I know, I'm doing another story. FOR YOUR INFORMATION...I wrote this as a stand-alone. It was at night, and I felt like writing something creepy.
Actually, not. Right before I wrote this, I read a Doctor Who (yes, I like Doctor Who more than Sherlock...please don't kill me) one-shot that inspired this. Thanks to my sista', who stopped me from ranting on here. I nearly gave the whole story away.
Anyhoo, enjoy and all that jazz. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it!
God bless and have a great day (or night)!
You come home from the war. You're weary and wounded. Family? A brother, a sister, maybe; certainly not caring enough to check on you. They don't even call.
You try to make it on your own. But nothing seems to work for the first few months. Or is it years?
It feels that long to you.
Every night, nightmares shake you awake. You can hear the gunshots, feel the blood. You know you've been wounded, and you're screaming. Nothing can cure this, you think.
Nothing.
But then he comes. A complete stranger. It's strange, but you've gotten yourself more dressed up than usual. You're actually trying to make yourself presentable.
You haven't done that for a long time.
He's taller than you (then again, who isn't?), and he's…well…strange.
Maybe that's an understatement.
But there's something about him that you can't help but be attracted to. There's a connection; there's a tangible something that you can't quite place your finger on. But it's there. A smile, a wink, and you know that you'd follow him to death if that's what he asked you.
Of course, you don't feel this right away. You need to warm up to him.
"There might be danger," he says.
On the outside, you look surprised, worried, even.
But that's just because that's how normal people are meant to react. Of course, that's not how you feel. You know you've been wanting this. You've been aching to jump into action; to risk your life for the thrill that a "normal" life in the slums of London could never give you.
Then, suddenly, you find yourself living completely upside-down. Everything that you had been taught about what was right and wrong seem to blur. He does things; things that would have made "ordinary" people shirk and shy. You can hear the words they say about you, just because you're with that man. The rumors that encircle him. Everyone knows him, but no one seems to get any of the facts right.
As time goes on, you stop caring about the words. You cease to be troubled at his strange habits, the gun at his side, his flighty outbursts when nothing's happened for the past two days.
You'd be at his side through thick and thin.
This can cure me, you think.
I finally have a life worth living, and it's only because of him.
But then it happens. He shows up. Him, with his black suit and high-and-mightyness. He walks in easily, flipping and burning and tearing down the perfect life that you had made for yourself. A life that was within reach.
But, let's face it; were you really worth it? Did you deserve a life like that?
Of course you don't, you think.
"I owe you," he says. He carves the words slowly, almost lovingly, into your mind. They burn; they make you think of the hidden initials of some deadly secret.
What can you say back to that?
And he lies. Oh, how he lies. It's easy; his face is unreadable; his plans ever-changing. It terrifies you.
One moment, you think you know everything. The next second, you find yourself just trying to cling to life. But he doesn't stop. He keeps talking. With every smooth word, he rips you to shreds.
"Time to stop hiding in the dark," he hisses. He doesn't say this, but you know that's what he's thinking. You've never heard silence so loud in your life. You think you're alone, but you can't ignore that nagging feeling that someone, something, somewhere, is watching.
Then the lights go on. The show's up. Time to take a bow; time to close the curtain on your little act.
And He's there. Him, with the coat collar turned up. Him, with the ruffled hair and the all-knowing look.
You've been lying to me. Everything we could have been is nothing, isn't it?
He stares at you, quite at a loss for words. You look back at him, trembling.
One more step, and we could both go up in flames, you think. But you can't say it out loud. You simply stand there, afraid to speak. Afraid to move. Afraid to do anything. You see his eyes moving over you, taking you in, trying to deduce the meaning behind your actions, your very presence. You see the doubt that flashes there for a moment. Then it's replaced by anger. He looks past you, at the other man. The tall man in the suit. The lying man; the great Boaster of the Round Table.
Then he looks back at you. You wait in the silence; it's so thick, you could shoot it with your gun. But you don't shoot. You don't want to see him burned. You never wanted any of this.
But it's too late for that now, isn't it? Look at what you've done.
You ruin everything you touch.
The life you thought you could have, laced with the guilt of the life before.
You bad girl, you can hear the man whisper.
He steps forward.
He breaks the silence with two words. Small words, mixed with anger, rage, confusion, denial, and cold numbness.
Words that would've made you smile a moment ago. Now they only bring further accusation against your already hopeless case. They make you want to cry, those two words.
Just two words.
He looks at you, and says them, slowly, spitefully.
"Mary Watson."
You can't really help it.
You begin to cry.
I have no regrets.
Nope.
(sorry to all those who have major feels about Sherlock and the characters within the show)...actually, no.
Anyhoo, for those who might still be sitting in front of their computer, completely confused and lost, this story was supposed to make you think that the main focus was John, with Sherlock and Moriarty being the two characters involved. In reality, it focuses on Mary, with John being the unexpected "salvation", and Sherlock being the one to tear down her "perfect life" with the truth.
So...yeah. Hope that explanation cleared it up for you a bit.