"In what kind of a crazy world do I find myself saying the words 'Thank God for Jim Moriarty?'" John rolls his eyes and sighs. They're all three of them packed into the back of the cab John and Mary arrived in, Sherlock sandwiched awkwardly in the middle.
"I should be sitting behind the driver, John," Sherlock elbows him in the bicep, vying for space. "Your wife is taking over the entire seat."
Mary snorts and settles into her seat more comfortably.
"I have an excuse, don't I," she mutters, and there's a smile in her voice.
They sit silently for a bit, each trying to jostle their perceptions around this unexpected turn of events. John is struggling mightily against grinning like an idiot for sheer relief.
"I have to say, Sherlock, there was one thing that bothered about your... precipitous removal." Something in her voice causes John to lean forward and try to catch her eye over the lapels of Sherlock's coat, but she's staring at her hands, the fingers of her right hand restlessly twirling her engagement ring. John bites his lower lip. Mary only fidgets when she's nervous and that is a rare thing.
He recalls her reaction to his story, told in broken sentences in the doorway of Sherlock's parents' home as he explained why he had returned alone - what had happened at Appledore. He was not prepared for her visceral reaction when he related Sherlock's last words: "She's safe now."
John had held her as she'd sunk to her knees, feeling nauseated as the scene played out in his head again, watching orange beads playing over Sherlock's face as he fell to his knees in defeat. "Why would he do that? Why John? Why? Why?" Mary had sobbed.
"Just going to leave that hanging out there, Mary?" Sherlock drawls rolling his eyes heavenward. John, wrenched back into the present, almost snaps at him, but Mary laughs shortly and looks up, her eyes flickering across John's gaze and settling to scrutinise Sherlock's profile. She inhales and holds her breath a moment.
"It bothered me-well obviously a great many things about it bothered me-but what bothered me most, was that you would not be around when Shirley's born." She finishes glibly. She might have been commenting on the weather.
"Well," Sherlock said after a moment, and the edges of his lips began tiling upwards into what John recognises as the beginning of an infuriatingly smug grin. "It would hardly be appropriate for the girl's godfather to be absent."
"Now wait just a minute-" John began.
"Then you will?" Mary overrides. "Oh, Sherlock-"
"I'll be present at the hospital, of course," Sherlock amends, a grin nearly splitting his face. "Not at the actual, physical birth. That would be highly inappropriate, wouldn't you agree, John?"
John stutters, his eyebrows rising nearly to his hairline. Finally pulling himself together he grinds out "Bit awkward, yeah. And how is it-how exactly is it that I don't get a say in this at all?"
"Shut up, John," Sherlock laughs. "Even I know the answer to that."
Mary sighs contentedly and leans her head down to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.
John gives his head a small shake and lets his breath out in a rush. "Clearly, I have a lot to learn," he mutters, taking the chance to elbow Sherlock back into the centre of the seat that he's been surreptitiously trying to annex. Sherlock begins to chuckle and the warm sound is welcomer than any other John can remember hearing lately.
It took an hour in heavy traffic to reach Baker Street. They were all quiet. John rather thought Sherlock is savouring his deferred judgement just a bit. Certainly, he isn't fidgeting in the car as much as usual though that could also be because Mary seemed to have dozed off against his shoulder. John found it odd that none of them brought up Moriarty's reappearance. By mutual unspoken agreement, they postponed that discussion till...later.
Sherlock bounds up the stairs of 221 Baker Street, running his fingertips over the wallpaper, and he slows as he enters the parlour. He stops just inside the door and breaths in deeply.
To John it seems that he is enjoying being home after never expecting to see the flat again.
That notion dies a quick death as Sherlock's eyes shoot open and he all but pounces on a manila envelope that John hasn't noticed among the clutter on the couch. Sherlock handles it gingerly and John feels his skin crawl. Sherlock brings it quickly over to the kitchen table and turns on the magnifying lamp that is still clamped to the edge.
John had not been able to bring himself to move anything of Sherlock's during the weeks he was held in the custody of the MI6. It would have felt too final. He is glad now that he hadn't.
Sherlock examines every millimetre of the envelope, sniffing it, staring at it, flipping the fold up slightly to peer at the glue consistency.
"This was delivered ten minutes ago," he says shortly. "It was on the couch, not the mantle, so we know that Mrs. Hudson did not deliver it. Ah, speak of the devil-" He says, and a moment later, Mrs. Hudson is framed in the doorway.
"Sherlock!" She cries, rushing in, her face split in a huge smile. "I knew you'd be back! John said not, but I never doubted for a second-"
"Yes, hello, Mrs. Hudson. John was wrong, and things are back to normal, yes? Did you see the man who delivered this envelope ten minutes ago?" he asks, hefting the folder at her.
Mrs. Hudson stares at him blankly. "I was in the hallway hovering ten minutes ago," she said. "No one was here."
