A/N: Many thanks to resrie71 for once again swooping in and saving the day with her advice. This chapter wouldn't be half as good as it is without all of the feedback and theories/predictions you guys posted in the comments last week, so thank you as well! It felt great to finally bring Mary's story to a close, so I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
(Oh, and even though the title of this chapter is "End" there are still at least three chapters left :))
Enjoy!
End: (verb) to conclude or put to rest.
...
1.
The first thing Sherlock thinks of—the first thing that pops into his head and eclipses all else—is John. John's whereabouts, John's safety, John's life. He hasn't even finished processing the sight of Mary's empty chair before he's already dialing John's number, his mobile pressed so hard against his ear that it hurts.
Please answer. Please answer. Dear god, please answer, John.
"Hello?"
Sherlock nearly cries at the familiar sound of John's voice. "John, thank god," he exhales, sliding down the wall, boneless with relief. "You're okay."
"Of course I am; why wouldn't I be?"
"John, just tell me that you're safe. Are you still in the flat?"
"Yes, I'm here. You told me not to leave, remember?" As reassuring as John's words are, Sherlock senses something strange—his voice sounds too casual, almost as if he's forcing himself to seem calm.
Sherlock frowns and clutches the phone closer to his ear, his shoulders tense. "John, are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine," John laughs, brushing off Sherlock's concern. "Anyway, when you called me yesterday, you said you wanted to talk to Mrs. Hudson about something, right?"
Immediately, Sherlock's senses go on high alert. For one, he didn't call John yesterday, he texted him. And two, in the entire week that he's been working on the interrogation, he has never brought up Mrs. Hudson. The fact that John has mentioned both of these things seemingly out of nowhere can only mean that he's trying to tell Sherlock something, without actually saying it.
"Yes," Sherlock says slowly, playing along. "I'd like to ask her about the status of my mold cultures. Is she in right now?"
"No, she's out shopping," John answers. "You know, for brooches, Vatican cameos, antiques, that sort of thing."
Vatican Cameos—the code word that invariably means: I am in danger, held at gunpoint, and I cannot talk.
Sickening dread courses through Sherlock's veins, but he does his best to maintain an even, untroubled tone. "Well, when she returns please tell her to give me a call."
"Got it."
Thinking on his toes, Sherlock tries to concoct some way to assure John that he is on his way to save him. "John, you know that show you love, EastEnders?"
"What about it?"
"Well, you should know, your favorite rerun is coming on in less than twenty minutes. If you're feeling poorly, I'm certain it will lift your spirits."
"Twenty minutes?" John asks, and Sherlock can already hear the subtle edge of relief in his tone.
"Yes," Sherlock says, "It's the one with the marvelous reunion."
2.
It takes him and Mycroft less than five minutes to get into his brother's sleek black car—a vehicle Sherlock never thought he would be grateful to see—and peel down the road to Baker Street at a law-breaking speed.
"How long until we get there, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks for the fourth time in as many minutes. His hands won't stop anxiously fidgeting in his lap and his heart hasn't stopped thudding against his ribcage for what feels like ages.
"Ten minutes," Mycroft replies calmly. "If we go any faster, we run the risk of getting into a car accident."
"I don't care."
"A car accident would only prolong our journey, Sherlock. This is the quickest we can get to Baker Street." Eyeing Sherlock's nervous, tense profile, Mycroft adds, "You needn't worry about John's well-being. As I said before, I've already alerted my men. They are stationed outside of Baker Street as we speak, ready to capture Mary and subdue her."
"Well why don't they bloody subdue her already, then?" Sherlock explodes. "John is in that flat alone with Mary, and she has a gun. Why can't they just enter the building and capture her?"
"You know the answer to that, Sherlock," Mycroft chides. "If my men were to just crash into the flat, Mary might be startled into shooting John; look how she behaved at the hotel when you were her hostage. If I hadn't thought ahead and removed the bullets, she would have killed you without a second thought. We cannot afford to take that risk with John, because unlike before, we don't know what kind of weapon she has at her disposal."
"You have other means of getting into 221B that don't involve kicking down the front door, Mycroft," Sherlock insists, desperation spilling into his voice. He digs his nails into his thighs hard enough to leave marks, even through the thick barrier of his trousers.
Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock, you know that wouldn't change anything. The threat still stands—walking into a hostage situation and provoking the assailant could have messy results."
"Your security cameras, then," Sherlock presses on, "surely you can at least show me that John is okay?"
