After parting with Molly – the doctor trying her hardest to offer some comforting words to her downhearted and irascible friend – Marie finally climbed out of her cab and stormed into the manor-like building.
Easily by-passing security by giving her name – that bastard must have been watching her – Marie stalked her way deeper inside before throwing open the office door and glaring wrathfully inside.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, my dear sister?" Mycroft asked, brows raised though he didn't look the slightest bit surprised.
Neither was Marie in any mood to entertain him as she demanded, cutting right to the chase: "I need answers."
"Only if you tell me what you have been up to the last month." Mycroft returned, straightening up in his chair.
"I was at your parents' house." Marie reminded him impatiently, but Mycroft scoffed: "Now, dear, you know I'm better than that. I know you have periodically left the house, sometimes for extended days. And unlike my parents, I know you haven't been visiting Sherlock."
"It's none of your business." Marie replied testily, and Mycroft cocked a eyebrow.
"Clearly it's not an affair – despite the new placement of your ring, I know you are loyal to Sherlock and he to you." Mycroft deduced, glancing at the wedding ring around her neck.
"That also means you know what he is up to – I highly doubt it was an impulsive decision brought on by drugs, that had my brother accusing Mr. Smith of being a serial killer… though I suspect you won't share those plans with me."
"Sherlock's business is his own." Marie answered a little coldly. "And, family or not, my business is certainly not yours, Mycroft."
Mycroft's lip curled slightly at the word 'family' but he ignored it for now as he settled back in his chair.
"Very well – I shall listen to your questions." He said almost boredly. "But remember, sister dear," he leveled a look at her, "I shall choose if, and which, to answer. And they will not come free."
"We can negotiate later." Marie dismissed, though her eyes were fixed on him sharply and Mycroft knew she would attempt to deduce whatever she could from his reactions to her questions. Well, he wouldn't satisfy her-
"Is Sherrinford secure?"
Mycroft frowned, despite his will, at Marie's abrupt question.
"Why do you ask?" He returned slowly, carefully. That was the second time someone had asked him that – and unlike Lady Smallwood, Marie would only ask this if she suspected something.
Marie shrugged non-committedly as she replied: "I asked first."
Mycroft steepled his fingers, looking uncannily like his brother as he examined her from over his clasped hands.
"Sherrinford is secure." He answered at last, only to raised a brow as Marie fired back swiftly: "Are you certain?"
"What is it you suspect?" He asked at last, leaning forward, and Marie pursed her lips.
"We had a deal." Mycroft reminded her as he saw her hesitation. "I swore to uphold my end – naturally, you must uphold your own as well."
Marie gazed at him silently, weighing her options for a moment.
"There was something Sherlock said, between arguing, when I saw him earlier today." She explained at last, speaking slowly and thoughtfully.
Mycroft cocked his head, silently asking for more detail, and Marie explained: "He said he'd met Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith Smith. But something doesn't seem right about his story."
"Such as?" Mycroft prompted, and Marie paused.
"He said," she revealed rather reluctantly, "Sherlock said that the woman 'disappeared'. She didn't leave, she disappeared."
Mycroft pursed his lips, as Marie continued; "That was the night you called me about Sherlock's little trip outdoors – and you apparently had no idea who he was with that night."
"How do you know that?" Mycroft enquired, and Marie snorted.
"Seriously?" She asked, raising her brows at her brother-in-law. "You wouldn't have been so worried if you knew who he'd been with that night. You also would have mentioned it to me if you knew. Thus, conclusion: you didn't know, you didn't have a visual."
She paused before adding with a shrug: "Maybe that means Sherlock was high and imagined the whole encounter – but it could also mean something else."
She gave Mycroft a meaningful look, and Mycroft exhaled sharply.
"Sherrinford is secure." Mycroft stated coldly, staring Marie right in the eye. "I guarantee it."
"Well then, let's hope for both of our sake's that you're right." Marie retorted, her green eyes narrowed just slightly.
Mycroft just gazed back at her coolly.
"Is that all?" He queried, and Marie shook her head.
"I need information." Marie explained. "About a certain therapist…"
At that, Mycroft's eyebrows rose once more.
"And what are you willing to exchange for your request this time?" He countered, and Marie's lip curled into a sneer, even as she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to answer.
