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Stirrings
Mary. Of all people, he had to run into bloody Mary.
Sherlock knew how unfair it was to nickname her after an infamous queen, but given her regal gait and strength of mind, it just fit.
And as persistent as any queen she was, standing in the middle of the corridor, blocking his path. This was no accident – she had tracked him down, and there was no way to avoid her short of a scuffle. He couldn't risk that, last time had ended badly. The Indian silk shawl draped around her throat and shoulders was proof of that, hiding the bruises his hands had left on her skin.
"You're a hard man to catch, Mr Holmes," she said with raised eyebrows, her voice still barely above a whisper. "I've tried to contact you several times, but all I get is silence."
He forced his face into a noncommittal smile. "Well, we're all busy these days." He tried to brush past her, but she simply planted herself in front of him.
"Don't give me that." She was clearly unfazed.
Sherlock looked at her askance. "Give you what?"
"That fake smile."
"You shouldn't be talking yet, too much strain for your voice," he quipped, and meant it.
"I couldn't care less," she drawled, letting her eyes roam all over him, surprisingly similar to his own deductive stare.
He straightened imperceptibly. "What do you want?"
She gave him a long look, assessing him, he realized, and making no secret of it. Dear me, he thought, I wonder whether John's ever the object of this cold gaze too or was she all sweet with him?
"I'm a university teacher, Mr Holmes," she smirked. "You learn to face down people. Doesn't mean I'm a cold person."
For once, he didn't know what to say – so he just shrugged.
"I know it takes more to impress you," she said with a slight smile. "But I don't mean to anyway."
He tried aggressive. "Then what do you want? Are you here to berate me for almost killing you?"
"What would be the point?" She sounded genuinely surprised.
"None."
"Right." She folded her arms, giving him another long look, her eyes a bit softer this time. Finally, she relaxed her stance. "I know you hate to be kept waiting so I'll be brief. I want you to know two things."
"And those are?" he asked in a fake-friendly tone.
She rolled her eyes. "First: I'm not your enemy. Second: I love John for the same reasons as you do, so we have the same priorities. John will only be truly happy when his friendship with you is mended. He needs you as much as you need him, and don't try to protest, that's stupid."
He shut his mouth, noticing to his own surprise that he was not annoyed, but rather taken aback.
"It's plain logic and simple selfishness on my side," she moved a step forward, looking him directly in the eyes. "I'm happy when John is happy; John's happy when his world is in order, and that world firmly revolves around me – and you."
He blinked. "Good. Fine. So what?"
"So you don't run off and get yourself killed," she snapped, and it sounded like a menace.
"Who says I do?" He tried to make it sound light.
"It's written all over you," she drawled. "I may not have your deductive skills, Mr Holmes, nor your brilliant logic, but I'm good at reading emotions. You can fool everyone, even your horribly perceptive brother, but you can't fool me. I know a walking suicide when I see it. Takes one to know one."
"Oh." He wanted to sound amused but to his annoyance, it came out dismayed instead.
"You know you can't put John through this again," she said, and suddenly, stepping closer, she snarled, "and don't you rely on me to comfort him in his misery!"
He barely managed to stop himself from flinching in surprise – she had worked it out. Bloody Mary all right …
She stepped back again, her voice perfectly non-committal. "Your brother has explained to me why you felt it necessary to fake John's death. I understand, and I agree with your plan, even if your brother seems to think you're delusional."
He baulked at the revelation. Mycroft had told her he thought him delusional?
At his look of indignant surprise, she added, "No, Mr Holmes did not mention anything like that to me – as I said, I'm good at reading emotions, and as much as he tried to make you seem rational, he clearly believes you are about to lose your mind. Since I neither know you nor your brother, it's hard to decide which one of you is wrong, and whether Moriarty is dead or alive. But as long as there is the slightest chance that this lunatic is still around, I want the best possible protection for John, and I will play the broken-hearted widow with fervour. Shouldn't come too hard." Her phone buzzed. She looked at it and muttered, "He's waking up, I better be going."
Feeling slightly stunned, Sherlock was about to turn away when her hand reached out – he tensed but she stopped herself abruptly before touching his elbow. "Sorry," she muttered. "I almost forgot. You don't like to be touched." With a crooked smile, she added, "By the way, I've poured a bottle of perfume worth several hundred pounds down the toilet because of you. Just so that you know."
