could probably hike her over her shoulder in a cinch. “Could I get another Sapporo?”

Mina’s mouth’s snapped shut (thank Christ), but Janine feels the weight of accusatory eyes as she watches the waitress’s retreating form.

“That’s your fourth,” Mina says flatly.

“Brill, you can count. Maybe you should go to Oxford.”

“You always overdo it. I’m not going to be your escort home.”

“Beer’s fine. I’m good with beer. I don’t even feel it.” Yet, Janine doesn’t say.

“Can you not ever have a normal conversation,” Janine snorts derisively, because she’d call what Mina does monologuing, not having a conversation, “with me without--”

“Bog off, Min. I think I deserve more than a few drinks after the past few months I’ve had, yeah?”

Mina sighs like a deflating balloon. “Are you going to use that line on me every time?”

“You bet your arse I am,” Janine says as the dollish waitress delivers her drink. “Ta, much.”

The waitress smiles, and Janine has to look away.

“You act like you’re in mourning,” Mina says. “You hated Magnussen.”

Janine had hated Magnussen, it’s true, and still hates him, regardless of his current state of decomposition, but she hadn’t hated the money. What’s a bit of face-flicking between boss and underling if he’d showered her with designer clothes and eye-poppingly expensive wine? So what if she’d been subjected to globs of his spit in her eye every now and again? Janine had been able to live alone in a central London flat on her Executive Assistant salary.

But Mina doesn’t know any of that.

“I’m mourning the death of my engagement,” she says facetiously, though it’s not entirely a lie, “not Magnussen.”

“You knew Sherlock for two months.”

Janine shrugs. “He was just that good of a shag.”

Mina rolls her eyes.

Despite her media rampage, her tell-alls, seven times a night in Baker Street, Janine and Sherlock had not done anything more than kiss.

But, god, had she wanted to throttle him.

The man is just so damn pretty, which is precisely how she likes her men—and her women. Better yet, pair a pretty face with a knife’s-edge personality, and Janine is bound to be gone on them. And she had been absolutely gone on Sherlock Holmes.

“Mam keeps talking about him, you know,” Mina is saying. “Reads his blog, or his friend’s blog, whatever it is; thinks he’s just so bloody clever and handsome. ‘But Mina, look at him. Such a beautiful boy. Why did Nina ruin this?’ You’d think she’d want to marry him.”

It’s the same old song. Her mother’s been gunning for Janine to get married for the past decade and hasn’t shown signs of letting up. But whenever Janine’s lectured about marriage, she listens with a deep, smug satisfaction, knowing full well that Mam would be singing a completely different tune if Janine were to marry a woman.

Janine’s mobile buzzes.

Marbear: Are you free tonight?

The sight of Mary’s name makes Janine’s stomach do a funny little somersault that she’d rather not examine too closely, though she’d like to think it’s to do with rarity; she hasn’t seen Mary in months, not since Janine had paid her and John a visit at hospital after Rosie was born. They’d texted every so often, but they’d been brief exchanges. Perhaps Mary’s finally reached her limit of baby-time, needing a bit of adult-time. The sprog’s, what--five, six months, now? Old enough to be left in the capable hands of a minder, surely?

Always for you!! When and where?

You in the city?

Marbear: Heading there in a couple hours. That pub with the fairy lights and arsey bartender? 8?

I’ll be there.

Can’t wait. Missed you x

Marbear: Sorry this is so last minute.

Marbear: I just don’t want to be alone.

Janine frowns, sends a reply too fast:

What

What happened? You okay?

“Nina!”

Janine whips her head up and finds Mina snarling at her.

“I’m sorry I’m so insignificant that you’d prefer to text--”

“I’m sorry, Min. Something’s going on with Mary. Just--got a little caught up.”

The mobile vibrates in Janine’s hand, and she can’t not look down at the screen.

Marbear: No. I’m not okay.

--

Janine gets to the pub early, but Mary’s already there, tucked away in a booth by the bar, head bowed, poking away busily on her mobile, nursing a half-empty pint.

Right.

A hearty cheering up is in store.

Janine marches up to the booth and opens with a cheeky, “Is this seat taken?”

Mary raises her head, and Janine’s heart twists at the sight of her puffy and red-rimmed eyes, her pinkened nose.

“Oh, Mar.”

She slides next to Mary, places a secure arm around her shoulder.

Mary sniffs, wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. “God, I must look like an alcoholic sitting here alone and crying into a pint.”

“Nah, now you look like an alcoholic crying into the arms of her mate.”

Mary snorts, all mucus, and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, breathes in deeply, breathes out. “I invited Molly; hope you don’t mind.”