"Nonsense," Sherlock snaps. "The glue on the flap is still gummy. It's a standard post envelope, which means that it was sealed less than fifteen minutes ago. A FedEx envelope would have an even shorter drying time. Sealed outside, judging by the piece of leaf caught just here and then walked round the corner from the regent's park, the only place with oak trees in the vicinity, about a five-minute walk, and delivered here. Someone was definitely here ten minutes ago," Sherlock explains impatiently.
"Been and gone unless-" His eyes widen.
"Where's Mary?" John says suddenly. He remembers. She'd scooted past them to go to the loo as soon as they had returned. He is half a step ahead of Sherlock, calling for her, banging on the door, which is locked. They hear a low moan on the other side.
White faced, John backs up, bracing to kick the door down when Sherlock interjects himself, kneeling in front of the door. He poked the straightened end of a wire clothes hanger through the small hole in the lock assembly, unlocking the door. John rushes past and jerks the door open. Mary is crumpled beside the bathtub, looking as though she is in the process of regaining consciousness.
"Oh my god-" John hisses, kneeling quickly in front of her.
"Touch only her, John," Sherlock said. "And both of you remove yourselves as soon as possible."
John nods, his fingers gently probing a growing red wheel of colour on Mary's cheek where it looks like she has hit the edge of the claw foot tub on her way down. His fingers slid over reddening marks on her neck and he clamps down on a spurt of rage that threatens to choke him.
"S'okay love, I'm ok," she croaks.
"Can you stand?" John asks softly, checking her pulse and smoothing her hair back.
"Think so, help me up-no don't touch the tub, that's where he was hiding," she says and John half lifts half pulls her into a standing position. "It's ok," she says after a moment, and her voice is stronger. She looks at John and over his shoulder to Sherlock.
"I didn't see him. I feel quite stupid, really. He was behind the shower curtain, standing in the tub. He waited till I passed then did something incredibly painful to my shoulder; pinched a nerve I suppose, because it more or less paralysed me. He held on and wrapped his other arm around my neck and suffocated me almost to the point of unconsciousness,"
She says all this as though she is reading from a book.
"The strange thing is, he laid me down backwards fairly gently. I came to just as he was up-and-outing through the window and I slammed my face on the tub 'cause I tried to stand up too quickly. The baby should be fine," she finishes, but her hands on her belly are trembling.
John is still half supporting her and begins to move her to the doorway. Sherlock studies her carefully, his eyes clouding as he sees the bruises blooming on her neck. As she passes, he reaches for her hand, grasping it lightly.
"Ok?" he asked hoarsely. She pauses and looked him straight in the eye.
"Pretty sure, Sherlock. Figure this out for me, ok?"
He nods and focuses his attention back on the bathroom.
"Oh Mary, oh I'm sorry! I never knew anyone was here!" Mrs. Hudson says hysterically, almost in tears.
"Not your fault, Mrs. Hudson, not at all." John answers for Mary and sits her down on the couch. He unbuttons the top two buttons of her shirt and feels down her neck and over her shoulders. She is bruising over her left shoulder, presumably where the man had borne down on her nerve. He asks her if her left arm is in any discomfort, if she feels a pins and needles feeling or any brief, shooting pains. She shakes her head. He gently placed his fingers on either side of her throat and asked her to swallow, and to hum.
"Would be easier to do with some tea," Mary answers wryly, but she really is so dry. Mrs. Hudson leaps upon the task like a tiger, so eager to be of help that she actually runs to the kitchen.
John takes her pulse and then pulls out his stethoscope, listening to her lungs and then lowering it to her abdomen where he spends some time listening to the two pulses beating strongly and slowly. She is so calm.
"Ice for the shoulder," he says when he is done. He puts his stethoscope to the side. "Nothing to be done for your neck," he continues. "It'll be sore when you swallow for a while-" he stops, unable to continue, and just kneels in front of her for a while.
"I know, love," she says quietly. They never talk about her past, but this statement speaks volumes.
"I know you're upset, John," she continues slowly, taking his hands in hers and squeezing as he looks incredulously into her eyes.
"Upset? Upset doesn't approach the bleeding edge of describing what-" he stammers and she squeezes his hands and nods.
"I know, I know. It's a violation, and you're afraid of what could have happened. I am too. I'm not a little embarrassed for being caught off guard. But it didn't happen. I can't wait till Sherlock figures out why it didn't happen. But I am fine, and I will be fine. Forewarned is forearmed. This was a huge misstep on someone's part, you know. They mean to terrify us. Do I look terrified, John?"
John shakes his head. She looks outwardly calm, but burning in her eyes is that which bodes ill for someone.
"Sherlock is going to find who was here," she continues, almost wistfully. "And when we three find him, I am going to put a bullet somewhere painful and sure. What do you think about the pelvis, Darling?" she asks, almost sweetly.
