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The first time Mary Morstan meets Victor Trevor is a rainy Tuesday, about two years after Sherlock’s return from the dead.
A lot had happened in a two years.
There was the wedding. The honeymoon. Magnussen. Sherlock’s exile. Sherlock’s return. The assault. The baby. The divorce. Moriatry.
But now the dust had cleared, the custody was sorted, the papers were finalised, and Mary was content. God, more than content. Living with a man who for all his flaws challenged her, respected her, cherished her, and had an uncanny knack for getting Charlotte to sleep almost instantly. They solved cases together, slept together (when Sherlock slept), and life was good.
Mary had heard about Victor. Some nights when they shared a bed Sherlock would wake up with a jolt, drenched in sweat, and Mary would stroke his hair and sooth him back to sleep. On these nights she knew he was remembering the two years he spent dead, dismantling Moriarty’s network. He was remembering the torture he had endured. On some nights Sherlock would tell Mary about it. Little fragments, and flashbacks as they came to him.
Tales of how with Victor, he’s been able to infiltrate the eastern European networks. With Victor, his one-time lover, long-time friend and partner in death, he’d managed to take out kingpins, disable entire branches of Moriatry’s network.
“I like the sound of him” Mary would say, tangling her fingers though the damp curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck.
“Mm, yes you’d probably get on”
And he’d pull her close and trail lazy kisses down her neck until all was forgotten.
On this particular day, Mary had finished at the surgery early, there had been a power failure and without light, any attempts at paperwork were futile. Sherlock was out tracking down his homeless network, and there was a man in their kitchen.
Mary stopped abruptly at the doorway. The man was tall, much taller than Sherlock, with short, coppery blonde hair and a considerable beard. He had broad, muscular shoulders and tattoos poking out of his shirt sleeves, which were rolled up as he made coffee in their kitchen.
Mary slid her hand in her pocket and curled it around her penknife.
The man turned around and noticed her standing there.
“Oh! I do apologise. Sherlock said you were at work. I was just making coffee. Waiting for Sherlock. You know how it is. Victor. Victor Trevor”
Victor extended a large, calloused hand and Mary shook it.
Three hours and four cups of tea later and Sherlock returned with Charlotte to find Mary and Victor sat together on the sofa, watching what appeared to be a spy film, and looking for all the world like old friends.
“Sherlock! I was beginning to think you’d been kidnapped. Do stop gawping in the doorway, you’re letting a draft in” Mary got up to take Charlotte from Sherlock and nudge him into the room.
“Ah, Will, you’re back. I had the pleasure of meeting Mary at last! Whatever took you so long?”
“Victor. Although it is always a pleasure, what brings you here on a Tuesday evening?”
Victor looked momentarily nervous. Mary, who was pacing the living room with Charlotte in her arms, didn’t notice.
“Here’s the thing Will. That latest job for your brother…”
“The one with the Irish diplomat?”
“Indeed”
“Let me guess, you’re stationed in London for the next what, six months? And after the incident with your father-“
Victor winces slightly
“-you have nowhere to stay? Am I correct?”
Mary looks over from where she is laying Charlotte in her cot in the corner of the room.
“He can stay here with us Sherlock! Victor, how are you with babies?”
Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, but Victor, who is already across the room and hugging Mary, doesn’t notice.
It goes extraordinarily well.
Victor can cook, Charlotte loves him, and Mary finally has someone to watch classic bond films with. Sherlock is content. Although Mycroft raised a critical eyebrow (“really Sherlock? Living with your ex-boyfriend? And Mary is amenable to that?”) Sherlock knows that Mary, like him, can see past any arguments to the contrary and realises that it’s simply the most practical option.
Sometimes Victor is gone for days in a row. Sometimes Sherlock is. On rare nights where they’re all together, Sherlock smokes, Mary and Victor share a bottle of wine, and Sherlock can’t remember when he was last this happy.
Objectively, Victor is still gorgeous. More so now, even, with the beard and those tattoos, and the arms… Sherlock catches himself thinking about Victor’s arms a lot. But he loves Mary, and Victor won’t change that. He can cope with six months of additional eye candy.
