Part VII
Reaching Ithaca
And if you find her poor, Ithaka has not deceived you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
Pistachio, steel blue, and apple green, John told himself. Pistachio, steel, apple. Pistachio, steel, a—ah ha! Here was a sort of pistachio-ish tablecloth, wasn't it?
"That's lime, honey," Marigold piped up beside him.
"Oh," John put it back, disappointed.
"Soon," Marigold promised.
John shrugged, "It's fine; this is like an observational adventure."
Marigold gave him a peculiar look before going back to the folds of tablecloth inside the department store.
John cleared his throat. "How about this then?" he picked up a chartreuse fabric—yes, really, he knew what chartreuse was now.
"Less yellow, less bright," she commented, "This is for putting plates and spilling wine on, not neon po-mo art."
John hadn't really expected her to agree, he just wanted to divert her attention. He knew that when she got a look like that, she was going to phone up his therapist soon. Which was silly—he hadn't gone to Ella in forever; he hadn't needed her lumpy couch and scratchy calligraphy that tilted just so that he could read it upside down so that she could catch him reading it upside down. There were a few productive sessions earlier—like the one where he talked about how he felt like life was a buggy computer simulation game like The Sims except stuck in a loop and how he was sure he had to be told to go to the toilet in order to summon the energy to do so— but that was a very, very long time ago. He honestly couldn't even remember what he talked about with Ella most of the time.
"Actually, it's good enough," Marigold exclaimed all of a sudden. "You know I don't even care about tablecloth—I mean, who does?"
John thought he could see somebody who slouched just like Anderson over at the other corner, but Marigold had already taken the package and he had to help with—god, how many guests did they have again?—what seemed like the entire floor's supply of tablecloth. Marigold had a very large extended family and Harry took it a challenge to fill his side to no fewer people.
John concentrated on the cloths to avoid thinking about how Harry was going to ruin his wedding.
-.-.-
He was not paranoid, John told himself triumphantly as he held out the piece of paper to Marigold. It had appeared in their living room before the mail was to be delivered today, sitting on top of a book that Marigold had left open last night, and made absolutely no sense to John. It had to be Harry—she was the only other person that he entrusted an emergency pair of keys to.
"Yes?" Marigold raised her eyebrows and mumbled through a mouthful of orange-flavoured toothpaste.
"Look at it," he said, almost gleefully. Harry was not usually enigmatic, but she obviously had been planning on a large scale of destruction since they were teenagers.
"Okay," she shrugged and took it with her left hand.
The paper was a post-it note in a rather rare color—a darkish blue that was rather bad for writing on since the contrast was low. John had actually never seen this color, but he assumed that it was some backed up inventory or something. The funny thing was that it was typed up—he would recognize Harry's handwriting otherwise, she had such loopy nines—and said, '147197114 70130180 1411820'.
He had searched it online and flipped through two encyclopaedias that morning already, before Marigold decided to wake up for the beautiful noon. No part of the sequence appeared anywhere. Harry probably just made it up, to spite him, but John couldn't help his blood boiling from its dormant sleep. Maybe some sort of World War II code, or at least some Girl Scout—
"What are you doing with our color palette," Marigold asked, her words slurred.
"What?" John asked.
She held up a hand and ran into the washroom. A few seconds late, she was back, with just a bit of foam to the corner of her mouth. "Our wedding palette: these are the RGB codes."
"Oh," John said, "Really?"
She threw him a look of 'what, you don't have them memorized?' and John smartly shut up.
Okay, maybe he was paranoid then, but nobody could blame him for getting worked up. It was probably pre-wedding jitters manifesting in a weird way.
-.-.-
John didn't understand why people got divorced and remarried—surely the first time experience was enough to traumatize them?
His own wedding was big, messy fiasco. Harry gathered everybody from his work colleagues to obscure military training buddies, to even his uni classmates and his coach. She had, of course, her own circle of artsy, libertine friends, and had encouraged Claire to bring her circle of friends. As if walking down the aisle was not nerve-wrecking enough, he now had to deal with awkward reunions after years of no contact. And yes, it had been Anderson in the department store because he had the same beard and yes, Harry had managed to invite him as well. It was a miracle that his elementary teachers escaped her clutches.
However, despite her best efforts, Harry could not outmatch Marigold. Everybody from her co-workers (a lot of them) to her distant cousins and relatives (even more of those) to her roommates (who brought their friends) to even one of her ex-boyfriends (who had conveniently been in town; just lovely). Of course, the person of most interest to John was Finn the ex, who was a tall, large bloke with a mop of blond hair, and looked like he was the sort to miss uni life too much. He hadn't had the chance to speak with Finn yet, beyond a passing hello as he was introduced to everybody present, but John thought that he did a good job of a withering, wordless warning.
