Chapter Six: Opportunity Knocks
—Thirteen months later—
Mary takes a deep breath, psyching herself up for the Best Man's speech. There is no way in hell that John would have had anyone else do this, and she's very aware that this is the only element of the entire wedding that Sherlock has not rehearsed in front of her. So, come what may, she's going to sit and listen attentively, hoping for John's sake that it isn't a total disaster.
She takes another tentative sip of the wine and tries not to grimace at the shudder of revulsion that runs through her. Despite all her planning, a general sense of nausea has meant that her plate of food had been cleared away, half uneaten. It surprises her; she's faced dangers far greater this, and felt less on edge. Is this because marriage means she is crossing some mental Rubicon now, between her former life and her new normality?
Sherlock shifts his weight uncomfortably, clearly aware of the fact that all eyes are on him. He stutters his way through the first three telegrams.
He pulls the next note card up and reads from it, "Mary, lots of love…" Suddenly, he dries on the next word, breathing out an almost silent 'Oh'.
Startled, she looks up at him, and John interjects a quiet "Yeah?" in encouragement.
"Poppet." Sherlock pronounces the word disparagingly, giving the last letter at the end an extra loud T. He frowns as both she and John giggle, for a reason that is quite clearly beyond his comprehension. Over the months, Mary has come to terms with what a remarkable person Holmes is, and how his willingness to plan the wedding and do this speech is testament to how much he cares about John. This whole endeavour has shoved the man so far out of his comfort zone that he must be looking forward to the honeymoon with almost as much relief as she is.
She's still smiling at that thought while Sherlock carries on reading. "Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this."
That comment cuts through her like a knife, and she knows that her mask must have slipped because John senses her disquiet.
He looks away from Sherlock and back at her. With a quiet "Hey, hmm?" John takes her hand. He must think that the reference to her dead parents must have distressed her.
She gives him a reassuring smile and settles back to listen to Sherlock's hasty canter through the rest of the messages, focussing on the words 'special day' and 'love' before concluding, "A bit of a theme—you get the general gist. People are basically fond."
While Sherlock recounts the tale of how John had asked him to be his best man, Mary's smile is back in place but her mind is elsewhere, trying to understand why Charles Augustus Magnussen of all people would send her such a message— wildly inappropriate from someone she's never even met. Mary's knowledge of the man is based only on what she knows from Janine, her maid of honour. That Sherlock would pronounce the man's initials as if it were a name doesn't matter; Mary wishes that Janine was sitting close enough that she could try to gauge her reaction.
Their friendship had been forged about five months before Sherlock had returned from the dead. Janine had become a member at the gym that Mary attended. The previous nine months of fairly sedentary work at the surgery had taken its toll on her figure so she'd taken up the membership to regain something of the strength that she'd cultivated for her previous career. That's what she's decided to call it, as if rationalising it as just another line on a CV. Irrelevant to the life of Mary Morstan, nurse, dedicated aid worker and all-round nice person. Still, no need to go to pot completely.
She'd liked the Hawkins girl from the start; something sparky about her personality drew her attention, especially when she'd come to realise that it was covering up something darker in her past. Mary's intelligence skills were piqued, and she couldn't resist probing to find out what it was. Eventually, Janine had broken down in tears over a coffee, saying that she was having problems at work. It had taken some time to tease out a fractured tale of how her boss manipulated her into doing things she didn't want to do; "CAM knows too damned much about too many people; a total bully." When Mary had told her to quit if it was so awful, Janine had just laughed incredulously. "Can't. He won't let me go. He'd got me right where he wants me. There's no way out."
How could a man like Charles Augustus Magnussen, whom she's never met, know anything about Mary Morstan's made-up past? Why would he make up a message to ram home that exact point about her being an orphan? Why make the point at her wedding, of all places? Is it possible that he's somehow discovered who she really is? Could Elizabeth Smallwood have betrayed her? Her palms start sweating, and she has to shove a fresh wave of nausea down before it makes her bolt from the room in a panic.
Mary needs all her skills to keep in the role of the happy bride, whilst thinking through these questions with the mind of the intelligence operative that she once was. And what her mind is telling her as Sherlock continues with his speech is not good news.
