Title: Three People
By: Xmarksthespot & Aeire
Disclaimer: We, unfortunately, are not as creative as Gatiss or Moffat, who are the true owners of BBC Sherlock.
Notes: This is an in-between scene and takes place in His Last Vow (which means spoilers, people). It takes place from when they leave Leinster Gardens to when they arrive at Baker Street.
Xmarksthespot: This is my first time partnering up with someone to write a fic, and it is with one of my dearest friends, Aeire! Without her, this fic would be three sentences long and thrown away in the back of my USB, never to see the light of day again. She is a fantastic author, so please check her out!
Aeire: Because Xmarksthespot asked, I couldn't say no to co-authoring this wonderful piece. She's bloody amazing.
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Three people – an injured sociopath, an angry husband, and a former assassin— get into a cab.
Mary is wedged in between her partner and his best friend. She doesn't miss the way Sherlock's fingers run gingerly over the lock of the car door, and how John's posture is angled slightly as if to block his side of escape.
No one says anything aside from "Baker Street" addressed to the driver, and her heart sinks a little when she realizes she might possibly never hear that name again. While she breathes out steady, controlled breaths, her mind runs in circles apprehensively.
When staring out at the open road proves to only make her more impatient for the detective's flat, she pushes her head down to where her left hand rests on her knee, just inches away from John's own hand. She presses her lips together, daring herself to move it – just move it towards the man she never intended to, but fell in love with anyway. The naive side of her hoped he would place his hand over hers, like he always had before.
She moves her pinky and John flinches; her eyes widen as he shifts away from her despite already being pressed up against the cab door. Her gaze is quickly leveled, and she tries her hardest not to see how uncomfortable John is sitting next to her. Instead, her eyes fall to the sight of the golden band around her finger
She isn't one for jewelry. Never willingly put it on unless it was required of her. Seduce a politician. Steal a bauble or two as leverage. Possible blackmail when some poor sod's mistress is involved. Any kind of jewels was a life threatening nuisance. If the glint of the precious metal is seen, her body would've been found dumped in the nearest river or six feet under.
Funnily enough, it was the goddamned grenade ring that revealed her whereabouts in the shack hiding from brutal Russian mobsters and she was forced to abandon her high, prolific career. Gone was the career as an assassin for hire. The lifetime skills of espionage. The Russian Head knew her name. MI6 and the KGB listed her as a compromised agent and internal Most Wanted for having leaked intel on their Director; if caught, most likely for torture and interrogation at best– anything else, at worst.
What to do? Her skills extended to creating a fake identity; false papers for relocation to England where humans behaved like scattering ants in the city that always rained. Her new career as a nurse is humbling. It is boring; but, it is far better being dead. Tedious life, but still awe-inspiring. Her rebirth into the healthcare life gives her time to enjoy simple pleasures and put smiles on children's faces by giving them lollipops instead of fear.
Her second life also blesses her with a wonderful man.
Mary knows she is going crazy; the ring on her finger feels heavier, colder. Considering that the ring will no longer be in her possession, it leaves a bitter taste.
Despite the fact that her chances for a happy marriage has evaporated when the thrice damned Charles Augustus Magnussen came into her life, she still wants it. The 9 to 5 work hours, the future dirty nappies, dinners at home, arguing whether or not the tax papers were filled out correctly. She wants it.
She practically aches for it. She wants to scream, beg, plead, yell, to cry at the unfairness. And that she is still the mother of his unborn child. His wife.
She is still Mary Watson.
She loves him.
She squeezes her ring finger as cold dread overcome her.
Mary Elizabeth Watson never existed.
.
Three people – a dead psychopath, the British Government, and a curly haired boy– meet up in a palace.
One, tied up in chains, shouts obscenities aggressively while the other calmly lists out reasons of logic. The last sits far off at the end of the room, a dog lies by his feet, and he presses his palms tightly against his ears—he doesn't want to hear any of this.
His injured chest continues to pinch at him, and Sherlock's jaw tightens in attempt to keep his stoic form. Six minutes until they've reached Baker Street, and another seven before he dials for the ambulance, if need be. Yes. That should do. It would give him time to confirm what he believed actually happened at Magnussen's office.
Parting his lips, Sherlock releases a shallow breath; any focus on the increasing pain in his abdomen would further bore him and this drive home needn't be any longer than it already was. Rather, the thought of what happened made him furious. With a leveled gaze, he set his eyes upon the woman currently calling herself Mary– a name far too simple for a woman this beguiling.
And there is the matter of deceiving him. He, the one and only Consulting Detective (yes, yes - he made the career up, but that is trivial), is not about to let it slide. It irks him so to be caught of guard. Stuttered - like a fool; similar to the time when The Woman managed to deduce and drug him.
How dare this woman do what The Woman did to him–twice now he's turned a blind eye and twice he had suffered consequences. A mistake like that come thrice, and Sherlock feared even Mycroft would ridicule him.
