A/N: Warnings for really awful things Sherlock/Moriarty says to Mary, and thoughts of violence. Thanks for sticking with this twisted saga so far! All reviews received with gratitude and a great deal of pleasure on the author's part, always. :)
The buzzer rang, and Mary sighed, dropping her fashion magazine down on the coffee table before hauling herself to her feet. "Who is it?" she called as she neared the front door to her flat. She wasn't expecting anyone but John, and he had his own key. She hadn't heard from him since he'd dashed off an hour earlier, but trusted him to text or call as soon as he could. She just hoped everything was...all...right...
She'd reached the door and finally heard an answer to her question, which literally stopped her in her tracks, both physically and mentally. "It's Sherlock, Mary. We need to talk."
They needed...to talk. Mary felt her anger boiling over. After the hideous things he'd said about her at lunch, he had the nerve to show up on her doorstep and tell her they needed to talk?!
She yanked the door open and glared up at him, unintimidated by either his height or the haughty expression on his face. "You think we need to talk, Mr. Holmes?" she snapped out at him. "I think you've already said everything I ever want to hear from you. Ever!"
He ignored both her angry words and her combative stance, stepping around her uninvited to enter the flat. She gaped at him – the gall of that man, the sheer arrogance of assuming she would ever want him in her flat after the things he'd said!
Still, she shut the door and folded her arms tightly across her chest, some small, curious (and no doubt masochistic) part of her wondering what exactly he'd come here to say. Would he offer her an apology, an excuse, or try to justify himself in some way?
She should have known he'd do none of those things. Not after that contemptuous display at lunch, where he'd thrown her former marriage in her face ("She failed at it once, John, what makes you think she'll do better at it a second time, especially with someone who's waited until he reached his 40s to finally settle down?") along with her inability to bear children ("Do you really want a barren wife, John? She has told you that about herself, hasn't she?") and assorted lesser failings.
It hadn't made the hurt any less, knowing that none of this was news to John, but to hear such vitriol from a man her future husband (and he was going to be her future husband, she was determined on that) considered his best and closest friend – that had been something of a shock. Yes, she'd been braced for Sherlock to not like her, to say things that would make her uncomfortable, but she hadn't expected the man to apparently outright hate her.
"So, you're here," she said after a long moment passed in silence, with Sherlock simply standing in front of her sofa and scowling at her, arms crossed just as defensively as hers. "What do you want to talk about? How you're a jealous git who can't stand the idea of anyone taking John away from you?"
She'd meant that sarcastically, but stiffened when Sherlock's glower darkened, his eyes narrowed and his arms dropped to his sides, hands clenched in fists. He took two steps forward, three, until suddenly he was right in front of her, and where she hadn't been afraid before, suddenly she was. There was such an air of coiled, barely restrained violence about him, that she actually wondered if he was about to hit her.
As soon as he started speaking, she discovered she would have preferred physical blows to the emotional ones he rained down on her, one after the other, eating away at her (she'd believed) carefully hidden insecurities as to the true nature of his and John's relationship before Sherlock had faked his death. Before she'd met John and fallen in love with him.
Sherlock, it appeared, had done so first. "You think you can make him happy?" he snarled, his glare deadly enough to kill. "Yes, you helped him through a difficult period of his life, but I'm back now, Miss Morstan, and it won't be long before John gives you the speech. The one you've been subconsciously bracing yourself for ever since I returned. The 'it isn't you, it's me' speech. The 'I love you but I'm not in love with you' speech. The 'you can't possibly understand what he means to me' speech."
His sneer deepened with every word, and Mary found herself flinching a bit as he continued to invade her personal space until suddenly she realized she'd back up against the door with her hands pressed against it. "You do know that John and I were lovers before I was forced to sacrifice myself to save him, don't you? Oh, it took a while for him to get past the whole 'gay' thing, which is no doubt why he immediately turned to the first woman who would have him after he thought I died, but while we were together he lost every single inhibition he'd ever had."
Mary felt as if she couldn't breathe, as if the words spewing from Sherlock's mouth were stealing the breath from her. She opened her mouth to try and say something, although her mind was a complete blank, but Sherlock wouldn't stop, just kept going. "He let me suck him off, he fucked me and let me fuck him. I know him intimately, Miss Morstan, in ways you never will. I know what he likes, how to make him moan and scream. I've heard him calling out my name, begging for me to fuck him harder, tasted his cum and swallowed it down – but you don't do that, do you?" His voice lowered to a husky whisper as his lips turned up in a triumphant, malicious grin. "Good Catholic girls don't swallow, do they, Miss Morstan?"
She didn't know she was going to slap him until her hand was in the air. However, he was faster, reaching out to grab her wrist in a crushing hold before her hand could connect with his cheek. "Oh, no, Miss Morstan," he growled. "I let John hit me because he matters to me, whereas you mean," he leaned his head down so that his lips practically grazed her ear, "absolutely nothing to me. And even though he's denying it at the moment, John feels exactly the same way."