It's not long after this that the whole wedding reception goes to hell in a handbasket. Given the subsequent drama of someone trying to murder Major James Sholto, Mary's worries about her past get shoved to the back of her mind.
oOoOoOoOoOo
—Four Weeks Later—
"Don't. Oh God, please don't." Mary whispers this, trying desperately to keep her breakfast in her stomach when a patient flees the waiting room and charges into the toilet. It's not very well sound-proofed and the resultant noises of vomiting reach the reception desk where she is sitting. Triggered by the sound, Mary loses the battle and gets to her feet, saying to the receptionist. "Sorry, Cas. Got to run."
The staff loo is down the hall and around the corner. By the time Mary gets there, the need to vomit is overwhelming. She grabs the door handle only to find it locked. Sticking her hand over her mouth, she darts to the store room next door next to it, snags a plastic bin and vomits there in full technicolour glory. It's not the first time that both the patient and staff loos have been in use, so she's prepared a number of lined bins at different places in the surgery.
The staff loo door opens and she hears a familiar voice say, "Sorry!"
John comes straight into the store room and pats her on the back. "Bad?" he asks.
She retches again. "Oh God; how long is this going to last?"
Ruefully, her husband answers, "Well, we both know that despite the name, it doesn't happen just in the mornings and it's not likely to disappear until sixteen to twenty weeks."
"I won't live that long."
"Yes, you will. You're about nine weeks now; this is supposed to be the worst."
She sighs. They've been back from Morocco for just over a week, during which the sickness has dogged her every waking moment and half the nights, too.
"At least we had the honeymoon before it arrived," she manages, standing up again and trying to catch her breath.
He nods, handing her a paper towel. "Maybe you could try ginger tea. I've heard it helps. Want me to pop out at lunch to get some?"
All she can manage is a nod before she has to lean over the bin again.
oOoOoOoOo
—A Week Later—
Mary's agreed to John helping Sherlock tonight while she puts in an extra hour at the surgery to make up for the fact that morning sickness is making her come in late occasionally. John's excuse had been that they'd be planning some case or other but it may be that he just wants to spend time with Sherlock. She really doesn't mind; she knows she's been pretty lousy company for the past two weeks. Her short temper had been in evidence this morning when John had marched off to rescue Isaac and then found Sherlock at the doss house. She'd watched their little scene at the lab when Molly did the drug test and that strange young man had "deduced" the fact that John had taken to cycling to work. It might have been amusing, except for the fact that John was livid about Sherlock using drugs again, something she had not known about him before today. In all the months before Sherlock's return, John had talked non-stop about how wonderful Sherlock had been. Never once had he mentioned he was a drug addict even though he'd disclosed many other personal things about the man. The fact of the drugs is unsettling, and she is unsure whether to believe Sherlock when he'd shouted at John that it was for a case. Perhaps when John gets back tonight, she will get him to open up a bit more about what is going on.
It's a ten-minute walk from the surgery to the underground. Mary's nearly at the Tube station when a black Bentley comes up from behind her and pulls into a no parking space just in front of her. The rear passenger door opens onto the pavement and a disembodied voice—one she recognises all too well—commands, "Get in."
As if I haven't had a bad enough day, now the devil himself arrives to make it worse.
For the past seven weeks, Mary has done everything she can to stay as far away from Mycroft Holmes as possible. The man makes her nervous. The text message she had sent him after the formal invitations had been posted was blunt and to the point: Your regrets would be gratefully received. She'd been relieved when Mycroft had not appeared, even though his presence might have been comforting to the Best Man. The last thing she'd needed at her wedding was a reminder that the woman who had placed her at the surgery Lady Smallwood and Mycroft Holmes knew too much about the past she was trying to put behind her for good. Given what had happened at the wedding, there were already more than enough spectres at the feast.
Sighing, she climbs in the back seat and eyes the elder Holmes with suspicion. "As much as I appreciate the offer of a free ride home in comfort, it's only fair to warn you that I am suffering from morning sickness and might throw up all over your lovely leather upholstery."
Mycroft eyes widen in alarm. He opens a compartment in the back of the seat and privacy screen separating the passengers from the driver, and reaches past a cut-glass whisky decanter to pull out from the space what appears to be an ice bucket. "Tip the ice out before you shut the door."
After doing just that, she fastens her seatbelt and holds the bucket in her lap. "Right. Good to go."
"Mrs Watson. Congratulations on your impending motherhood."
"You could have sent a card, or phoned. No need to offer me a lift; pregnancy is not a disability."
