Meet Me In Samarra
Chapter `18
This is our last dance.
This is ourselves under pressure
(Bowie/Mercury/May/Taylor/Deacon)
An Englishwoman. The two words echoed round his head as he ran. Revelation, resolution, revulsion.
One Englishwoman who straddled my lap naked at first meeting, drugged and whipped and then crawled into my bed and slept.
One who flirted with truth and love, lied abut intimacy with an eye on the main chance.
One simpler and stronger than a mother with tea and scones, with unflappable humour, with courage and sheer common sense.
One who commanded strength and objectivity with unyielding courage and judgement. Even when viewing her husband's dead body.
One kind and sensible with driven power, who knew the true power of sex without judgement.
One who was killer and nurse, mother and friend and target.
One who was clever and quiet and loyal, good at keeping secrets and trusts and so often overlooked because of her gentle intelligence.
One Englishwoman not as clever as she thinks she is; quiet and self effacing and dangerously invisible. Until now.
Until now.
And then there is a Georgian woman of beauty and sexuality, unaware she had secrets to share, did not understand her place, or her power to unlock a six year old mystery. But that was for later. Not now. Not now. First things first.
What was that phrase he was trying to remember? Ah. 'A woman is always a mystery. One must not be fooled by her face or her heart's inspiration.' Indeed so.
But he had not been fooled, had he? Worse than that. He had disregarded, ignored. She had not appeared important to him, although she had flitted around the edges of his life and work for years like a little brown moth. And he had not noticed, had not seen…...
Until that stupid debriefing - ginger nuts and ice lollies and double act patter with Mycroft - when he had still not cared nor registered her name. Or anything else about her.
People. He had never had much interest in them; no time for most of them, or any regard for them. Not unless they were part of the work. And now she was stepping out of the shadows and was precisely that. Part of the work. Why had he never realised she would be part of the work, his work?
With her silent efficiency, her wraith like presence, her permanent expression of tolerance and mild surprise. With her sensible shoes and her twin sets and beige cardigans.
In all the years she had been at Lady Smallwood's side he had probably never exchanged more than a dozen words with her. Yet now the whole world lay in her hands. And it was all his fault. Too slow. Always too slow…..
Having not thought to hand back his day pass when he left the building, re-entry was easier than he had expected, and he raced up the marble stairs two at a time, throwing open Lady Smallwood's office door with such a crash the impact and surprise had her on her feet, arms braced against her desk.
The secretary's cubby hole was as vacant and as impersonally tidy as before. Damnation.
"What?"
For a fleeting moment in that stressful day she looked almost scared; scared of him, or scared of what he had to tell her?
"Your secretary," he rapped out. "Where is she?"
"What?"
"Elizabeth! Pull yourself together! Answer me! Where is Vivian?"
He was round the desk before he knew it, a rare invasion of her personal space, holding her arms and shaking her, twice. Hard and almost vicious in his urgency.
"Vivian?" she looked up at him, collected her wits with difficulty. It had been a very taxing day, even by her standards, and this was near the end of it. But his strength and energy were contagious.
"When I was….detained…earlier…she was alongside me, as always. She followed me as I was escorted to see Mycroft. He…he told her to….take some time out… to go and smell the petunias."
"Moron." One judgmental word, the dismissive tone reserved for his brother alone.
"So where is she now? Where did she go when sent on this onerous task?"
"She…she said she would come back to the office before she went home; to see what was happening, how I was….we were both a bit flustered….."
"Where?"
"She usually hops on a bus and goes to the Aquarium when she has a break from the office. Peace and quiet and a restful dark coolness, she says."
"Finally. Thank you."
He released her, and she sank back against the desk, all her weight on her forearms and her head down.
"What is it? Why do you want Vivian?" What's she done?"
"Everything. Just everything." He looked up to the ceiling, as if for inspiration.
"She will be back, If you wait."
"No! Can't wait, must find her immediately. Anyway, can't risk her throwing a wobbly here. Risk too much collateral damage." She shook her head, did not follow his line of thought. "Can't have that. Safer in a public space. Civilised behaviour expected. Can't risk…."
He stopped talking. She watched his eyes, dark and blank with furious concentration.
"Do me a favour, Elizabeth. Ring Mycroft and Lestrade; tell them to meet me at the Aquarium. Stat. Immediately if not sooner. Do it now."
He whirled away from her and had his hand on the doorknob when he stopped suddenly and looked backed at her. Freezing her in place even as her hand reached for the telephone.
"Earlier. Something reminded me. Of when I first met you. Here, in my father's old office. He was your mentor. Did you, in your turn, mentor Julia Tregarron?"
"Yes. Two months. At the start of her career."
"Was Vivian your secretary then?"
"She has always been my secretary. Almost thirty years. But I don't see….."
"You will. Soon."
He nodded, offered her a rare flashing smile and the briefest of pauses, opened the door and was through it; the echo of his final words pushing her - "Make those calls!" - as he went.
Marching down the corridor he took out his mobile phone. Thumbs flying over the keys.
The curtain rises
The last act.
It's not over.
SH
The warning and reassurance she needed from him as she tried to settle again into the humdrum routine of real life and child care. Warning and reassurance combined when she picked up that message.
And then John's mobile number:
London Aquarium.
Come immediately.
SH
John should be at work - had he remembered the duty rota correctly? How long would it take him to abandon patients and surgery, make his excuses and get across London?
It was only later, as he entered the Aquarium, that he thought to send another message to Mary Watson.
But soon will be.
Over. My vow.
Patience.
SH
Later, he saw those messages as his fatal mistake. Trying to be human and reassuring, he had prompted death and destruction instead. Trying to summon the gun at his back, he had instead summoned the woman to his side.
There was always something he got wrong, he thought bitterly. And would haunt him forever more.