“Who?”

“Molly Hooper? From my--from the--wedding. With the yellow dress. Sherlock’s friend.”

“Oh, right! Tells bad jokes when she’s leathered. Think we had a dance or two.”

Mary smiles faintly.

Janine gives Mary’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, waits for more. She doesn’t want to pry, but she is dying to know what the bollocksing fuck is going on.

“Hi.”

Molly Hooper has appeared at the foot of the table.

She’s wearing a pink striped long-sleeve shirt paired with a denim overall dress which she somehow makes work, though her expression is at odds with her jaunty attire--grim and no nonsense.

But that is, in fact, the mood for the night.

“Molly,” Mary says, voice wibbly. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, I’m--,” Molly says stiltedly, “um, sorry to hear you’re not...okay.” She’s as clueless as Janine is, then. She directs a polite smile at Janine. “Janine, right?”

“In the flesh. You’re a good dancer when you’re sloshed.”

Molly slides into the other side of the booth. “But not when I’m not sloshed?”

“Dunno. I don’t think we spoke when you were sober.”

Molly sighs defeatedly. “Yeah, about that. Sorry about my--well, everything I said at the wedding. It all just sort of...comes out when I’m drunk.”

“What’s to be sorry about? That death by enema joke was fucking gold.”

“Rectal necrosis,” Molly says wistfully. “Very rare.”

Mary harrumphs and tenses, and Janine extracts her arm from Mary’s shoulder, feeling a tad guilty.

“I appreciate you ladies joining me tonight,” Mary says with a strained formality. “I just needed a bit of a night out. The past few days have been…difficult.”

Janine and Molly exchange a meaningful look, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mary inhales sharply, draws herself up. Says: “John and I are getting a divorce.”

Janine’s eyes widen in genuine shock.

The Watsons hadn’t even been married for a year, though Janine supposes it’d been a bit of a whirlwind romance. Three dates in, they’d gone steady. Three months later, they’d moved in together. But now there's Rosie, and that obviously brings a new dimension to their relationship (be it a good or bad dimension. Bad, clearly? Or, well--Janine doesn't know).

“That’s--wow,” Molly says, equally as stricken as Janine.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Janine says, rubbing soothing circles into Mary’s thigh.

“We’ve not been happy,” Mary says, voice threadbare. “Well, he’s not been happy.” Janine and Molly exchange a look. “He ended it.” And, finally, with barely contained irritation, “He’s already back with Sherlock."

The silence amongst them stretches, a stark contrast to the buoyant ambient noise of the pub. Janine continues her steady caress of Mary’s thigh, and Mary drapes her hand atop Janine’s, small and delicate.

Janine turns her hand around and entwines their fingers.

Once the silence has gone on for far too long, Molly braves it and blurts, “What happened?”

Janine’s glad she hadn’t been the one to ask.

The transformation is immediate. Mary’s expression hardens, her voice turns to steel: “Turns out I’m not what he wanted, even though he chose me; he’d seen all of me, and he still chose me. And now he’s decided he’s done. Even though everything I’ve ever done has been for him. And for Rosie.”

“What an ungrateful prick,” Janine says, squeezing Mary’s hand in sympathy and feeling a wave of protectiveness--and of frustration.

God, but Janine would treat Mary infinitely better than John. The man is a complete fucking edjit, passing up a woman like Mary. Where could he possibly find someone as clever, gorgeous, and funny?

Well, one person comes to mind.

But, no. That’s definitely not a thing.

Probably not?

Or...maybe?

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Molly says quietly.

Another long stretch of silence.

Janine strokes the back of Mary’s hand with a thumb. “Don’t you think you’ll look back on this and be happy that he told you how he felt now rather than down the line?”

“Suppose so,” Mary says, voice gone flat.

There will be no more tears, it seems. Janine is, somehow, confident in this fact. It's an impressive switch of emotion, but it could also be a defence mechanism.

A pep-talk can still do some good.

“You've got such an incredible inner strength,” Janine says, “I know you do. Being an orphan, growing up the way you did--you've faced a lot of fucking adversity. So you probably don't need much help, but if you ever decide you could do with a bit of a hand, you’ve got me. Always.” Jerks her head at Molly. “And Miss Rectal Necrosis over there.”

Mary barks out a laugh. Molly grins.

“Sounds like the world’s worst beauty pageant,” Mary says, and Janine matches Molly’s grin. “Thank you, both.” Mary squeezes Janine’s hand, gives Janine an intent look. Her eyes are a clear, bewitching blue. “Really, I’m lucky to have you.”