He gives her one of those pseudo-smiles that never reach the eyes. "I wanted to have this discussion in private. Neither your husband nor my brother should learn of it."
She rolls her eyes. "Secrets are something that you and I are both capable of keeping, despite annoying family members. A face-to-face is not obligatory."
He takes that comment as an invitation to continue. "It has come to my attention that you may of some assistance in a matter of mutual concern."
She raises an eyebrow. "You have people — minions, as your brother would call them. Why would I be of any help to you?"
"There are rules about the misuse of public services for private purposes. Your… skills, as one might call them, are suited to this particular task, as is the fact that you are not currently affiliated with or in receiving of payments from any intelligence service."
"I'm retired. Permanently. I have other people to think of these days," she says, pointing to her belly.
"I am reliably informed that pregnancy is not a disability. Nothing too strenuous, I assure you."
"Why would I agree to do anything for you?"
"I am sure that you would prefer your past to be buried forever."
She turns towards him, with a scandalised glare. "Resorting to blackmail? We made a deal. In the back seat of this car, I seem to recall*. In return for my not standing in the way of your brother's relationship with my fiancé, you would not probe into my past. I've kept my side of the bargain… and grown my own friendship with your brother. Why would you risk any of that?"
He shrugs. "You have more to lose now, which means that mere acquiescence is no longer sufficient to sustain our arrangement. I require your assistance in a matter that affects both Doctor Watson and Sherlock, and therefore you. They are about to embark on something very foolish. I require you to take pre-emptive action to remove the necessity of them taking such risks."
"Yet, you don't mind putting me and my unborn child at risk."
"You are a professional and therefore it is far less of a risk. Hear me out."
"Doesn't mean I'm agreeing, but I'm listening."
"There is a woman, a peer of the realm, who is being blackmailed. Not for anything she has done, I must say; rather, it is her husband who is being targeted for a youthful indiscretion, one that transpired before he met the woman whose interests I wish to protect. There is a small cache of letters which, if published, would destroy his reputation and damage her security clearance. While I was away overseas, she approached Sherlock and he took her on as a client. I know the blackmailer will not willingly give the letters to him. The man said as much when he met him in Baker Street so Sherlock and your husband may try to trick him into revealing their location and then try to steal them from the blackmailer."
"You've got a camera on Baker Street, haven't you." She makes it a statement rather than a question. It might well be what the John and Sherlock are talking about tonight. "So? What makes this different from any other case?"
"My brother seriously underestimates his target, and has no idea that there are much more serious issues at stake than those letters. I would like you to recover them from the blackmailer's office tonight."
"Are you sure the letters are there?"
He raises an eyebrow.
She nods; he will have done his homework.
"And why would any blackmailer agree to hand something so salacious to me? Are you paying the man off?"
"No money is involved. The blackmailer is due to attend a banquet in the City tonight, allowing you a free hand."
"What happens if he cancels, comes home early, walks in while I'm rifling through his papers?" Rather dryly, Mycroft answers, "Then you point a gun at his head and give him the choice."
Her eyes open wide. "Are you seriously asking me to assassinate someone?"
"Not at all. He is a coward—that much I do know. He'd hand over the letters because they are quite insignificant, given what else he has been holding over quite a number of important heads in this country. That has been his protection, until now. So long as the blackmailer doesn't publish, doing the occasional favour in exchange for his continued secrecy is something most people are willing to put up with."
"Including you."
He nods.
"But not Sherlock."
"Alas, no. He doesn't make deals like that with dragons; likes to think of himself more as a St George. The Lady who engaged my brother's services has no idea how dangerous the blackmailer is—for all the other people he is blackmailing in addition to her. Sherlock has no idea what a firestorm he could unleash. These particular letters are irrelevant; the man's wrath, if they are stolen, would fall on far too many other people's heads than the Lady. There is also the small matter of keeping your husband out of court, should he be arrested for doing something foolishly criminal as theft while under the influence of my brother. So, you removing the letters as an anonymous operator would ensure that the problem is dealt with for the Lady. You'd also be saving John and Sherlock from incurring the wrath of a very dangerous person."
"Who is this person?"
"Charles Augustus Magnussen."
She is too well trained to let her surprise show, but someone as astute as Mycroft Holmes will have seen that lack of a response as an indication of something.
He does not disappoint. "I see you have heard of him. Well, of course you would; your maid of honour works for him. How fortuitous. Perhaps she would be willing to assist you since you are such great pals."
