A week has passed since John received Mary's text.
The small jewelry box that John keeps on his nightstand mocks him. He wants to return the circlet of metal with the small stone to the store, but that feels too much like making her nebulous disappearance into a solid, factual, goneness. At the same time, he feels that he may have somehow jinxed himself/her/them with the purchase. So soon, so early...a month and a half, for crying out loud. But both the soldier and doctor elements of his life had taught him nothing more strongly than how short life can be, and he knows (knew) he wants (wanted) to be with Mary forever. Once he made that decision, he didn't hesitate. He had planned to ask her on the night she got home. Now the box sits untouched, five days past it's 'open by' date.
He has tried everything he could think of. He went to the police again and spoke to a grey-haired DI that seemed a bit more competent and understanding than the woman that had so blithely dismissed his worries previously, but, though he was sympathetic and open to John's concerns, what it really came down to was that there was nothing The Yard could do.
He had tried ringing the Greek police, and even eventually gotten through to someone who spoke English and was willing to speak to him, but who had, after hearing his story, told him about the same thing that Donovan had: there was nothing they could do and his girlfriend probably ran off with a lover.
He doesn't know with which friends she had gone on vacation - he just hadn't had the chance to meet them yet. He and Mary had been a combination of busy and wrapped up in each other that somewhat precluded large amounts of socializing, and her companions hadn't been her closest friends, just chums from her school days, getting together the way people always talked about doing. He had tried checking her facebook page, but she used it so rarely that it contained neither pertinent information on her acquaintances nor touchstone where others trying to contact her might leave messages.
He even thought of breaking into her flat to look for information, or hacking her email...but, illegality aside, he simply doesn't possess the skill set necessary for either activity.
So he waits. He paces. He tries to figure out who to call next. He sends Mary emails and text messages of worry, and messages of love and messages asking that if she has run off with someone else, to please just let him know so he can stop fearing for her life.
A week has passed since John received Mary's text, when Hollister Financial is hit hard. In 15 minutes, the esteemed and ancient London institution is rocked to it's foundation from within. Accounts are drained, client information ransacked, and sensitive data scraped out like frosting.
A missing woman from the accounts department is wanted for questioning in connection.
Her family is contacted, and her friends, but for some reason, no one wants to speak to John. He is too new, perhaps. None of the people he had begged and pleaded and bargained with and berated after receiving her message had, apparently, ever filled out any reports, as his evidence was so thin, and likely amounting to nothing more than a strayed lover.
A week and two days have passed since Mary's last text when John receives an email directing him to the second page of the paper.
The Greek police had located a the body of a woman thought to possibly be the missing accountant, but there is no further information at this time. There is, however, a badly grainy photograph of the woman's face. John doesn't need further confirmation. He would recognize the soft sweep of her cheek, the arch of her brows, the curve of her jaw above the long line of her neck from just a few meager pixels. From one, maybe. This photograph is more than sufficient.
He gets the ring out of the box on the dresser and lifts his ID tags from around his neck, slips the small circle of gold with the smaller stone onto the chain and puts the tags back on, tucking them under the collar of his shirt. The new addition seems to burn against his skin, but he knows he is imagining the sensation. He holds the empty box and cries for a long time.
When he next checks his email, there is a new message from the same unknown account. He almost doesn't open it, but John Watson is not a man to hide from the dark.
There are three photographs.
One is a photograph of a pale, unsmiling man with dark, wavy hair, striking features and light-colored eyes.
The second is the photograph from Mary's message.
The third seems to be a shot from a CCTV. The two men are walking next to each other. The first man is tall, wearing a long wool coat. The other man (Dark eyes, Dark hair) is dressed again in a tailored suit, his hair neatly styled.
Below the photographs are an address, a date and a time.