The venue was good, compared to what few wedding venues that John had experienced before. It was spacious—or at least was before the invasion of wedding attendees—and appropriately decorated, if a little too, well, pastel, and maybe a few too many flowers. John wasn't as fond of flowers as he once was as a teenager—he had been ah, well, the sentimental sort of boy, there was no way around that. He'd bike for an hour to get to his sweetheart for thirty minutes, and he'd bring flowers that he plucked from the ride, being poor as well as young. His sweetheart had never enjoyed receiving them as much as he did the giving, but that was neither here nor there. It had been a while, though, since he looked at flowers without the overwhelming shadow of a tombstone.
No, John, he told himself, today was one for happy thoughts.
And indeed, he was very happy when he scanned the sitting crowd. There was Mrs. Hudson, dabbing her eyes with a freshly-scented handkerchief and leaning in towards Harry, who herself was a little bright-eyed. Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Hudson's friend (the landlord with the 'other couple', as she liked to say) was to her other side, smoothing her dress fastidiously and turning around to check the entrance every other minute. There was Sarah, who had her hands clasped between her boyfriend Olivier's, who was actually looking a little anxious—might be commitment issues, or he might be padding a ring inside his left breast pocket. There was each of Marigold's roommates, with their respective girlfriends—Dan's bird was much too pretty for him. There was Logan, stick-thin and ropy-haired as always, who had flown in again from wherever he was, sitting next to Finn the ex and giving him the cold shoulder—John liked Logan more now. Finn himself was being chatty and honestly, pretty happy in general; John supposed it was a rare sort of amicable breakup, much like Sarah and his (although it took a while to get there). There was Ruby the receptionist, and what would you know, sitting next to Greg and looping her arm through his arm. John was pretty sure Greg winked at him. Anderson was in the back and John managed a smile at the man, who heaved out a sigh as if he was cleansing the very depth of his lungs. The blokes from the clinic were in the back, but John couldn't catch their eyes. The kid from Marigold's firm, the one who had passed John her car keys, did a little awkward wave when John saw him, and John in return nodded just a little. Molly—Molly was here too, second from the aisle, her cheeks flushed and biting her lips. John hadn't seen much of Molly since—she didn't take to it very well either, and managed to avoid most of her former acquaintances—or at least, their mutual acquaintances, John supposed, although he rather suspected that Molly didn't have many other friends. She did seem to bring a date though, that was good, who was turned to smell Molly's hair, and the sight made John feel very happy for Molly. Donovan sat at the opposite corner of Anderson, her hair down and smoothed, and she looked good, if a little tired, the way she always looked when she was trying to stop Greg from doing something. Mike Stamford—bless his big, big heart—seemed to be even bigger now, and was chatting in a bubbly manner with his next door neighbour, a stiffly dressed man in a very subtly plaid suit and gleaming tie clip, nodding along to Mike's incessant verbal deluge with surprising grace. Bill Murray was with a couple of his mates from the military, and grinned at him when he looked over, the big, fat grins that they used to give each other at the end of each day, still alive and ready for the sacks. And there was Angelo, unashamedly taking up two seats with his body and his wife's bag, rivets of tears running down his cheeks as his wife pulled out one tissue after the other from her bag. A few of the old clients were scattered in the crowd as well, notably Henry Knight who seemed very close to crying himself, and Ceylan Hassan's brother, who was busy tweeting (but of course). Mycroft was absent, but Anthea—Althea, Alyssia, whatever she felt like calling herself today—was typing away at her phone as always, and John was sure that at least three of the surveillance feeds were turned on him as of the moment.
It felt like his entire life was here, documented by how these people looked at him.
The music started—and the door opened.
She was painfully beautiful, John thought. She had been on a diet and had been working out more in the past month, and it showed in her arms and her glowing skin, although the flush could be makeup or her own excitement. Getting married could get one excited, you know. Her dress was some rental designer thing—Marigold was too practical to get bogged down by the romantics of owning her own once-in-a-lifetime dress—but it fitted her like it had been hand-tailored for weeks.
She smiled at him, a quickly blooming smile that stretched her entire face and brightened her entire person, and John could feel himself mirroring her smile. She took small steps to the music, and to John, it looked like she was floating towards him.
One, two, three to Paganini's Cantabile 17.
She floated past the last row, Anderson and Donovan on each corner like two vigilant gargoyles, careful not to let their gaze coincide.
The first time Anderson and Donovan met Marigold, they decided that she was a lost cause as well, just like John. John supposed that it was a compliment, in a roundabout way, given how things turned out. It was just after that case when he asked her out, after a near-death experience with train tracks. She had to come in to make statements after all, despite slipping away before Greg and the team showed up. Anderson and Donovan tried to convince her of the dangers of associating with John, of course.
