The sitting room in 221B Baker street was dark when she arrived. John was sitting in his chair. The only lamp lit was the round one that glowed like the moon. It was as if she had gone back in time. This was the old John, the John she had first met in the surgery. The John missing Sherlock.
"Hello Mary," he said without turning his head. "Why are you here?"
"I came to see my husband," Mary said. "How is Sherlock?"
John frowned, his profile sharp with shadows as he spat out, "As if you care."
"Just making conversation."
"Then I'll ask again, why are you here?"
"John, why won't you come home?"
"Do you have to ask?"
"It appears so."
He turned to face her then. His features hard, his voice filled with anger. "If you must know, Sherlock is in a coma. All that running around in a damp house, all that talking. It was too much for a man so recently in critical condition. I should have known. I should have taken him back to the hospital the moment I first saw him, but I let him talk me into that….exhibition because I didn't trust his word above yours. And my foolishness, nearly cost him his life. It has very likely cost him his mind, because they think that he may never wake up. I just came back from the hospital for a shower and a shave. I'm supposed to get some rest, but for some reason, I can't sleep. So can you understand now why i haven't come home? Do you have an inkling why I won't leave the sickbed of my best friend to lie down beside the woman who shot him?
"But I suppose you're right. I did marry you. You are my wife, so I should at least be civil. So tell me, Mrs Watson, how was your day?"
Mary walked forward putting her body between John and the lamp. Then she said "I lost the baby."
John jumped to his feet. "Oh God, when?"
"This morning, in the bath."
"No one told me."
"No one else knows. It was very sudden."
"Oh Mary," he said voice full of compassion as he rushed toward her. He reached for her, but she put out a hand to stop him. "You should have called. You should be in hospital. If you lost her this morning, you could start bleeding again. Let me take a look at you."
"No."
She thrust a large envelope into his hands.
"What is this?"
"Divorce papers signed by Mary Morstan Watson. I'm sure that you can get a lawyer to file them for you. Try Sherlock's brother. He seems to be good with legal things. "
"But why?"
"Do you have to ask? You said it yourself. I shot your best friend. I married you under false pretenses. You have no plans to come back to me. Do you seriously think that we could just put this all behind us?"
"But Mary..."
"That child has never been more than a burden to you. Something that kept you bound in a lifeless marriage, and now that she's gone, there's nothing left to hold you."
John took the package, and dropped it to the floor. Then he stepped forward and touched her shoulder. "But Mary, the baby. I'm sorry," John pulled her into a hug. "I'm so sorry," he whispered," I loved her too."
Something inside Mary broke then. She collapsed against John and began to cry. John held her tightly, rocking her slowly as she clutched his jumper, her fingers digging into it as tears flowed down her cheeks.
John was still who he had always been, a kind man, a loving man. Despite knowing who she was, despite knowing what she'd done, he cared about her feelings. Even though he was worried sick about Sherlock, he'd spared a moment's compassion for her. She cried for the loss of their life together. The life that they might have had if only she had been honest from the start. She lifted her head and felt the slide of his skin against her cheek. She knew then that this was what love felt like. She loved John Watson, and it was horrible.
"Come away with me," she said. "We can start again. I have connections, contacts, they can get us to a safe place. We can make a new life, just you and I. We can have children somewhere that no one can harm us."
"No," John said.
"Why not?"
"Sherlock," he said as if that answered everything, and in a way it did.
Mary stepped back, and for a moment they just stared at each other. Then she turned away, and walked out of the room.
"Goodbye, Mary," John said. She looked back once into eyes black as the midnight seas, but she didn't trust herself to say anything. She left by Sherlock's window into the darkness of the alley. Then she headed off toward the river.
She had only gone three blocks when she noticed the person following her, a tall man in a brown leather coat who had copied her twisting path away from Baker street. She tried not to be conspicuous as she rushed past people who were enjoying the start of their weekend. The man put his hand into his pocket, a pocket large enough to hold a good sized hand gun.
She rushed across the street then, horns blaring behind her as she darted into an alley. The loud sound of horns announced that he was running after her now. She picked up speed and turned onto another street and into another alley. She could hear the sound of footsteps. Soon he would reach the alley, and she would be in his line of sight. Their was no cover, but she was almost at the street. If she could only get to the next corner.
A black car pulled up in front of her and skidded to a stop. A door opened and a woman leaned out.
"Get in!" she yelled.
Mary dived into the car, closing the door just as a bullet bounced off of the window. She turned to look at the man in the brown coat. His face distorted by the fractured rays of the shattered glass that had stopped the bullet aimed directly at her head. The car sped away.
She was taken to a place with grey walls, and mirrors that were surely one way glass. She exchanged her catsuit and corset for a t-shirt and trousers. Hard tables, hard beds. It wasn't a prisons because prisons had records. There were clocks here to mark out time served and time until release. In here there was no time, and if she went missing, no one would know about it.
