Christmas comes and I feel glorious. Confident. And something else, something that takes me an (embarrassingly long) moment to identify. A feeling I have so seldom that it hits me by surprise at first. I feel happy.
John, more or less, lives at Baker Street again. We have sex on every suitable surface (really, on every, I'm keeping track) and on a few unsuitable ones. To my utter surprise, it is not only an acceptable price to pay for John's presence in my life. No, it is (fantastic consuming earth-movingly) good. When it is time to sleep we go to bed together, and John does not disturb my sleeping pattern but improves it. When I hold him in my arms before falling asleep he presses his back against my front, so close that nothing can come between us. When he holds me he presses his nose into my curls.
Every now and then he goes back to Mary to stay in their (boring) home for a night or two. I spend some of the time with experiments and planing Magnussen's downfall, and most of the time with not being jealous. Experimenting and planning goes well.
I invite us all to my parents' home for Christmas. To John's surprise, Mary willingly agrees to come along. Mummy predictably forces Mycroft to come as well, not knowing of course that his presence is the key to the success of my plan. (His presence, and that of his laptop of course.)
I write a little speech for John, about the problems of Mary's past and the problems of her future and not having read what's on the stick. It is touching. She will cry when he'll tell her. (And probably embrace him. Maybe even kiss him. Terrible thought. But necessary.)
I had already met Magnussen when I was still in hospital, weeks before Christmas. Making a deal with him was (surprisingly) easy.
My parents are perfect, loving and sweet as always, and Mary is clearly affected by them and the Christmas spirit, just like she is supposed to be. John prepares to deliver his little speech, and we still find time for some secret (elevating) snogging in my old room.
When we sneak out for a cigarette, Mycroft lets me know that he is aware of my plan and approves. He even goes so far and tells me how much he cares for me. (Hope I did not let it show how much I love him in return. He would be an unbearable prick if I did.)
The plan unravels. John "forgives", Mary believes, everybody has punch or tea, John brought his gun and the helicopter is perfectly on time.
In short, for a brief moment all is perfect.
It is still perfect when we get into Appledore with the gun. (Was right, Magnussen does not consider us a serious threat.)
It is still perfect when Magnussen shows us the record of me pulling John out of the bonfire (Love to read John's thought on his face, "How could I not see earlier how much Sherlock loves me?").
It is still perfect when Magnussen explains his chain of pressure points.
It is still perfect when he tells me my plan, but a bit less so. He is slightly too relaxed. Why?
And then everything crumbles away with four little words, "There are no vaults."
There are no vaults.
It echoes in my head, loud and shrill, drowning out John's and Magnussen's voices. There are no vaults.
For a paralysing moment, all other thoughts are erased from my brain. No vaults.
No. Vaults.
And while Magnussen and John move on to go outside, it is still pulsating in my brain, matching my (highly elevated) heartbeat: No. Vaults. No. Vaults. No. Vaults. No. Vaults.
When I can think again, still standing in front of the chamber on my own, it takes me only twenty-two seconds to come to the conclusion: I must destroy all information Magnussen has on Mary. All information Magnussen has on Mary is inside his head. Hence, I must destroy his head.
Coming to that conclusion took little time. Accepting that conclusion takes longer. I am not a killer. I only took someone's life once, in self-defence, and it haunted me for months. I never ever murdered someone.
("I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline," my inner Mycroft repeats the real Mycroft's words.)
And yet, John's gun weighs heavy in the pocket of his coat. I did not have this scenario in mind when I told him to bring it, but it is there, ready to send a bullet into Magnussen's brain. I am not. And yet -
("A job offer I should like you to decline," he said.)
And yet, the near future unravels in my mind. I will not shoot Magnussen. He will try to blame us for selling state secrets. Won't be proven, for there is nothing on the laptop anyway. (I never checked, but am sure of it. Mycroft, always two steps ahead of everyone else.) No matter what Magnussen will do next, Mary will never feel safe again. Will disappear. With the unborn child. Will leave John heart-broken over yet another terrible loss. And in end, it does not matter if John will blame me for losing his child or not. What matters is that he will be broken.
Unacceptable.
Or worse. I will not shoot Magnussen. He will contact some of the people looking for Mary (good people most likely, with good reasons to find her). They will decide to take revenge, killing not Mary, but John instead. Collateral damage, just to make a point.
Absolutely unacceptable.
I follow John and Magnussen. Slowly. No vaults. No alternative. That's what you get from feeling perfectly happy for a while.
("A job offer I should like you to decline." So Mycroft suspected it would come to this and sent me a warning. "An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.")
A clear warning. The near future unravels in my mind once more. I will shoot Magnussen. In front of Mycroft and his men. Will be imprisoned. Unacceptable, no way to keep my sanity in a prison cell. So Mycroft will try to come to the rescue, but with Serbia being the only alternative. A delayed death sentence. Better than insane. Mycroft will try to rescue me from there, but his chances are slim. So I will be dead. But John will have his child. He will hate me for leaving him, hate me for dying (again), but he will not be broken.
Acceptable.
No vaults. No alternative.
Shooting Magnussen now will only make his security kill us in return. The only acceptable moment to do it is when Mycroft and his minions are already here. So I wait, trying to steel myself for the task. (Why does it feel like I cannot breathe properly?) I have to signal John to accept Magnussen's perverted face-flicking game to buy us time. (My stomach revolting when I'm forced to witness it.)
Watching it should make it easier to accept that I will kill him any minute now. Still, when John says my name for confirmation, my legs feel like giving in. I can barely contain myself. How I manage to answer him is beyond my imagination.
When the helicopter arrives, it is nearly an alleviation. I step forward to join John and Magnussen. To stand by John's side (most likely) for the last time. (And to nick his gun.) Try to prepare him for what I am about to do by summing up our situation. (But he does not get it. Asks me again what we will do. Does not understand what I am trying to tell him, because he never expected me to kill someone in cold blood. Neither did I, but there is nothing I would not do for John Watson.) (Except staying by his side and thereby risking his life.)
I hesitate for one last moment. Magnussen's words echoing in my mind, "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes." No. That much is true. But there still is a dragon to slay. I know that I am talking when I leave John's side (oh, how symbolic!), but I have already forgotten what I was saying. All I really notice is the gun in my hand and the smug look on Magnussen's face and how something I cannot name inside me tears apart when I pull the trigger.
The rest of this night is a blur of noises and shadows and wind and tears and adrenaline and sickness and loss. When my world comes back into focus again, I am sitting in a holding cell, completely alone.