lightconductor | Take care of those you call your own, and keep good company...

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Take care of those you call your own, and keep good company...

It had been a long, if not unrewarding day. Now, though, Watson was glad to relax in the comfort of familiar surroundings. There was something perfect about the cosiness of their rooms, the crackle and warmth of the fire, the scent of dinner and brandy and tobacco smoke. It was home, and it was far more perfect than he felt he had any right to claim.

He was stretched out on the sofa, comfortably full, with a novel propped up on his chest while he rested his head in Holmes's lap. The position was comfortable, intimate, and while in part he worried that it was... unmanly, unbecoming, unduly effeminate... it felt strangely safe, and he was grateful for the warmth of the thigh beneath his head.

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Mary smiled, looking away rather bashfully. She was lucky to have Guy, she knew it. She was far luckier than she deserved, and the weight of something she had yet to bring up with him was suddenly very heavy on her mind. If nothing else, the entire conversation gave her some hope. If he was all right with his friends being a pair of sexual inverts, perhaps he wouldn't mind his future wife being... well...

She tried not to think about that too much. It still had the opportunity for disaster. She had meant to tell him before he proposed, but...

"It's more enjoyable to aspire to personality than propriety, in my opinion," Mary said. Oh, it seemed like a slightly dangerous thing to say. "At least I've found it so." She brushed a bit of imaginary lint from her skirt.

"Hear, hear," Holmes says, rather proud of Mary, and far more contented with this marriage than he would have been otherwise. Knowing Mary as he does now, he knows he would have had no choice but to like her if she'd married Watson, and that would have been a truly miserable experience.

"If all women would just share your opinion, then I might find it in myself to be interested in the species as a whole," he says with a smirk.

Watson smiled a little; he doubted much could interest Holmes in women more than he already was, and to his surprise he was faintly glad of that. It meant less people he must be jealous of, after all. He hadn't any clue when he had become so hopelessly possessive, either.

"I'm sure you would be," he murmured in a wry undertone. To their guests, in a more conversational tone, he said, genuinely warm, "I find I have very little doubt the two of you will be quite happy, wherever you go on your honeymoon."

"I do believe you're right," he says warmly, smiling at Mary. The clock alerts him to the hour, and he starts with a frown, giving her hand another small squeeze before he extracts it.

"Oh, we'd better get going. Thank you again for your help," he says as he gets to his feet, nodding at the two of them. "We'll let you know as soon as we set a date."

Also rising, Mary flashed a smile from Lestrade to their hosts. It had been an enlightening evening, and a good one. "Yes, thank you. Both of you, so much. With any luck, we'll be seeing you soon."

Once they settle in the cab, Lestrade sighs and leans back, letting his eyes fall shut. Somehow an evening with Holmes never fails to be boring or ordinary, which isn't entirely unexpected, but it's simply the ways in which he manages to give Lestrade a start.

"Well, that went rather well," he says wryly, turning his head to look at her.

"I suppose it did," she answered, equally wry. Mary gave a small, soft laugh. "Good heavens. I wouldn't have expected any of that. How..." She hesitated, just slightly. It felt strange to be discussing this, rather naughty, certainly illicit. They were such a sweet couple, obviously in love, now that she saw them for whate they were. "How long have you know about them?"

He hates himself for it, but he can feel his ears turn a little pink at the thought that he might be talking about how he found out about Holmes and Watson with Mary. It isn't that he's shy, okay, because he isn't shy. He's just a little nervous, is all, because he hasn't often courted a girl, and he isn't quite sure how to talk about this in any kind of delicate way around her. What if she needs delicacy? The good thing about Mary is he doesn't think he does. But still.

Also it's just plain weird thinking about Holmes and Watson like that, still. It's getting easier for him, and they were certainly adoring each other tonight, but it's definitely a process.

"Since a little bit before they left for Italy. That's," he stops, huffing a laugh, his ears turning pinker, "quite the story, actually. Well, it's not a very long story, just a very awkward one."

Mary thought she understood, though she found Lestrade's pinkish ears rather charming. Whatever the details of what had happened, it was embarassing to him.

"You can tell me later," she said, aware of the cabbie, who might not be able to hear them, but there was no point in being careless with someone else's secret. "I'm glad, though," she continued thoughtfully, "that you're inclined to let them be."

He smiles a little at that, shrugging his shoulder. "It wasn't such a very difficult decision. I had to let out worse criminals today because I didn't have enough evidence to keep them around; I feel worse about that than I do about..." He jerks his head back in the direction of Baker st, "that."