Marie walked slowly into 221B Baker Street, taking in the mess. And she didn't mean the usual chaos that was generally her home.
Taped and strung from every inch of wall space that Sherlock had clearly been able to get his hands on, were pictures of Culverton Smith. Honestly, Marie wasn't sure if she should be glad he at least had the energy and sense to do it, or if she should be worried by the way many were crumpled and thrown down in clearly fitful rage…
She sighed.
The kitchen was also in a terrible mess of chemistry tools and drugs strewn across the tabletop. It was probably a good thing she'd had Greg agree not to come by since Mary's death – the DI didn't need to be placed in the awkward position of either being a police officer who overlooked illegal drugs or of arresting Sherlock Holmes.
Taking a deep breath – and immediately wincing as she inhaled the rancid smell of the flat – Marie rolled up her shirt sleeves. Time to clean up at least part of Sherlock's mess. If everything went according to his stupid plan, he wouldn't need those packets of cocaine after tonight… and it would give Marie grim pleasure to flush down every last particle of the damned things.
It was about four hours later that Marie got the call she had been secretly hoping would never come.
But she and Sherlock were rarely ever wrong, and it seemed this wasn't one of those rare times.
Marie quickly ran to catch a cab to Scotland Yard, quietly scolding herself for having taken and then dumped Mycroft's car earlier that afternoon. It had been petty satisfaction to race Mycroft's expensive car – and to swear at him with it, that had been the highlight of her day – but it meant her car was unfortunately still at the Holmes cottage.
'What was it that Confucius said again?' Marie thought regretfully to herself. ''Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves'. It looks like that might just come to bite me.'
Unfortunately, it appeared that the extra grave would be for the younger Holmes sibling, Marie noted grimly as she stared at the news report that had just been released.
'Net Detective physically assaults Culverton Smith, after accusing the philanthropist of being a serial killer.' The headline screamed. Countless news stories were trending below, and Marie clicked on the BBC broadcast clip with a grim expression, watching as the news announcer stated: "Harold Chorley reporting earlier today. Mr. Smith stated he had no interest in bringing charges."
The news then cut to footage of an interview with Culverton Smith himself, standing in what appeared to a mortuary as he said to the news reporter: "I'm a fan of Sherlock Holmes. I'm a big fan."
Marie's lips curled in a mix of a snarl and a sneer, but she watched silently as the man continued, apparently sincerely: "I don't really know what happened today. To be honest, I don't think I'd be standing here now if it wasn't for Dr. Watson."
The reporter then asked, offscreen: "Is it true he's being treated in your hospital?"
Smith smiled, and though it was supposed to look cheerful the smile reminded Marie of a shark's smile – a benign smile that belied the imminent attack.
"It's not actually my hospital..." Smith was saying in response to the reporter's question, before adding with a small laugh: "Well, it is a little bit my hospital; uh, but I can promise you this: he's going to get the best of care. I might even move him to my favourite room."
The man smiled again, and Marie's jaw clenched. Yes – his favourite room indeed. If the man wasn't careful, he would earn himself a permanent spot in his favourite room, too; as much as Marie hated Sherlock at the moment, she also loved him. And no-one hurt Victoire Marie's husband and got away with it. No-one.
Finally reaching the police station, Marie quickly paid her cab – asking the cabbie to wait ten minutes in case she came back out quickly – before striding into the station. No-one stopped her as she stalked towards the police interview room – clearly, they all recognized her and were staying well away from the wife of Scotland Yard's favourite sociopath.
Marie strode into the only occupied interview room in the hallway, throwing open the door and walking towards the extremely tired-looking Lestrade inside.
"Marie." He greeted when he looked up to see it was her, and Marie returned shortly: "Greg."
Fixing him with her keen gaze, she asked bluntly: "What exactly happened."
Lestrade sighed before he explained grimly: "Sherlock wielded a scalpel at Culverton Smith; to be honest, I'd say it was probably all thanks to those substances he abused." He gave her a pointed look. "From the recording we got from the security mic kept in the hospital mortuary, it seemed like Sherlock was as surprised by the scalpel in his hands as anyone else. He was even accusing Smith of having swiped the scalpel at the time before realizing it was in his hand."