Even though he did not - could not - know John and Mary were both at home with their child, that they read and acted upon each others text messages, that they read the two separate message as if they were one….that John Watson turned to his wife and said: "If there is more to this case, you're the one who needs to see it."
Which drove her from the safety of her home. But it was still all his fault. Not Mary's. Not John's. His. His alone.
His fault that Mary came and Mary ventured to Samarra after all, thinking it was Baghdad.. For who would expect Samarra to be disguised as a tourist attraction, a gathering of water tanks, a place of the dead impassive eyes of sharks? Both human and marine, as it turned out.
Even if Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Molly did not blame him for it Even if that made him blame himself even more. Afterwards.
For who could have foreseen…?
o0o0o
He should have waited for Lestrade, hr thought. Trying to scour the entire building, a dark labyrinth of endless twisting galleries, looking for one insignificant woman all on his own was madness.
And yet… he might be wrong. He had been wrong before. So best not to involve other people who had not even paid their penny to see what might turn out to be a dam squb or a peepshow.
It took just over twenty minutes to stride from the Ziggurat to County Hall: a taxi might have been quicker, but in busy traffic who could tell? And could he have contained his impatience and nervous tension immobile in the back of a black cab?
So he turned right out of MI6, along Albert Embankment, a cooler and quieter journey, that allowed him to think as he walked.
The solution to Tblisi might yet be elsewhere, in deeper waters than an aquarium. He would return to Tblisi, to Nico and Nia, whatever happened next, and finish the case, just as he had promised.
For the final solution was back there, almost within his grasp. It had to be.
He had promised. And his jaw still hurt…
o0o0o
This time he woke slow and easy. Warm and comfortable. No wet cobbles or pain or grasping hands. The awareness of that novelty held him captive; lying still and without thought, suspended in a brief luxury of a little peace.
But there were hands on him, nevertheless. Eyes closed, he could feel…..soft fingers of one hand moving gently in his hair. One hand resting on his hip as he lay, curled in a semi fetal position, on sprung upholstery. His head - what? - on someone's lap. He could feel physical warmth, a slow and steady heartbeat above him, the soft sensual aroma of Penhaligon's The Bewitching Yasmine: incense, jasmine and oud; agarwood, the most expensive wood in the world, and more valuable than gold. A rich, expensive English perfume….
So not Mary, then. Or Molly. Not Irene. So who…?
And where in heaven or hell am I….?
Brain sluggish, reactions slow. Thought processes in pieces…..memory stuttering….slight headache…..metallic, chemical taste in the mouth…..Oh!.
He made a slight sound, involuntarily moved the hand he found was resting on a knee that was not his own. Jerked away and into full consciousness, feeling the two hands on him tighten their grip, reactively restrain.
"Sssh," said a voice quietly. "You're safe. You're OK."
"So the painkillers were sedatives? Sneaky." His voice was rough with sleep.
"Sorry," she said, without sounding sorry at all. "You looked terrible, but never about to give up or stop. I was worried you might have concussion after being roughed up by Rivaz. He could have killed you….." her voice trailed away as his eyes opened and he twisted a little to look up into her face. "He almost did."
"Yes," he cleared his throat, agreed without inflexion. Better.
"And Nico had had enough also. Facing what happened to Tamora….pains him too much. So I stopped it. Stopped you. It seemed the best thing to do."
"Well, it wasn't." he sat up, swung his legs back onto the ground. Battled the giddy nausea of the moment. "I have to get back to London. Things to do."
"That's it, then? You drop your bombshell then just leave?"
"Yes. I'm sorry if that doesn't suit you. But I have things to do. Investigating this from the other end, you might say." They faced each other across the sofa. Sitting too close for his comfort, too far apart for hers.
"What did you think you were doing? Sitting up through the night with me? Like this? Putting me in this intimate position? "
She bit her bottom lip and looked away, a blush on her cheeks, but did not answer. He waited for some reply with a patience he did not feel.
"I….worried you might have concussion, would need checking on. Nico was reluctant to carry you upstairs to bed. So…" a gesture of her hand indicated their position on the sofa. "So this just…sort of happened."
"An intimacy - another attempt at intimacy - I do not want or need," he said. "I don't have concussion. But my jaw hurts," he conceded.
You are 'a peerless leader, never base,'" she responded indirectly. "'tall and slim as a cypress, presence the moon and sun.'
I am not a hero," he replied firmly. "I am not Avandtil, not the knight in the panther's skin."
"But a panther in so many other ways. A hunter. Tracking down a mystery no-one else has been able to solve."
"I am Sherlock Holmes. That is who I am; what I do."
"We are lucky to have you on the case. After all this time."
"I doubt your brother would agree. I assume he left me down here and went to bed himself because he is still angry with me?"
"Yes." It was the truthful answer, yet she seemed embarrassed by it. "I'm sorry."
"Why? This is not your fault. "He stood, wobbled, put out a hand to grasp a chair back. Waved her away as she moved forward to help him "You may think it is, but I took this case. I chose to return to solve it.
"I understand how Sirius the professional wanted me here to do this, while Nico the husband and brother was ambivalent. His problem. His balancing act.
"And I did take advantage of him. Just as he said. I did break into his laptop while he was drunk; read some deeply personal material between himself and Tamora. Material he would never willingly share. So I am despicable." he shrugged.
"I cannot afford guilt or shame or discretion. I need answers. Your brother wants me find out why his wife died and who killed her. Can't do one without the other."
He sat back down, in an armchair opposite her.
"My husband….."
"Ex husband."
"Ex husband, then. He attacked you. Hurt you."
"That was your ex brother in law. The bear of a man with the busy fists and distinctive gold teeth. Why did you not mention him when I asked you if you knew a man with gold teeth?"
