And again it took me ages...

Chapter 12: Of honey bees and wasps

Restless. For days now Mary had felt this all familiar itchiness that came from doing nothing. She had waited hour after hour, spoken with John, spoken with Sherlock's parents, never really with Mycroft. It was better that it seemed they did not get along well – and apparently this was not very far from the truth.

Now finally John had decided that it was time to go back to London, he had to inform Mrs. Hudson, Molly and perhaps even Lestrade that Sherlock might never come back. This time for real. John held himself together like a true soldier. He spoke less, his muscles were tense, his lips often pressed tightly together. It bothered him what he had seen Sherlock do and above that which consequences the detective's actions held. Prison. Or worse.

A day ago Mycroft had made clear there was no way out. The prime minister and the cabinet had not been moved – neither by pleas nor reason. They could not cover Sherlock's actions completely and feared to risk their own reputation and career to do so. No public trial, they had agreed to that. What would come instead still lay in the dark.

There had been a terrible row the day before. Mycroft and John. For a few seconds Mary had been sure John would hit Mycroft and crush his nose. John was furious beyond reason. "I will do nothing for my brother", Mycroft had declared at the breakfast table before leaving for London. "He brought this upon himself and I will not risk my life and that of my parents for a brother who is clearly out of his mind and a ruthless killer." Mycroft's face had been like stone and even a former assassin with a grasp what went on in people's mind could not read him. But a look at his parents said everything. There was this sad smile on his mother's face and the father's stiff nod. It was the gesture of parents who knew their son told a lie only to be able to keep going. Mycroft was on the verge of breaking.

But John did not see. Did not observe. And so they had packed their bags with a soft excuse to their lovely hosts. And then Mary had told John she would not come to London with him. He had been perplex and confused. But then she said she had to visit a person John clearly had not on his list, a person far more involved in this mess than Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.

"Mary, god you are huge."

Mary's smile was stiff as was her hug when embracing her former not so real friend.

"I hope you don't mind that I drop in on such a short notice. I visited friends and... I am sorry about what happened, you know. I really had no idea..."

"It doesn't really matter, you know. Believe me I am far better off now." Janine stepped aside from her doorstep to let Mary in. They had not spoken for a rather long time. Not since they had met in hospital where Janine had accused her to be part of Sherlock's plot. After that Mary never had dared to phone her – Janine had no idea how involved Mary really had been in all this.

"Do you like a coffee... mind me, do you even still drink coffee?" Janine's cottage was not big, but had the lovely, modern charm old buildings could have when someone with care and an understanding for interior design put some work into it. Janine certainly had a hand for it.

"No, thank you", Mary said while stepping into the living room. "Do you mind, if I take a seat? My legs are a mess..."

Janine, who had gone to the kitchen to fetch herself a coffee, now let herself drop on the nearby sofa and motioned Mary to do the same. She looked good, better even than before she had left London. Saying something like that about a natural beauty like Janine really meant a lot. She was glowing, her cheeks rosy and her skin had clearly seen some winter sun.

"I really enjoy being out of town. Never thought I would, but this suits me. I plan to grow my own vegetable in summer... me and digging in the mud. Who would have thought that", Janine laughed. But she became sober an instant later. "But I have missed you, Mary. You should have called... no I should have called after the nasty things I said to you in hospital. I am sorry."

Mary smiled one of her fake smiles. "Don't be. I am not angry, I know I should have warned you that Sherlock was quite a complicated person..."

"Oh, you could definitely say that." Again Janine giggled. Her contempt and happiness seemed unfair compared to the itchiness and still lingering despair Mary felt inside. Her life was on the brink of breaking apart – again! And no matter what she would do now, it would never feel right again. Never since she had made one bad choice as a teenage girl, a choice that had let her become the cruel person she was now. She used people. Even those she did like. And what she was about to do to sweet Janine was not only unfair but also ensured that Janine from now on would always be under suspicion. Mycroft's secret service already had an eye on her because of her involvement with her former boss, but now... If anyone would find out... But no: No matter how sweet a honeybee Janine might seem to be, she could sting like a wasp. Like Mary. Hard and fast and still be unchanged. So unlike the honeybee who would die in the attempt to protect her people.

"Mary, you all right? You look pale? Is anything the matter? Is this why you have come?" Janine was far more observant than anyone gave her credit for, a bitter lesson learned from being a madman's PA.

"Actually there is something I have to tell you about Sherlock..."

Janine groaned. "What has he done now? God this manchild really attracts trouble." Janine's voice still held some fondness. So Sherlock had been right that Janine was not really heartbroken and angry, that she had sold her wrath together with the story about their fictional sexual encounters.

Mary took a deep breath. "You can't tell anyone", she said. "If you do he dies. They still try to keep this covered."

"Who and what?"

"Government officials."

"Mike?"

Mary laughed. No one called Mycroft Mike but Janine and sometimes his mother. But the laugh was a bitter one. "He and others. But what he did, Janine, what he did to protect me, John and the baby. What he did to save his brother and in parts even you..."

Janine licked her lips, clearly nervous because that was the message Mary transmitted.

"I don't know how to say that..." Of course Mary knew, but it was easier to pretend that news like these shocked her as much as anyone else. It had become part of her new life. Pretend and trying to care. Something she had to forget about as an assassin: Caring.

"What is it Mary?"

"Magnussen is dead. Sherlock shot him."

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Miles away in his London office Mycroft sat brooding. His neck and his shoulders hurt, the muscles had become tight, the stress even affected his vision. He felt faint. The warm tea could no longer warm his freezing body. Tired, all he was now was tired. How telling. He did remember Sherlock's snide remark. How telling you could not handle a broken heart. How wrong Sherlock had been. He had handled it quite well for all those years.

Once in his lifetime he had felt this piercing pain of loss and afterwards had put together shards and pieces that had once formed his character – the Sisyphus work took month to complete and still there were tiny little pieces missing where once he had felt things. Caring. Love. Fear. Pain. Everything. He was like a dark fairy tale wizard. Powerful but cold since a spell gone wrong had first torn his beating heart apart and then turned it into ice.

But the boxes in his mind had started to rattle again. And tiny little bits of so much feared feelings had started to creep out of dark corners. Mycroft needed all his powers to keep them in check.

He had seen the worried look in his mother's eyes. Clearly Sherlock had called her. But Mycroft had shut her out, pushed her away when she tried to touch him and look at his now well covered arms. He had said his farewell and had headed to London high speed. He needed time to think. Think.

Again he scratched at his arm. This time he did not draw blood. His hands were covered in thick woollen gloves. It was the only way to protect him from scratching away the skin from his arms and legs, cutting with sharp nails deep into his own flesh. Mycroft took a deep breath. Think, think.

Two hours later Anthea found him deep asleep in his chair. His head rested on his arms and table and he was snoring softly. No matter how hard she tried not to, Anthea had to smile. Mycroft would hurt terribly later, but at least he had finally found some rest. Even if it was in the most uncomfortable position one could imagine.

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"Sherlock has shot Magnussen and now I need your help", Mary said and set in motion another part of her plan.