A/N. Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock. They are the property of their creators. No infringement intended.
This is basically the part of 'The Day Air Went Mad...' which was supposed to go in the last chapter as one of John's memories. But then I re-read it and decided that it was too meaningful to serve as a mere background, so things got altered a bit. It can be perceived either as a missing piece (which probably would make more sense) or a stand-alone. If you choose the second route, be aware that the timeline of the story falls somewhere before the New Year talk between John and Mary in S3.
Mary entered the room and looked at him – just a fleeting glance of someone who wanted to access information, evaluate position. John knew this glance, and the purpose of it.
He busied himself in the kitchen, pretending not to hear the hesitant footsteps and the shuffling of her bag. She took off her coat and unzipped the bag once again. Clinking metallic sound reached his ears and made him swallow.
Pan. Oil. Eggs. He repeated the words in his head, as if fearing that they'd flow away if he didn't put enough effort in remembering. These days even the simplest things had to be renewed, and rechecked. They weren't just waiting for him to pick them up and be on his way. They weren't 'casual' anymore, but rather a heap of untangled mess with loose threads and confusing comebacks.
The eggshell cracked, and the heated oil frizzled impatiently, welcoming bright yellow yolks and shivering whites. John's stomach growled at the sight. Well, it should bloody have since all of today consisted of nothing but a toast, a cold cup of tea, and an awful lot of running around London. Not very nutritional.
The smell evoked a faint hint of nausea. John swallowed once again and took a long drink of water. It settled uncomfortably in his stomach causing, it seemed, even more thirst.
One more clinking sound – a louder one this time. The frizzling subdued and turned into deep, as if breathing sound. John steadied the pan with one jerky motion, and fought the desire to increase the heat. He could use some good loud sound himself. A burnt dinner wasn't going to be that much of a help, though – and he yet needed the energy to do the shift tomorrow.
He sensed her presence before he saw her. Her steps were still light and cautious. But her perfume… her perfume spoke more than clearly. Faint, barely noticeable scent, he'd say on a cheap side if he didn't know better. Or did he? Could he know anything anymore? Mary was good at disguises, and he had lost all the keys to her shifting expressions and cheery attitudes – if he'd ever had them in the first place.
She was careful to avoid inflaming his temper, and he had to admit that it worked. She deprived him of the fuel for his anger, left him with raw honesty for his disappointment, and silence for his desperation. And he hated her for that – for that subtlety, for those damned tactics she used on him.
She was honest – at last – but she still manipulated him, showed that she could still play him however she liked and then accept consequences for it.
Change perfume – change identity. That's how it worked for her. It wasn't just a part of who she was – it was her essence, and John felt horrified at the thought. He had never experienced that level of detachment before. It was surreal, and yet dreadfully solid. It led his thoughts and his words, making him ignore the rare glimpses into what she used to be.
Mary closed the fridge and poured herself some juice, stopping just in time for it not to spill on the table. She squeezed the pack and shook it, then turned it upside down and drank from it, or more like, caught the last drops. The pack gave a puffing sound, and she tossed it into the bin. Yeah, that was also awfully like her. Never awkward. Never hesitating. And even in that – devilishly, dangerously clever.
She knew that if she behaved differently, it'd serve as a perfect reminder of her lies, her betrayal, which still left lingering traces of sudden, sharp pain John didn't seem able to stiffen however hard he tried.
He breathed in and out, slowly. Mary rinsed the glass and turned to look at him. He couldn't see her yet, but he heard a brief tick of keys touching the wooden surface and then quickly withdrawn, as if it was done by accident. The eggs gave just enough noise to make the sound dim yet distinctive.
John poked at the eggs with a tip of the fork. The whites still seemed a bit runny. Anyway, he had yet to busy himself with a toast and a cup of tea. He recalled that there was a piece of butter somewhere that would also do quite nicely. He made himself go to the fridge and retrieve it. Then he forced his hand to take the kettle and pour some water in it. His chest seemed to have shrunk allowing no more air into his lungs. His appetite was also long gone, but he pressed on – had to press on.