She shakes her head. "I wouldn't do that to Janine; he has some sort of hold on her, too, and she'd tell him who I was." She wouldn't need Janine's help, anyway—a simple break-in and theft would not pose too great a risk. While she was there, she could snoop around to see why he would have sent that telegram. There might be a serendipitous collision of interests here. "Why tonight? You said it needs to be done tonight."
"My brother has been cultivating his PA, and it won't be long before he finds a way to get into man's office. Perhaps he and your husband are making plans when they meet at Baker Street."
She smirks. "You're monitoring John's phone calls." She blows him a kiss and he shifts ever so slightly on the leather.
"Of course."
"That reminds me to increase the ante; more phone sex."
He sighs. "Not necessary. I assure you my surveillance is benign. Like you, I have a vested interest in your husband's safety and my brother's sobriety. So, do I take it you are accepting this… opportunity?"
She nods. "Tell your driver to let me off at the next underground station."
Mycroft reaches for the intercom.
oOoOoOoOo
A quick stop at the self-storage unit south of Waterloo brings back some old memories for Mary. None of her tradecraft traps has been sprung, indicating that no one has attempted to enter the cage over the past eighteen months, and why should they? She'd gone for a cheap and cheerful combination of cardboard boxes and old furniture, on display to anyone walking down the corridor between the wire cages. Hiding in plain sight is always wise.
Once she's got the two boxes she needs and the dry-cleaning bag that holds her blackout clothes, Mary's smiling. There are parts of her past that she enjoyed, and seeing the gear and her gun makes her realise that she's missed this—the adrenaline thrill, the flexing of her mind and muscles to plan and win on a mission.
Out of the pavement, Mary digs her phone out of her handbag to call a minicab. She uses the waiting time to take the next step of her plan, scrolling down until she finds the right number.
"Hey there, kiddo. Fancy a drink? I'm dying to tell you all about the honeymoon—and some great news, too. What's your schedule tonight?"
"Oh, Mary! It's brill to hear from you. Got some news of my own to share. I'm stuck at my desk until seven thirty or eight. Himself is off to some marketing shindig; car's coming at seven. While he's hobnobbing with the great and good, I've got to put the final touches on the speech he'd giving tomorrow at the Director's Institute. No rest for the weary."
"How about I meet you downstairs in the lobby at eight? We can pop over to the Alchemist and I'll treat you."
"Not cooking for the hubby tonight then?"
Mary laughs. "Boys' night out, which means we can be naughty girls together."
"Great. My boy's gone AWOL again, I could do with some cheering up."
By six o'clock, Mary is a black-clad figure on the roof of the CAM building, waiting for the darkness to fall. Her access to the roof came courtesy of the company that provides the window cleaners for the skyscraper. A simple touchpad code punched into the service lift gets her up there, and then she locates the equipment house for the passenger lift that serves the top two floors—the private office and the London flat of the proprietor. When she breaks in and uses her torch to look down the shaft, Mary is relieved to see that the lift car is positioned at the office level. She hooks her cable to the fireman's access hook and rappels three meters down to the lift doors to the flat. She has gained weight since the last time she used this harness and it cuts into her thighs a bit painfully, so she is grateful that it takes only moments to tap into the electric sensor that needs to connect with its mate on the elevator car, allowing the doors to open only when the car is aligned with the doors. Fooling the sensor springs the doors open, she swings into the lobby. Gratefully unclipping herself, Mary then uses the same cable to jam the closing doors open, ready for her escape. Apart from the sound of the doors opening and closing there's been no noise to attract attention.
She knows from Janine's description of the office layout that the PA will be out of earshot some twenty feet below and almost the same distance to the left of the stairs, behind a set of doors, working away on her PC. It gives her all the time and space she needs.
The door from the lift lobby is not locked and yields to her touch on the handle. The grey, carpeted hall is dark, but there are lights on in one of the rooms. Mary draws the pistol she'd equipped with a silencer. She is not entirely sure that the flat is unoccupied; some sixth sense is warning her that CAM might well have decided to give the banquet a miss.
In one sense, it would be fortuitous if the man is still here; she could avoid wasting time and just threaten him until he hands the letters over. If he is as much a coward as Mycroft thinks, the gun should be enough to convince him. And if not, then maybe she will be able to find out why he'd sent the telegram to her wedding and then kill him if she doesn't like the answer. Getting rid of a blackmailer would be stepping outside of the brief that Mycroft had given her, but it could relieve a lot of people, herself included.