"Angle the shot obliquely," he answers grimly. "Make sure the bullet passes through the pelvic cavity and lodges in the hip. Saw that once, in the field. Said I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I stand corrected."
Mary nods seriously, and thanks Mrs. Hudson for the tea placed before her. She picks up the cup and her hand is steady. John realises that he has steadied as well. He picks himself up off the floor, shaking the blood back into his legs. He heaves a sigh, trying to exhale the rage and terror so that he can focus and concentrate and help. Mary smiles up at him then shifts uncomfortably.
"Sherlock's going to be in there ages," she says plaintively. "Mrs. Hudson, might I use your loo?" she asks and actually laughs.
The remaining ice melts in John's heart as Mary transforms back from a dangerous, dark thing who knows where the most painful place to shoot someone into his wife who is bumbling down the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock stalks out of the bathroom. He does not look pleased.
"Nothing in there," he says. "Or rather, very little. Let's hope the envelope is more interesting. How are you, Mary?" asks, regarding her with narrowed eyes.
"Ok. Embarrassed more than anything. I should have been able to defend myself. And if you say anything about my 'condition,' I'll eviscerate you in your sleep," xhe adds, smiling.
He laughs, sneering slightly. "I need to look at your neck," he states abruptly, glancing at John uncertainly.
Mary snorts. "It's my neck, ask me. And of course." Sherlock motions her over to the kitchen and angles the magnifying light up to shine on the bruises on her throat. He tilts Mary's head gently this way and that peering at her skin, and then picks a few pieces of khaki lint off her blue shirt with a pair of tweezers.
"Looks like he was wearing a canvas jacket," he comments, placing the lint in a plastic bag.
Mary nods. "It was a bit rough. I think I remember a buckle or something hard pressing against my back, but not hard enough to leave a mark or anything. I wasn't really focusing on the texture of his clothing at the time while being strangled," she finishes.
"How careless," Sherlock snarks, and Mary punches him in the arm on her way back to John and the couch.
He turns to the envelope. It's blank, not addressed to anyone. There is something hard and heavy in it. He tears through the top with a kitchen knife and empties a phone onto his hand. Sherlock's brows slam together as he stares at the phone.
"Déjà vu," John says.
"That is precisely why this does not make any sense. Sherlock says before turning the phone on. While he waits for it to load, he looks at John with a puzzled expression. "Moriarty doesn't repeat himself," Sherlock said slowly. "It's... boring..." He sits in his wingback chair, phone cradled in his hands.
"Plus," Mary supplies, "You saw him die. If it had been anyone else, I'd say they might have been mistaken, but I doubt you were."
Sherlock nods absently.
"So, someone else has taken Moriarty's place and is doing this on his behalf," John says.
"Perhaps," Sherlock says. His brows are still furrowed. "We don't have conclusive data."
"But you saw him die." John insists.
"And you saw me die," Sherlock snaps. "I am human, John. And I don't know of anyone else who could broadcast himself over such a large band."
The phone has loaded, and Sherlock sifts through the empty contacts list, the empty text message queue, the empty voice mailbox and pauses when he reaches the image file. It is full.
He begins scrolling through the images and rolls his eyes.
"What?" Mary as he groans dramatically.
"This," he says and waives the phone in their direction, "is definitely not Moriarty's," He tosses the phone on the coffee table. "It's too puerile, too heavy handed."
John scoops up the phone.
There were pictures of all of them taken from within the house. Several featured John and Mary in intimate positions in their bedroom, and there were many of Sherlock sleeping and even a few of Mrs. Hudson doing Mrs. Hudson-y things.
John's brows knit. "And this is meant to do what?" he asks. "Intimidate us? Make us uncomfortable?"
"It seems likely." Sherlock nods.
"If I had known we had an audience, I would have done more to embarrass them," Mary says sneering.
John laughs a short, sharp laugh, slapping her thigh lightly.
"Whoever is behind this does not seem to know us very well," she finishes.
Sherlock regards her like some kind of prize horse at a fair. "Exactly. Which is why we can assume it's not Moriarty. This person is aping the mannerisms of someone trying to terrorise us. Moriarty would have found a way to actually accomplish that.
John thinks about the Pool Incident and nods fervently.
"So, my current theory, that someone else is pulling the strings for Moriarty posthumously, is looking more and more likely. It's consonant with the activity in Moriarty's organisation that I've been picking up recently. Things are getting cleaned up and tied up, but in ways that are totally incongruous with Moriarty's MO. It's almost as if someone's ticking off check boxes. We're just the next box, and next to it there's written something like, 'Don't just kill them. Make it hurt.'"
John nods and feels unaccountably relieved.