Reaching for her hand, he holds it gently, his smile growing. "I'm glad you're inclined to let them be, too."

Mary squeezed his hand back. "They are good men," she said, "whatever else may be said about them."

She grasped at her fiancé's fingers a moment longer. Now was as good a time to bring it up as any. She doubted, now, that it would be a serious concern for him, but... well, he had a right to know.

"There is something I need to tell you," she murmured.

He lifts his eyebrows at her, trying to keep his sense of calm because there's nothing to be concerned about yet, but that sentence rarely ever leads into something that isn't potentially upsetting. He takes a breath, bracing himself just a little, and gives her a reassuring smile.

"Alright. What is it?"

Hesitating a little, Mary considered her words carefully. She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

"In the topic of unconventional lives, I must admit that... I am not... you won't be marrying..." She gave a sigh, feeling frustrated. She was not particularly ashamed of this, herself, but it was difficult to explain. "I believe the term is 'damaged goods,'" she finished, somewhat bitterly.

There's a dizzingly confusing couple of seconds in which Lestrade thinks that Mary is going to tell him that she actually prefers women to men and that their marriage will be something of a sham. When she doesn't say that, his mind needs a second to catch up to what she's trying to tell him, and he blinks, taking it all in.

"So you've... known someone before," he says, just to make sure he's on the right page here. "A man, I hope," he adds, frowning a little.

"I have." Mary was finding it difficult to meet Lestrade's eyes. "And yes, a man. I'm... I'm sorry, I should have told you before now, but it never seemed to be the right time to do so."

She looked sideways at him, worried. Some men would not much like the idea of marrying a woman who was not virginal and pure. She hoped Lestrade was better than that.

Lestrade's suspected for some time that he's just not a very conservative man. He thinks it has a lot to do with his line of work -- that he sees the terrible things people do to each other, he sees the kinds of people that shuffle through his door, and then things like having relations with a man (whether you yourself are a man or a woman) just start to pale in comparison. In the bigger picture of life, there's more to hate yourself for than that.

He reaches up to his hair and rubs a hand over it, considering this. Maybe it changes his perception of Mary a little bit, but as he presses his lips together and thinks about it, does it really change his opinion of her for the worst? She's sweet, and good, and feisty, and she barely bats an eye at his homosexual best friends. Isn't that the kind of woman he'd rather have around him?

"Okay," he says finally, nodding. "Alright." Thinking suddenly, he frowns at her in a very businesslike way, but he squeezes her hand again with tenderness. "Have you got any children I should know about? I'd rather not have any secrets between us. Far too often secrets send marriages to a disastrous end, and I don't want that for us, you understand."

Letting out an exhalation, a huge sigh of relief, Mary managed a small -- very small -- laugh. "No, no children. In fact, I think that might be all the secrets I have, off the top of my head. At least, there are no more of any note."

Her smile was warm, grateful. "Thank you," she murmured.

Leaning in, he kisses her softly, smiling against her lips, before he draws away again. "Well, let's see here. I'm no virgin either," he says with a wry tilt of his eyebrow. "I hope that's alright by you. No children, so far as I've been told."

Turning to her, he smiles again. "I love you, you know. Seems like I love you a little more all the time, each time you show me how," he pauses, searching for the word, and he comes up laughing, "bohemian you are."

"I love you too," Mary murmured. "And I think I can forgive you for your past lovers, if you can forgive me mine."

She gave another laugh, trying to resist the urge to kiss him again, more enthusiastically, even if they were in a cab. "Don't say I'm bohemian around Mrs. Forrester, if you please. I'd rather resign than be dismissed for unladylike behaviour." Her eyes twinkled.

"'Course not, love. Secrets from other people are more than okay," he says, laughing with her. It's so disappointing to think that he'll have to deliver her to her home soon, that he can't just take her home with him where she clearly belongs. Feeling a surge of affection, he leans over and kisses her more soundly, lightly cupping the side of her neck gently.

She kissed him gladly, feeling frustrated and suddenly impatient for their wedding. Lately, the Forresters' had felt a good deal less like home -- not that she was unwelcome, but that she belonged there less.

And Mary had a feeling that she belonged wherever Lestrade was.

"I think, with all these secrets being aired, we're off to a good start," she murmured.

"I have to agree," he says with a small smile, and he puts his forehead to hers briefly. They approach the Forresters', and a wave of disappointment washes over him. Soon, he tells himself, soon he'll get to just go home with her and flop in front of the fire and then wake up with her the next morning. It's that he's looking forward to the most, more than anything.

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Take care of those you call your own, and keep good company...

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