"She tampered with them, most likely by shooting the lenses. M16 cameras are quite susceptible to bullets, I'm afraid."
Frustrated and antsy, Sherlock turns to him with an angry look. "Mycroft, why the hell are you acting so unconcerned? Do you understand that she is alone with John right now?! It's bloody foolish to just sit and chat about this as if it's some hypothetic scenario with no actual ramifications, when in reality, John's life hangs in the bloody bal —"
"That," Mycroft interrupts sharply, silencing him, "is why I am remaining calm. If both of us were to act as irrationally as you, then we would not be able to accomplish anything. Besides, Sherlock, I have things under control."
"Then explain your plan to me and stop being mysterious," Sherlock demands.
"I told you, Sherlock," Mycroft says exasperatedly, "my men are waiting outside of the flat, ready to capture her the moment she makes herself vulnerable."
"And who's to say she's going to do that, Mycroft? From where I'm sitting, it seems highly probable that Mary is going to stay in the flat where it's safe and simply—" he falters on the next words and has to swallow hard before continuing. "—simply kill John."
"Sherlock, without any provocation from my agents, I do not believe Mary will kill John," Mycroft states, speaking with a confidence Sherlock envies; he wishes he were that certain about John's well-being.
"And what makes you think that?"
Mycroft sighs. "Think about her plan here, Sherlock. The moment she escaped, she headed to Baker Street, which, on foot, would have taken her about an hour. There were dozens of places along the way that were far closer and that would've have made much wiser hiding spots, yet she chose to run all the way to John. That means that whatever motives she had for going there were more important than logic."
"…And what does that mean? Is that good?"
"Yes, I would say so. I am inclined to believe that her reasons for going to John are more positive than negative. She went either because she wishes to inflict violence upon him, or because she wishes to explain herself. And as history has shown us, she is not interested in the former."
Sherlock stares at him. "You think she broke out of the interrogation center and ran to Baker Street to explain herself?"
"Sherlock, surely in the week we spent interrogating her, you learned something? The only person Mary has ever shown mercy to is John. During her mental breakdown yesterday, she expressed regret over her violent actions—which revealed a flickering flame of morality that she previously had not displayed. Combine that with the fact that she has never hurt John, and it seems only logical that she intends to spare his life. Even when she had the chance to kill him in the hotel, she didn't. She won't. As twisted as it may seem, she loves him too much to do such a thing."
"But you said your men won't risk capturing her because that might prompt her to shoot John," Sherlock reminds him.
"Yes," Mycroft agrees, "but only out of desperation. If she feels cornered, she might hurt him, which is why I have instructed my men not to enter the building from any entrance. She's not mentally stable, remember? However, with just John in the room, I don't believe she will inflict any damage."
…
When Mycroft said his men were surrounding every inch of Baker Street, he was not exaggerating. The entire road is blocked off, M16 agents crowd the street, and every window on the block is draped or shuttered. An eerie, terrible silence looms over the area, not a single agent speaking as they keep their weapons poised to fire, their eyes carefully trained on the flat building before them.
Sherlock's stares at his and John's sitting room window, where their thick burgundy-red drapes hide the flat from the outside world. Anxiousness and fear bubble in his gut, despite what his brother so confidently told him on the way here. Even if Mary's intentions are 'pure', she still has a gun and is therefore a danger to John's life.
He hasn't been standing there on the pavement for more than five minutes, before his mobile rings in his pocket, and John's face glows on his screen.
"Hello? John?" Sherlock says frantically, his plan to remain cool and calm flying out the door in an instant.
"Sherlock, I'm okay," John says, his voice sounding genuinely calm rather than strained and forced as it had earlier. "Don't worry, I'm okay."
"What happened? Where is she?"
John hesitates for a moment. "She's here. She isn't armed anymore."
"What?" Sherlock turns away from Mycroft, who is currently giving him a strange look. He drops his voice. "John, what are you talking about? Is Mary making you say these things?"
"No," John answers. "I have her gun. She dropped it and I picked it up. She's not putting up any resistance, Sherlock. I don't know what's wrong with her, but it seems like she's having some sort of breakdown."
"Where is she right now? In the room, I mean."
"She's on the sofa in the sitting room, crying."
Sherlock frowns. "She was aiming the gun at you before though, wasn't she? That's why you had to use Vatican Cameos?"
"She was. But then, she started talking about how much her mum would've loved me, and how wonderful our kids would have been, and how perfect we could have been together. I responded to her, but it was like she couldn't even hear me. She started crying after that, saying she couldn't harm me, and then dropped her gun."
