Safehouse

marymwatson:

Mary bristled at Frankie’s tone, the frustration and anger and fear that had built over the last terribly stressful span of time finally culminating in a way she could hardly think to contain. How dare she? After all Mary had been through with her crippling fear over John’s kidnapping, to his touch and go recovery in the hospital, to the dreadful silence from him the last several days that she feared would never cease, she absolutely could notbear the scorn Frankie threw at him so callously.

She rose steadily to her feet, glaring at her older sister, “John was right, you do need to shut up.”  She took a step forward, her hands clenched at her sides, ”John is a good man. The best. You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. How could you possibly? You’ve been too busy getting kicked out of so-called-friend after so-called-friend’s houses due to your own inability to trick anyone into tolerating you for long to pay any attention to what’s happening to people in your own damn family.” She spat the words out, livid, not caring that she was only speaking to wound. She had had it.

Frankie had to step back, as it all seemed to be coming out at once. She didn’t mean for a moment to cast any doubt over John’s virtue, likewise she hadn’t meant to insult either of them. But that was just the way of it, tensions high and Frankie not being known for her choice of words. She stood like an immovable statue as her sister tore into her, remaining outwardly undisturbed.

When she finished, Frankie simply nodded with her lips pursed. “Okay .. well. I’m just going to, um.. take my things upstairs.” She excused herself and swept out rather quickly. Ignoring her single bag in the hallway and fleeing immediately upstairs, with an awful sinking shame in the pit of her stomach. Going to deal with the realisations, and her inability to be ‘tolerable’ (as Mary put it), the only way she was accustomed to.

Alone.

Safehouse

marymwatson:

Mary stayed sitting even though Frankie stood. She wasn’t as easily moved to physical reactions as her sister was. She suppressed the urge to speak over her, instead letting her finish. Mary shook her head, realization dawning on her and she covered her face with her hands.

“Oh Frankie,” her anger abruptly evaporated, leaving behind the ill feeling that she was getting all to used to experiencing lately. “John knew Sherlock. They were friends; they worked Sherlock’s cases together. John wrote the blog about Sherlock, surely you’ve heard of it?” She paused to let her words sink in to their full effect, “And now Sherlock is apparently back from the dead. John… isn’t taking the news well.”

“Oh jesus.”

Slowly, it dawned upon her. Of course, Frankie remembered when Sherlock Holmes had been in his prime all that time ago. On the front of every paper, singing his praises until the ‘suicide’ and, ultimately, the truth came to light. In the pictures beside him, there was always this little man that Frankie never properly looked at. But all these years later, she never would have guessed.

“God, Mary.” She sighed, shaking her head as though Mary had just done something monumentally stupid. “You married the blogger? Sherlock Holmes’ blogger?”

With that came a lesser aftershock. The way the papers printed it, ‘confirmed bachelor’, she thought that he had been .. less inclined towards women.

Safehouse

marymwatson:

jwatson-md:

Pinching the corner of his forehead, John had to shut his eyes for a minute. Too much going on in one room. The telly blaring, Mary talking, Frankie going at it non-stop - the only time that woman had anything to say was when it was negative, and guarenteed to put everyone around her in a mood as black as her’s.

His closed eyes contracted into frown, squeezing harder as Frankie just kept going. She didn’t know a bloody thing, and she definately didn’t know Sherlock. Not the way John did, or the way he thought he did. For three years he had rolled with the punches, everything the world had thrown at him. At them, with nothing but blind faith to cling onto. But he couldn’t fight them anymore, and he definately couldn’t fight against his sister in-law’s cutting words.

“Shut the fuck up!” John snapped, throwing his hands down. Voice as sharp and sudden as a hard slap, so abrupt it made Gladstone jump. “Seriously Frankie, shut the fuck up.”

With that, he grabbed a crutch that was leaning on the wall (he hated using both of them) and stole out of the room. Leaving behind yet another uneasy silence.

Mary’s eyes slowly widened in appalled surprise as Frankie went off on her tangent. How could she? She was ranting about Sherlock, and John was right there. Was she trying to cause an uproar? What was she thinking? Mary gaped in stunned silence, unable to get a word in as Frankie wasn’t paying attention to her warning expression.