Janine doesn’t waver her gaze, in turn; she can't look away. "I think you’ve earned a shot or three. What’ll be your poison?”

The three of them drink until they’re far too loud and talking much too fast, and at the end of the night, Janine and Mary decant a teeter-tottering Molly into a cab with demands to be contacted upon her safe arrival home.

Mary impels Janine to join her back at her flat in the sticks. Janine doesn’t need to be convinced.

Mary’s flat is deathly quiet--Janine can only assume Rosie is spending the night with John at 221b--and as they feel their way blindly into the sitting room, Mary struggling to find the light switch, Janine bumps into various pointy corners and nearly knocks over what she finds to be, after the room’s plunged into light, a collection of war novels and ugly cat curios.

Later, after chugging water (per Mary’s insistence) and sobering up a bit, they end up sitting cross-legged on the sofa, face to face. Mary’s changed into her pyjamas and looks rumpled and enticing, her cheeks alcohol-flushed.

“Mm, sexy little number, that,” Janine says, jerking a nod at Mary.

That is a shapeless, overlarge floral nightdress; probably maternity wear. Much can be seen through the dress...a bit too much: Mary is very clearly not wearing a bra. But that’s absolutely not something to dwell on at a time like this.

“Wore it just for you," Mary says. "I know you go in for the Mummy look.”

“Ta, Freud.”

Mary winks.

They fall into a comfortable silence, Janine eyeing Mary carefully. Mary’s spirits seemed to have been lifted in the past few hours, but Janine can’t imagine John being a distant memory just yet. The wound is too fresh, and yet, somehow, it seems Mary had just...turned it off.

“What?” Mary asks a bit edgily.

“You okay?” Janine asks.

Mary’s expression softens. “You made it okay. Tonight.”

Janine takes Mary’s hand, holds their entwinement atop her knee. “I wish I could make it okay for you in general.”

“You have,” Mary says. “I truly never thought I’d have a friend like you, so this,“ she waves her free hand between the two of them, “has meant everything to me. I don’t deserve your friendship. You don’t deserve—“ she cuts herself off, shakes her head.

“What don’t I deserve?”

“What don’t you deserve?” Mary says without missing a beat.

You, Janine thinks, and before she can stop herself, she’s pulling Mary’s hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Such a gentleman,” Mary drawls, amused.

Give me a chance, and I’ll be more of a gentleman that John was, Janine thinks bitterly. “How else is a girl meant to treat a pretty lady like you?”

Mary smiles slowly and presses her hand up, insistent, into Janine’s lips. “You’ve a point. Carry on.”

Heart fluttering, Janine grins into the back of Mary’s hand.

--

2.

Molly knows Sherlock's twigged something about her--the incessant staring is a bit of a dead giveaway--and is thus unsurprised when he declares, “You’ve been seeing someone.”

He's right, of course; Molly is seeing someone. Someone she’d wanted to see more of for quite some time.

Thankfully, she’d come to her senses and had seen Tom for what he was--a Sherlock Holmes simulacrum. Or, perhaps, an Old Sherlock simulacrum: the narcissistic, abrasive, insufferable Sherlock with whom she’d fallen in love. She’d thought she’d moved on, but Tom was evidence she hadn’t. Of all things, John and Mary’s separation had been something of a revelation. It’d got her thinking about her own relationship, about what she wanted. It’d been over so quickly, Mary-and-John, so shortly after their marriage; John had known what he wanted (not Mary), and even with Rosie in the mix, John hadn’t decided to suffer in silence. They'd made the right decision. And Molly had realised she hadn’t needed to suffer in silence either. She hadn't needed to be in a relationship for the sake of being in a relationship, or for the sake of chasing someone who was the ghost of a man she had once maybe, sort of loved.

No, she'd decided not to actively look for someone, for a change. To let the chips fall where they may.

As it happens, they'd turned out to be good chips.

In fact, they'd turned out to be delicious salt-and-pepper haired chips.

A dish of chips.

John is descending the stairs, zipping up his jacket, swaggering into the sitting room, springy and bright. He and Mary have been separated for six months, and it’s clearly serving him well. It’s serving Mary well, too; she and Janine have a Thing going on. A very good Thing.

“Rosie’s asleep,” John says, “she’s been sleeping well these days, thank Christ; should be down for the count for the next few hours.”

“Great,” Molly says. She’d been surprised by how easily she’d taken to Rosie, how easily she’d come to love her, even though she hadn’t ever seen herself as a baby-person. But perhaps it helps that both Mary and John have become good friends to her, and she wants to be there for them whenever needed. “Um, I was also wondering--”

“You’ve known him for some time,” Sherlock interjects.