"I need to go up there," Sherlock says, half to John and half to himself. "I can retrieve the two of you and safely return Mary to the interrogation center to finish her questioning. This changes everything."
"Yes, okay, I have the gun trained on her so I'll be fine until you come up. Let Mycroft know."
"Here, tell him yourself, I'm headed up right now. I don't want to waste another minute." Sherlock turns back around and hands the phone to his brother.
"It's John."
Mycroft frowns and takes the phone. "Hello?" There's a long pause in which John is presumably explaining the situation.
"Yes, alright, I'll allow it," Mycroft says eventually, but he doesn't look pleased. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."
He hands the phone back to Sherlock and gives him a look of disapproval. "I don't like this, Sherlock."
"I'm going up there whether you like it or not, Mycroft. As I just told John, I will go up to the flat, help John safely leave, and then keep Mary cornered until your men can come up and capture her. It's important that I go alone, because if a swarm of armed men show up, that might make her do something desperate, which then risks John's life."
"Yes, fine. But I insist that you take a weapon with you, at least. On the off-chance that Mary somehow disarms John, I'd feel better knowing that you have something at your disposal as well."
"Fine," Sherlock agrees.
"Oh, and Sherlock?" Mycroft calls, as he's walking away. "Do make sure to open the drapes when you're up there."
"Why?"
Mycroft hesitates for the briefest moment, a look of reluctance crossing his face, but the expression is gone as quick as it came. "Because I'm concerned about your safety, Sherlock, and it would comfort me to see what is occurring in there with my own eyes."
…
The climb up to the flat feels endless. When Sherlock finally creaks open the door to 221B, he finds the scene exactly as John described it: Mary, curled up in the corner of the couch, her eyes glassy and distraught, and John standing in the center of the sitting room, the gun in his hands carefully trained at her.
"Sherlock, thank god you're here," John says, his tense stance relaxing slightly at the sight of Sherlock. "I didn't want to do so until you got here, but I think it's fine if I lower the gun at this point."
Sherlock stares at Mary, picking apart her appearance and assessing each gesture. She seems just as shaken as she had at the interrogation center—and that madness certainly wasn't feigned—but at the same time, if she was able to escape from captivity in this state of mind, then there's no reason why she wouldn't be able to take back her weapon in this state, either.
"No," Sherlock says slowly. "Keep it raised."
Sherlock pulls out his own gun and levels it at Mary; not with the intention of shooting her, of course, but with the intention of keeping her where she is. "John, please go. I'll keep her up here until my brother can come up."
At that, Mary reanimates. "No!" She drags her hands through the matted blonde waves of her hair in distress. "John, don't go, love, please."
Jarred, John looks away from Sherlock and stares at Mary. "No?"
"Darling, why do you always leave?" she whimpers, her eyes welling with tears all over again. "Why must you always go?"
A look of deep pain crosses John's face and he lowers the gun a bit.
It's at that moment that Sherlock really begins to understand how difficult this whole ordeal has been for John. Sure, finding out Mary's true identity was difficult for Sherlock, but he can't even fathom how distressing it must have been for John. Because as much as John might scorn Mary for all of her lies and violence and deceit, she did give John comfort in Sherlock's absence. She was the one who pulled him from the depression that shrouded him after Sherlock's death. She did genuinely care about him, if her current breakdown is any indication.
Sherlock can't help but feel a bit ashamed that this is the first time he's really taken a moment to look at things from John's perspective. Sherlock obviously isn't pleased by Mary's descent into madness, but John must be absolutely heartbroken by it. He's staring at his ex-fiancé who is sobbing and pleading and asking why him why he doesn't love her—that can't be easy. Even though John's heart belongs to Sherlock, it still must hurt to stand here and watch someone he once cared about endure so much emotional pain.
"I won't leave, then, okay?" John says gently, clearly torn between his instinctive urge to comfort her and his logical inclination to remain stoic and unmoved. He glances at Sherlock. "We'll both just have to wait up here with her."
"Fine," Sherlock says, not exactly pleased with the change of plans, but nonetheless obliging. He completely understands where John is coming from. "I'll contact my brother."
Come up. Mary is subdued, but I suggest bringing tranquilizers just in case. SH
"Sherlock Holmes," Mary mumbles, bringing his attention away fr om his mobile's screen. "Why are you here?"
Her hair looks wild, her complexion is sickly and wan, and her face looks gaunt as a skeleton's, but a small measure of awareness has returned to her gaze.
