Because while I like Mary – at first I didn't believe I would, but turns out she's a certified badass, just like her husband – nobody shoots Sherlock Holmes and gets off that easy. Reconciling with John after a period of estrangement, especially given Sherlock's support of their relationship, was within the realm of possibility. But Mycroft? Ha! So, I'm going to assume that he gave her some form of off-screen threat. And this is how I imagined that might go.
I see this taking place somewhere in the months between Sherlock's time in the hospital and Christmas with Mummy and Daddy Holmes. I hope I haven't hopelessly failed at characterizing these two. Anyhow, please enjoy, and tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, the wait for Series 4 would be much shorter, I assure you. Alas...
"Mrs. Watson," the tall, superbly dressed man greeted, his voice oozing with cordiality. "How lovely of you to join me."
In theory, Mary understood that she was being addressed by Mycroft Holmes, undoubtedly the most powerful person in the country; and that sitting across from him with only a sleek, mahogany desk between them should be incredibly disconcerting.
But in the back of her mind, she could hear Sherlock complaining about his big brother in the most childish of ways, or John's hilarious retelling of the Buckingham Palace incident. From these personal accounts, her preconceived notions of the formidable "Iceman" had been skewered, replaced by the image of an overgrown playground bully with a superiority complex and a penchant for power plays.
"Well, I didn't have much of a choice when your car picked me up on a grocery run," she pointed out. She wasn't really cross, just rather bemused. "John said you had a habit of that. To be honest, I thought he was having me on." An idea suddenly occurred. "Is he here, too?"
"Dr. Watson didn't receive an invitation, I am afraid," Mycroft informed regrettably, folding his hands atop the desk. "I wanted us to have a private chat, British government to ex-assassin."
As soon as the words left his mouth, every inch of Mary tensed, as though she'd been plunged into an ice cold river, the pressure increasing with each breathe she struggled to take in. He knows, she inwardly moaned, fighting the urge to bolt. If the stories about this man were true, she wouldn't make it to the door.
"Now, there's no need to be alarmed, Mrs. Watson," he continued, interpreting her subtle body language like it was front page news. It wasn't an attempt at comfort so much as a blade statement of fact. "If I wished to cause you imminent harm, it would've been done already and my assistant would be halfway through the report of the tragic accident responsible for your untimely demise."
Mary glanced at the assistant standing off to the side, who hadn't said a word so far, apparently absorbed in whatever she was typing on her phone. This left her none too assured. "What is she doing, then?"
"At the moment? Feeding false information to a North Korean spy network." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "But that's none of your concern. Frankly, all you have to concern yourself with is what I am about to say. You're a smart woman and I'm a man who appreciates that in a captive, so I ask that you pay attention and keep this as civil as possible."
Torn between complying with his (albeit polite) demands or raising her hackles, Mary opted for a happy medium. Challenging a man that could have her disposed of quicker than he would a dirty tissue seemed suicidal at best, and she was nothing if not a practical woman, a quality that proved invaluable to her old profession. But she wasn't an assassin anymore, she was Mrs. Watson, wife and expectant mother; she didn't travel to the grocery store with a pistol in her purse, and for the first time in a long time Mary yearned to have the weight of a weapon in her hands, if only to feel some measure of security with those observant, omnipotent eyes aimed at her with unnerving accuracy.
So with a tight, remarkably calm voice she acquiesced, "Go on." Her captor required no further prompting.
"Let's not mince words, Mrs. Watson – I'll refrain from calling you Mary, as we both know that's a lie. I am fully aware that it was you who shot my brother. Consider yourself fortunate that I chose not to share this information with my mother or else you would really have a problem on your hands." The last, almost throwaway line struck her as being a joke. The sadistic pleasure in Mycroft's gaze as he uttered it said otherwise.
"Is that what you are for me? A problem?" asked Mary. It was half an attempt at assessing the direness of her situation, half an attempt to appear unintimidated.
"Not quite," came the cold, unimpressed reply. "Consider me an enemy, if you will. And trust me when I say that I am not the sort of enemy you wish to have watching your every move. Which I am, make no mistake."