She felt the full effect of those sea storm eyes then; strange silver eyes that had always fascinated her turned and focussed to meet hers. The effect of a laser light firing straight into her brain.
"You don't trust me."
"This whole investigation has been held back by people being discreet, protective and too clever for their own good. Don't take all the credit."
He thought of Hilary Weatherstone and the misplaced loyalty of the underling, of the whole bureaucracy of British SIS, of diplomatic service discretion, Nico Sologashvili's emotional withdrawal. Mary Watson's independence and misplaced loyalty. John Watson's stubborn refusal to understand the pressures. Mycroft Holmes' critical cynicism.
"I just didn't think of Rivaz. I only met him once, at our wedding. He was in Russia most of the time I was with Davit. And in our culture I think of people with gold false teeth as the poor, or the elderly; or criminals. Not….." she hesitated. "an educated university graduate, an indulged younger brother who wants to be revolutionary poet. Like Rivaz."
He looked silently at her, his expression giving nothing away.
"You must believe me, Sherlock. Rivaz never crossed my mind…."
"Believe you? Yes. For now. Unless or until I learn better."
She flinched. Looked at him again. Saw the exhaustion in him, the emotional responses pushed down and away that she could never read, the tousled hair, the crumpled clothes, the soft auburn stubble. The shadows under his eyes. And instead of fear she felt a strange shaft of sympathy.
Her guilt about his plight at being attacked, and her decision to try to take his physical pain away by giving him sleeping tablets had made him like this, she thought; something withdrawn and almost distraught, something other than his usual elegant and armoured self.
"Nico…." she began. "Nico says…." She stopped, swallowed, started again. "Nico says you are not what he expected. Not like your brother, who he knows so well. Harder. Harsher. More dangerous, he says. Because you have emotion but deny it. That it makes you more dangerous."
"Your brother talks out of the back of his neck. Ignore him."
"But he is right, isn't he? I have felt…felt the heat of you. Seen how loving you can be. When you allow yourself. How attractive. That can't all be an act. Yet you are so remote. Look at you now. So much the self contained upright Englishman."
"I have a job to do" He shook his head. "I am not what you need. Have nothing to offer you. So don't offer me sympathy, your empathy. I don't want it."
There was a silence.
"So you do suspect me of something?"
"I need answers to questions. I think both you and your brother know more than you realise. And you are both too close to see it."
"Sherlock….."
"I need to talk properly to you both. Find…"
The mobile phone in his jacket pocket trilled a text message received.
Love to see your progress. Love news. Return. MH
He glared at the words. Lost in thought, not hearing what she said to him then.
"I need to get back to London."
"But….."
"No. This is more urgent. Your brother in law can wait." He stood swiftly, returned the phone to his pocket, raked his hair back with his fingers, and tossed his head.
"We need to trace Rivaz, so he and I can have a little chat. Give me a couple of days. Three at the most. And I will be back."
"Sherlock!" she reached out a hand to catch him, delay him. "What do I tell Nico? When he gets up and finds you gone?"
"Tell him I will be back." He shook her hand off his arm. "Tell him I will end this for him. Solve the mystery, give him closure. Whether he likes the answers or not."
o0o0o
.
And all he was really doing, back here in London, was trying to find those answers, going back to source, seeing a small glimmer in the dark.
Or, rather, in the dark, blue artificiality of the London Aquarium. Fishing for answers amongst too many fish, angling for what might be a red herring without even any bait. Just one little hook. Offering the release and recognition of an ending, after being poised on the edge and looking into the drop for far too long.
He was rambling….and yet there had become an inevitability to this, to finding the mole deep inside the British government who had, all along, been quietly hiding in plain sight.
And he needed to find that mole before anyone else did. To settle a mystery no-one else had been able to resolve, to prove he was right. To protect Mary, to end the treason, and to finally find out who and why. Close the case that had been open for far too long and quieten the niggle that had for years worried and distracted both MI5 and MI6: Mycroft and Lady Smallwood both.
Now he could see clearly. Now, suddenly and unexpectedly, there she was in front of him. The woman he was seeking.
While all the other visitors made their way out and flowed past him in the opposite direction - "Ladies and gentlemen. The aquarium will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you." the tannoy announced with finality.
So all the ordinary people - all those ordinary, law abiding people - did as they were told.
Sherlock Holmes ignored the instruction, As he always ignored instructions meant for other people. Continued walking steadily until he reached a small circular viewing area with benches around the sides so visitors could sit and watch the sharks circle endlessly around them, glaring impassively at a prey they could never reach as they swam.
Round and round and round. Sand Tiger….Nurse…..Black Tip Reef, he identified as he walked the Shark Walk, stepping lightly, not wanting to make his shoes sound, resonate, reveal his approach… walking, as always, the wrong way and against the tide.
Three types of the more amenable sharks, he noted; just three out of 500 examples of the species. Species that provoked fear, revulsion, and fascination. So perhaps the proper place for such a confrontation now. A confrontation he would not have planned, but had always been inevitable.
Sharks could be traced back 420 million years; a life form older than trees. They would watch the denouement of a lengthy case with detachment, he thought. As if that helped; as if they would be reliable witnesses.
The irony of the location did not escape him; why had he not done the obvious thing and gone immediately to the shark tanks? Too obvious, was it? Like seeking like? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was irony. Because perhaps she had some idea, an inner instinct, that he was on her trail. Perhaps she had been expecting him, or someone like him, to catch up with her for years.
And there she was, finally. A woman sitting all alone, watching the sharks gliding hypnotically around and past her, around again. A frail, anonymous little woman no-one would look at twice. Past retiring age, past any interest in looking attractive. Collected and calm, and sitting with her back to him.
And all he really knew about her was that she liked Mivvi ice lollies? Which had a soft centre and a hard shell. Whereas she…..she had a hard core under that soft, anonymous exterior.
