A/N: Two or three chapters to go, darlings! I still can't believe this story is nearly over. I started this bad boy way back in January 2015, and now I'm going to finish it in January 2016, exactly one year later. The fact that you guys have stuck with me for so long and offered such uplifting, wonderful support, honestly amazes me. So, thank you. :)
Heal: (verb) to soothe or comfort after a difficult experience
1.
Mary's body is placed onto a gurney and covered with a sheet mere minutes later. As Mycroft's men carry her from the room, her limp arm slips from where it's been carefully arranged atop her chest, knocking her fist against the wooden floor. Her engagement ring escapes from her slack hand, then rolls several inches and clatters to a halt before John's shoe.
His expression unreadable, John picks it up and examines it in the faint light streaming from the now-shattered window.
"John?" Sherlock questions, taking a hesitant step towards him. "Are you alright?"
John stares at the ring, turning it back and forth as if to watch his own reflection in the gold. "Yes," he says at last, sounding tired but genuine. "I am."
Deciding to give him a moment to himself, Sherlock locates his brother, who is posed in the doorway of the flat, watching his men remove Mary's body with the thoughtful, detached eyes of an observer. Sherlock stalks over, tearing Mycroft from whatever reverie he was lost in.
"You didn't tell me," Sherlock says without preamble. "You said this was a recapturing mission."
"I lied."
"Yes, Mycroft, I'm aware. But why?"
"Because, Sherlock, there are certain implications involved in taking a woman captive—even a criminal one—and then transferring her into the hands of the German Mafia. To do so as a citizen is already highly illegal, but to do so in the name of the Queen is simply abominable. The shot was executed by one of the Brothers in order to distance you and I from the situation."
As much as Sherlock loathes being lied to, he understands his brother's reasoning, and since he's never been one to argue foolishly with sound logic, does not protest. "And who among the Brothers shot her?"
Mycroft tilts his head. "Does it matter, Sherlock?"
"I suppose not."
"Anyway, the official records will say that Annaliese, an international criminal with an ambitious background, escaped, was shot by an unnamed citizen, that citizen was then dealt the appropriate legal punishment, and the woman was given a small, government-funded funeral. That way, England's hands, as well as your own, remain clean."
"And how is John meant to explain why his fiancé is gone forever? His excuse that she is visiting her sister can only last for so long before things begin to look suspicious."
"That's easy. He can say that they split up amicably after the strange fire at the wedding, having realized that they are not truly compatible. Mary has left England to travel and clear her head, and they have mutually decided to break all contact with each other, for the sake of moving on with their respective lives."
Sherlock raises a brow. "I can see you've thought this through."
"When don't I think things through?" Mycroft asks rhetorically. "Speaking of the devil, how is John?" Mycroft glances over Sherlock's shoulder at the man in question.
John is standing in front of the broken window, still staring contemplatively down at Mary's engagement ring. In spite of the slew of conflicting emotions that undoubtedly plague him, John's shoulders are relaxed and his stance is confident. It seems to Sherlock that John feels that they did the right thing.
He wishes he was as assured.
Noticing the troubled look lingering on Sherlock's face, Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock, you should know that Mary was completely aware of how this situation would end. She knew she was going to die, and that is why she came here. Even with her sanity hanging on by a thread, she chose to run here and offer John her last words." He pauses. "She stepped in front of the window, Sherlock. She knew what that signified. You did not kill her."
There it is, the phrase he has unconsciously been waiting for.
Mycroft presses on. "You cannot feel guilty for what happened to her, Sherlock. If she were not killed today, she would have been killed later on in a much more painful manner. This was the only humane death I could think to give her. Quick and painless. In the end, I believe we owed her at least that much."
"It was a lot easier to plot her death when things were black and white," Sherlock says eventually, his eyes fixed somewhere middle distance. "Now everything is quite—grey."
"That is life, brother mine," Mycroft says, sounding world-weary. "But do rest easy, because we did the right thing today. She will not be able to hurt anyone else, or herself, any longer. And most importantly,we've given her something she never would have been able to find in life."
Sherlock looks up at his brother. "And what is that?"
Mycroft places a hand on his shoulder. "Peace."
2.
On the day of the funeral, the weather is unseasonably fair. Bluish-grey skies stretch overhead, the sun looms behind a herd of fluffy white clouds, and sweet, warm wind sweeps through the cemetery like a sigh.