"Still," Mary says soberly, "there was a man that managed to get into this flat without anyone noticing and almost kill me. He could have too. Bit not good. Can't let that happen again. If your theory is correct, it was another gambit to terrorise us. Really, though, what idiocy. Moriarty would have just murdered me, turning the two of you against each other. She motioned at Sherlock. "Playing your guilt off of John's rage, he would have watched the two of you tear each other apart," she finishes thoughtfully, staring at her teacup cradled in her hands. After a few moments of silence, she looks up meeting John's stricken gaze and Sherlock's surprised one.
"Sorry, are you the only one allowed to figure stuff like that out?" she asks Sherlock, smirking.
He snorts and rolls his eyes.
"Bit not good though," John says, "him getting into the house. And we should tear out the spy eyes."
"Obviously." Sherlock states, glancing around him wondering belatedly if the place is bugged as well.
"Hey," John says, "what if the place is bugged as well? We've just shown our hand."
Sherlock shrugs. "Worst that can happen is escalation. That'll only make it easier to catch the bastard," he says and quirks an eye at Mary. "Or bitch, for that matter."
Mary has the grace to flip him off.
The rest of the afternoon is spent ordering and devouring takeout and playing seek and destroy with the spy eyes based on the positioning in the pictures, plus a few that Sherlock just guessed at. John and Mary canvass their room and find the spy eye in the shelf half way up the wall across from their bed.
"Want to give him one last show, John?" Mary asks saucily. He laughs, folding her to him and laying a lingering kiss across her mouth.
"If voyeurism strikes your fancy, my love, let's find someone more worthy of the show," he says then flicks off the spy eye before ripping it off the wall.
Mary giggles.
Later on that night, John and Mary curl up together in his bed. He spoons around her, nuzzling the back of her neck as she jostles around, trying to shift her belly into a somewhat more comfortable position. Finding it, she stills, and all that can be heard for a time is John's soft breath in her ear.
"Darling," she pauses, stroking his hand across her breast. He props his head up on his other hand, looking down at her profile pressed against the pillow. "You don't mind, do you? I didn't think- I mean Sherlock's the obvious choice for godfather-"
"Of course," John is quick to agree, quick to remove any trace of uncertainly that Mary has done exactly the right thing in that regard by tightening his hold on her body briefly. "Though, he'll never let me live down naming her Shirley, thank you very much."
Marry giggles and the vibrations this causes against John's sternum are a delight. "I can't believe it though," he says softly. "I thought-I thought he was gone. Again. I was sure-" There is silence for a time, each of them contemplating a life without Sherlock in it, especially after the events following their return.
"He would have found a way," Marry says softly, uncertainly.
John shakes his head.
"Not this time. This time he has gone too far. Mycroft can't just let him off. There were witnesses. Hopefully catching whoever is heading up Moriarty's ring now will be enough to barter for a full pardon." Mary snorts and John feels her heart rate increase fractionally against his hand.
"To think that after all he's done, that this can't be swept away. Magnusson needed killing," Mary's snarls, and her voice contains a hint of steel in it that John never noticed before the revelation of her past. Hearing it, like a sharp knife sheathed in silk, causes his breath to hitch in his throat.
Sternly, he knuckles down his reaction.
"John," she continues, and her tone is completely incongruous with their position. "Sherlock is the right choice, but not just because he's your-because he's our friend.
"Today proves - I mean think about the events of the past years. Think about the life choices we have made and try to tell me that you think for one moment that our daughter will be born into a safe, secure, normal world."
She continues before he can answer. "Sherlock made us a promise at our wedding, and he meant it, John. He meant it so much that he sacrificed his own future for me-for us. I am counting on him to do the same for our child. If a time comes something happens to us-when we can't-and she's in danger-and now there's this new threat so close-" her voice had been rising, becoming more tense and finally it broke. John sat up pulling her with him, gently cradling her head in his hands and pulling her away from him so that he could see her face, meet moist eyes dark with uncertainty.
"Mary, you are right about the danger, and I am as utterly terrified as you are. And I am as sure as I am terrified that the world will burn before Sherlock would let harm come to our child.
"Because, should that eventuality arise, whatever danger that threatens will already have consumed a deadly assassin, a capable military man, the British Government himself, and Mrs. Hudson with a frying pan. By that point our daughter will be the only heart he has left and he will protect the heart at all costs, Mary. As he has successfully done so far."
John wound down and his thumbs absently trace circles at Mary's temples where they rested as he cradles her head in his hands. Her eyes are not longer moist, and there is a challenging set to her jaw and a flush rising on her cheeks.
"We will be fine then, John," she says, and her voice is firm. "The four of us."
After several moments more of muted sounds of sheets rustling and kisses given and received, the bar of light shining into the hall from under the door vanishes and silence falls.
For several moments Sherlock does not move from his position against the wall. Then his fingers stiffly disengage from their grip on arms crossed against his chest and he leans his head backward softly, squeezing his eyes shut.