"Despite that he's a good man, and I am fond of him," Donovan had said prior to realizing that John was just around the corner, "he is a menace to you, without even realizing it, the poor, daft thing."
"Oh," Marigold had said in a lilting tone, "and you're not quite daft yourself, you think?"
John could hear the frown in Anderson's voice as he said, "At least less so than you, if you continue to come back to this psychopath's sidekick."
"Who's to say I don't want to be Batgirl?" she joked.
The joke was lost on the other two, but John gave her a chuckle and a grateful if surprised look.
She floated past Mike, whose smartly dressed neighbour turned and positively beamed at her. Her eyes were flitting across the room as she walked, so she caught his eyes and gave him a delighted smile, the kind that promised a secret in its depths.
John remembered now: he had met this man before. Sven worked at Shad Sanderson (same firm as Sebastian Wilkes, the sod), a director in Healthcare. Sven and Marigold had started on the same team the same year, and had always been close in their year. When Marigold left, Sven had stayed, and eventually moved to the headquarters in London. Sven had been one of the first friends that Marigold introduced John to, although John hadn't seen Sven since. It was with that dinner that John knew he passed the first milestone. Sven had been quiet among the people, chewing and going outside frequently for calls and smokes—that was why John didn't remember him well. But John remembered there was one moment, when Marigold left for the washroom, when Sven suddenly looked him in the eye and asked him what he did with all the free time when Marigold wasn't there.
John had shrugged it off as chit-chat phrased oddly, and answered, "I sometimes help with the Yard if there's a particularly tough case."
Sven hummed pensively and John thought he was scowling faintly. "You're a private detective," he declared.
"No, no," John laughed at the easy mistake, "You might say I'm the assistant to the Consulting Detective the Yard calls on. World's only."
"Ah," Sven seemed more at ease now that he felt like he had figured out the puzzle, "So you're that duo who appears in the papers sometimes. No wonder. Goldie's always had a macabre fascination with crime-solving."
John would have liked to hear more, but Marigold returned and so the conversation flowed back to its proper place—that was, without embarrassing stories of Marigold's youth. He'd get them someday, John remembered thinking placidly, and as she sat down he laid a hand on her back, rubbing his thumb where the last of her rib was.
She smiled at him, but the lopsided quirk of her lips was as if she was saying she knew exactly what he was up to.
She floated past Molly, who was a little twitchy, and patted the date on the arm. Molly's date swatted Molly's hand away, but Molly was already looking at her, enveloped in a swathe of gauze, her nails deep crimson against the white lace of the bouquet, her shoes a matching tip beneath the hem of her dress. John thought that this was what Molly wanted to look like one day, perhaps.
It was surprising that Molly and Marigold never got along, given Molly's obsession with cats and Marigold's soft spot for all pets that she didn't have as a child. Be it dogs or cats, or even lizards, Marigold loved them all without ever having to scoop up wet poop. Molly had Toby the cat—and then a few others, in quick succession. Marigold had explained that cats were like new handbags, or weed—it was difficult to stop indulging after the start. Despite such a common theme to bond on, they never did—well, women were always very strange creatures.
In fact, John remembered one occasion when Marigold actually tried to be friends with Molly—which was something that Marigold rarely did. John had appreciated the effort, although he didn't deem it necessary. Marigold had spurned his offer to come along, asserting that it was a 'girls' day out'—in fact, she showed him the spreadsheet planner she made for the day, and John was happy to left out of a lot of shopping and dessert shops.
Except Marigold returned that night utterly exhausted, without a single victorious item, and had hotly inquired, "God, why is she so nervous all the time?"
John had laughed—it was a good question—but answered honestly and good-naturedly, "She spends most of her time with dissected carcasses, mind you."
"Exactly, one would think she'd have some gusto. Be a sweetheart and bring out the Bordeaux?"
"Being dead makes one mostly harmless." He brought out two.
She brightened at the sight of the bottles but her tongue was still sharp as she scoffed, "And I'm the girl who discovered the answer to life, the universe, and everything."
Then they grinned at each other, a simple allusion becoming an intimate inside joke so easily.
She floated past Bill and the boys, who unanimously stood up as she walked by and saluted her, a proper salute like they hadn't done in a long while. It was not proper protocol, and a little flippant in John's opinion, but Marigold was having trouble stifling a giggle, and so it was alright by him.
