conversations with friends.

She always carries a faint trace of Diorissimo about her, does Mary and mind you, he only knows the name of the fragrance because he bought her a bottle of the stuff back while Sherlock was away. It was for her birthday, since she’d spent months complaining that she was almost out. Diorissimo, she’d told him with that cheeky grin of hers, by Dior, John, so you know what to get me. Now he thinks Diorissimo every time they exchange cheek kisses in greeting and the floral, fresh scent tingles his nostrils.

Having only just gotten home (he miscalculated and arrived at her doorstep ten minutes before she came back from work, delay was probably due to traffic), she still invites him into her kitchen clad in her coat and a scarf, her blonde hair in disarray from the wind. She tries to fix it with one hand while putting away her keys and unpacking her bag with the other. He waits, patiently.

“Sorry, I didn’t call beforehand…”

“It’s perfectly alright, John,” she replies, waving one hand in his general direction and kicking off her shoes with a relieved aaah that makes him smile. “How is your leg doing?”

He shifts from one foot to the other. “Yeah, fine, it’s -- fine.”

For a long moment, she watches him intently, brows slightly furrowed and with Mary Morstan you always get this feeling that she’s looking right through you, not in the same way Sherlock can, she isn’t assessing wrinkles in your clothing or making conclusions based on the angle of your tie, but rather doing something uniquely hers. He would call it feminine intuition, but no other women he’s known had it. That ability. John clears his throat a bit uneasily.

“Is something the matter, you seem slightly out of it,” she begins -- and there we go, he licks his lips and looks away which only makes her continue, “did you and Sherlock have a fight?”

“It’s nothing,” he manages to say, before realising it must be obvious that something is wrong, why else would he show up at her door in the middle of the afternoon on a work day, unannounced and still so angry that his insides feel queasy from it? He clears his throat again. Shuffles from foot to foot, hands behind his back. Then, he finally just -- cocks his head and sighs, “Well, you know, he can be a cock sometimes.”

She nods her head a couple of times, trying to stay serious, but he can tell that she’s on the verge of giggling -- is it that new boyfriend of hers? The new attending at the clinic, the one John had thought would only last a month, tops and whom he evidently needs to meet at some point. Because if he’s making Mary this giddy, John needs to congratulate him, it isn’t something anyone else have succeeded in, that’s for sure. Her reaction makes him smile slightly, subtext for the most part, really, but she recognises it, of course and breaks out in laughter.

“As long as he has a cock, maybe that’s the tradeoff.”

John realises they’re still talking about Sherlock here and makes a face, reaching up and pressing his palm over his eyes. “Can we -- not talk about that now, seriously.”

Normally, he doesn’t mind playing the innuendo game with her, he doesn’t mind offhand remarks of a sexual nature, because she’s a nurse and his friend -- and would under no circumstances be shaken or disturbed by anything he could possibly bring to the table. It just happens that Sherlock’s and his sex life has been a bit -- lagging lately, hasn’t it? Besides, John has a feeling that if he got within any working distance of Sherlock’s cock right now, he might just snap it in two.

Well, he might not, but it’s a satisfying thought to entertain. Fortunately, thoughts are still free.

In the meantime, Mary has got a hold of herself once more and is emptying the last little gadgets (USB key, unopened packs of syringes, makeup items, a pack of gum -- you’d be surprised at how much can actually fit inside a woman’s purse) from her bag’s pockets, putting the thing away and looking over at John, face becoming sombre as if on command.

“Sorry.” Pause. “So you two had a fight?”

“It was less of a fight,” he tells her, reaching up to rub at the back of his head aimlessly, “and more a case of verbal diarrhea for solo idiot.”

The sarcasm is difficult to keep out and neither does he truly try.

Mary nods. Walks over to one of the cupboards, opening it and revealing a row of glasses. “Something to drink,” she wants to know. John shakes his head. “Don’t mind if I do,” she continues in a sing-song voice and pours herself a glass of water, turning towards him while she drinks.

When John continues, it’s mostly because he can’t contain himself, it sort of just wants out and around Mary, at least, it’s never difficult giving in to that urge, talking. Because she always understands. “I mean, I know he's probably worried that I might not be ready yet, but everything's -- all the data points towards me being more than ready, I've been ready for weeks. I'm in better shape than I've ever been before. I could probably outrun even him with his stupidly long legs and his stupidly stubborn head.”

He only halts for breath, drawing in a couple of deep ones, filling his lungs to the brim. Slowly, slowly, he feels his entire system calm down. Meeting Mary’s eyes, he finds her giving him a very knowing look and it’s that thing again, the thing that isn’t feminine intuition, but hers alone.

“He had a case that he didn’t want you to join in on?”

“Yes, he said --” John stops himself before delving headfirst into the memory, first off, because it would just piss him off again and secondly, because it -- Well. “Doesn’t matter. He was a cock about it and would you mind if I stayed over?”

“Of course not.” She puts the glass down by the sink and walks over, walks past him, brushing her hand over his shoulder as they come within touching distance. He feels his shoulders sag a little in response. It’s the scent of Diorissimo. Lily of the valley.

“Thank you, Mary.”