Mary sensed the outburst from John a split second before it happened. The way he tensed was a dead give away. Like his hackles had risen. His shouted words startled Gladstone and made Mary jump as well. He hobbled from the room and Mary couldn’t even watch him leave, her heart beating too fast and her eyes still fixed on Frankie, now with a growing fury behind them as she regretted even asking for Frankie to be allowed to come here. “Why the hell would you say something like that, Frankie?”

Frankie was startled, along with everyone else in the room. Stunned, in fact. Until now John had always seemed mild mannered, and at least made the effort to force politeness even if he didn’t feel it. She stared senselessly, careful to keep her mouth tightly closed (as it was at risk of hanging open in awe). More dazed than obedient, she did indeed ‘shut up’.

John stormed out, taking the thundercloud hanging over his head with him. Leaving Mary to pick up where he left off, to which Frankie became suddenly defensive and stood. “Me? What the hell is wrong with your husband?” She protested, her voice high. “It wasn’t like I was telling him stuff he didn’t already know, he was watching the news! What’s his problem?”

Safehouse

marymwatson:

jwatson-md:

John remained staring unblinkedly ahead, the corner of his forehead inclined into his knuckles. Not even reacting when Gladstone padded in and hopped beside him on the couch, quietly whining for affection and eventually resting his head on John’s thigh. All John did was let him.

The dog was followed shortly, Frankie apparently having arrived. He hadn’t heard the front door, then again he hadn’t been listening for it. The only acknowledgement he made was a low murmur, his eyes fixed forward and refusing to turn. It tormented him, watching all the circulating telecasts. But he couldn’t stop, as though he was finally getting the answers he had been waiting for and if he so much as blinked, he would miss it.

No matter how sick they made him feel.

Mary watched John’s non-reaction to Frankie’s arrival with a sharp pang of sadness. She moved past the couch and sat in the armchair, almost grateful that Gladstone had taken up the rest of the space next to John. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting next to him and having him disregard her like that. Her eyes flicked to Frankie and she gestured to the chair opposite her for Frankie to sit, before turning her gaze reluctantly on the television. The news was blaring about Sherlock Holmes’s arrest. As it had been for days.

She looked at Frankie, suddenly nervous to talk about what had happened with John sitting right there. She should have known it wouldn’t be easier to come in here. “So,” she said, nodding her head toward the television, and taking the simplest way out that she could think of. “I suppose you’ve seen the news, then?”

Completely missing Mary’s gesture, Frankie perched herself rigidly on the far end of John’s couch. Half-sitting on the arm, as it was the space nearest to the door. She didn’t intend on stopping in the room long, the atmosphere being as uncomfortable as it was. She glanced at the television set as Mary asked her if she had seen the news, to which Frankie grimaced.

“Hard to miss. I can’t buy a newspaper without reading different takes on the latest terrorist activities. If it’s not this lot, it’s another.” She grumbled, folding her arms back over and sighing as if the whole thing was simply ridiculous. The television cut to clips of the arrests, including the one of the ringleader - Sherlock Holmes. A name that was plastered everywhere. “Oh, and I am so sick of hearing about this ‘Sherlock’ guy. The police are stupid for not jailing him the first time around, it’s that obvious he’s mad and shouldn’t be forced upon the public. He deserves life.”

Safehouse

marymwatson:

startingtoworryaboutfrankie:

Chucking her bag under the table, Frankie folded her arms across the tabletop and sucked her lips into a tight, straight line. She couldn’t pretend that she was the one to goto for rousing pep talks, and to be honest Mary didn’t look like she was in the mood to listen to someone harping on about how things would get better. There was never any promising that.

Moran. She nodded as she recollected the name from the first attack. “How the police are letting this guy slip through their fingers is beyond me.”

Again, she nodded. Though this time with an obvious look. “I sort of reckoned, with the amount of coppers swarming your place. Any idea why you’ve suddenly become a hot target?”

Mary shifted her hands, resting her chin against her clasped fists and finally glancing at Frankie, if only for a moment before she turned her gaze to Gladstone as he  padded over to her. She dropped a hand to his head and rubbed at his ears. 