"I love you, John. I did then, and I do now."
The words attacked him like a furious waterfall deprived of any borders and restraints. He just stood stunned for a moment, breathing heavily through his nose and realizing that he simply couldn't cope. Not with this.
His fingers, as if having a mind of their own, clenched tightly over the cup. He had to look for a tea bag now. In the cupboard. There had to be one in the cupboard.
Mary moved closer. They didn't touch – in fact, there wasn't even a hint that they would, but John still felt like he was being burned.
He unclenched his fingers and let the cup hit the table. It rolled and stumbled, sharply cutting the noise – the only distraction he could hope for. Distraction. He glanced at the eggs that had to be a crunching mess right now. They weren't, though. Sprinkled with salt and dill, lying neatly on the plate, they looked very much edible. His stomach turned at the thought and the sour taste filled his mouth.
John steadied the cup and opened the cupboard.
"I've been running all my life, John. And it was more often enjoyable than not. But to run from you? I never wanted it."
John didn't have to look at her to know that she was shaking her head and smiling – just a subtle half-smile, a mere hint of amusement bound to disappear in the next moment.
"It was a fun puzzle while it lasted. But I lost."
Her voice increased in strength, and John lowered his head listening to the soothing buzzing of the kettle.
"I was the one who lost, John. You have to know that."
John felt his own smile break through the shaking surface of what used to be his self-control. Now he didn't even have the willpower to make her stop.
Stop that. Just stop that.
Molly definitely had a point there.
John turned around, slowly and almost methodically. The kettle whistled and stopped abruptly leaving a faint aftermath of boiling that subdued to the complete silence in the matter of seconds.
"Puzzle? You two definitely should've gotten married."
Mary's eyes sparkled with intense light. He couldn't quite read the expression, but it didn't seem so far from pain. Nothing did these days.
"Wouldn't have been a good mix."
The smile again. False-cheery, almost daring smile that never touched her eyes.
"Oh, I think it'd have been perfect. Games at day, chasing criminals at night. Quite the idyllic picture if I ever saw one."
"I am a criminal, John. Don't forget that."
The burning in John's chest seemed to settle permanently.
"As if I could."
The words burnt him even more, but he had no other choice but to say them.
The stage is set. The curtain rises. Sherlock would've liked that. No, to hell with that – he would've bloody loved it.
Her smile cracked and turned into smoldering anguish before she hastily closed her eyes.
"But you do forget, John. You forget that I was the one who lost."
"Well, I'm not feeling that much of a winner either."
His words came out cold and hard, and so strikingly solid that it seemed they could crack his head if he allowed them to. But not now. He couldn't now.
"You're still struggling, even though I accepted the consequences long ago."
'The consequences'. She could mean anything by that. And yet, he knew that disclosure or possible imprisonment weren't any of those things. They were – would be – the first moments after their 'talk' he was planning. Those consequences would be waiting for him as well, and he doubted that they'd be in any way merciful.
"Stop it, John," two heartbeats later, she found her voice again, "just stop it now."
John looked at her and realized that his own voice was lost. A headshake. The damn headshake was all he could master.
Water from the kettle burned his fingers, leaving shiny traces on the table. He forced himself to correct the aim and kept going. The sudden smell of leaves made him a bit dizzy. He took a spoon and squeezed it briefly before putting it into hot liquid that could've well been heavily caffeinated, considering the wild beating of his heart and painful alertness in his head.
The spoon tapped and clinked dumping the noises around him, but never getting to the most important one.
"I'm a liar, John, so I won't ask you to believe my words."
A scalding touch of the cup did ease the pain, even if for a bit.
"I'll ask you something else instead."
He didn't just hear her words, he felt them soaking the very air he breathed. In fact, he wasn't sure he breathed at all.
"Forgive yourself."
John closed his eyes and didn't open them until the burning in his hand made him hiss and finally follow the reflex. The brew turned brownish with occasional traces of dark green. His empty stomach cringed at the sight.
Mary was gone.