The silence all around him was deep, for all the other visitors had retreated.
He took a deep breath. Stopped thinking frivolous thoughts to avoid the issue in hand. Focussed. Concentrated.
Where were Mycroft and Lestrade? Where was John? Where was back up? Any bloody back up! That would help! Such a lot!
Control, control. Stay calm. No matter. Just deal with what was coming.
"Your office said I'd find you here," he said, quietly conversational.
He could still be wrong. But he did not think so, was poised now, very much on the alert. Offering her good manners and quietness in confrontation; the English way, if she would accept it. The easy, civilised route to the end of the road. Challenge and conflict he was determined to win to ensure she did not.
And if she did not accept that this was the end of it all, he was prepared for whatever happened next. Refusing to consider any form of escape or negotiation as her viable option.
"This was always my favourite place for agents to come," she said, as quietly pragmatic in her response. She did not turn round, but her grey sallow face looked up and spoke to his reflection in the reinforced glass of the shark tank. "We're like them," she said, looking up at the wavering reflection of them both, past them to the sharks beyond them. "Ghostly. Living in the shadows."
She turned slowly to look at him. And he looked straight back. Looked at her properly for the first time, this dangerous ghostly blank of a woman who had occupied the sidelines, living in the shadows with quiet efficiency for years.
A pageboy bob she had had since fashionable more than thirty year ago. A dull navy blue suit, immaculate but dated, worn with a multi coloured blouse and plain cardigan beneath, tired suede court shoes with crumpled dirty toes, a rope of pearls, classic plain handbag.
Pearls. Pearls again. Coincidence? Or something more?
He blinked away the sudden spark in his eyes and filed the fact of the pearls for consideration later. Just now there was a more pressing issue to deal with.
"Predatory," he answered without heat or apparent interest.
"Well, it depends what side you're on." There was a flicker of humour, of irony, in her voice. A movement in her face that might have started out to be a smile then changed it's mind. She turned back to look at the shark passing before her. The shark swam on, travelling in circles, unaware of the impending drama about to unfold before its mean, intelligent little eyes.
"Also," she added, as if talking to the shark. "We have to keep moving or we die."
The delaying small talk annoyed him as she pretended not to know - yet did not question - why he was there. Why he had sought her out and was confronting her.
So. Time to get back to business.
"Nice location for the final act. Couldn't have chosen better myself. But then, I could never resist a touch of the dramatic."
"How is Elizabeth?" The question sounded an indifferent politeness.
Changing the subject to distract? Delay? Hoping for a scapegoat? Or genuine concern? Doubtful.
"Lady Smallwood? Fine. Exonerated. Just a rationale that had to be tested and found wanting. But you would know all about that."
"Me?"
"Who else? Who else but the vital little cog in the machine? Who turned out to be the ghost in the machine. Congratulations."
She looked intently at him then. Did not respond directly to his little goad.
"I just come here to look at the fish," she said mildly deflecting, offhand.
Without haste she shrugged, stood slowly - no quick movements, nothing that could be mistaken or misinterpreted - and stepped closer to the reinforced glass.
"You know perfectly well they are not fish, as such."
He answered, watched her closely, ready to react, but not knowing quite what to expect.
"Elasmobranch fish, to be precise," she said. "Very complex creatures .Scientific name Selachimorpha."
"Very good." He did not raise his voice, but his tone was scathing and dismissive. "Tick VG. Gold star. You want a medal? Or even better? A Do-Not-Go-To-Jail card?"
Reality check. Enough game playing.
Her reply took a beat too long. As she decided there was no option but to engage.
"I knew this would happen one day," she said softly, conversationally, as if to herself.. "Its like that old story…." Now she turned to face him, finally, handbag hanging oddly by the straps from her forearm in the style of Margaret Thatcher.
Low grade provincial public school or grammar school, then. Given higher expectations than possibilities. Petty resentments of a life considered under fulfilled. Ordinary, not extraordinary, as she considered herself. And everything she wanted that did not happen was not her own vital lack of spark, but was always someone else's fault. In her estimation.
"I really am a very busy man…." he drawled, assuming boredom because of the ordinariness, the commonplace reality of her; of it all. "Would you mind cutting to the chase?"
"You're very sure of yourself aren't you?" Not irritation. Not an accusation or a compliment. Just a judgement call. But she had watched him from the sidelines for years, he realised. Knew enough about him for that realisation to be nothing new. Even recognised her fate in that knowledge.
"With good reason." He did not want to be arrogant or superior at that moment, but it was expected of him. For her to know he was taking this seriously.
"There was once a merchant in a famous market in Baghdad…" she began, as if changing the subject.
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, lowered both his head and his eyes.
"I really have never liked this story…. " he confessed, almost to himself. Allowing her that small victory. Giving her confidence to talk…..
"I'm just like the merchant in the story," she confessed in her turn. "I thought I could outrun the inevitable." She almost paused, almost sighed, almost showed regret. But after a lifetime of being the functionary, the impassive presence, she continued with vague detachment: "I've always been looking over my shoulder. Always expecting to see the grim figure of…."
A new voice interrupted the narrative. A newcomer who had entered the building on silent feet, unnoticed by either of them until that moment.
"…..Death." One word. Low, controlled, confident.
Mary Watson came quietly into the enclosed little space and placed herself firmly at Sherlock Holmes' side. Ready to shield his gun arm. What else would he have expected? Allies, then Professionals. Equals. Friends.
What in Hell's name are you doing here, you stupid, stupid woman? Can't you see death looking at you? Don't you see this is Samarra? That you are the only person - the only person -who can connect her to what she has done? That she has been waiting ….? Knew she would have to chase you down once she found out that one member of AGRA was still alive and able to denounce her…..