The door to the lounge is ajar, and she slips through, levelling her weapon at him. "On the floor. NOW."
Incredulous, the tall man drops the newspaper he'd been reading. "Who are you?"
"A concerned party, who wants some letters back."
Magnussen unfolds himself from the Scandi-style chrome and leather chair and slowly stands up. "They seem to be quite popular these days." His eyes are on the gun, and then move to her, scrutinising her in a way she doesn't like.
She flicks the gun as a gesture. "On your knees."
"Or what?"
"I will shoot you."
The first sign of fear slips into his glance. "People don't just shoot someone. Not English people."
"I do."
His confidence is wavering, and she decides to push the point home. "Actually, don't bother with the letters. It's too much trouble. If you're dead, you can't publish. I think it would probably please a lot of people to read your obituary in your papers. So, killing you is going to be a better solution to everyone's problems. On your knees, hands raised to your head."
Perhaps it is the nonchalance of her tone that convinces him. In any case, he drops to his knees and raises his hands. In a tremulous voice, he asks, "Who are you?"
She decides that it is time. Mary uses her right hand to pull the balaclava back up, revealing her face. "Someone you have never met before and still felt able to send a telegram to her wedding. You'll tell me why."
His eyes widen, and then he gives a tentative smile. "I was told to do it. By a mutual acquaintance of ours. You know him as Fyodr."
The name hangs in the air between them. Mary is only just able to keep her gun hand from the tremor that is shaking the muscles in her abdomen. Before she can ask another question, Magnussen continues. "I've been expecting you to come talk to me. Janine told me all about the exciting wedding. An attempted murder—what every best man should bring to a wedding."
"Fyodr… why would he tell you to send that telegram?"
"So, you would come talk to me and allow me to give you the second part of his message."
"I'm here. Tell me."
"He says you owe him a favour. One favour and you'll be free forever, Mrs Watson, to live your happy-ever-after with your doctor."
"How do I know it's the last one?"
"That's between you and him."
"What's the favour?"
"Kill Sherlock Holmes."
This time her gun hand trembles. "Why would I do that?"
"You're an assassin for hire, he told me; should be easy for you. Repay your debt or he will destroy you. Tell your husband and the world what a naughty girl you've been. So many names, so many deaths. And if you do use that gun on me, he will do the same—tell all, make your wedding story look tame in comparison. A bit embarrassing, don't you think?"
Anger flares; her panic fans the flames into rage. She closes the distance between her and Magnussen, and backhands him hard with the gun across his chin. He crumples and cowers, waiting for the second blow.
"What… what… what would your husband think, heh?"
Exactly. It is her every nightmare all rolled into one impossible situation. She can't kill him now. If she does, Hawking Man will destroy her. If she doesn't kill Sherlock, he'll do it anyway.
As her mind races trying to find a way out of this impossible situation, the Dane is grovelling, mewling in fear, "He… your lovely husband, upright, honourable… So English… What… what would he say to you, now?"
"I don't have to kill you. He wouldn't publish unless you're dead. Knowing Fyodr, he won't mind me hurting you so long as you're still alive." She needs to terrify him into silence, somehow breaking whatever relationship he has with Hawking Man. Maybe, if he really believes she will hurt him, she can find out more about why he would deliver this message for the man. It's a long shot, but maybe it will work.
She pulls the gun back to cock it and then resumes her stance.
The escalation frightens the man who cowers and lapses into Danish, crying, "Nej, nej!... You're–– you're doing this to protect him from the truth... but is this the kind of protection he would want?"
Mary never gets the chance to answer that question, because a baritone voice behind her comments, "Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood."
As she turns to face him, all Mary can think is Oh, Sherlock, you stupid, stupid boy.
Notes:
The credit for the dialogue between Mary and Magnussen in the penthouse flat has to be laid at ArianeDeVere's feet. Her transcript managed to capture what was almost unintelligible on screen in the broadcast episode. Inb my universe of stories Mycroft made a deal with Mary that he would not probe too deeply in her past, in exchange for her not standing in the way of John reconciling with Sherlock after his return from the hiatus. This was covered in my story Devonshire Squires (Chapter 15) and there is more about Mary's past and her parents in Magpie: One for Sorrow and in Magpie: Two For Joy