Then he pulled back, yanking her away from the door by the grip he'd maintained on her wrist. He only released her after he'd pulled the door open. Giving her one last, contemptuous sneer, he strode out of the door, leaving Mary gaping after him, stunned and, after a few minutes, weeping angry, hurt tears.
Not only because Sherlock had spewed out such venom to her...but because deep down, in her most secret self, she'd always been afraid that she'd just been fooling herself. That John would leave her for Sherlock, that he loved the other man more than he loved her.
oOo
Lestrade was next on his list, but Jim wasn't entirely sure he'd make it to the Detective Inspector's house before John came after him. By now Molly had no doubt shared her tearful story with him, tried to convince him that Sherlock was possessed – and been hustled off to a trauma center, where John would urge her to seek counseling as soon as possible, to help her cope with what had happened to her at the hands of a man she trusted. And no doubt the police would be after him as well, as an accused rapist. It was a gamble, going to Lestrade's house, but since he wasn't generally called in for sex crimes, it was a gamble Moriarty was willing to take.
His triumphant smirk turned to a snarl as he felt Sherlock howling his anger from deep inside the mental prison to which he'd been confined. Why couldn't he just accept his defeat gracefully? Just because he'd managed to temporarily best the great Jim Moriarty once didn't mean he'd ever manage to do it again! "Sorry, Sherly, but there's really nothing you can do about it," he murmured as he strode down the pavement, eyes scanning the street for a taxi. He had no intentions of either legging it or taking the Tube to Lestrade's house.
The grin reappeared as he went over his plans for the Detective Inspector, giving his prisoner a peek before slamming the lid down on his thoughts, isolating Sherlock from all outside stimulus. He needed to focus, not let the other man distract him from the plan. No, it was time to make a confession to DI Greg Lestrade, to have 'Sherlock Holmes' admit to fucking his friend's wife behind his back. "Sorry, Lestrade, I know I should have told you this a long time ago...yes, that sounds smug and regretful at the same time," Moriarty muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
Well. Not his hands, not entirely – and not for more than a day or two more. He looked down at Sherlock's hands, so much longer and, he could admit it, more elegant than his own had been. Paler, too, but looking quite lethal encased in those black leather gloves he favored.
He pictured those gloved hands wrapped around the throat of Sally Donovan, the woman who'd 'betrayed' Sherlock, ruined his life and forced him into a two-year exile, all because she was so easily lead into believing exactly what he, Jim Moriarty, had wanted her to believe.
"You'll like that part of the plan, Sherlock," he whispered to himself, then whistled and waved his hand as a taxi finally cruised by. That'll be the last bit, killing that bitch. Everyone will believe you did it because she accused you of being the kidnapper of those two brats. They'll call it payback or revenge, but either way, Sally Donovan will be D-E-A-D dead. And after that, well, we won't actually need to do anything further to John or your landlady, will we? They'll believe that you went completely bonkers, lost your mind, and killed yourself for real. John will be a mess, don't you think? Drowning in guilt and anger...I wonder how long it'll take him to off himself, hm? Too bad you'll already be dead by the time he does!
Silence echoed through his mind as the cab pulled up beside him, and Moriarty frowned; he disliked Sherlock not responding when given permission to do so almost more than he disliked Sherlock managing a reaction on his own. He got into the cab, absently gave the driver the directions to Lestrade's residence, then sank back in the seat, eyes closed, as he hunted down Sherlock's essence, enraged that the other man sought to hide from him. What the hell do you think you're doing, Sherlock?
No response. He started to growl with frustration, remembering at the last moment that it wasn't time for others to see the supposed cracks in the great detective's facade. Not yet. Not until he'd had his fun with Lestrade – who was probably going to punch him much harder than John had after lunch – and squeezed the life out of Sally Donovan and made a threatening phone call to that idiot, Anderson. After that, yes, it would be perfectly wonderful for as many people as possible to witness Sherlock's 'breakdown', and of course he wanted an audience for the final act.
This time, no fake outs, no pliable, pathetic pathologist to help him. Sherlock's reputation would be smashed to pieces, the man would be dead, and no one would be willing or able to believe in him. Not this time.
"Time to burn a few more bridges," he whispered, frowning again when there was still no answer, not so much as the hint of an emotional reaction from his prisoner. Where the hell had he hidden himself away, and how had he learned to do so? None of Moriarty's other victims had been able to so much as blink without him letting them do it, but then, none of his other victims had been Sherlock Holmes.
His frown vanished, replaced by a gleeful smile. He very nearly laughed out loud; he was actually quite pleased that Sherlock was making things more difficult for him. The game is on, he thought, directing the words throughout the mind he'd usurped, knowing that, even if Sherlock wasn't reacting or allowing his reactions to be felt, he was still hearing everything Jim wanted him to.
After all, it wasn't as if Sherlock could leave the prison of his own mind.
Could he?
A tendril of doubt curled through his mind as he tightened his focus, searching for any sign of Sherlock Holmes. If the man had somehow found a way to remove himself from the prison of her own mind – and body – then Moriarty needed to know. Cursing silently to himself, he continued the hunt while the oblivious cabbie drove on.