And how did you get here anyway? I sent the 'come immediately' message to John, not to you. I would never send that message to you. Never put you at risk. I vowed….
Despite the shock to his system of her arrival, and his deep dismay at the way she stood with professional solidarity at his side - Don't align yourself with me, step away from me! Self preservation, Mary! I am never going to kill you. Or let you be killed. Not for me. Not on my watch. Just turn around and walk away."
The thoughts were so loud in his head he was amazed she could not hear them. But nothing of this inner turmoil showed on his face. Nor did he look directly at her; but instead watched the old woman's head lift, the tired hooded eyes look, and assess.
See a slight blonde haired, unprepossessing looking woman in trousers, grey t shirt, long loose jacket, brand new white trainers. Plain and ordinarily pretty with her gold chain and matching earrings, no longer young, a bit mumsy. Nothing about the professional killer about her. Nothing except the set of her shoulders, her broad stance, and that level, unblinking regard.
"Hallo, Mary," he said carefully, not looking round to meet her eye. Neither of them breaking their concentration and focus on the secretary before them. Both conscious of barring her way to the exit..
"Hey," she responded briefly. A slight uplift at the end of the word; Engagement, responsibility, lack of fear. Professional.
"John?" One brief word to encompass everything. And she knew it.
"On his way." Flatly, to make it sound insignificant to the eavesdropper.
Thank God. Our strong right arm, our safety clause. But where the Hell is Lestrade? Mycroft? Stop hoping. Start thinking. Hope is always false and fatal. Concentrate.
"Let me introduce Amo," he said without inflexion.
"You were Amo?" Not disbelief, but instant acceptance, evaluation, recognition of danger.
Only then and finally did Sherlock Holmes turn aside a little and risk a look at her. The black op personified. Not the friend, or the mother, not the nurse or the receptionist. But the last part of AGRA still standing.
"You were the person on the phone that time?" she asked. That need for clarity. For the old woman to condemn herself from her own mouth.
"Using AGRA as her personal assassination unit," he pointed out.
"Why did you betray us?" Mary Watson gave no sign of having heard him, all her focus on the secretary in front of them.
"Why does anyone do anything?" A bored dismissive voice, a little shrug. A classic deflection reply. Playing for time, playing for an opening.
"Oh, let me guess. Selling secrets?" Sherlock Holmes was not about to play that game. He went straight to the point, to the heart of her motivation.
"I didn't chase it," she said firmly. As if that made any difference.. "I was offered. Well, it would be churlish to refuse. Nothing too important, nothing to draw attention to me. The little bricks on which the house of cards is built, you might say."
She smiled a little at her own cleverness; at her play on words, at the memory of it, at her little importance, and the excitement of it all. "Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tblisi found out. I thought I'd had it."
She spoke as if boasting, as if not understanding that she was confessing, because she was too busy revelling in her cleverness, in the memory of what she had done; and probably speaking about it for the first time ever, to anyone, he thought.
For who did she have to confide in, in her lonely isolated little life? Except her cats, which were no audience at all.
"Then she was taken hostage in that coup. " She broke off her narrative to look up at the two professionals in front of her, and to laugh. "I couldn't believe my luck. That bought me a little time."
"But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in." Sherlock Holmes prompted.
"Very handy," The validation was a cold thing. "They were always such reliable killers."
The validation sounded more like an insult, and before the last of those reliable killers could speak, the consulting detective threw a comment sideways.
"What you didn't know, Mary, was that this one also tipped off the hostage takers."
Mary Watson turned fully towards him, and stared, her very silence and stillness recognising, finally, that there was danger here in this strange blue underwater world.
Despite the woman standing with her back to the sharks sitting down and primly placing her handbag solidly on her lap.
"Lady Smallwood gave the order to go in," she continued. "But I sent another one, to the terrorists, with a nice little hint about her code name for validation should anyone have an enquiring mind. Seemed to do the trick. Kicked things off. Caught AGRA and everyone else on the hop. Especially the ambassador."
Her eyes ducked down, the movement of her head meaning to hide the tiny smirk, a little spitefulness she could not resist. But he saw it. And thought about that, too. Later.
"And you thought your troubles were over," Mary Watson did not react, not yet; simply asked the question. All bases covered. And he watched her; watched both women who had been such vital yet disparate parts of the unforgotten tragedy.
Watched the mood change.
"I was tired," Lady Smallwood's secretary confided. "Tired of the mess of it all."
She sighed, and for a second her shoulders slumped, and she looked away from them.
"I just wanted some peace. Some clarity. The hostages were killed. AGRA too….."
Then she recalled where she was and who she was talking to, and looked at Mary Watson with an unreadable expression that might have claimed a little empathy within it. "Or so I thought."
"My secret was safe. But apparently not." Her head lifted, the pensive mood shifted "Just a little peace…." She looked directly into Mary Watson's eyes, briefly and entirely woman to woman. "That's all you wanted too, wasn't it? A family. Home. Really, I understand."
That was unexpected, disconcerting Too personal…..
For that brief moment Mary Watson did not know where to look, glanced away from their unreliable narrator to the man by her side. But his gaze was hard, fixed onto the older woman with a breathless, focused concentration she had seen in him before.
Like a sixth sense he had that caught the essence of danger before anyone else. She trusted that instinct in him, an instinct more finely honed in him than in herself these days. And she felt that coldness and decision in him. And repressed a shudder of her own.
The secretary moved then. And Mary Watson's attention flicked back to watch the older woman rest her hand carefully on the top of her handbag and her fingers dip inside without looking down - when did she open the bag? And what is inside? This is not a woman who would reach for her compact or comb or mirror when under stress - and seemed ready to stand up, to capitulate.