John had taken her to a war memorial procession once, the sort of social event where one could bring somebody. That was when she discovered how he got his army nickname 'Blondie'. Bill thought it was a hoot to tell her that the fittest nurse in their forward operating base went out on a date with him because she "liked his hair". Never mind that he wasn't even blond, the nickname had only caught on with a few of his close friends. But the nurse was fit, and he lost a second reminiscing, of which did not escape Marigold. She narrowed her eyes slightly, but laughed and went along with it in front of his mates, not showing even the tiniest hint of unseemly jealousy. His mates were all jealous of him again, saying he had all the luck in the world, with such a sweet, tolerant girlfriend. Little did they know the trouble that he got in when they got home.
She floated past Logan, who swatted Finn away and rose to wave. Logan was scrunching his face, and another person might have thought he was glowering, but he was also sniffing loudly.
Right before Logan left last time he was here, John drove Logan back to the airport. Marigold had sat with him in the back, and they had reminisced about uni life the entire way. At the drop off, John pretended that he couldn't hear Logan and Marigold both crying and trying not to cry at the parting like some teenaged lovers. John felt like his very breathing was an intrusion, and he didn't like this sense of strange intimacy, even if the bloke liked other blokes. John didn't really get how this friendship came to be—but he supposed that she felt the same way about some of his mates.
She floated past Greg, who looked at her with soft fondness, as if she was a daughter, or the lingering memory of his first young bride.
She had once asked John how he fell into this rabbit hole of Scotland Yard, and he told her. He told her the story from the beginning, all the way, from how, "I first enlisted fresh out of Uni, right after I got my license. I left behind a girl, but I couldn't care—at least not enough, and definitely in a cruel way. Her name was Annabel—"
Marigold had snorted. She couldn't help it, she really couldn't—but Annabel Lee, the death of a young, beautiful girl, Edgar Allen Poe's fascination with death—the irony of it got to her, and a puffy chuckle escaped her. She immediately grimaced apologetically, and John went on.
"Some people jump out of airplanes, some people go bungee jumping, and some have sex with strangers in alleyways hoping to get caught; I joined the army. My therapist—the old one, in the army, not the one now, she doesn't know anything—told me it's called risk addiction. 'Crave varied, intense sensations and experiences', was what he said. That was nice of him. I'd have just said I enjoy being shot at. Until I actually got shot, of course, and couldn't go back to being shot at anymore. All my days turned repetitious, predictable, and I was depressed. Clinically depressed. Could have made a bit of pocket change by dealing anti-depressants, actually. Doctors are very easily convinced to give a veteran oxy prescriptions, let me tell you."
"I wouldn't mind the extra pocket money," she had answered.
He looked at her quizzically, "Should this soul-searching story get more of a rise out of you?"
"What were you expecting? Or what do you want to see?" she probed.
"I guess," he waved with no particular purpose, "it's like, I guess I opened up and I expected more of a mothering sympathy."
"I'm not very good at that," she stated, "But I can get you some chocolate cookies if you want?"
He laughed, feeling better. And maybe that was her intention. Or maybe not. Did it matter?
She floated past Harry, who was trying hard to not look too touched, but her hand that was clasping Claire's was white-knuckled. John would say that Harry could, if she wanted, but he supposed it wasn't his question and it wasn't her answer.
John could remember telling Harry about Marigold, before they met. It had been a dinner that Harry demanded when she figured that it was beginning to get serious with Marigold, now that Marigold hadn't dumped his arse in a couple of months. Marigold had been running late, so Harry and he were waiting for her at the door because it was one of those snobby restaurants that wouldn't sit the party until every member was present. Harry had been uncharacteristically understanding of Marigold's tardiness, and even was a little bashful, in her own way (which was to be very loud and inquisitive). He had told her, "Well, she's a bit on the small side, a little shorter than you, but always seems taller because she wears heels, and when she wants to she takes up a lot of space. Really dark hair, and matching eyes. She'll show up in something much more business formal than either one of us owns. Unfortunately she's so used to being late that she's pretty much desensitized to it, so don't expect too much sincerity in her apology."
"John you dumb idiot," Harry had interrupted, "I'll get to see what she looks like when she comes, I meant what's she like, you know, as a person."
"Oh, well," he had frowned to collect a summary, "She's very straightforward, at least with non-business associates. My kind of humour, if a little biting at times. Actually," he admitted, "always a bit biting. She's very judgmental and not at all afraid to say it. She's rather snappish really, especially when she's overworked."
Harry had laughed, to which he asked what for. She answered, "Sounds like the type of person you'd like."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, beginning to get peeved.
"Nothing," she immediately defended, "just that all the people you get along with are bad-tempered. You know, like your roommate, like your girlfriend, like your sister."
"I wouldn't say we 'get along'," he dryly remarked.
She shrugged, "You don't 'get along' with Sherlock—you live with him."
Which was—had been—true, so he allowed her a wine while waiting.
