December 25, 2014
Sherlock doesn't look back when Mycroft's black sedan pulls away from the terraced house, and John - hand burrowed deep in the same pocket that earlier had held his now-confiscated Sig Sauer - sweeps the street with a distracted gaze. A cold Christmas quiet muffles ambient sound; or perhaps it's John himself, ears still ringing from the sound of Sherlock's unerring shot.
Were this a film, the camera might close in on John's eyes, trace the shadows under his red-rimmed eyes before sliding away to blur the scenery around him. But it's not - this is just another day in the increasingly surreal life of John Watson, formerly of the RAMC, father-to-be, husband to an assassin, friend to a killer.
John gives a soft, bitter snort. He's a killer himself; if his life is surreal, perhaps it's time to admit his own role in making it so.
He turns and climbs the steps, takes out his keys, and suddenly Mary is before him in the doorway, clutching a pair of knitting needles and a misshapen baby bootie to her chest at the sight of him, paler than before. She abandons them on the side-table and reaches out to John, pulling him inside where it smells of cinnamon and pastry and normalcy, and it's all wrong. This isn't their life - it's a facade, a lie.
John slumps against the wall, closing his eyes with a shaky sigh, and Mary slides her small, skilled hand lightly down his arm.
"Take off your coat," she murmurs, tugging gently on the lapel, but John shakes his head and brings his hand to his eyes, rubbing them to fight back their inconvenient sting.
"Just -" he says, holding out his other hand, stilling her. "Just give me a moment, okay?"
Mary's eyes are red-rimmed, too; her pale lips quiver almost imperceptibly, but she nods and takes a step back, her gaze never leaving John. He takes a deep breath, two, then three - pounds the wall behind him with an impotent fist. When he's calmed enough to speak, he opens his eyes and says, "Magnussen's dead."
A tear falls from Mary's eyes and she nods, shaking more loose.
"I know," she replies, her voice breaking on the words. "I know."
John trains his terrible gaze on her; she accepts it, absorbs it, and when it's followed by John himself, clutching at her bathrobe, burying his face in the crook of her neck and shaking with silent tears, she wraps her arms around him as best she can with her swollen belly between them.
And because this is their life now - a strange hybrid of state secrets and mashed potatoes, danger and domesticity all rolled into one - Mary gives a small, tired laugh and says, "Come on. I know you haven't eaten, and there's still an hour of Christmas left. Mrs. Holmes -" Mary laughs wetly again, shaking her head. "She sent me home with Christmas dinner."
A part of John wants to gape at her in horror, but another remembers a different conversation about Christmas dinners, a lifetime ago, and what comes instead is his own choked, almost tearful guffaw. He can't eat while Sherlock -
But he can. Or must; he's made his choice - they all have - and he cannot help Sherlock now.
"Right," he says. "I'm just going to -"
John gestures with his chin in the direction of the stairs and Mary nods, turning towards the kitchen.
And if she happens to hear John's muffled sobs over the sound of the running water above, she never speaks of it.