"So: just let me get out of here, right?" It was almost a plea; but not quite. A recognition of the position he was in, but still holding on to her pose and her self importance. "Just let me walk away. I'll vanish. I'll go forever. What do you say?"
"After what you did?" AGRA was at risk of losing her self control, an edge of anger in her voice, one step moving angrily towards….
"Mary, no." Sherlock Holmes' voice was sharp and low. Reaction and warning.
And in that moment when everything changed, when two people froze and one made her first swift and decisive movement, the secretary stepped forwards, out of the shadows to the point of command, pulled a pistol out of her handbag, eyes focussed, gun barrel unwavering.
Pointed it unerringly at Mary Watson. Who immediately stepped back, crossing in front of Sherlock Holmes to stand on the other side of him, for a split second hiding his view of the gun and the perpetrator.
And at that moment he knew. Knew she was not going to be the swooning heroine hiding behind his masculinity. Knew she was going to be Mary Morstan again. The professional. The last member of AGRA still standing. Standing proud and strong and committed
He read her movement, knew he had to act. Wanted to shout at her.
I made a vow. I will keep you safe.
I owe you so much….it is my turn to save you…..I would die for you, I swear…
No! NO!
Despite himself and the bile that had risen in his throat he braced himself and took half a step forward. Attracted the attention of Lady Smallwood's functionary. Who looked down at the gun in her hand as if she has surprised herself that it had arrived there, She had thought of herself in action so many times before, fantasized about her courage and authority, her power…
"I was never a field agent," she told him. "I always thought I'd be rather good."
Mary Watson, on Sherlock Holmes' left - why has she changed sides? To free my gun hand? When I don't even have a bloody gun? Is that her instinct as a killer thinking better of my instinct as a survivor? - made a low noise in her throat; scoffing at the claim.
"Well, you handled the operations in Tblisi very well," he heard his voice, speaking before anyone else could. Controlling the action now, both women looking at him.
"Thanks."
He watched her face clear, her shoulders shift, take pride in the compliment. Held the silence for half a beat too long before delivering the punch line that would decide his fate.
"For a secretary."
"What?"
She had been too stupid to expect that, the step back before delivering the roundhouse right. Watched her focus on him sharpen, her hand tighten on the gun stock, her index finger slide off the guard of the elderly Smith and Wesson and onto the trigger.
"Can't have been easy all those years," he continued without pause now. He could destroy and demolish and distract; he was good at it. He was a freak. "Always sitting in the back keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room.
"I didn't do this out of jealousy!" It was almost a yelp. Genuine hurt. Disillusion.
"No? Same old drudge, day in, day out never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street."
She gaped at him, rendered speechless by his knowledge.
A shot in the dark, but a good one. Wigmore Street - the Beatles, and Herefordshire, and politics and medicine, he thought. A good address, but only a tiny flat due to snob appeal; when being further out of the city centre would have bought bigger and better…..
"They've taken up the pavement outside the post office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive…."
London yellow clay, sticky and distinctive, made into bricks from Highbury works and seen all around them…
"Yes, your little flat…."
"How do you know?"
Well, on your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn't you? Without realising how expensive it would be to keep a second home, what with furniture and council tax, utilities even when you are not there, a caretaker, the expense of travel.
"And what are you? Widowed or divorced? His survey of her was intent, and she froze under his scrutiny. "Wedding ring's at least thirty years old, and you've moved it to another finger. That means you're sentimentally attached to it, but you're not still married, I favour widowed, given the number of cats you share your life with…."
"Sherlock…"
He ignored the quiet, warning murmur at his side.
So she knows what I am doing? Insulting, judging, drawing the fire towards me, and away from her. My job, my turn, Mary.
My vow. I will keep you safe….
"Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan…" he paused only to draw breath. "A divorcee's more likely to look for a new partner, a widow to need unconditional love to fill the void left by a dead husband."
"Sherlock, don't…"
Shut up, Mary. I don't need your warning. I know exactly what I am doing.
My responsibility. My job.
"Pets do that, or so I'm told, and there's clearly no-one new in your life otherwise you wouldn't be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drink problem too, the slight tremor in your hand, the red wine stain ghosting your top lip….So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all To prove how good you are…."
Footsteps. Leather soles, a familiar stride pattern. Mycroft.
And about bloody time! Where's John?
For a fraction of a second the gun wavered as the appearance of the British Government attracted his underling's attention.
"…To make up for the inadequacies of your little life….." His younger brother continued remorselessly, voice raised a little to demand her attention back to him.
Hot on Mycroft's heels - more footsteps, the rustle of fabric, as Lestrade entered flanked by three uniformed policemen.
Still no John…...
"Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected." Mycroft at his most urbane. Unruffled, as if talking down a woman with a gun was an everyday occurrence.
Vivian Norbury, as if unfazed by being so suddenly, heavily outnumbered, her voice dripping with sarcasm, stopped the flow of his words.
"Who outsmarted them all. Except Sherlock Holmes."
Pride in her voice. Not lacking courage even with her back to the wall. Courage or bravado…..and bowed her head, dropped her shoulders a little.
Sherlock Holmes stepped forwards one careful pace - two - holding out his left hand to take the gun; felt, as much as heard, Mycroft and the others step forwards too, shadowing him. His eyes were intent, fixed on hers, compelling her to give up, put the gun down, submit to the weight of numbers and authority against her. To see there was no way out, no route past the forces of law and order.
"There's no way out," he determined. Unnecessarily. But it held her focus on him, on him alone.
Irritant and insult and target. Yes!
"So it would seem." She favoured him with a secret little smile, a soft voice. "You've seen right through me, Mr Holmes."
"It's what I do." With all the annoying arrogance and self confidence he could muster.
She cocked her head at that. " Maybe I can still surprise you."