Sherlock looked at her sharply. "Mycroft told you about the perfume."
She almost said obviously, but stopped herself in time, settling for a simple "Yes."
"I told him this in confidence," he growled.
"And he thought it's important that I know," she retorted.
"What else do you know?" he asked calmly, but she certainly sensed the underlying threat in it.
"Nothing beyond that," she said truthfully, "but I have a vivid imagination, Mr Holmes. I know what causes PTSD."
"Undoubtedly." It was said in a flat tone, but the anger he had felt moments ago was gone.
"Just one more thing, Mr Holmes." She gave him another long look, but this time her eyes were soft and warm, and he suddenly understood why John had fallen for her instantly. "A bit of advice. From my own experience, for what it's worth." She gave him a lopsided smile, waiting for him to either listen or dismiss her.
He just stood, watching her, vigilant like a big cat.
Mary closed her eyes briefly. "You don't have to carry this burden alone, Mr Holmes. That's what friends are for." With that, she stepped aside to let him pass.
He was careful not to betray any emotions as he walked past her. But suddenly, he stopped, and to his own surprise, he said in his deep, warm voice, "Please, call me Sherlock."
"Will do." Her face lit up in a radiant smile, and as Sherlock walked away, he felt her gaze on him, sending a tingling sensation down his spine.
He kept his step light and his back straight.
John wanted to shoot the camel. Those foul-tempered ships of the Afghan desert were nothing but trouble, biting, bucking, and kicking, and by the way his chest felt, one of the bastards had decided to sit on him. Ah, no, he remembered being thrown backwards, so the beast had lashed out, hitting him squarely in the chest.
He wondered whether roast camel really tasted as bad as they said – maybe he should find out.
Then his hearing came back and he instantly knew he was not in Afghanistan. This was a quiet room, faint traffic noise from the street, the smell of disinfectant. Someone was holding his hand, rubbing a thumb soothingly over his knuckles.
And then the memory hit him as hard as a camel's foot.
His eyes flew open, and gasping for air, he tried to jump up. Everything was a blur, and this was not a very intelligent reaction given that he had been shot, his doctor's mind reproached him, and sure as hell, his body was aching all over. The soothing hand was now tugging urgently at his arm, and someone was pressing him back down on the bed.
"John, calm down, it's all right."
Mary. Sensible and comforting. Her hand lightly squeezing his shoulder.
John blinked and willed the fog clouding his vision to go away. Finally, Mary's face came into view. She looked down on him and smiled, looking – what, sad? Sad, definitely. Not horrified or anxious, and she hadn't been crying. Suddenly the memories came rushing back at him, the journalists, the noise, the shots – him falling, and blood and Sherlock –
"Oh my God!" He jerked up again, staring down at his own body. A hospital blanket, dull green; no IV-lines, no bandages, and he was wearing his own clothes. Yet, his mouth tasted as if he had chewed a mouldy piece of bread – definitely anaesthesia, then. What for, if he wasn't really injured?
"You're okay, John, apart from a bump on your head and some bruised ribs," Mary soothed him.
Mycroft's smooth voice sounded from the corner of the room. "Everything went according to plan, John."
"Plan?" John blinked. "What plan? What the hell is going on?" he barked, barely suppressed anger threatening to break through any moment. He looked from Mary to Mycroft. "And where is Sherlock, that lying bastard? He did this, didn't he?"
Mycroft walked over to his bedside and sat down on a chair. "Sherlock insisted on this course of action."
John stared at Mycroft defiantly. "Why?"
"To protect you," Mary said appeasingly, eliciting a surprised look from Mycroft, who had been about to reply.
"Protect me. Again," John snorted. "Nearly scaring me to death seems to be a hobby of his. And how come you know all about it?" He looked at Mary, a deep frown on his face.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, I didn't know anything until it was over. By the way, I got hold of Sherlock a few moments ago – finally."
"And he's still alive and in one piece?" John quipped.
Mary smiled pleasantly. "Certainly."
"So, how did it go, that first chat between my wife and my best friend? Cups and saucers flying?"
"No green-eyed monsters pacing and no dishes smashed," she answered smoothly.
"Green-eyed monsters?" John looked at her in confusion, noticing Mycroft rolling his eyes.
