A/N: I just wanted to say how truly I appreciate my reviewers, especially Saffysmom and Steefwaterbutter. Many thanks.


21

Two days later, having shared a surprisingly pleasurable week with Janine and Annie, Sherlock returned to Baker Street. John came by to visit him the day after.

"You've been busy!" John said as he entered the flat. "Or so I hear."

Sherlock set down his violin with an amused smile. "The press does love a good story. Though I despair at their taste. Isn't a family of five being poisoned at dinner worthier of a front-page article than speculations into a polygamous relationship between three consenting adults?"

"I don't think you've fully grasped how newspapers work, Sherlock," John snarked. "They're more interested in certain types of sensationalism than others." Sherlock shrugged his distaste but gave no answer.

John shifted on his feet for a moment, looking at the floor. Then, "New case?"

"Hmm?"

"The poisoned family."

"It will be, once Lestrade quits being stubborn."

"You can hardly fault him for wanting to solve a few cases by himself," John pointed out. Sherlock scoffed.

"I was unable to solve the case by reading the article in the paper. Lestrade has no hope of solving it on his own." He looked down at the phone he was twiddling in his hands. "I expect a text sometime tomorrow." The sleuth looked up sharply, becoming more attentive to his friend. "How are you, John?"

"Yeah, fine. Good," was the immediate response. Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. John cleared his throat, glancing down at his feet. "Okay, maybe… not—so fine."

"Tell me."

"It's torture!" John burst. He heaved a breath that felt ten pounds lighter. "I do everything I can to pretend she isn't there because whenever I do notice her, suddenly—I'm ready to pull a gun."

"That wouldn't be wise, considering."

"No shit, Sherlock," the doctor growled. "But that's where I am. I can't even look at her, not without wanting to-"

"Kiss her."

John gaped at the taller man. "Were you even listening to me?"

"Every word," Sherlock confirmed calmly.

"Then you would've known that I was going somewhere more in the direction of kill her."

"The one doesn't preclude the other."

John was dumbstruck. But as much as he wanted to argue, to tell Sherlock just how wrong he was, he knew it wouldn't be the truth. Sherlock was right, like he always was. The true torture of living with Mary was the war between the fond husband who recognized the woman he'd fallen in love with and the bitter soldier who saw only the psychopath who'd tried to murder his best friend.

Groaning, John slid into his chair, letting his head fall helplessly into his hands. "Why am I doing this?" he moaned. "Why do I do this to myself?"

"For the sake of your child."

Opening his eyes, John was stunned at the ferocity in Sherlock's expression. Breathing in, he allowed Sherlock's strength to possess him as well. He stood swiftly onto his feet and squared off with the detective.

"What do I do?"

"You have to make peace with her. It's the only option."

John nodded. "When?"

"Well…" Sherlock smiled thoughtfully. "Christmas is a time of forgiveness and reconciliation, or so I'm told."

"On Christmas, then?"

"Don't worry. I have a plan."


John's eyes rolled upwards in thought. A few seconds later, "So I burn it?"

"Not the real one, a fake one," Sherlock explained again. "An empty copy."

"Why?"

"It's best we keep the original. Can never be too careful. Information may always prove useful in the future."

"You mean in case we ever need to blackmail her," John stated.

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously. "I would never." He cleared his throat, shrugging one shoulder. "But—should we ever need to put Mary permanently out of the picture, prison seems as good a place as any."

"We don't even know what's on this thing."

"Perhaps we should find out."

John shook his head, staring down at the memory stick in his hand. Just looking at it made his throat tight. "I don't know if I can," he admitted. "If I find something… truly terrible on here… What if I can't fake it anymore?"

Sherlock pondered this. "All right. Then I'll read it."

"What?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue exasperatedly. "At least one of us needs to be aware of exactly who and what we're dealing with," he argued.

"Dealing with—Jesus, you make it sound like my wife's-"

"A criminal? A killer?" Sherlock interrupted. John's blood simmered, but he kept his jaw sealed shut. "She is both of those things. And we can't know what else until we look on this flash drive."

"Nope. I can't." John shoved the stick into Sherlock's hand, backing away. "You take it, fine. Just don't tell me. I don't want to know."

For a moment Sherlock's lips twitched with sympathy. Sliding the flash drive into his pocket, he nodded his agreement.


A week later—precisely three days after Sherlock and John solved the dinner murder, much to Lestrade's appreciation and consternation—John showed up at Baker Street, his features stony. It took Sherlock one glance to discern the reason for his visit.

"You lasted a day longer than I predicted," he said.

John glared. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"An observation."

"So? Are you going to tell me what was on it?" he huffed.

Sherlock walked slowly to the desk, his silk robe trailing him gracefully. He picked up the memory stick and raised it into the air with a flourish. He stared at it briefly, then looked at John.

He took a breath.

"I haven't read it," Sherlock admitted. Before John could respond, he said, "I thought we could look together."