As she spoke she raised the gun again., pointed it unerringly at him, all her concentration fixed on him. Just as he wanted, He met her gaze, unblinking and unsurprised. Had been willing her to do this, to shoot him and not Mary.
Unafraid. He had angled for this, had been here before. Shot by a friend, surprised and disbelieving. easier to be shot by an enemy this time, to be willing the bullet his way and welcoming it as the better solution.
Him being shot -him shot rather than Magnusson - had been wrong; even if he understood why she had made the choice to shoot him instead. But this time - after so many months on borrowed time, after dying falsely and then truly - he opened his arms as if to welcome in the bullet, the woman about to shoot him.
Welcome the bullet - his bullet this time, not Mary's. Because it was only fair, logical. Mary had so much to live for; her new life, her husband and child, her final freedom from the burden of AGRA. Whereas he was so tired. And when someone had to die….well, he would welcome the death he had been expecting for so many years. And would not be missed.
He leant forward a little, ready to absorb the shock as the cartridge struck into and through his torso, braced for it. He heard, as if in the distance, Lestrade make a typical policeman's interjection: "Come on. Be sensible."
Pathetic, Gregory. You'll have to do better than that!
"No, I don't think so," Vivian Norbury spoke as if debating the merit of custard creams rather than bourbons. Shook her head
He was focussed so hard on the woman he heard her breath, watched her squeeze the trigger on the .38 with an awful fascination. Until something blocked and blurred his view, something moving fast and solid, and in front of him.
Mary Watson had anticipated the shot. Thrown herself to one side. Not away from the shot but towards it; not away from Vivian Norbury or Sherlock Holmes but in front of him. Between the man and the other woman, between the man and the bullet.
The parabola of her leap was broken as the bullet struck the target, and she crashed onto the floor with a wet sounding thud, tangling with a bench seat on the way down.
"Surprise!" The old woman said spitefully. But no-one was listening to her now.
Mary Watson rolled over against the bench, clearly in pain, blood on her chest staining the grey shirt red.
Sick at heart, aghast, mouth full of bile, Sherlock Holmes allowed the policemen to pass him and detain Vivian Norbury as he did something far more important.
Dropped to his knees to press his gloved hand against the wound and attempt to staunch the blood, clenching cloth and chest between his fingers. Body heat and hot blood pumping out.
Pumping out, not merely bleeding. His brain cataloged the wound, the severity of it. But his mind did not seem to be able to process properly….and words failed him.
I know exactly how she feels. That physical and mental shock. That barreling impact. The pain. The horror. The disbelief. The knowledge. That this was death and there was no miracle, no going back, no magic wave of a fairy wand.
Her eyes meet his and she whimpered, knowing she was dying. She had seen death so many times before. And met it unafraid. Sad, angry, distressed and in pain, but unafraid. Her eyes said as much as they turned to him, speaking words that should never be articulated out loud.
About timing, and running out of luck, and about the irony of this being her time and this, despite almost identical circumstances, not being his. About owing him, wanting to save him. Needing to repay her debt.
"Everything's fine," he lied. "It's going to be OK," he pretended.
Turning to a stunned Mycroft he barked: " Get an ambulance!" and watched his brother jolt to life and hurry away. Pass John Watson but have neither word nor warning for the doctor.
"Its all right, it's all right…."
At that moment it was impossible to recall who kept repeating that cliché like a mantra. It might have been him…..
"Mary!" A shout of surprise and distress.
Too late, Doctor. Too bloody late. And what kept you? Why did you send her into the fray before you came to us?
John Watson dropped to his knees by her side. Sherlock Holmes, reluctantly and with rare tact, silently stood and stepped back as John Watson's hand on his wife's heart replaced his own. The other hand cradled her head
"Mary? Mary! Stay with me. Stay with me!"
He looked at the wound but did not bother to react or even shake his head. He knew; she knew; everyone in the room knew.
Looking up at him her natural pragmatism cut through all the pain. .
"Oh, come on….." she hissed. Stricken, but still not sentimental.
"No. Don't worry. Don't worry….." he was babbling. But no-one would say so.
"Oh, come on, doctor. You can do better than that."
In the face of his throttled emotion her eyes slid past her husband to her friend; frozen, deep in shock.
Dear and trusted friend…
"Come on Mary" - she sobbed into him then; allowing emotion. For the last time. "Mary. Come on."
"God, John. I think this is it."
"No! Nonono. It's not." Firmly; as if saying made it so..
The doctor lifted his hand from the wound, watched the blood course through his fingers. Looked at the wound again, pressed down again. Register that no-one came forward to help him…because he was the only one who would - should - could - know how to deal with this.
Deal with death.. Because he was the doctor.
"You made me so happy…" an edge to her voice none of them had ever heard before; intensity in those brightest of blue eyes. So the doctor looked at his wife and forced a smile. The last she would see.
"You gave me everything I could ever…ever…"
"Ssshh…" he soothed. Not knowing what else to say. Not having, never had, time to admit all he wanted to say.
"Want…"
He ran one hand over her forehead, shushing her. But she would not be silenced before the longest silence of all.
"Look after Rosie. Promise me."
"I promise." He drew a deep breath. "Yes. I promise."
"Promise me." Stronger. Determined.
"Yes. I promise. I promise."
Words would not do now. So he stroked the side of her face in a rare gesture of love as she looked up at Sherlock Holmes.
"Hey, Sherlock…..?"
"Yes?" His voice did not sound like his own, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He leant forward a little
"I…so like you."
Somewhere far away Mycroft Holmes returned to the viewing gallery, having found a point to get a telephone signal, slipping his phone back into his pocket, but hung back from the scene before him; the detached observer, as always.
"….Did I ever say?"
