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After sending her husband off with a blown kiss, Mary watches the hansom roll away in the direction of one 221b Baker Street and reminisces fondly over the grand adventures that have begun just like this. She lets the carriage disappear into the morning haze of muttered activity before collecting her travelling cloak and walking stick, and sets off in a brisk walk towards the docks. John, ever the gentleman, had of course offered to call her a cab to her mother's, but she had declined, and he had acquiesced with a soft "If you're certain, my dear."
Once she reaches her destination, which is nowhere near her mother's summer house, Mary casts a perusing glance about the alleyways, breathing in the sea-salt and sweat drenched air; spots a scene that makes her eyes narrow in anticipation.
There is no deduction, no science; no detective work about what she does. It is simple fight and chase and catch; spotting a simple problem and solving it, simply. It is not the long, arduous, brilliant work of her best friend and his dearest comrade but what she does, it is good and she does it because it feels right. She is helping London in her own small way and though perhaps her results are not quite so rewarding she still… yes, she loves this.
The good Mr. Holmes has no interest in these simple ruffians who steal, who bully and injure just because that is what they do, and that is fine, because Mary Watson will deal with them.
A glorious smile breaks across her face as she pounces on a leering old fool reaching for a silly lady's purse, jabbing straight and true with her cane (this she learned from John) to parry his hand away and silently return the possession to the still unsuspecting dame. She dashes down the docks after two young scoundrels chasing an even younger boy, apprehends them with a swish of skirts and a triumphant, yet elegant backhand and tells them, with a disapproving glare, that if they are so inclined to tear about in such a manner they should do it for a better cause, and if they are going to chase people it might as well be under the supervision of an upstanding boy like Wiggins who will pay them fairly for it, and she will introduce them to the young man if they behave. In the darker part of town she spots two men attempting to ambush a lady with horrific intent; she takes a certain pleasure in dispatching this duo. They are violent and cruel and she tackles one with a sweeping crack of her cane against his ankles, grabs him next by the collar and thrusts him against his partner, laughs freely at the look of surprise on his face when he finally lays eyes on his assailant and blocks the ensuing furious punch with a parrying blow, eyes sparkling with anticipation as the second man rounds on her. She ducks and dodges, deep midnight blues billowing around her as her skirts flow with her fluid motions, dark cape unfurling at her back as she finally puts one, then the next, down with a great heave, and a boot placed solidly in the square of a chest as she pushes; regains her balance with a flourish.
(She learned that particular move from watching Mr. Holmes in the ring, though she will never tell him, or her husband for that matter.)
She grins as she smoothes her velvet skirts down, pins her hair back into order and, with a glance at a distant clock tower, turns back in the direction from whence she came, glides through the silent, now orderly backstreets into town, the late afternoon sun warming her wrists and neck where they peek out of their respective collars.
At half past four, she strolls into a small bakery, face glowing, and picks out a few pastries for a late lunch. At the street corner she happens across Wiggins and the rest of his boys and settles down among them to share her rolls and danishes, laughing affectionately as they tell her of the latest disguise Mr. Holmes has donned to infiltrate a den of evil-doers. She in turn recounts her recent exploits and mentions briefly that the two young lads from this morning might require some guidance. She invites them back to her place for supper but Wiggins declines apologetically, citing a man with a grey hat, cropped black hair, long nose and curious accent they are, or rather were, supposed to be on the lookout for, and thanks her graciously with a continuing promise to "keep mum 'bout yer adventures 'round the detectives" and helps her up with a strong, wiry arm. She nods in camaraderie at their shared secret and curtseys faultlessly in return of the awkward, well intentioned little bow each of the Irregulars give her as they rush off, scampering haphazardly in all directions in search of Mr. Holmes' latest suspect.
It is now burgeoning on evening, and she pulls up the hood of her cloak as she walks slowly towards the market where she picks up a few things for the cook to prepare tonight's supper. She expects John will be late, and as she arrives home with the moon ghosting into appearance overhead, is met with a telegram declaring that Mr. Watson will indeed be dining with the good detective tonight. She hands the groceries (just enough for one lady and the servants) over to Mary Jane with instructions to prepare a light supper and to please draw a bath for later in the evening.
Later that night, as she sits by the fire in her dressing gown, skin fresh and damp from the tub, her husband will recount to her his daring escape from the lair of a devious criminal faction and Holmes' battle with their leader, a mysterious man with a grey hat and curious accent, and she will smile.