The doctor swallowed painfully. He nodded. Crossing to the desk, he stood, fists clenched, as Sherlock seated himself and inserted the flash drive into his laptop. John shifted closer to the younger man as files popped up onto the screen. Sherlock in turn leaned backwards, the movement so subtle that John couldn't guess whether it was for his own ease or a calculated move to give John comfort. Either way, he was grateful.

Sherlock double-clicked the first file on Mary's history.


22

The next few weeks of December washed past John like a steady flow of molasses. He felt an unnatural tension in the world, like it was balanced on the tip of a needle, just waiting for the fall. Every second was leading up to something life-shattering, he could feel it.

Despite these certainties, John did his best to pretend that all was normal. Well, as normal as it could be when you were living with the woman who had lied to you for more than a year and then shot your best friend.

Sherlock somehow was able to act with complete ease and nonchalance. He even visited Mary once—or more; how could John know?—to rekindle their friendship. John didn't know what was said or done, but one glimpse of his wife and best friend hugging was enough to set his stomach churning. He couldn't make it past the doorway.

Noticing John's appearance, Sherlock and Mary shared a few whispers and then Sherlock was dashing past John and out the door, with nothing more than a nod of the head. Mary smartly melted away into another part of the townhouse. John was left alone with his fury and revulsion.

Both sooner and later than John would've liked, Christmas Eve was upon them. He made his way to Baker Street first thing in the morning to cement the finalities of the plan.


John stared at the copycat flash drive that Sherlock had just dropped onto his palm. The white letters A.G.R.A. looked the same to him. It all looked the same, but…

"She'll notice the difference."

"She won't."

"Irene Adler did," he pointed out saucily.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "The Woman noticed because that phone was her life."

"And this flash drive is Mary's life!"

"No, it just has her life on it," corrected the detective.

"You're unbelievable."

"John, calm down," urged Sherlock with all the assurance that John lacked. "It will work. Just—" He tilted his head back and forth. "—don't allow her to look on it too closely or hold it in her hand. …Mm—basically just throw it into the fire quick as you can. But don't be obvious-"

"Oh God, oh God!"

"John-"

"No, don'tdon't tell me to be calm," the soldier commanded. "This is my life, Sherlock, this is my child."

Sherlock's eyes jumped away. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you notice?"

"I—" The non sequitur threw the younger man for a loop. "What?"

"You. notice. everything," hissed John. "About everyone. You can deduce their whole bloody life story in a minute, and yet after spending months with Mary you never figured out that she was ex-CIA turned ROGUE ASSASSIN FOR MORIARTY?"

Sherlock flinched. "I was blind, John, forgive me-"

"And what about your brother?"

"Mycroft?"

"No, your other brother," he said mildly, before exploding, "YES! MYCROFT!"

"What's he got to do with it?" was the childish reply.

"Ha! Well, NOTHING,apparently! And how does that work? He keeps surveillance on us, he kept track of everything down to my dinner reservations while you were gone, and he never ONCE thought to do a background check on my fiancée?"

"Mycroft's slipping. He'd never admit it, but he is. Must be," Sherlock meditated, looking into the air thoughtfully. "He didn't even notice I was spending my nights in a drug den for a month. In the old days he would have found me in a week."

The reminder of this painful topic was enough to tug John back down to Earth. He felt his rage seep away, leaving queasy exhaustion. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"I told you, it was-"

"For the case," they finished together. Sherlock huffed, insulted.

"But it wasn't, though, was it?" John said. "All you needed to make your story plausible was to spend your time there. You didn't have to do the drugs. But you did."

"Why did you assault Billy?"

He ran his tongue over his teeth. After a few seconds, "He wasn't being cooperative."

"My brain wasn't being cooperative."

"Don't get clever with me."

"If you admit it, I will," Sherlock promised quietly.

John shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. "What do you want me to say? That I missed it? That I was… an addict, in need of a fix?"

"Yes."

It wasn't easy. He stood unmoving, silently staring Sherlock down. Then, "Fine. There it is." John lifted his arms in surrender. "I needed the fix."

"As did I."

"But why, Sherlock? And why-"

"Why did you?"

John gritted his teeth. "I swear, I'm going to-"

"Just—answer the question," said the junkie. "I promise I'll answer yours after."

Sensing the other man's sincerity, John let out a harsh breath. "Because… married life was great, perfect, but it wasn't… It was missing…"

"The thrill of the chase," Sherlock completed.

John met his friend's eye and knew that Sherlock understood. He nodded. He felt as though his admittance had lifted an anvil from his chest.

"So what's your excuse, then?" he asked. "It can't be the same as mine this time. You still had 'the thrill of the chase,' you were still working cases."

"The thrill of the chase, yes. Even the blood pumping through my veins."

"So why? What were you missing?"

Sherlock's eyes softened at the edges, and John got the sudden impression that there was a dearth of oxygen in the room.

His deep voice humming in the silent space, Sherlock answered, "The two of us against the rest of the world."