Disregard the Danger [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock, Warstan & Johnlockary]

It's about partnership

“Just go see him.”

“He’s still not answering my texts.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to interrupt the honeymoon,” Mary sighs, rubbing her forehead and leaning against the breakfast table. Sherlock hasn’t been responding to her texts since they’ve returned, either. For the last portion of the honeymoon, he’d been texting her a few times a day with questions about John and herself (no further mentions of her pregnancy, fortunately), but he hasn’t sent anything or replied to her since they arrived home. It worries her a bit.

John snorts. “Yeah, that’s bloody likely. Sherlock Holmes, thinking of someone other than himself.” He fidgets with his cutlery.

“Well, maybe he’s sulking.”

That elicits a frown. “Probably more like it. But I’ve been texting him. It’s his own damn fault for not answering.” A long pause. Then: “What if he’s not all right?”

She smiles reassuringly. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just in one of his moods, or else distracted by a case. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah.” John doesn’t sound convinced. After a pause, “Yeah, I suppose he probably is going on cases without me, isn’t he.” He swallows, purses his lips. “The whole world wants Sherlock Holmes. I'm just his blogger. He’s probably fine without me.”

Mary sighs. “Now you’re sulking. Just go talk to him. Invite him round to dinner, let him know he’s still welcome. And find a case together, maybe. Even if he’s taken some without you, I’m quite sure he’d rather solve them with you.”

John sighs, then acquiesces. “Yeah, all right.” Then, “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asks, but it’s mock suspicion, offered with a charming head tilt.

“Never.” She beams at him and leans in for a kiss.

He smiles as he pushes his chair back. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll clean up, and then --”

She waves her hand at him. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You are trying to get rid of me,” he says with a grin. “You hate dishes. All right, I’m going.”

He leaves, and she sighs with relief. John’s wide-eyed way of looking at her, full of wonder and joy, and all because of the coming changes that she hates and fears -- she can’t take it. It makes her feel guilt on top of the dread.

Now that he’s finally gone, she should do something. Read, or run, or return Janine’s increasing pile of unanswered texts (You’re back, right? Let’s meet for drinks! reads the latest). Instead, she lies down on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling.

She’s been lying there for she’s not sure how long when there’s a knock. She can’t think who it would be. She doesn’t move.

A key turns in the lock.

John wouldn’t have knocked first (nor would Sherlock, before picking the lock). Mycroft? No; he undoubtedly has copies of her keys, but would not let himself in when he knows her to be home. She sits up, scanning the room and identifying potential weapons.

Anthea walks into the room. Mary breathes out, sinking back against the sofa cushions. “Did he send you to fetch me?”

“Nope,” Anthea says. “I’m here of my own accord.” She holds out a box with a small bow on top. “Sources tell me chocolate is good for pregnant women.”

Mary shudders. “Ugh. Don’t even say that word.” But she takes the box.

Anthea frowns, but says, “All right.”