"God." Marie muttered, while Lestrade gave her a sympathetic look.
"Yeah." Lestrade agreed, but Marie pushed on: "And?"
"Well," Lestrade sighed, "Sherlock was completely off his rocker, that's what. He started – or rather, continued, I should say – to shout and accuse Smith, and I have to say he sounded absolutely raving crazy. If I didn't know better, I'd have even said he was a psychopath."
Marie winced slightly, and Lestrade quickly moved on.
"John eventually stopped Sherlock." Lestrade finished. "He, er…"
Lestrade trailed off apologetically, but Marie continued flatly: "Go on, Greg – don't worry, I can handle gory details."
"I'm sure you can." Lestrade muttered under his breath before he said in a louder voice: "John stopped Sherlock, forcefully. He cracked too, if you ask me – caved into his own pent up emotions. He punched Sherlock, harder and more times than he'd admit, I'd say. From the reports I got, he apparently broke Sherlock's nose and cracked a rib."
"A rib?" Marie repeated, brows furrowing, and Lestrade nodded.
"Listen, Marie-" Lestrade began, but Marie abruptly turned.
"Thank you, Greg." She said quickly as she stared back out the door. "I've got to go; I'll explain later."
"Hang on, Marie!" Lestrade called, but Marie was already gone.
"221B Baker Street." She said quickly to the cabbie, who had been waiting for her. "And quickly, please."
The cabbie started driving immediately, and Marie watched the London streets blur by as the cab sped through the streets. She'd known it had to come to this, but even so… she'd hoped against hope.
But they were all human in the end, John most of all. And as bitter as it was afterward, no call was sweeter than that of revenge.
Two graves indeed; if Marie didn't get to John in time, Sherlock would be as good as a goner. And more than anyone else, that would kill John, too, in the end.
Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital
John stood hunched and staring at the hospital bed while the heart monitor slowly beeped, the somewhat concerningly slow noise the only sound in the otherwise silent room. On the bed, Sherlock lay attached to a drip, passed out from pain, exhaustion, and a low level of drug overdose.
The door clicked open and a nurse – Nurse Cornish, whom he and Sherlock had briefly met earlier that day at the hospital, before Culverton Smith's voluntary speech to the children – stepped in.
"Oh, hi." She greeted John warmly, clearly remembering him, and John barely even looked at the woman let alone responded. "Just in to say hello?"
"No." John answered flatly, staring at Sherlock. "I'm just in to say goodbye."
"Oh, I'm sure he'll pull through." Nurse Cornish reassured, looking at Sherlock. "And yeah, he's made a terrible mess of himself, but he's awfully strong, so must look on the bright side."
She smiled kindly as she walked to the other side of the bed, checking all the stats. John remained a few paces away from the foot of the bed, before he finally cleared his throat. He straightened up from what he'd been leaning on, and walked to the side of the room as he muttered: "Well…"
John placed his old walking stick, the one he hadn't had to use since the second day he'd met Sherlock all those years ago, gently against the chair beside Sherlock's bed.
"Parting gift." He murmured as he left the grey stick, handle tucked on the back of the chair to keep it in place, while Nurse Cornish smiled as she said: "Oh, that's nice. A walking stick."
"Yeah, it was mine," John explained shortly, "from... a long time ago."
He winced just slightly as he tried not to think about it – why he'd had the walking stick, why he'd stopped using it… why he'd subconsciously kept it. Absently, he remembered that Marie had never seen him use the thing before – she'd come into his life after that. Well, now she and Sherlock could leave his life just as this useless cane was going to.
John turned and walked out, just as the phone began to ring on the bedside table. Nurse Cornish answered it as John made to leave the room, but he turned back in surprise as Nurse Cornish called: "Oh, uh, Doctor Watson?"
John paused, peering back into the room as he asked questioningly: "Hm?"
"It's for you." Nurse Cornish explained, causing John to frown before his expression cleared of confusion and instead flooded with annoyance.
Letting out an exasperated noise from the back of his throat, John walked back into the room to take the phone Nurse Cornish was offering to him, answering flatly: "Hello, Mycroft."
"There's a car downstairs." The elder Holmes brother stated flatly, as if that was all the explanation he needed to give. And, truthfully, it was.