John swivels his head between Sherlock and Molly. “What, who?”

“And it’s quite serious,” Sherlock concludes.

“Oh, right,” John says cheerily. “Who’s the lucky lad?”

Molly breaks into a secretive smile. “No one.”

“Is it--ah, shit, what’s his name?” John says, snapping his fingers, trying to conjure the name from thin air. “Top bloke, but he can’t ever look me in the eye. Lab attendant. Night shift.”

“Calum,” Sherlock says with misguided confidence. “No, it isn’t him.”

“It’s Craig,” Molly says, “and he’s great, quite shy, yes, and...gay.” Oh. That hadn’t come out right. “I don’t mean quite gay. Not that that’s a bad thing? Though, I’m not really sure what that even means--but, anyway, the point is...he’s gay.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and Molly is enjoying this very much. Puzzling Sherlock Holmes is a delightful rarity.

Unable to stop smiling, she glances at her wristwatch. “Hope you don’t mind if Greg stops by to keep me company?”

“Who?” Sherlock says.

John grins, cottoning on immediately. “Greg! Why the hell didn’t you say? Why the hell didn’t he say? I went down the pub with him just the other night. Though, on our last case Sherlock did make a grand bloody deduction about Greg seeing someone; should’ve put two and two togeth--”

“Yes, yes, this is all very fascinating,” Sherlock drawls. “Lestrade and Molly becoming an item--no one could have possibly seen it coming.”

“Yeah,” John says, glancing at Molly with a smirk. “Not even the Great Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s all rather anticlimactic,” Sherlock says, pointedly ignoring John. “And now I’m bored. John, Lady Fitzgerald’s prized euphonicon will not find itself.” And with that, he sweeps out of the flat.

John shakes his head, affectionately rueful. “He’s got a bit of a blindspot for even a whiff of romance within his city limits.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Molly says, intimately familiar with Sherlock’s romance-blindspots.

“I’m happy for you and Greg, really."

“Thank you,” Molly says, her cheeks flushing. “I’m happy too.”

John gives her a disarming smile and heads for the door, then halts in a half-step. Hesitates. Pivots. “I, uh, know it’s none of my business, but I was wondering...have you been seeing Mary often?”

Molly hopes this isn’t going to veer into awkward go-between territory. She's avoided being the go-between thus far, and she'd rather not start now. “Um, we do dinner. Did shows a couple times. Me, her, and Janine. And, obviously, when I watch Rosie, I see her.”

“You, her, and Janine,” John parrots dryly. “Always her and Janine these days.”

“I’d hope so, since they’re a Thing, now,” Molly says.

John’s eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “They’re a thing? You mean--what d’you mean, exactly?”

Mortified, Molly says, “Oh, god. You didn’t know.”

Mary may kill her.

“Christ,“ John says, huffing out a laugh without any trace of mirth. “I’ll never really know Mary, will I?”

“John!” comes Sherlock’s booming voice from the bottom of the stairs. “Have you died? Molly, is he dead?”

“Thanks again for watching Rosie,” John tells Molly in a quick aside, sounding a bit distant. “Will text you when we’re on our way back.” He hurries into the hall and clatters down the stairs.

When he’s gone, Molly goes to check on Rosie in John’s bedroom and finds her fast asleep in her crib, as serene and lovely as ever. Molly watches her for as long as she can before she's pushed the limit of avoidance and guilt.

She shoots Mary a text:

Don’t kill me.

The response is quick.

Mary: No promises. x

Mary: You told John about me and Janine, didn’t you.

Molly blinks down at her mobile screen. Between Mary and Sherlock, she’ll never be able to keep a secret a...secret again.

I just assumed he knew.

I always ASSUME. I never THINK.

I’m so so sorry. I’m an idiot.

I ALWAYS do this.

I’m so sorry.

Mary: Don’t be. And you’re certainly not an idiot. I should thank you. You saved me the trouble.

Mary: Give Rosie a kiss from Mummy. xx

Mary: And give Greg a kiss because you can. ;)

Mary: Janine says she'd like to give him a kiss too (was a bit cruder than that, I'm censoring), but I'm going to take care of it.

Molly snorts, looks over at Rosie for a moment.

Her mobile vibrates.

Mary: Think I've changed her mind. Might have ruined her for everyone else.

The doorbell rings.

Greg.

Molly already has a stupid, beatific smile on her face.

When was the last time she had been this excited to spend time with her partner? She can't recall.

Still smiling, she heads down the stairs to answer the door.