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Staring back at her were a hundred faces, all of them vainly trying to mask the pain. Her skin was pale and drawn too tight across chin and cheekbones, making what was once delicate and lovely look fragile, about to tear. Exposed blood vessels beneath glassy eyes, clear indications of lacking sleep and tears unshed. How could she sleep when nightmares kept them both awake? How much longer could she go on? Everything was broken now.
Although the physics and the chemistry were sound, there was no way to eliminate the possibility that he would die. No, the 'Great Sherlock Holmes' would be dead and disgraced, more than enough minds shared in the delusion to make it all real. He had no choice, it was certain that Moriarty would threaten him with nothing less than John's death should he not go through with the deceit. He knew that he was going to inflict terrible trauma on the only man he had ever called friend. John did not deserve to suffer again. It had been selfish of him to involve the army doctor, but for a short while they both had known what it was like to really live. Detective and doctor, Holmes and Watson. It had been brilliant.
This was going to be the final play in the game and he hoped it would be enough. Hope. Strange that he should think of that right now, he'd never had much cause to hope for anything before. Tonight he did. He hoped she would understand, he hoped she would help.
She did help, she offered everything she was to make the trick work. If they were discovered she would lose everything. Not just her career or her reputation, her very life hung in the balance with John's. Should the madman discover she was not inconsequential after all he would come for her with vengeance. There were elements to her involvement that even he had not been able to fathom. 'Jim' Moriarty had gone through her, used her, knew things about her that he had not bothered to learn himself. Again, he hoped. Hoped that she had been as invisible to his enemy as she once had been to him. They would know in a few hours. Everyone would know and then no one could know. She would kill him to save their lives.
She agreed to be his secret keeper, his guardian angel. Some would say that she had always been. Yes she cared for him, craved his presence because she was awed by his mind. She also knew his heart was there. It had been all along, beating strongly, even if he claimed it did not exist. He would not pursue the cases he did if he didn't have a passion for truth. And what was passion but the strongest form of love? He loved the mystery and so did she. That was why she loved him. He was a mystery she hoped to never solve. She always had hope for him.
And so she helped him die. Watched as he threw himself over the edge and killed everything he was in front of the world. She heard John's screams and the cracks began to form. She doubted for several moments that it had worked. It was too real to be the lie they had crafted so carefully. Her mind went blank with the thought that he was gone.
But it all came rushing back when she found his body, bruised and battered but still sound. He would live. The trauma was to more than skin and bone however. His mind was reeling. Things had not gone to plan. Insanity had driven Moriarty to death as well. He would not be able to say he won, neither really had. Everyone was still in danger, and he was dead to them.
Black and red, despair and anger. His mood was the darkest it had ever been. And he loathed the situation, he was trapped. How could he have missed the obvious? Of course he would not win. The game had been designed for this sole purpose. He was being driven from his mind. It hurt in ways he could not understand. And he was enraged by his lack of understanding. He hated himself for being blind and he hated her for helping.
Why did she stay? Why did she care? Couldn't she see how he was falling apart? There was nothing she could do. And yet she tried. She bandaged him and kept him secret, kept him safe. He hated how she looked at him with eyes so full and warm. She should not still see him with those eyes. He stared into his own cold reflection. He didn't hate her, he hated himself. The man before him was every bit the monster Moriarty had been. He lifted his hands and tried again to destroy the man he was.
Heat and pain seared his fists. The only feeling he still had was pain, everything else was empty. Slumping to the ground he dug fists full of glass into his hair. He was too hollow to even weep for his loss. All that was left were pieces of a great mind covered in a dead man's blood.
A mirror smash and she knew the last string had snapped. Time to collect all the pieces and see what was left. His mind had come undone in anger and grief. And it was taking her heart with it. Rushing to the room she hoped. Hope. It was all she had left. With gentle hands she pulled his bloody ones away and held his gaze in hers. Without words she tried to make him see everything he was in her eyes. He needed to see, needed to believe. He was more than a great mind, he had a heart and it was still beating. He just had to find it. To claim it.
She cleaned the wounds and tried to make him rest. His hollow eyes followed her as she left him. He would sleep now, his body would force him to, he was too exhausted to refuse. She could start putting him back together when he woke. This was the worst part. He was so lost, she hoped again that she would have light enough to guide him back. Light to rekindle his mind and restore his spirit.
Going back to clean up, make it safe again, she caught her own reflection and didn't recognize herself anymore. Staring back at her were a hundred faces, all of them vainly trying to mask the pain. How much longer could she go on? Everything was broken now. She shattered.
He awoke to daylight and heard her crying. She hadn't cried. He hadn't realized until now. He hadn't heard her make any sound for days. It was impossible that she hadn't cried. What had changed? Of course, he had been pushing her away, trying to protect himself, protect her. Alone protects him. Somehow it had failed. Something was wrong. Without knowing why he sought her, needed to see her.
She was so small. He had known that but she looked less now than ever. Diminished. For the first time in days he felt more than sadness. He cared, he needed to do something for her. Bending down to her, he cradled her face in his hands. Salt stained cheeks, though she was still choking on sobs, no new tears were falling. She had run out of tears to shed. But her eyes were still so bright, so much light was there begging. Silently she was asking for him to be okay, for him to come back to her. How had he not seen?
The darkness in his mind was still there, but so was a flicker of something new. A spark of an even more vicious motivator. He would not be whole ever again, but he would heal. She had offered everything she was and he had taken it. Somehow, taking her in hadn't destroyed him as he had expected, it had filled the gaps. She would save them all with the sacrifices she had made. He had sought death but found salvation in her boundless hope. He would go on, because of her. She killed him and then brought him back to life.
A sigh escaped her and it was the closest thing to happiness that she could have, relief. He was coming back. The passion was restored, he would solve this. His gaze was a promise of a miracle. A miracle for all of them.
She had always heard that eyes were windows to the soul, but that was wrong. They were mirrors reflecting what you saw back into the world, distorted by your own vision. For the first time she saw something reflected back from him that she had always hoped he would see. He saw her.
NB: Tonight I wanted to experiment with point-of-view and tell a story with no dialogue. I couldn't get the image of Molly and Sherlock each reflected in a broken mirror out of my head. Hopefully this isn't too confusing or poorly presented. I wanted to keep working on it, but at some point you just have to stop and let the piece be what it is. Let me know what you think. - CG