Victor flirts with everyone and everything. Mrs Hudson, who blushes bright red and brings him more tea, Lestrade, who looks baffled but scratches the back of his neck self-consciously anyway. He flirts with the postman, and with the clients. He flirts with Sherlock, and feels a slight ache in his heart for how simple things were when they were young and spent days in Sherlock’s uni halls in a chemical haze of textbooks and incredible sex. He flirts with Mary, because god, what a brilliant woman she is.
Mary knows Victor is gorgeous. She knows Sherlock knows. She loves watching Sherlock watching Victor, when he thinks she’s not looking. One night she’s in the living room, watching some inane true crime show after a long day at the surgery, and she looks over at Victor. He’s watching Sherlock in the kitchen. Well, he’s staring at Sherlock’s arse in the kitchen, anyway.
Mary has to suppress a giggle. She’s not jealous, she knows Sherlock loves her, and yet she can’t suppress the thought of Sherlock and Victor at university.
What was is like, back then? Was Sherlock even skinnier, his striking pale skin even smoother and in sharper contrast to his jet black curls? Was victor always this muscular? Likely not. Did he have the beard, back then?
She imagines them meeting in a university library. She imagines a younger version of Victor turning on his famous charm and she imagines Sherlock trying to pretend it isn’t working. How would it go? Who would make the first move? Maybe Sherlock would, he has always been impatient. Perhaps he’d suggest to Victor that they meet one night in his room? Or perhaps Victor would jump Sherlock right there and then in the library, using his weight to shove Sherlock back against the bookshelves and kiss him almost breathless.
Five minutes has gone by. The crime show has ended. Mary hasn’t noticed.
That night, when she comes she comes harder than she can ever remember, clenching around Sherlock’s cock and grabbing his shoulders almost desperately. Afterwards as they lie in the darkness, Mary tracing patterns over the scars on Sherlock’s back, she thinks again about Victor. Would he suck Sherlock off, holding him down on the bed with his strong hands until Sherlock begged for release? Or maybe Sherlock would wriggle under Victor’s desk while he worked and slowly drive Victor mad with his hot, wet mouth…
In Mary’s mind, a plan is forming.
Victor is instantly on board, but then, that doesn’t surprise her. When she’s convinced him that no, she’s not jealous and no, he wouldn’t be ruining their relationship, he’s more than enthusiastic.
Sherlock is a little more hesitant.
“It’s logical Sherlock. It’s the best course of action, given all of the facts”
Sherlock strokes his fingers gently down the side of Mary’s face where they lie in bed in the darkness.
“Mm, you’re right, of course” but his forehead is wrinkled in concern, or concentration.
Eventually, however, he concedes that with the consent and enthusiasm of all parties, it’s reasonable to investigate. For science.
Two weeks later, on a night that Charlotte is with John, they finally find the time. Sherlock has been working on an experiment that requires a long time in the freezer, and Mary and Victor have just finished the series of True Crime.
Mary gets up off the sofa, smiles reassuringly at Sherlock, winks at Victor and says “Right then boys, what are we waiting for?”, before disappearing into the bedroom that her and Sherlock share.
In the living room, Victor walks slowly up to Sherlock.
“You sure about this Will?”
But Sherlock just grabs Victor by the collar and pulls him close. Close enough for Victor to feel just how sure Sherlock is about this situation. The years apart melt away and the electric current that always used to run through them surges again. Sherlock is sure. Very sure.
In the bedroom, Mary slips into Sherlock’s dressing down and takes her place on the armchair in the corner of the room.
When Sherlock and Victor walk into the room, she knows she’s made the right decision. The way they look at each other is magical, and watching them do it? Well, it’s hot.
They start slowly, tenderly, with light kisses and unbuttoning of shirts, before something seems to snap in Victor and he pulls Sherlock’s shirt over his head and backs them both towards the bed.
Mary is entranced. She knows what it’s like to be the focus of Sherlock’s whirlwind mind, but watching it is another thing entirely. They move together like they have never been parted and within minutes they’re both naked, panting and exchanging heated kisses.