Instead of answering, Sherlock replies with another question. "How did you escape?"
She offers a short, wild grin that sparks off her face like an angry flame. "The magician never reveals his secret, dear."
"Why did you come here to see John?" He already knows the answer, but this is a decent way to stall until Mycroft and his men show up.
"Love is a finicky mistress," she drones, her features settling back into detached sorrow. "And you are her murderer, dear Holmes."
Sherlock lowers the gun, a frown creasing his forehead. "Mary—"
"You," Mary interrupts brokenly, pointing her shaking finger at Sherlock, tears spilling down her cheeks in abundance. Her red, swollen eyes bore accusingly into his, her green irises muddy with resentment and heartbreak.
"Why does he always choose you?"
As much as Sherlock loathes the idea of drawing any comparisons between Mary and himself, he understands the way she is feeling. He remembers what it was like to see the person he loved in the arms of another: to feel that terrible, aching longing every moment of every day. He remembers how it felt to lie awake at night, wondering why John chose Mary, why he couldn't love Sherlock, why Sherlock wasn't good enough. He remembers that pain so clearly that seeing it in Mary's eyes makes him feel as if he is looking into mirror. As strange as it is, there is connection between them, one made of their mutual damage and heartbreak and pain. But while Mary snuck around in the shadows and tore lives to pieces, Sherlock was bruising his soul for the sake of John's safety. For the safety of Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. For the safety of anyone who might have been a victim of Moriarty's web.
Those people were his tethers to reality. They gave him a purpose—a goal. He never forgot why he was there, in the heart of Russia or the slums of Germany, fighting and killing and fleeing. He never lost himself in the blood and smoke and misery. In more ways than one, his loved ones saved him.
And that is the primary difference between the two of them: Mary didn't have that. Even though both of them are wildly intelligent, perceptive, and, most importantly, damaged, Mary, unlike Sherlock, didn't have anyone to root her to earth, to pull her back from the edge when things got too dark. She was on her own in the cesspool of sin, murder, and greed that she built for herself, and she drowned.
Pity would too strong of a word for what he feels for her. Despite her troubled past, Mary made her own decisions. She holds all of the responsibility. The most that Sherlock can say is that he understands her, but for the moment, that is enough.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, and he means those words sincerely. He's sorry that she's had to endure a terrible childhood, a loveless marriage, and a ruthless life of tragedy and murder and crime. He's sorry that the world molded her into the scarred, twisted woman that she is today. He's sorry that she will never get her happy ending.
Mary's face crumbles, a sob leaping from her throat like a cough. Her blunt nails dig red crescents into her palms.
"Why, John?" she whispers. "Why? I would do anything for you. Anything. You're the only thing in this entire world that I want." Her breath hitches. "Why don't you want me too?"
A beat of silence passes.
"Because, Mary, I love him," John says quietly. He doesn't say it to hurt her, or to rub it in her face. He says it softly, as though it's a simple fact that he wishes he didn't have to spell out. "I do. I always have."
Mary looks back at him, her expression painfully open and vulnerable, like a fresh wound. Shakily, she parrots his line from the hotel. "Did you ever truly love me?"
John's eyes grow glossy, catching the morning light streaming from the window. He exhales the words. "Yes, Mary. I did."
She closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath. John's words seem to soothe her.
A small, watery smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, and for the first time in the year that Sherlock has known her, Mary's expression looks genuine. She walks over to the sitting room window and pushes back the heavy drapes, staring out at the city street with a calm, utterly blank look on her face.
Do make sure to open the drapes when you're up there, Sherlock.
She presses her fingertips against the cool glass, her whispered words creating a bloom of condensation before her lips. "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall."
"Mary?" Sherlock questions hesitantly.
Her cinnamon colored lashes flutter against her cheek, innocent as a child's. "But all the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again."
Sherlock realizes what's about to happen the moment he catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. Above her shuttered eyes, right in the middle of her elegant, milk-white forehead, rests a single red dot glowing like a beacon. John doesn't notice, and Sherlock notices too late.
"Goodnight, my love," she murmurs, pressing her lips to the window pane like a kiss.
…
The sniper's bullet hardly makes a sound when it breaks through the glass, though later Sherlock will wonder if perhaps the noise was drowned out by the shock of watching Mary slump to the floor, lifeless and still.
Her face, he will also later realize, looks serene. Almost like she's sleeping.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading, guys! As usual, please let me know what you think in the comments! Update will ne next Sunday, see you all then :)