"John, listen. Be calm and answer me. What is she?"
"My lying wife."
Besides that John. Think. Look where we are. Look at what she is. I know you can do it, even though you may not want to. "No. What is she?"
John didn't break his gaze. "The woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?"
Mary didn't flinch, she just kept looking at John. She was stronger than Sherlock thought possible.
"No. Not in this flat; not in this room." John was still facing away from him, but Sherlock knew he was beginning to understand. Knew that he would be smiling that terrifying smile that meant he was absolutely pissed. He still went on.
"Right here, right now, what is she?"
"Okay. Your way. Always your way." He cleared his throat and pulled a desk chair over. "Sit."
"Why?" she asked, her face still blank.
"Because that's where they sit," he hissed. "The people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients – that's all you are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk... and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not."
He threw himself in his own chair, which had been returned. Sherlock wondered if John knew where it had gone, and why it returned. How it returned. (Some questions were better left unasked, and therefore unanswered.)
Sherlock collected himself, and walked carefully to his own, lowering himself in gingerly.
They both sat and waited to see what Mary would do.
After a moment, she went to the chair, plopped in it, adjusted her coat, smoothed down her pants, and waited.
Mary set a flash drive on the table next to John. AGRA. Her initials.
John didn't even look shocked any more, he just looked resigned.
Mary spoke again. "Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don't read it in front of me."
John raised one hand slightly. "Why?" Indeed, Sherlock thought, why should he care, after all that she's done to him.
"Because you won't love me when you've finished... and I don't want to see that happen."
It hurt Mary to say that. Anyone could see that. But was it actually, or was she that good at acting?
John took it without another word, swiping it off the table and tucking it away in his pocket.
"How much do you know?" This was directed at Sherlock.
He struggled briefly for a moment with how to phrase it. He was growing short of breath, and just hoped they didn't notice how short his sentences were.
He winced on one of the words, but neither of them seemed to be very alarmed, which he was thankful for. This wasn't about him.
They spoke to each other, ignoring him for at least some part.
He tuned back in at the mention of Magnussen, and the shooting.
"...like Magnussen should be killed. That's why there are people like me."
"Perfect. So that's what you were? An assassin? How could I not see that?" He was sarcastic. When John got angry, he turned sarcastic and smiled. It was terrifying. Like some sort of wild cat that was about to pounce, grinning at its meal, knowing it couldn't escape.
"You did see that... and you married me. Because he's right." Mary's voice changed, softer, like she was admitting a secret. "It's what you like."
Sherlock winced internally at that. Or maybe it was external as well. He'd been shot, for heaven's sake. He could wince if he damn well pleased.
But Mary wasn't really helping. Because they were both right, but the words... language was the source of all misunderstanding. Because it wasn't John's fault. It wasn't John's fault that he was addicted to adrenaline and action. It wasn't his fault he fell in love with Mary. Hell, even Sherlock had fallen for Mary. He wanted her to make John happy, something that he often failed to do.