Mary felt the stirrings of her typical afternoon headache beginning to dance behind her eyes. But talking to someone was still bound to be a small relief. Mary found it a bit odd that the someone was Frankie in this case, but she wasn’t going to complain. She didn’t see eye-to-eye with her sister on very many things, but she knew Frankie still cared about her. 

“John had his suspicions before, but now with all of the things that have happened… Frankie, I don’t know what to think. And John is barely talking at all, let alone about what happened. I have no idea what’s going through his head and it worries me.” She shook her head, sighing almost in defeat, “John’s in watching the news. It’d be easier to show you. Come on.” She pushed the chair back from the table and stood, Gladstone getting to his feet next to her, and she lead the way into the room with the television.

Not the most direct of answers, but Frankie decided to let it lie for the time being. Their pudgy dog trotted in, looking for some attention as she could only suppose he wasn’t getting it from his master, or the guards that were looming around. It made for a miserable atmosphere, with Mary upset and John apparently not communicating. It made Frankie feel like she was meant to be the pleasant one.

Mary stood, and Frankie did the same. Leaving her bag and coat behind, she folded her arms over and floated behind her sister as she lead her into what looked like a living room. The blinds partly drawn and the television blearing away. Frankie needed to do a double take when she saw John, he looked as bad as Mary. He didn’t even look up when they walked in, just staring lifelessly. She saw that his left leg was in a recovery cast and there were bruises, imprinted on his neck.

Swallowing in the awkward silence, she lingered in the doorway and uttered rather stiffly, “You alright, John?”

Safehouse

marymwatson:

Mary gratefully took the tissues from Frankie and tried her best to compose herself. She took a deep breath in and let it out in a rush. It shook less than she thought it was going to. She ran her hands over her hair, messily pulled back in a ponytail, suddenly self conscious. When was the last time she’d looked in a mirror? She couldn’t have guessed the answer to that. “I feelill. And shaken, and so very tired, Frankie. I don’t know how all this has happened to us.”

She bit her lip, resting her forehead on the heels of her hands, her elbows propped on the table. Her voice sounded hollow in her own ears, and she spoke the words to the table, unable to look up at her sister, sticking to the bare necessities of the story as the details were far too gruesome for her to recount, “Moran kidnapped John. And he hurt him, but he’s going to be ok. We can’t go back to the house until things have settled down, though. It isn’t safe there.”

Chucking her bag under the table, Frankie folded her arms across the tabletop and sucked her lips into a tight, straight line. She couldn’t pretend that she was the one to goto for rousing pep talks, and to be honest Mary didn’t look like she was in the mood to listen to someone harping on about how things would get better. There was never any promising that.

Moran. She nodded as she recollected the name from the first attack. “How the police are letting this guy slip through their fingers is beyond me.”

Again, she nodded. Though this time with an obvious look. “I sort of reckoned, with the amount of coppers swarming your place. Any idea why you’ve suddenly become a hot target?”

Safehouse

marymwatson:

Mary was worried. So very gut-wrenchingly worried. John was recovering physically, and as well as anyone could hope for after all he’d been put through. He was using the crutches well enough, and while he wasn’t eating or sleeping as much as she thought he should be,  his lack of motivation for either activity wasn’t enough to be seriously alarming. But the way he just sat there, watching the news. The same news reports over and over, his expression never changing. It made Mary feel ill. This was just not right. She had no way to fix this. She didn’t even know where to start. Nothing she could say could make this better. 

She knew she should be paying more attention to what was happening around her but she couldn’t bring herself to take it in. She was spending too much time in far corners of the house crying all the tears that John seemed unable to cry. Or maybe he should be fuming, or screaming, or something, she didn’t know what. Anything but the never ending silence. She felt so vulnerable, no matter how reassuring Mycroft’s people had been, she didn’t feel safe anymore. It was difficult to sleep at night, since half the time she went to bed alone when John stayed up to watch the news and she ended up laying there with her head racing for hours until falling into a restless, dream-befuddled sleep.

She had felt jogged back to reality when Frankie texted her. She couldn’t believe that she had forgotten about her completely. She had asked one of Mycroft’s people if they could bring her to the safe house and within minutes a car had been sent. Mary was still staring out the bedroom window, her phone in her hand when Mycroft’s aide (she really should have thought to ask for his name, but she always forgot to) stopped in the doorway and informed her that Frankie was waiting in the kitchen. 