John could spend forever remembering the things about Marigold, and forever trying to picture what they would do in the future. But before she could float to him, a white promise of happiness, everything went bright and loud in a familiar, unsettling way that was definitely not supposed to happen at a wedding.
KABOOM.
When John opened his eyes again, he was very confused. He was confused because the front door—the tall, thick doors in polished white lacquer—were no more. What remained of the wood hinges were in flames—tall, orange flames that licked the walls. There was a lot of screaming going on, which one didn't necessarily expect at weddings. There was some shouting beyond the fire, and perhaps a gunshot.
It was all very confusing and John could feel his gears kicking into an elated, long-awaited state.
Marigold had long abandoned the bouquet and had run up to him, wrapping her train in one hand so she could move, and in her other hand—was that a 9-mil? John tried his best to guide the frenzied wedding guests to the back fire exit, as he asked, "Why do you have that?"
Marigold said, "Ah, well, I got a tip that something might happen today. The exit's down and to the left and right, people," she called out.
"A tip?" John frowned, not liking the direction, "From whom?" Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner were escorted to the back by Harry and few others. The flames looked contained to the entrance for now, and judging by the looks of growth, John figured they had ample time to evacuate. No need for panic, really.
"Molly."
"Molly?" he asked, surprised, "I didn't know you kept in contact." Well, maybe panic was suitable for whatever exactly happened to cause the fire, now that he thought about it.
She shrugged, "I go over to see her cats once in a while."
"Oh, that's nice," he supposed, "What did she say, then?" Perhaps Molly knew more than she let on?
"Vaguely something about how I should be prepared for anything."
"And you felt like that warrants a pistol?" Wouldn't normal folk assume that 'anything' meant cold-feet?
"She then forcibly asked me if it's true that in American most people owned guns. And if I brought mine over. I thought that was about as tactful as it could go, considering she was hinting for a gun at my own fucking wedding. I've changed my mind: she is pretty ballsy after all."
John pursed his lips and gave her an 'I told you so' look. As far as socially awkward people went, Molly was one of the more spectacularly ballsy ones.
"What," Marigold exclaimed, "I know looks can be deceptive, but hers is very convincingly deceptive."
"Fair enough. Why do you have one anyway?" Also out of place for normal people, at least here in the UK. Anderson was rounding the last of the people, disappearing into the tall halls. They should get going as well soon.
"I like shooting ranges," she cleared her throat, "Very relaxing."
"Well then." If he had needed reassurance that this was the woman for him. "So do you have any idea what's all this ruckus about?" He cast one last glance at the burning door, clearly set aflame by a chemical bomb. That or struck by lightning, but John didn't think he'd upset the thunder god that much.
"Not one bit, unfortunately. It can't be worse than that time with the matchboxes, at least."
John hoped it wouldn't. It had its moments, particularly when Sh—but it was still too close to the edge of death.
And speak of the devil: just as he was thinking about death and fighting impossible battles, the left door broke down with a loud crash, and three men burst in. They looked like Ironman-wannabes, with a lot of thick armour and gadgets around their bodies, but this wasn't the time for comic thoughts.
"Uh," John made out before realizing that holy bleeding shite one of them had a handheld fitty—a real, sodding M2 .50 machine gun. Wasn't that just a little excessive? "Uh," he tried again, "can we, uh, help you?" This was starting to feel a lot like the matchstick case, but back then…
"Shut up," the armed man yelled, and the middle bloke (a foot and maybe 40 pounds smaller) shoved him aside. He was also armed, with a 9-mil (John could take a 9-mil usually, he was fast and good with his eyes and most importantly, lucky, but the way he held the weapon was too smooth, too much like how John felt with his Browning). He was clearly the leader, as the other man cleared the way despite being much larger and with a much more deadly weapon.
"John Watson," Little Boss snarled out.
"Er, yes," John acknowledged, "that's me." Marigold elbowed him, but really, these blokes clearly already knew that.
The man was in no particularly hurry though, it seemed, because the Little Boss repeated, "John, fucking, Watson."
"Sure, if you're into that sort of thing," he responded calmly. (Tweedledee on the right had maybe 20 pounds on him, but it was all biceps and no core, and John could definitely take him. Except it wasn't exactly a fair one-on-one match, and Marigold could probably handle about as much as a ten-year-old child, chained in yards of lace and chiffon as she was.)
"What I'm into," Little Boss was evidently not easy to agitate, "is the code."
"The code," John repeated.
"Yes," Little Boss repeated as he would to a very slow child, "the code."
"What code?" John asked.
Little Boss rolled his eyes, "The code that matters. Look, I know you have it, and my time's too precious to be wasted on the likes of you. So let me ask you nicely one more time, where, is, my fucking code?"