"Yes." He stuttered, risked a smile. "Y- yes, yes you did." Thinking there must be something wrong with the light; she looked suddenly shrunken, blurred before his eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said. The words were being forced now, slowing and slurring around the edges.." For shooting you that time. I'm really sorry."
"It's - it's all right…." he soothed. Because now it was. Now he would give anything to feel what he felt then; to see his own blood pumping through his white shirt, not her grey tee shirt.
"I think we're even now. OK?"
"OK." He agreed, and nodded, and berated himself for being unable to do anything.
And then she gasped in pain as her husband drew her in. So close to him, repeating her name, over and over…
"You…you were my whole world…."
Every word painful now. An admission that came far too late..
John Watson grimaced; teeth bared, eyes screwed shut, as if he was the one dying. Threw his head back to suck in air. Looked back at her. They all heard that sound of the imminent death rattle in her throat.
"Being Mary Watson….." Determination pushed the words out. Defiant to the last. "….was the only life worth living…."
"Mary…" Finally he met her gaze.
"Thank you…" It came out on a whisper, with a dying fall. And her head dropped forward, one errant blonde curl flopping across her face.
So he caressed her cheek with one bloodstained hand. Cradled her head to rest his chin on top of it. For the last time. Put his face to hers. Looked with disbelief at her open unseeing eyes, at her blood on them both, his red fingerprints on her skin. '
He had seen death - sudden, shocking tragic death - so many times before. But never death like this.
The three other people closest to him watched John Watson drop his head in terrible, wordless grief and howl his pain like an animal; a sound beyond human. Dry eyed, he howled again. And again.
No-one moved or ventured to help until Sherlock Holmes took a small step forward and reached instinctively for his friend. But John Watson sensed the movement, the proximity, and his head lifted.
A frightening sight, teeth clenched, eyes hooded, face full of murderous rage.
Sherlock Holmes froze, stilled, one hand in mid air.
"Don't you dare."
Every word hard and low and distinct. Without hysteria, with feeling beyond mere emotion. Breath hard and savage, on the edge of self control. And then, more quietly but just as fierce: "You made a vow. You swore it."
Eyes wide with shock, thought suspended, Sherlock Holmes did the hardest yet most natural thing. He stepped back. Had no words. No response. Nothing he could give. Nothing that would be heard, be seen, or be acceptable.
I will keep you safe….
Forgive me, for I have sinned…..
Dear and trusted friend….
And with a look he was dismissed. Stepped back, deeply shocked, as Gregory Lestrade put his hand to his face, exchanged a look with Mycroft Holmes; who watched his brother with a new and silent concern.
With a uniformed policeman either side of her, Vivian Norbury was led away, almost unnoticed. An elderly lady, shrunken and faded to grey. Facing reality with puzzled resignation, and looking as if she would not harm a fly, as if she could not feel her feet.
Walked slowly, unresisting and silent, and did not even look at the silent woman in a heap on the ground as she passed.
John Watson ignored the movement. Ignored everyone. Just sat on the floor and cradled his wife in his arms. Mycroft Holmes put his hand silently under his brother's elbow and tugged, guiding him away. Leaving Lestrade with the dead.
The brothers did not speak. Walked out of the building to the waiting chauffeur driven limousine.
The driver opened the rear door, and wordlessly put a hand to Sherlock Holmes head to guide him inside and down without resistance. Mycroft Holmes slipped into the seat alongside him, and the chauffeur closed the door, got into the driver's seat and the car left the kerb, heading north along Albert Embankment towards Lambeth Bridge.
Just under four miles back to Baker Street. Less than half a hour if the traffic behaved. And onto Millbank.
"Sherlock….."
"Not now."
"You knew this would happen. That she was on borrowed time. Would be retired, sooner or later."
"Not now."
He observed with dull eyes as his brother reached into the drinks cabinet at the side of him for a bottle of sparkling water. Took an immaculate starched linen handkerchief from an inner pocket. Wet it, and reached down between them to lift his brother's hand by his coat cuff.
Beneath where the hand had been a sticky dark palm print from black leather gloves marked the soft pale leather upholstery. Mycroft Holmes wiped the stain away, carefully refolded the damp handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket.
"Your gloves are soiled. Dispose of them."
"Why not?"
He pulled off the gloves that carried Mary Watson's life blood. Touched the button to lower the side window three inches, dropped them outside the glass, where they fluttered away and bounced on the road behind them, falling to a halt in the gutter.
"Best gone." Mycroft remarked with studied disinterest.
"Of course. If you say so. Meant nothing to me."
"Indeed."
Neither were talking about the Chester Jefferies City Gent leather gloves.
But for the rest of the journey Sherlock Holmes sat looking at his hands in his lap. Did not speak.
When the car stopped at the big black door he got out without a word or a look, without turning back, closing the door behind him.
The limousine waited with courtesy at the kerb until Sherlock Holmes crossed the pavement, found his house key, opened the door to 221B Baker Street and went inside.
Mycroft Holmes looked away then, looked up into the rear view mirror to meet the eyes of his driver.
"Back to the office please, George."
TO BE CONTINUED….
Author's Note:
"A woman is always a mystery. One must not be fooled by her face or her heart's inspiration." Edmondo Di Amcis
"Smell the petunias." Like many brilliantly coloured flowers, a petunia has no smell.
Stat: Well know and used medical word meaning urgent. From the Latin word for immediate, statum.
Mivvi: Popular long standing English ice lolly with a vanilla ice cream centre and a hard iced fruit flavour outer.
Do Not Go To Jail (Do Not Collect £200) card: To add an element of chance to the board game Monopoly.
Vivian Norbury: The Adventure Of The Norbury Builder is a 1903 original Sherlock Holmes short story. Norbury is a part of outer London.
Chester Jefferies: one of the top glovers in the UK, a small family firm in Dorset creating hand cut, made and sewn and gloves for men and women.