Disclaimer: I have the displeasure of informing you that I do not own a single letter of Sherlock Holmes, neither the films, books or TV series'. However I do LOVE them ALL.
The door slammed shut, echoing right through the house and down to her bones. Mary fell in a heap on the floor, as if her entire body had turned to jelly in an instant. Tears crawled lazily down her cheeks; she had no energy remaining after the screaming match to sob properly, no energy to pick herself up and brush her dress down, no energy to continue on with that stiff, British, upper-lip.
A few letters; that was all; a few God-damned letters written in that tell-tale, barely-legible hand.
She had taken them, (despite them not being addressed to her, but they were married after-all, whatever was hers was his, and vice versa), buried them deep in the linen drawers, beneath sheets and napkins and table-cloths…a place in which she knew they would be safe.
No man would ever check the linen cupboard.
No man, it seemed, but John Watson.
By the time he had discovered her hidden hoard she had amassed quite a collection, every one remained sealed (she would not have dreamed of opening them), unread by the person to whom they were addressed.
There were large cream coloured squares with the address practically unreadable, and some were small and neat, a female's handwriting decorating their pristine front.
But each one had come from that dreaded address. She knew it.
She had been downstairs cooking when John had entered, his face red and unshed tears in his eyes. But she was only afraid when she noticed the assortment of papers clutched in his clenched fist.
Her hands had balled in the fabric of her dress as the question had poured out thick and fast:
Why had she taken them? Why had she hidden them? Why had she not read them? What did she think she was doing? Had she gone insane? How could he trust her any longer?
Each one was worse than the one before, and by the end of the onslaught Mary had felt ready to drop in a dead faint.
Unable to answer, she had resorted to staring at him watery-eyed as he raged on, the paper tearing and crumpling as his fingers tightened.
Then he had left.
Storming out of the house without a word: no goodbye, no insult….just silence.
Of course she knew where he had gone; there was no question about that.
He had gone to seek solace in the only place he knew, the source of those cursed letters; the home of the man her husband loved more than he loved her. Even if he refused to admit it. She had known from the start that their relationship was not the normal friendship formed between two men that lived together…but she had believed it was that very relationship that John had wanted to escape when they married.
Clearly she had been wrong.