As if on call, Tweedledum to the left aimed the fitty at John. Then he seemed confused as to who to aim for, and adjusted to Marigold; but after a moment, seemed to think better and refocused to John.
In that moment, John ransacked his brain for everything that could possibly be a code. Nothing came to mind, except that strange note, but it had been the wedding color palette, and who in the world would use that as a code? (He quickly glanced at Marigold's pale, quivering face—no, he was sure she would tell him if there was any danger, and look at how utterly terrified she was.)
Clearly, she was thinking the same thing, because she had an expression of both confusion and realization. And dammit, Little Boss also recognized the look and he spread out a slow, predatory smile and turned to Marigold.
"So, the little lady knows, does she," he said smugly.
"Who are you calling little," Marigold huffed.
Good, he grabbed her hand in encouragement, good, distract him, drag this out as long as possible. They couldn't possibly try that as the code: if it was right, they'd be useless and dead; and if it wasn't, Little Boss might believe that they honestly didn't know and they'd end up dead anyway.
"Feisty little thing. Aren't you scared?"
Hell yeah she was scared—her palm was cold and sweaty to touch and a consistent tremor ran through her, but her eyes were blazed as she played the idiotically fearless, simpleminded woman that the Little Boss was so ready to believe in. "Why should I be scared?" she asked, a touch to curiosity peeping through the reckless front, as if she was genuinely asking a man with a machine gun why she ought to be scared.
Somewhere down the line, Marigold might have missed her true calling as an actress.
Little Boss chuckled, "You've never seen a fitty before? Not even in films?"
"A fitty?" she asked, but could not stop herself from quickly glancing at the ready-to-shoot machine gun.
Little Boss's eyes lightened, "So you're not plain stupid. This is what we call a fitty. Would you like a try?"
John blinked. This was going too smoothly. It must be a trap. Marigold gulped, the sound abrasive against his ear, a loud clang even against his own thundering pulse. He couldn't let her take the risk.
"Really? You'd let me try it?" but she already took a step towards Tweedledum, her fingers tugging at the white lace of her gown like some twelve-year-old in front of a large toy. "Is it as cool as it's in the movies?"
No it was definitely a trap, John tried to grab Marigold back, but she dodged to the side and petulantly stomped her feet, "C'mon, he said it'd be fine!"
"Come back," John commanded, but it was too late. Marigold was far along enough that Tweedledee, thus far quiet and almost innocuous in his behaviour, shuffle blocked John and grabbed Marigold.
And it was a trap. Of course. Just when he needed some stupidity in this world.
"Now you don't have to hesitate," Little Boss declared, "we might even let your little BAFTA bird go if you cooperate."
"You mindless miserable fat wart," Marigold cursed in Tweedledee's clutch, basking in the immunity of being a hostage but not floundering in case that made her collateral damage.
"Or," Little Boss started again, this time directing to Marigold, "how about you tell us, and we promise you'll let you go on with your happily ever after, hmm?"
She thinned her eyes, "Who are you working for?" she demanded.
John didn't think the whole delaying tactic was going to work anymore, but Little Boss was more than confident about timing. "Charles is simply looking to get back what is his—a few pieces of mail would do you no good. You wouldn't even know what to do with the treasure!"
Little Boss didn't think much of the Scotland Yard, apparently, or the intelligence of the wedding guests, who hopefully, should be dialling the emergency line now if they hadn't already. At least Bill should recognize a highly potent and contained bomb. Or at least Donovan should be suspicious. Or Anderson, for fuck's sake, he'd been paranoid for a good two years, and so let him be bloody paranoid.
"Now enough with the delays," Little Boss announced, "What's. The. Code!"
"Fine, fine," John held his hands up, "I'll tell you, Jesus, calm your rockers." He couldn't even if he wanted to—how could anybody expect him to have memorized a string of random numbers? But if he slipped his hands back, and pretended that he had his pistol, Tweedledum was twitchy enough to start shooting. The fitty was unwieldy at best, so he'd be shooting at his ten o'clock. So if he immediately dropped and rolled to the left, Tweedledee would react by whipping to him, but with Little Boss as a shield, Tweedledee would either hesitate or—pray hard, John—he'd accidently shoot Little Boss. If he didn't, Marigold should have reacted by now to at least break free of Tweedledum's lax hold due to the machine gun, and if she was smart, she'd point her own pistol at Tweedledum. That wouldn't stop Little Boss, and Little Boss was too good of a marksman and wouldn't pause in a lockdown like that. It would stop Tweedledum though, the big block. And then if he timed it right, he could take hold of the fitty and then they'd be—
Before John could put his ill-thought-out plan in motion, there, through the doorway, like a phoenix, out of the orange flames walked in a tall, lanky figure, his face hidden beneath a beret. John recognized the hat—it was on Molly's date—but before he even flung it off, John knew.