"Jealousy. Shakespeare." Mary winked at him.
John squirmed. "Um. Never been one for literature. So, how did you two get along?" He looked at her anxiously.
"Fine," Mary said. "After a bit of chiding, he seemed to warm to me. We've reached some sort of unspoken understanding."
"Oh-kay," John looked bemused. "And why exactly did he feel the need to shoot me?"
Mycroft opened his mouth, but Mary interrupted, "Technically, he didn't shoot you, John, the vest was rigged with explosives and fake blood. Still dangerous, admittedly, but it was necessary. You're dead, by the way."
Mycroft blinked and frowned. John did the same. "You know Mary, sometimes I wonder what my life will be like with two Sherlocks in it."
"Better, of course," she answered smiling sweetly, "I come in where he's lacking."
"And what's that?"
"You have fabulous sex with me."
John laughed out loud, flinching in pain instantly; Mycroft hurriedly closed his mouth, realizing it had been hanging open.
John was abruptly serious again. "Why this ruse? And did you get Moran? Or was that faked, too?"
"Moran is very real indeed," Mycroft slipped back into his customary coolness effortlessly. "And we apprehended him, yes. He's being interrogated by my people now, and there's a queue of other interested parties waiting for their chance to have a word with him."
"So, back to my first question, then," John looked at him stony-face. "What is this all about?"
For a moment, neither spoke. John's gaze moved from Mycroft to Mary and back, getting the eerie feeling that these two had a silent agreement how to play him.
In the end it was Mary who said, "Sherlock believes Moriarty is alive. He has come to lure him out and finish him once and for all."
John gaped, then groaned and let his head fall back into the pillows. "So he's shutting me out again." He gave Mycroft a withering look. "And you went along with it. You should know better, Mycroft! Without me, he's even more reckless!"
"I am aware of that John, but there was no negotiating with him unless he was absolutely certain of your safety. It was the price for his cooperation, otherwise he would not agree on accepting help for his mental problems."
"Oh God," John groaned. "Of course. So what are going to do? Lock me away as dead?"
The silence that followed was answer enough. John scoffed. "You can't be serious, Mycroft – and you can't let Sherlock run around on his own. Not with Moriarty out there."
Mycroft stiffened visibly. "You believe him."
"What?" John looked at him in confusion. "You don't?"
"No," he said softly. "I am certain that Moriarty is dead."
"Then why does Sherlock believe he's alive?" John sounded practical, but a deep frown appeared on his forehead.
Mycroft took a deep breath. "John, Sherlock–" he hesitated and seemed to rephrase his explanation – a first in Mycroft's case, John noted with satisfaction.
Mycroft continued, "Sherlock has undergone a dramatic personality change during the hiatus, as he calls this period of his absence. He was alone most of the time, as far as I know, and his work required … certain actions that have disturbed him deeply. My brother has always had a fragile mind, John, not to mention his history of addiction. Some of the experiences of the past three years left him, how can I say – mentally unstable."
John snorted. "Yes, thank you, Mycroft, you've told me before. I'm not that dumb that I need constant repeating. So, he has killed and he was tortured, I know what PTSD looks like. No need to beat about the bush. But why the hell do you think he's gone crazy?"
Mycroft blinked, momentarily too stunned to reply. "Well, John, you make it sound …"
"… a lot less dramatic, yes." John raised his brows. "I'm neither downplaying nor underestimating what happened to Sherlock, Mycroft, even without knowing what exactly happened – but you obviously think he's delusional and obsessed, and I don't see the link there. Being traumatized does not necessarily entail insanity – thank God. The world would be teeming with maniacs."
Mycroft quickly regained his composure. "Sherlock believes Moriarty is alive, but Moriarty is definitely dead."
"Then why is Sherlock convinced he's alive?"
"That is the point, doctor. He has no reason to believe it."
"He must have."
"Your faith in him is … endearing."
They looked at each other for a long time. Then John suddenly burst out, "Oh God, you haven't even asked him, have you? How exactly he got the idea that Moriarty is alive? You didn't even listen."
Mycroft took his time to answer. "Sherlock's reasoning is that Moriarty has planned it all out to this point, faking his death on the top of St. Bart's, allowing Sherlock to hunt down the snipers and destroy large parts of his network, even selling him to the Americans to capture and torture him."