Mary was tempted to snap something sarcastic and detrimental to her safety because at this point, it was very evident that Mycroft Holmes was not the forgiving type, and certainly not someone you wanted keeping surveillance on you at all times. "Could I interject?" she said instead.
Mycroft's only reaction was a slightly arched eyebrow. Mildly, he told her, "By all means."
"Surely a man as intelligent as you must have realized that I could have killed your brother then and there if I'd had half a mind to." When he didn't immediately reject her hypothesis, she took it as permission to proceed. "I missed on purpose."
"Obviously," sneered Mycroft, conveying an air of condescension that somewhat reminded her of Sherlock. "And you also phoned the ambulance, thereby saving his life, at least according to my stupid little brother – who does nothing except prove his inferiority when he allows the woman who shot him, under any circumstances, to go free. Furthermore, you will find that I am not prone to such blatant human error."
Without warning, Mycroft stood and with one, swift movement was leaning over his desk, a mere foot away from Mary's face. The movement was so abrupt that she could do naught but stiffen against the back of her chair, trapped in that vulnerable position, hand poised protectively over her stomach. The assistant in the corner of the room, still focused on her phone, didn't so much as blink.
"Don't for a second delude yourself into believing you saved his life." His voice was a raspy snarl, while his features remained composed, unnaturally so. Mary would kill – no pun intended – for such control over her own dreadful emotions. "We have my brother's refusal to die and the surgeons to thank for that, when they repaired the damage you did."
Then he stepped back, adjusted his suit, and resumed his previous position. Mary was loathe to feel her chest unclench with relief. For a brief moment, she'd thought that noting her act of mercy might mitigate her case; a piss poor tactic, she realized presently, yet it was her lone defense against this self-appointed prosecutor, judge and jury. And if this was her best courtroom performance, she was damn lucky she had never chosen to practice law...
Having given her a chance to regain her bearings, Mycroft progressed as though his outburst had never occurred. "In retrospect, you did contribute to my brother's survival by promptly hailing an ambulance. And I suppose credit must be awarded where credit is due."
"Is that why I've been spared? Partial credit?" She was surprised by the evenness of her tone. Perhaps she had a bit of nerve left in her, after all.
"Wrong again, my dear," Mycroft negated, with a sigh that sounded fairly put-upon. "Unlike my brother, you see, I am not a man of sentiment. You sit here before me today simply because your death would grieve Dr. Watson a great deal, and by extension, Sherlock. I also took into account your rather delicate condition. We politicians aren't heartless enough to murder an innocent, unborn life out of pure spite."
"Fancy that," she snorted. The man's lips curled wryly.
"Oh, there's no need for such false bravado here. I can see that you're scared, if not as much as you should be, and that's perfectly acceptable." Her poorly concealed distress put him a good mood, at least. "But you won't be pregnant forever, Mrs. Watson. So, really, there's only one way to guarantee your continued safety."
Swallowing a bout of nausea, the source of which she couldn't determine, Mary responded, "I'm listening."
"Good. Because I detest repeating myself," said Mycroft lowly. Gone was the diplomacy, however scarce, she had been dealt before. All that remained was the ire of a dangerous older brother. "If you ever hurt, cause injury to, or put the life of Sherlock Holmes in jeopardy again – be it by your own hand, by proxy, or in any manner whatsoever – rest assured, I will hear of it. And then you, whoever you are, will rue the day we crossed paths." The undercurrent of menace in his voice was as terrifying if it'd been displayed outright. "Do we understand each other?"
"Thoroughly," confirmed Mary, sober as a priest. "Sir."
She was unsure if she tacked on the last bit out of misplaced fear or defiance but that, more than anything else, seemed to amuse Mycroft.
"Excellent. Glad we have that settled," he said pleasantly, all poise and professionalism once more. "You may now leave. Anthea will show you the door."
At his brusque command, the assistant finally acknowledged Mary's presence, moving to lead her back to what the ex-assassin suspected was the car she arrived in, which would drop her off exactly where it found her. Funnily enough, she couldn't even remember what groceries she'd been meaning to buy.
"Oh, and Mrs. Watson?" called Mycroft, causing Mary to pause. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the man smiling at her, the picture of amicability; and underneath that, a glare that promised vicious pain and retribution if she failed to heed his threat. "Do enjoy the rest of your day."