[ He has stared down this beast before. ]
She is going to die.
She is going to die, and John can't explain how or why, or even where the sudden knowledge and certainty of this fact came from; he just knows that eventually, this woman who has suddenly become dear to him over the course of the mystery he has been solving for her (So painstakingly slowly, too—you could just speed things up a bit, John. If you would at least observe instead of seeing. For instance—but no, no, shut that Voice out because if you don't the tears come and you can't stop—)
—the only thing he is sharply aware of, mind brushing against studded-out ridges on a smooth, flat plane, is that she is going to die, and John Watson isn't sure if he can take that.
So he swallows. He straightens his stance. Military regimes and practice subconsciously take hold as he deals with her as civilly and warmly as possible without getting too close, without touching her hand or smiling too long. Because he can't. He can't.
There cannot be another loss. Forget whatever math says about there being no end to how many times you can cut something in half—his heart is an exception.
And when the Case ends, he fully intends for them to part ways.
He just…doesn't expect for her to ask him to dinner.
(Now your shoes are touching the precipice, too, John. You truly shouldn't follow me in everything…)
[ The beast stares back, meeting eye for unblinking eye. ]
"Burglar. Take this."
"W-what? Thorin—"
"—just take it. It's not like it will hinder you or anything."
"But a…a string, Thorin?"
"Don't ask about it now. I'll explain later."
"But—" Stomp, stomp, stomp. "…o…okay…"
It comes on too fast.
This woman—Mary—/[Mary, Mary quite contrary]/—she is everything when she is supposed to be nothing. She is all that is good and all that will be terrible, all that John has hoped for and all that he has never wanted again, and suddenly, John finds himself drinking her in like the darkest of red wines. Her taste is velvety and oh-so-lovely down his throat—though bitter in the aftermath, and he doesn't care.
Even though he tried and tried and tried not to, John finds himself falling.
(I told you not to, John. Don't follow me down. Don't you ever listen?)
But I'm not there. I can't—I'm still here. And John laughs and shakes his head and goes right back to enjoying the time he spends with her—the dinners—the walks—the symphonies. He takes a chance to breathe again and tilt his head to the star-filled sky, his shoulders light though his heels are heavy for the first time in a long time. Even in death, you expect me to hear you wherever you are, but I can't, Sherlock. I'm here. Still in the land of the living.
(It is nothing but a play of your neurotransmitters, and it will kill you. Oxytocin—)
Sherlock, don't.
And for a moment, in his head, it is just like old times.
But it isn't. And it's—my decision. My life. If I chose to love her even though I know what will happen, that is my choice to make, regardless of the bit-not-good afterwards.
So he gets her a string. Ties it round her finger.
When she asks "Why?" laughingly with the quirk at the side of her mouth that brings out her rosy dimples, he utters with a breathy laugh, "I'll explain later."
/[Mary had a little lamb…]/
[ He is different now, but the beast isn't. Its coat is still thick, still dark and blood-clotted; its teeth are grimy with the bone-matter of innocent others—people it has taken. People it has eaten. ]
John Watson is still unafraid the moment he looks at her and finally realizes it's her blue eyes that do it—that tell him of her end.
He can't put a finger on it, but they're still sharply similar to Someone Else's.
Perhaps he'd dreamed them before.
"I was wrong. You did understand war."
No. No.
"It was I who did not... until now."
No. No. Stop it. Stop .Stopitstopitstopit—
"Child of the kindly West—" –don't call me that—don't be soft, now—please be strong because you have a kingdom to lead—"I have come to know…that if more of us valued your ways–food and cheer above hoarded gold—it would be a merrier world."
"No—it'll never be merry," he chokes and cries. "Not again—not without you!"
And the quirk at the side of his mouth that brings out his rosy dimples shines forth, weak, but present all the same. "Ah, Bilbo…clever enough though you are, you seem to forget…the thread I gave you—it was why…why I had wrapped it around your finger at all…"
W-what…?
The hobbit stares uncomprehendingly until a scarred and dirty palm raises and lies on his clenched hand—the very same one with the scarlet-stringed finger. Bilbo's eyes drift to it, seeing the tiny, thin red while still distorted in the blurred haze of his tears, amazingly enough. It sticks out like blood—like a traditional life-binding promise, and he is suddenly and sharply aware of such implications and oaths.
"Th-Thorin—"
"—there was an old…dwarf myth…about scarlet threads, binding two destined hearts together…" A swallow, and the breathing slows—and Bilbo's afraid, but listens anyway, hanging on every word. "…forgive me, but…back then I had thought by putting it around your finger…I'd never lose you…" The soft, barely-audible chuckle breaks the hobbit's heart. "Though now…it seems the opposite is…occurring…"
Bilbo swallows, and it hurts. "Thorin, please—"
"—my time has come, but…remember this: this thread…like it has done before…and like it always will…it will lead you back to me…if not in this life—then another…" The quirk returned, gentle, and soft, "…and let us hope that in that life…what tragedy has fallen here…won't…won't happen again…"
And Bilbo prayed like never before the very same thing.
[ Though his name is different now, the beast's name is not. And John WatsonBilbo Baggins is still unafraid, because whatever will happen will not scare them away from enjoying what is happening. ]
/[Mary had a little lamb…]/
So John loves her.
John loves the woman named Mary Morstan even though he knows she will die, now with that thread around her finger, in the place of the wedding ring he still is too uncertain to give her (but he will, eventually, because now his heart is too far gone, and he wants to enjoy everything he has with her while he can and while he can still make her second life as wonderful as she has made his).
[ And Tragedy will mar her; cause red to spill. Her mere ewe-presence could never hold up to the beast's strength. ]
So he holds her and kisses her, and relishes in the feel of her heart beating against his own again, because some long-forgotten part of him, hiding away in a tiny hole, has missed it for a very long time.
/[…it's fleece was white as snow.]/
[ "I am not afraid." ]
Crystal's Notes: Yeah...I'm not sure what this is, either. 8D; But I can say that it's more of an angsty crossover-of-sorts in which Mary is the reincarnation of Thorin Oakenshield (#forgivemeIknowtheiractorslooknothingalikebutIsti llhadtodoit) than anything else, with John and Bilbo, well...yeah. 8D You know that pair's connection already.
I thought I'd be angsty. So I made a thing. While listening to "The Truth" by Audiomachine. Yeah.
Also, this is based off of Elizabeth Blossom's headcanon involving reincarnatedThorin!Mary, which she had blessed me with in a prompt that I couldn't help but divulge in. So although I wrote this, credit for the Mary-Thorin idea came from her, so she does deserve some dues! x3 Many thanks also go to both her and my darling Elsa for beta-reading it and giving it the a-okay for publication.
So that brings us to here, and this angsty-slightly-confusing-perhaps oneshot. But either way, no matter what, I hope you enjoyed. So please have a wonderful day!