"Sounds a bit far fetched." John flinched. "So, Moriarty never believed Sherlock killed himself?"
"According to Sherlock, he did, but realized soon enough that he was in fact alive. Moriarty then decided to start a new game."
"Including Sherlock's return?"
"All planned with the ultimate goal to make Sherlock seem delusional, resulting in everyone losing faith in him."
John pursed his lips. "And ending in him breaking down and losing his mind. Makes sense – sort of." John looked at Mycroft. "What did you say to him?"
Mycroft frowned, then replied in a low voice, "John, there is no way to prove or disprove Sherlock's reasoning. He himself called it the invisible man in the garden."
John looked away and considered the situation. When he turned back to them, he looked at Mary first. "What do you make of it? What impression did you have of Sherlock?"
Mary frowned and thought about it. "I don't know him, John. I have no way of comparing the Sherlock I met with the friend you know. He's certainly obsessed." She thought about it a bit longer, than shook her head.
"What's your gut feeling, Mary? Do you think Sherlock's delusional?" John asked, trust written in his face.
She smiled, looking apologetically at Mycroft. "Reasoning is on your side, Mr Holmes, definitely. But no, I do not think Sherlock's delusional. He may be wrong, but not mad."
"He tried to strangle you, Mrs Watson," Mycroft replied mildly.
"Well, yes," Mary rolled her eyes. "We started off on the wrong foot, but the circumstances were rather unusual. And I did threaten him with a gun." She smirked.
"Okay," John interjected, "but what's your plan, Mycroft?"
Mycroft drew a deep breath. "First of all, we will make your death public," he nodded at Mary, "Your wife will attend the press conference, convincing the world of your demise, in–" he looked at his pocket watch, "one hour." He gave a tight-lipped smile. "Then I will make Sherlock realize that Moriarty is indeed dead."
"How?" John raised his brows.
"By proving him wrong," Mycroft stated flatly. "Sherlock has arranged a situation which he believes will result in Moriarty revealing himself. I agreed to the plan, though the outcome will of course be that no such revelation takes place. The invisible man remains invisible."
"And what do I do in the meantime?"
"You and Mary will both be taken to a safe place. And before you ask: I do not want you to know any more details, just in case you feel obliged to interfere."
Mary reached out and caught John's hand, squeezing it placatingly. John quenched his anger and finally bit out between clenched teeth, "Mycroft, have you at all considered – I mean, just considered – that Sherlock might be right? You do have a contingency plan, don't you?"
Mycroft looked troubled for a split second. "John, Moriarty is definitely dead. We had his corpse on a slab. And the contingency plan is to arrest Moriarty should he appear. Which he will not."
"Hm." John shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first faked death."
"We made absolutely sure, John."
"I'm sure you did Mycroft. But there's something else bugging me."
Mycroft raised his brows in question.
"Moran."
"What about him?"
"I told you I made my own enquiries. You said Moran wanted to take Moriarty's place."
Mycroft tilted his head to one side.
"No way," John simply said. "He's a sniper, not a schemer. Granted, he wanted to finish the job, and he held the rank of a colonel before he left the army, so he knows how to command people and run difficult operations – but Moriarty's business? That's not his cup of tea. Someone else set up this sham with the mole in your team, the red herring sniper, and Moran as bait."
"I think you underestimate the colonel, John. And he would not be the first man who's ambition exceeds his abilities. It is very common indeed," Mycroft sneered. Sighing, he added, "John, do you seriously believe Moriarty is alive, after three years and not a single piece of evidence indicating it?"
John pouted his lips. "To be absolutely honest: no. I think it's too unlikely. But remember, we're talking about Moriarty. Nothing's impossible with him. However, Sherlock's not mad and caution dictates that you take him seriously."
"I know my brother better than you do, John."
"Do you?" John gave him a hard look.
"How much do you know about his childhood?" Mycroft asked sweetly.
"Next to nothing."
"There."
They stared at each other in silence. Finally, Mycroft got to his feet. "I regret to say it's not Sherlock's first episode of paranoia and delusion." He gave a false smile and walked to the door. Before leaving, he casually added, "John, please get ready to be moved in a few minutes. Mrs Watson, we'll meet at the press conference. Thank you."
Mary and John both scowled as the door closed.