When she entered the room, Frankie was sitting and staring at the table. Mary cleared her throat lightly and walked over, sitting down without a word, and staring at her hands. It felt unreal to see her sister. Her stomach fluttered and she felt ill again, and so very tired. She wasn’t used to being at a loss for words. “I don’t know where to begin with this, Frankie.” She swallowed heavily, unable to meet her sister’s eyes, “John got out of hospital three days ago. He’s alright, but he was hurt very badly. Sebastian Moran…” She shook her head, the words refusing to come out no matter how hard she tried to force them, her tears too close to the surface to keep trying so she went a different route, “But John’s okay. He’s on crutches, but he’s okay. Sorry, it’s hard to talk about this.” She risked a glance up at Frankie’s face, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you about what happened.”

When her sister entered the kitchen, Frankie lifted her head and had every mind to demand an explanation on the spot. But Mary’s beaten down, and generally upset, appearance struck her silent and her somewhat tense expression faded. She looked terrible, even worse than the first time round. Her usual glow completely gone, replaced with this sickly white and puffy eyed appearance. This wasn’t ‘sunshiney Mary’, this was a sort of gloomy that put even Frankie to shame.

As Mary snivelled, she opened her handbag on the tabletop and produced a small packet of Kleenex tissues. Offering them to her, Frankie said. “You look ill, do you know that? It’s all this stress.”

Honestly, all this worrying about John. He was a big boy, he could take of himself. While her sister mopped her face, Frankie cleared her throat and lowered her voice down. “… Was it another attack?”

Safehouse

jwatson-md:

John had barely spoken since leaving the hospital.

Upon discharge (in the Chelsea area. Turns out Moran had decided to torture them in Chelsea, closer to home than he thought), John had been carted off by a flash-looking black car with a sharp-suited babysitter in the backseat. Could only mean one thing - Mycroft taking charge.

He had been taken through some formal explanation of the facts, then reunited with his wife. Then had seen an introduction to a very passive state. John had become completely devoid of emotion, spending the majority of his recovery time in the sitting area of the house Mycroft had holed them up in. Watching the television without an ounce of emotion in his expression, only a face drained of any colour and red-ringed eyes.

Though robbed of his voice, too many thoughts harassed John’s mind all at once - day and night. He’d prayed for a miracle, and there it was. On the telly screen, practically laughing at him. The news, the mindnumbing news, had shook him to his core, devasting him with an explosion of strong changes - and leaving him depleted and empty. Only a ticking brain inside a broken body, staring at the grainy face of the man he thought was his best friend.

Once again John was silent infront of the television screen, watching an endless stream of newscast repeats. Sitting back, his elbow propped on the arm of the couch and the side of his face sunk into his palm. His leg cast out in front of him and a pair of crutches leant against the wall.

What a complete and utter mug.

True to Mary’s word, a car arrived within minutes of her last text. The driver immediately opening the door for the very lost Frankie and motioning her inside. She speant the entire journey clutching her handbag in silence, not daring ask for fear of an answer. The whole thing had that classified feel about it, which just made the unknown feel all that more threatening.

When the car finally pulled up, the driver let Frankie out and lead her down the driveway of what looked to be an ordinary house. Though when she glanced about the street, she couldn’t for the life of her name the area. It took half an hour to drive there, for god’s sake.

The driver, for some reason, had a key to this house and let himself in, leading Frankie into the kitchen area. Where he sat her down, assured her that her things had already been brought over, and that he would bring her sister to meet her. As the man left the room, Frankie could only clasp her hands together across the table surface and stare with a perplexed frown.

TEXT: MARY

marymwatson:

startingtoworryaboutfrankie:

Well, it would help if I knew where you were staying. Have you been burgled or something? One of the policemen said something about a forced entry. - FM

Are you by the house? They’re sending a car for you. The man that broke in last time came back, Frankie. I’ll tell you more when you get here. We’re alright now, but it’s been a very scary week. -MW

Who is .. ? Oh, nevermind. I’ll see you soon, alright? Take care. - FM