The funeral party is small, comprised only of John, Sherlock, Janine, and Mycroft, though Mycroft is only there for security purposes. It is imperative, he told Sherlock, that this affair remain quiet and unnoticed. I will be there to make sure of that.
True to his statement, Mycroft leans against a tree several feet away, pensively watching the three of them and absently twirling his umbrella handle.
Mary's tombstone is small, black, and contains only a single word of text: Annaliese. No birth or death date, no information or inscription, simply her name on a finely-carved obsidian plaque.
In the white plastic cup meant for flowers, John places her engagement ring.
"I can't believe she was leading this double life the entire time," Janine says dazedly, clutching her black purse to her chest. Sherlock spent the whole ride over explaining the bare bones of the situation, but twenty minutes is hardly enough time to process all of the events that have transpired over the past year, so Sherlock can't blame her for still being in disbelief.
"She was a very clever woman, Janine. She managed to trick us all."
"Too brilliant for her own good, I suppose," Janine muses.
"Indeed."
She turns to look at John and Sherlock, her eyes glossy with sympathy, and shudders a sigh. "I'm so sorry you two had to go through this. Sherlock, I commend you for the patience it took to bide your time and pretend to know nothing." She shakes her head in awe. "I don't know how you managed to keep your cool and play along with her game for so long." She extends a hand, seeking his for comfort.
"Thank you, Janine," Sherlock says graciously, accepting her proffered hand. She squeezes his fingers reassuringly and then releases him, turning to John.
"John, how are you dealing with this?" she asks, her brow furrowed in concern. "I can't even imagine how hard it was to keep up that facade with her for so long, especially after finding out so many terrifying things about her."
"I'm actually okay, Janine," John says, offering a small smile. "I mean, recovering from it was difficult, of course, but Sherlock has made the whole process incredibly easy." John looks up at Sherlock, eyes sparkling with affection, and takes his hand. "More than anything, I feel relieved that we no longer have to worry about each other's safety every minute of every day."
Janine raises a brow. "Well, the git does enjoy leaping from rooftops and chasing criminals, so I wouldn't make that claim so soon."
John chuckles and Sherlock smiles, feeling something in his chest thaw at the refreshing sound of John's laughter.
Janine beams at the two of them, and then turns back to the grave.
"To be honest, I don't know what to feel," she says with a sigh, her eyes trained on the solemn black headstone. "On one hand, she was one of my closest friends for two years. But on the other…" she frowns and shakes her head. "Well, you know."
"Yes," Sherlock nods. "I do."
"Did she have any family?" Janine asks, looking between John and Sherlock.
"A deceased mother and sister. Her father's whereabouts are unclear, but I doubt he was a part of her life."
Janine presses her lips into a solemn line and wraps her arms around herself. "She had a sad life, didn't she?"
"Yes," Sherlock replies frankly. "But I believe, Janine, that it would be best if we put her memory to rest along with her body. She was a complicated woman—neither a black and white villain, nor a domestic saint. Both of those things were merely facets of the strange, complex conglomeration that made up her personality. It would take us ages to unravel who she truly was, so it's best not to ponder it to deeply. Let us all simply make peace with her passing and try to move on with our lives."
…
"I'd better get going," Janine says later on, after placing a single yellow rose on the grave. "Thank you both so much for allowing me to be a part of this. I'm glad I had the opportunity to put Mary to rest."
"I'm glad you had that opportunity, too, Janine," John says, reaching out to shake her hand.
However, Janine is having none of that.
"Oh, just give me a hug, you silly man," Janine chides, throwing her arms around John's neck and squeezing him tightly. "I swear, you're just like Sherlock, always wanting to shake hands and raise chins rather than hugging it out."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Do ease up there, Janine, I'd rather you didn't suffocate John."
"And you!" Janine cries, leaving John in an instant and pulling Sherlock into an even fiercer embrace. "As much as I wish you told me all of this sooner, I'm glad you decided to trust me in the end. And I am so bloody impressed with you both for handling this situation with so much poise. Lord knows what I would've done had this been my fiancé."
"Whacked them over the head with your purse, most likely," Sherlock mutters.
Janine laughs and pulls away. "You know it, love."
"Would you like a ride home? My brother can take you, his car is right there."