Sherlock remains tucked in his corner of silence. His fingers are still tight around the door's lock, and he could feel himself grow rather...twitchy. He knows Mary has no intention of escaping, not when so much is already on the line. Even if she feels rather trapped sitting in between them. It's merely a coincidence that she be seated in the middle of their cab. But his discomfort comes from the urge to let his head fall back, roll his shoulders a rotation or two, just to ease this ridiculous need for morphine in his body.
He internally groans. What he would do for some morphine–combined with nicotine patches (four would do the trick; a three patch problem and a bonus for dealing with the world's stupidity).That would bode well. Mrs. Hudson would deliver him the necessary dosage of narcotics he needed upon arrival at the flat. He couldn't wait.
He soon opts to observe the pair next to him. Mary is, as expected, apprehensive of her impending divorce, rapidly switching her sight back and forth between the ring that remains attached to her fingers and the sight of John's own hand. Surely she should realize sooner or later that John wouldn't do such a thing. Oh, he definitely is considering it at the moment, especially with the twisted knot of his brows and utter desire to shoot something right now, but no. He's not going to leave her; Sherlock knows this much. Even with a child along the way, the amount of lies and the level of danger present in their lives would drive any sane (plain) man away.
Of course, John Watson isn't plain– Sherlock would have never allowed someone so simple be in his presence. Rather, despite the deceptions, John would listen to what his wife has to say, and in the end, he would choose her, because that's just what he does. Sherlock would know; after all, with the amount of fibs and half-truths that have come from him in one form or another, John has been, and remains to be, by his side. His mouth easily forms a line at the thought of the good doctor.
He, Sherlock Holmes, has twice been incautious and manipulated, and twice now he has failed John: the first with Moriarty, the second, this.
He should have known. From the night he deduced her a liar, he should have known to warn John, but he knows the past few years had changed him for the worse. Oh, how he knows. The amount of sentiment that has escaped his lips and manifested through his actions. He has been so desperate for companionship, so eager for the reunion between him and John that he briefly became ordinary enough to let John marry her.
Sherlock Holmes is the Consulting Detective and he had failed John.
Sherlock Holmes was the Best Man and he had failed John.
Sherlock Holmes is John's best friend and he had failed him.
Sherlock Holmes is a failure, and he needs to correct this, if not for him, then for John.
.
Three people – the man who never wanted friends, the man who wanted to be normal, and the woman who prayed for her marriage – arrive at Baker Street.
Sherlock exits first from the cab, his body hunches over. Is he in pain? Hopefully, Sherlock would know better than to hide the extent of his injury from him– of course, this is Sherlock. John stares at him briefly before he sees Mary -
Mary. Is that even her name? If she lied about her entire life, given the fact she shot a coin in the air without hesitation when she claimed she was nothing more than a nurse – an orphan, of course she would lie about her name.
Spy? Intel officer? Double agent? Moriarty's hitman?!
She shot Sherlock, for God's sakes! His former flatmate, best friend - their Best Man!
Fine then, his wi-
His wife - wife? Is she even his wife? They married, sure, but her past life has been a lie.
Christ! This alone is legitimate reason to have the entire marriage annulled!
He remembers their wedding vows.
I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad.
Damn it all to hell, this is not supposed to happen. Why in the hell is it happening?
I did not choose this.
She is not his Mary, and he is not entirely sure if she is his wife after tonight.
She lied about her past, her interests; she probably even lied about her name. She must have slipped a dozen lies about being an orphan. Christ, she probably lied-
Liar.
A liar.
She is a liar.
John hasn't reached the door yet and he could see her lips quiver ever so slightly. He has never seen her cry before, not during the eight months they dated, not even after they had married. Of course, she had been wearing a mask then—she's always been wearing a mask.
Her hand suddenly shoots up to wipe a tear from the corner of her eyes, and John can't help but voice his thoughts.
"No…No. Don't do that," he tells her. "You can't do that."
Since Leinster Gardens – since Clair de Lune, since Sherlock was shot –that mask has been falling apart. He doesn't want to see it crumble up and tossed aside when she is standing so close to him. He doesn't know what he would do if he saw the real her right then and there.
The woman next to him forces a slow nod, and gently clears her throat. "Sorry," she tells him quietly, as if it was the only thing she has to apologize for. "It's the hormones."
Right, John thinks. The baby. Their baby.
John's grimace deepens. He turns to the street and looks back at the cab driving away from their group of insanity.
And, if only for a moment, he ignores the woman wearing his ring.
He ignores the woman carrying his child.
He ignores the woman who isn't supposed to be the way she is.
.
Three people enter 221B Baker Street. When they leave, they are the detective, the doctor, and the client.
.
.
.
A/N: And that concludes what we've been choosing to write rather than to finish our homework. We hope you enjoyed it and if you do, please take the time to review! :)