The bastard, John thought. It was all he could do to stop himself from running up and punching the bloody twat to death again. That complete arsehole—how, why—fuck, what was happening, was he hallucinating? Did his plan not work and was he lying dying on the floor?
"Hello John," the figure from the past calmly greeted.
It must be real, John realized with a dizzy spell, because he looked different. He still had floppy dark curls, but they were cut shorter, cleaner. The scarf and coat was gone, and instead he had a casual polo, something he'd have never worn before. His skin was paler than ever, an unnatural pallor even for the fair-skinned Holmes family. He was skinnier, gaunt in his cheekbones rather than just sharp, his Adam's apple protruding uncomfortably, and the glimpse of collarbone had too much definition. His jeans were ill-fitting, the sort one expected to see on unkempt uni students or tech-bar assistants, not the fastidious Sherlock Holmes.
But it was him. Unmistakably.
It was him.
"You, you miserable wart," he yelled, at a loss for the proper words and copying an earlier insult. "What are you doing?"
"Saving you neck, as always," Sherlock replied flippantly. "Now gentlemen, or rather, men, I must inform you that the code is no longer of value."
Little Boss sneered, "And why's that?"
"What value," Sherlock drawled slowly, "is anything to a dead man?" And immediately he glided to the right and shot a pistol at Tweedledum.
Despite his mental prowess, Sherlock had never been the most reliable of shots, so it was with great relief and wonder that John saw the bullet pass straight into Tweedledum's chest, staggering him back and making him lose his aim as he struggled for breath. It was a terrific shot, even if it had been rather close, but of a calibre that Sherlock—the old Sherlock—would have been unable to achieve.
Plenty of things had happened in two years, it seemed. But this was hardly the place to ruminate the possibilities, so John followed his gut instinct and went with his old plan—rolling until he wrangled the fitty out of Tweedledum's dying grasp.
The machine gun felt like an extension of his arm, expertly and carelessly; like an added length of his soul. His stomach lurched and his blood sang and his hands moved and the man was dead.
Sherlock had restrained Tweedledee to his knees, and stood over, tall and impossibly elegant even in baggy clothes and grime from the struggle.
A strange gurgling came behind him, and John turned around to see Marigold choking on air.
It was the first time that Marigold had witnessed him killing a person. There had been plenty of violence, back in the day, but the shock of a limp body and blood spilling out—oh my god how could it fall out so quickly, just like that, how could a body hold so much blood, he could almost hear her think, the way he first thought when he was first deployed. He looked at her, mouth drier than when he had pulled the trigger, shoulders tense and ready to react to something that he didn't quite understand in his adrenaline-high state.
"Oh my god," she said, predictably. Predictable was good, predictable meant he didn't have to react to it.
On the ground, Tweedledum's hand swung and hit Marigold's leg, and John reeled around by reflex to—
Bang.
"Oh my god," Marigold repeated, looking down at the man she had just shot. It went into his shoulder, but it knocked the wind out of the already failing man, and he crawled away from all of them, before giving out and lying limp on the ground, his heavy breath growing shallower by the second.
"Oh my god," she said yet again, stumbling backwards.
John was reminded of the first time he killed somebody. It was the second month out there, after he was just used enough to the war to get careless. He was out to grab a buddy whose leg broke, and should have waited for reinforcements, but it was close enough to their base that he sauntered out. It went bad. He was sure that he was going to die at the time, leg bleeding and gun out of ammo. But the enemy was shaking as badly as he was, and the man-boy with the bloodless face couldn't have been older than twenty. John had gathered his wits and rolled to his dead bubby and pulled the gun from the corpse's stiffening fingers and shot the pale man-boy. His commanding officer came running and pulled him up to his feet and gruffly told him that it didn't mean a damn thing. They walked back together to camp, where John let his leg bleed in the cool, safe shade.
At the end of the day, it did mean something. It made him a captain.
And this would one day mean something too, when Marigold lived to sort it out. Either an ugliness in life she can't escape, or, if he understood her correctly, a scar that made her stand straighter next to him.
"Self-defense," John told her grimly.
"I know," she said feebly, "it's just…"
"It's different, I know, from shooting at a target. Or even thinking about shooting people. "
"I didn't think—when I thought—they don't bleed so much in my mind."
"It's okay," John assured her, going over slowly, careful to not jolt her or scare her further with his large machine gun. "There's no meaning to any of this, just simple life or death. It's fine, save the thinking for later, with a therapist."
"If you two are done being melodramatic," Sherlock interrupted their moment, and John suddenly realized that it really, truly was Sherlock. Only he could be such a jerk. "I would like to say that—"
And John threw a right hook at Sherlock's lofty nose before he even realized what he was doing.