"Oh no, I don't want to be a bother," Janine says, waving it away. "I've got a cab coming right now anyway, so I'll be just fine."
Sherlock nods. "Just make sure to text me when you get home."
"Okay, but one last thing before I go: John, Sherlock," she says, her eyes bright and sincere, "let me just say, I couldn't be happier that the two of you have each other. Despite all of this terrible mess, you two ended up together and in a way, that makes all of the pain worth it."
She glances between the two of them and smiles dazzlingly. "I'm just so glad you both finally have the chance to be truly happy."
3.
"Janine was right, you know," John says later that night, while the two of them are lying in bed, Sherlock's head resting on his chest. He cards his hands through the detective's dark hair, tangling his fingers pleasantly in the forest of curls.
"About what?" Sherlock murmurs, sleepy and warm. He tightens his grip on John's waist, nuzzling his cheek into John's grey cotton t-shirt.
"About us being together. About how it's made all of the pain and struggle worth it."
In truth, this past year has felt like a blur. Sherlock can still remember the sharp stab of heartbreak upon returning, the petty jealousy after his first meeting with Mary, his own staunch refusal to speak to John for a month, the gradual healing of their friendship, the tentative glances and flirtatious exchanges underlining nearly every interaction. The moment that John pressed his lips to Sherlock's scar-striped hips and said I love you for the first time. He thinks about the fear he felt whenever he knew John and Mary were alone, the poisonous glimmer in her eyes, the sharpness of her perfect, white teeth. He thinks about the sweet, intoxicating relief of being around John once she was gone, holding him close, feeling John's strong hands tug through his hair and drag him in for a kiss.
"You're worth everything, John," Sherlock says softly, listening to John's heart pound against his ear. "I'd go through all of that ten times just to be here, with you."
John hums, pressing a firm kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. "You know I'm madly in love with you, right?"
Sherlock smiles, privately resolving to stow the words away in his mind palace. The warmth of John's body, the smell of his freshly washed hair, the sweet, reassuring motion of John's fingers dragging through his curls, all make him feel as if he is in the most perfect place on earth.
"Can we never leave your bed again?" he mumbles into John's shirt.
John chuckles and Sherlock feels the vibrations in his chest. "You know, that's something people usually say in the heat of the moment."
"I can say it then, too…"
John half-groans, half-laughs. "Please, don't give me any ideas. As tempting as that sounds, we both need our sleep."
"Will you at least kiss me?" Sherlock says, tilting his head up to look at John, his bottom lip pouting ever so slightly.
John smiles and drops a hand to the side of Sherlock's face, stroking his jaw and coaxing his face upwards for a kiss. Sherlock moves languidly into the motion, sliding his hands through John's hair to pull him closer.
"I love you," Sherlock murmurs against John's lips. "So, so much."
John pulls back and stares at Sherlock with adoring eyes, his hands gently framing Sherlock's face. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Sherlock. And I just…I can't seem to find words that will properly convey just how sodding important you are to me, so…so," he falters, then lunges forward, pulling Sherlock into a tight, desperate, wordless embrace.
Surprised and pleased at the simple contact, Sherlock squeezes back, his hands fisted in John's shirt. "What happens now, John?"
Sherlock himself isn't quite sure what he means by that, but John seems to understand.
"Now, Sherlock, is the best part," John says, settling back down into bed, pulling Sherlock against his chest. John's strong arms encircle him and Sherlock curls into the warmth of John's body with a sigh.
"Because, now, we can finally start living."
A/N: It's all fluff from here, folks! As always, let me know what you think in the comments, I love hearing what you guys have to say :)
IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: As some of you might know, I am terrible at summaries. A few months ago, someone on fanfic dot-net actually told me that they avoided reading my story for ages because of the summary (though they later ended up loving the work itself). And since dear, sweet Love Ballads is coming to a close, it's time to polish up a few of its rustier bits! So, I beseech you all, if anyone out there can cook up a summary for this story, I will love you forever and send you one million virtual muffin baskets!
Even if you're not sure if you should write one (because you don't think you're a good writer or because you aren't sure what to say) just make one anyway! Simply hearing what you guys think the summary should be would help me so much. Just leave 'em in the comments, or if they're super long (or if you don't want to leave them on a public platform) y'all can just email them to me at siennamaria13 at gmail dot com.
Thank you!
I'll see you all next Sunday! xoxo