Victor reaches down to palm Sherlock’s cock, and the groans that Sherlock makes go straight to Mary’s core. She shifts on the chair, eager for a bit of friction, and enjoys the view.
Mary wonders who will take who. She doesn’t care. Both men look stunning in the low light and she can hardly believe this is happening.
It is Victor, in the end, who grabs the lube from the bedside table and starts opening Sherlock up. As he adds a third finger, he looks over at Mary and winks, and they share a smile at Sherlock’s groans.
“Please… Vic please I need-“
“Shh its ok Will, get up on your hands and knees”
Sherlock clambers to his knees, head towards the end of the bed. Victor positions himself behind him and nudges the tip of his cock into Sherlock’s waiting hole.
God, it’s been a hell of a long time, and Sherlock is as beautiful as ever. Victor takes a moment to trace his fingers down Sherlock’s spine, before slowly pushing in. Sherlock makes eye contact with Mary and doesn’t break it until Victor has pushed all the way in. He feels breathless, trapped in the middle of a surreal scene, and very much adored.
Mary thinks this might be the hottest thing she’s ever seen. Hell, why did they wait so long to do this? Making eye contact with Victor this time, she slides her hand down inside Sherlock’s robe and finds herself already wet. She slips one finger inside, and then two, and now Victor has started thrusting in to Sherlock and she works her hand in time and oh it’s just decadent.
Sherlock, watching his lover slide her fingers in and out of herself in the chair in front of him, and feeling so full of Victor from behind, loses the ability to form sentences.
“Fuck… Vic, so good…. Shit…God… Mary you look-….Fuck”
It’s rare for his brain to shut down to this extent but his whole world narrows to sensation. He can’t take his eyes off Mary, and as Victor reaches around to grip his cock he feels his release building strongly in the pit of his stomach.
“Fuck… Not going to last… Vic”
They both look up at Mary, who lets out a delicious moan and brings her free hand up to pinch desperately at her nipples. Sherlock’s dressing gown has fallen open and she lies sideways in the chair with her curves on display.
“Christ” whispers Victor, and he releases his grip on Sherlock’s cock, before picking up a punishing rhythm. It doesn’t take long, Sherlock feels like he’s been on the edge for the whole ten years. With a cry he comes in a great spurt on the duvet and on his own stomach, and Victor follows over the edge just a minute later.
After a few moments of rare stillness with only the sounds of breathing in the room, Victor gingerly rolls off Sherlock, and then off the edge of the bed, with a noise of complaint. Standing up, he pulls the duvet out from under Sherlock, wipes them both down with it and throws it haphazardly at the wash basket.
Roused, Sherlock opens his eyes and finds himself looking into Mary’s. They share a smile, and Sherlock finds himself angry at John all over again. How could he not see how precious Mary is? How worthy of love?
Mary untangles herself from Sherlock’s robe, drops it on the floor and crawls between the two men on the bed.
“That was-“
“Yes”
“Thank you”
They all speak at once and Mary laughs, kissing Sherlock long and gentle, putting her love for him into a press of mouths together. Sherlock kisses back with reverence, thank you Mary, thank you for loving me and for letting me have this with you both. There is a calloused hand stroking down her spine, tracing the curves of her body, and Mary turns over to face Victor. Victor is grinning and a squeeze of her hip from Sherlock is all the permission she needs, as she kisses him with all the lust she has been harbouring since the day she found him in their kitchen. Perfect.
As Mary kisses Victor, Sherlock’s hand trails lower until he’s dipping a finger into her wetness. The gasps that Mary makes are swallowed by Victor, who brings his hands down to gently thumb at her nipples.
The feeling of all those hands on her is so good, so intense, and Mary is writhing and begging in minutes.
“Will?” Victor asks, breathless.
“Of course”
Mary doesn’t have time to question the exchange before she’s rolled on to her back, and Victor is making his way down the bed, stopping between her thighs.
“Victor, you really don’t have to-“
“Trust me, Vic wants to”
“Mm, have done since the day you were going to pull a knife on me in your kitchen”
And with that Mary decides that this really is the best idea she’s ever had.