"I supposed I deserved that," Sherlock said after regaining his wits, touching his nose gingerly. "As I was saying, we—"
And John's left fist connected with Sherlock's jaw in a satisfying thud.
Sherlock cursed, but straightened with dignity. "I probably deserved that as well, I can't really say" he said, "but if we're going to be doing this, we might be here for a while."
"Fine," John settled crossly.
"So, I return to the twice interrupted suggestion of getting along to apprehend the mastermind blackmailer."
John glanced at the corpse of Little Boss. "Of course there's a mastermind. There's always another one."
"Quite right," Sherlock nodded. "And he's not far off."
"Alright," not like he had much of a choice, not when Sherlock was back. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"
"No."
"Fine," John echoed himself, pretending to be annoyed. It was just like the old times already.
"By the way," Sherlock examined him curiously, as if he was some Rubik's cube that defied logic, "why didn't you just give him the code to the safe?"
"And be killed?"
"He wouldn't have killed you," Sherlock said assertively.
"And you're sure because?" John was having a lurking suspicion.
"I made sure that the word on the street said you had the code because of your close ties to Mycroft. His favourite lover, actually, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind the incremental damage to your reputation."
Ignoring both the jab and the outrage of being casted as Mycroft's lover, John cried, "You said I had the code?"
"Well, you did, didn't you?"
"Yes, but I can only assume that it's out of your doing as well."
Sherlock beamed at him in that specific way he did whenever he thought John outdid the rest of the inane humanity. "Why yes! Your fiancée is quite impressionable when it comes to color suggestions. All I had to do was to tell the curator to suggest these three colors. Astoundingly simple, really."
"Astoundingly," John said dryly.
"Still, why didn't you? It would have saved you a good deal of trouble."
"I—well, I couldn't," John confessed, "I didn't remember numbers."
Sherlock blinked. "Ugh," he then grunted out in disgust, "I knew you wouldn't. That's why I even sent a note to remind you."
"That was you?" It all made sense now. Well, sense in that he understood what happened, but not why.
"Well not me personally, but yes, by my orders."
"How was I supposed to know to memorize it?"
He looked at him incredulously, "Am I wrong in assuming that weddings are supposed to be bit of a big deal, in your words not mine? Who wouldn't have the RGB code memorized? How else would you choose the tablecloth?"
John was ninety percent sure that Sherlock was mocking him now. He must be some sort of a masochist, John thought, because he honestly was enjoying it.
"Anyhow, follow along now," Sherlock bid needlessly.
John was about to, but then he turned to look at Marigold, her face still drained of color, her eyes bloodshot, her dress torn up and tattered, the very image of a bride out of a horror flick.
"Go on," Marigold said, "I'll be right up in a cab; once you know where you're going, I guess. What a day—prepare for anything, huh," she said the last part to herself and sat on the marble steps of the altar, where just—what, thirty minutes ago? It felt like thirty days—they just stood, ready to exchange vows and continue their entire lives as it were.
John gulped. It wasn't a choice, but it felt like one somehow. He laid down the fitty—too heavy to run with, and wrapped his hands around Marigold's. He tugged gently until she let go, and with his right hand he dragged the fitty until it was by her side.
"It shoots with a lot of force. Most people shouldn't even try to face this though. Just—just don't think too much, okay?"
She nodded, "Of course. I'll just think of equity offerings or some stupid shit like that."
"At least you know what it is," Sherlock commented.
The good thing about Sherlock, John thought, was that no matter what John said, he would always come off as the decent person. "Get home if you can. Or come if you want. The whole world's possible now," he told her, or maybe he told himself.
She pushed him a little, gave a brittle laugh, and promised that, "I'll be alright. I'll just stay here for five minutes, then I'll be able to get up."
"Okay," John said, rising as he did, "I'll just be five minutes ahead of you then."
"Five minutes," she repeated like it was a pledge.
"Five minutes," he did too.
And then he was out though the gap in the fiery door, following Sherlock like he was meant to.
The front wing of the venue and the entire garden was in flames, burning brightly against the severe grayness of the London sky. They meandered through it strategically, and soon they were out and running the air out of their lungs.
John had never seen the sky so bright—half the air was orange, flickering with bits of soot, making the space look spectacularly deep. The ground was warm, from a long day's bask, but the night air had an unusual bite to it. The fire was growing to be too large to be contained now, moving away from the building in the wind, eating the blossoming trees next to it, a light show that humbled the New Year's fireworks.
They were running into trouble again, and John could see the world with a great clarity.
-.-.-
Her pastel wedding had gone up in orange flames. (Marigold never told John: orange was her favorite color.)
And such was the return of Sherlock Holmes—also known as the return of John Watson.
