TITLE: It Takes a Village
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Thirty Five/ Similarities and Coincidences
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: look at me, leaving you with a little hope at the end of a chapter instead of a cliffhanger! hmm..i wonder why i did that. you know my methods...remember all the fluff preparing you. remember season 3, and how the first 2 episodes were light and funny to prepare us for HLV...or maybe i'm just kidding at it's all roses and cotton candy from here...who knows...
honestly, though, after all the happy comments I feel like a "back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard", to put it in Janine's words. I promise I won't rip your hearts out entirely. I did say there was no major character death. But I never said how long it would be before Billie was found...
Also, I've never been an assassin or anything close to it. So pardon me for improvising with Mary's past a bit here.
Please read and review, many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter Thirty Five: Similarities and Coincidences
Sherlock descended the steps from the upstairs room of 221B quite heavily. Exhaustion reached all the way from the caverns of his mind palace to the tips of his sluggish feet. The detective still refused to sleep while on a case, and he certainly wasn't going to cease that routine now. He had kipped on the couch here and there when his body could endure no more and just shut down. And by that, it mostly meant that he passed out with his head in a book while locked away in that upper room or starting tipping sideways mid-conversation and was dragged to the couch afterwards. He had finally eaten after practically being force fed by John, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson on separate occasions.
He couldn't afford such trivial bodily distractions while on the case.
Not this case.
Not Billie's case.
He was making the journey downstairs in the middle of the night to finally give into another unfortunate bodily requirement.
He came in through the kitchen and was turning towards the bathroom when he noticed it. He had almost missed it and cursed his subdued senses from severe lack of sleep.
Diverting from his original path to the toilet, Sherlock crept closer into the sitting room, a curious expression clouding his face in the dark.
There, sitting almost entirely curled up in John's old chair in the blackness, was Mary. She remained silent and still as he approached. Her eyes were sharp, alert, and yet focused faraway on some distant point beyond the fireplace she was staring so intently at. The former assassin had surely heard the man's footfalls, but she made no gesture to acknowledge his presence.
This was odd indeed, thought the detective.
It had been nearly two weeks since the abduction. Almost fourteen days and they were no closer to finding Moriarty or Billie than they had been that night. Their days were spent on the search, distracting themselves from sentiment. They craved action, to be out there doing something, anything. So that is what they did. They sprang at the slightest of leads. Picked them apart piece by piece.
Coworkers didn't comment when John and Mary took leaves at work. No one spoke a word when John started frequenting the gym. They all pretended that they didn't notice when Mary would sneak off to the shooting range. For once, Sherlock didn't bark at his brother when Mycroft would periodically "stop by". The younger sibling didn't complain when the elder set up new surveillance or posted security detail outside the flat and to follow them. Greg, Molly, Phillip and even Sally would also frequently "pop in" as they were "in the neighborhood". Even John and Mary's friends and coworkers found themselves suddenly passing Baker Street more often, and they somehow always just happened to have casseroles or cakes with them when they did so. Still, no one mentioned it.
They talked about finding Billie. About ways to track Moriarty. Of plans. They dissected clues and discussed options.
But nothing broke the surface.
They talked about Billie, but not about her.
It was all superficial. All strategy and stony faces.
But then even behind closed curtains and doors, rarely did those facades crack.
As he approached the statuesque figure of his friend, Sherlock had the sinking feeling that something had finally fractured one of their worn walls.
He was honestly quite surprised it was Mary sitting there and not her husband. John might have been a soldier, but he certainly had his breaking point.
And yet here she was, the former hardened trained killer, staring into his fireplace, two tear tracks scratching down her cheeks.
Sherlock swept passed her, rounding and folding gracefully into his own chair, eyes falling and remaining on the woman. She had still yet to even glance his way. Placing his fingers underneath his chin, Sherlock studied her briefly, waiting for the moment he knew she would eventually speak and release on him whatever weight she was carrying.
"Seven years."
Sherlock's gaze on Mary sharpened as she finally spoke, though the woman's eyes remained locked away somewhere else entirely.
"We've been trying to find out why Moriarty would be keeping Billie. Where, what for. There's one theory, one option we haven't considered. Of course, well, I know you've considered it. You and your brother. I heard the two of you the other day. I've been thinking it too. Since the day that he took her, I've been thinking it. Fearing it. Trying to deny it. But I can't."
At this, she finally turned her head, hard and hurting eyes finding Sherlock's penetrating stare.
"I heard what you said to your brother. About how Moriarty might be trying to train her, to use her. The absolute revenge on you. Turning your best friend's goddaughter into an assassin to hunt you down. That's a plan Moriarty would definitely be willing to take his time on. Something that would justify all the time he put into it."
"I know why you haven't told John, or me. I've heard your other theories too, Sherlock. You're keeping everyone else in the dark about the more, well, dark, ones. The ones that you're too afraid might actually be true but they're too terrible to tell to the child's parents. But I also know why you've kept this one so secret."
Her eyes had drifted downward again and now she shot them back up to meet Sherlock's.
"Because of me."
Mary paused, not to wait for a response though as she was most certainly not finished.
"You just might be right," she started slowly. "More than you know." She swallowed here, once more averting her gaze from his, lost in a memory beyond the fireplace. "There's something you should know. Because seven strikes isn't the only thing those feathers could've symbolized. I honestly didn't think about it until after Billie was taken, I swear."
Ever so briefly, Mary closed her eyes and took a breath.
"Seven years, Sherlock. That's how long I was in 'training'."
"That could be a coincidence. How would Moriarty know about your past?"
"Let me finish," Mary protested over Sherlock's interjection. "And besides, you know exactly what Moriarty is capable of and I know exactly what you think of coincidences. I understand what you're trying to do, and while I appreciate the rare show of a comforting side to you, Sherlock, this isn't the time. Some people don't deserve comfort." Now her voice was distant, matching her stare.
"There's another similarity," she continued, forcing strength behind her voice again. "Another coincidence."
She waited a beat, drawing her eyes up and locking with Sherlock's one final time.
"I ran away on my sixth birthday."