Necessary Faith
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 4 - Come play, Bloody Mary
Rating: PG-13
Posted: April 20, 2012
December 15th is the death anniversary of Mary's fiancé. Mary is carrying a bouquet in one arm, and her other arm is linked with John's. The headstone they approach is made of white granite. Much like Sherlock's, there is no epitaph; just a name, William Lamont, and the years 1978-2011 inscribed below.
She squeezes the crook of his elbow before speaking, "Hullo, Will. This is my good friend, John."
He wonders if he should offer some sort of greeting as well.
But she continues, "John's been keeping me safe and watching my back. I know you appreciate that."
After that, he steps away to allow her a few moments of privacy with her Will. He buries his hands deeper in his pockets as an effort to ward against the cold. It's an especially chilly winter this year, and there is a thin layer of snow on the ground. John thinks there might be a chance of a white Christmas.
Thoughts of white Christmas inevitably leads to thinking about last year's Christmas party. Last year, there was Sherlock, Christmas carols and decorations, Mrs. Hudson and her smiles, drinks with Lestrade... But there had also been yet another break-up in a long string of failed relationships (some of whom resurfaced in the wake of Sherlock's death to sell their little stories about John) and Irene Adler's "death."
What would he have for Christmas this year? Maybe Mary's company? He resolves to visit Mrs. Hudson (but he won't go upstairs to 221B). But he knows what's coming after Christmas—after the New Year. Internal Investigations' report on Sherlock's cases, which probably meant some more harassment coming John's way in the immediate future.
He bristles at the idea.
Mary is laying her flowers at the foot of the headstone and wiping off the layer of snow with a handkerchief. Her back suddenly stiffens after bending down and picking something up. John can't see what it is from where he's standing, but Mary flips the object in her hand several times as her eyes grow wider.
"John!" she shouts in alarm.
He runs back to her side. "What is it?"
She holds up the envelope for him to study. Her name, Mary Morstan, is written in long flowing script on the front. There is a small bulge sitting at the bottom of the envelope—like a bead. She breaks the wax seal on the back (really, who still uses wax seals in this day and age? Oh god, don't think about Moriarty. Don't think about Moriarty...). Her gloved fingers fumble a bit before drawing out the card inside. John stares at the watercolor drawing of a white lily and the words "With Deepest Sympathy" on the cover as Mary reads the inner face becomes impossibly white.
"Mary, what is it?"She flips the card around and shoves it in his chest. The inside contains no preprinted message, just someone's handwriting again.
Come play, Bloody Mary.
South Stoneham Cemetery
Southampton, UK
John looks up to watch her turn over the envelope. A single iridescent pearl falls into Mary's open palm. She clenches her fist close around the gem and a desperate whimper escapes her throat.
-x-x-x-
John clasps his hands against his chin and stares at the incomplete string of pearls sitting on the table. He wonders if he looks a bit like Sherlock in this position, but quickly shakes off the idea. Mary's hands are no longer shaking. She focuses on nursing her cup of tea and folding into the couch next to him.
As it turns out, Mary's father—a former Royal Navy Lieutenant-Commander—hadn't died so much as had gone missing. He'd gone to visit a friend in Cambridge some nine years ago, but he never arrived at his destination and never came home. Sure, he has been declared dead in absentia since then. The first pearl and a broken string still attached to a jewelry clasp came to her on the first anniversary of her father's disappearance. Every year since, she'd been sent another pearl in the mail.
According to Mary, the bracelet had belonged to her mother, meant to be paired with a pearl necklace that Mary now keeps in her jewelry box.
"Do you think my father's disappearance is related to Will's death?" she finally asks.
John furrows his brow. "This can hardly be a coincidence."
She caresses the greeting card (completely generic, probably bought from Tesco or Sainsbury's), tracing the bumps and ridges of the message penned inside. Not for the first time, he wishes that Sherlock were here. Sherlock would know what to do when faced with a puzzle like this; he might even be gleeful. But John's no Sherlock Holmes, and he cannot deduce motive or culprit from the slant of someone's handwriting or the envelope's initial placement against the headstone.
"I'm going to Southampton," she declares suddenly.
The fire burning in her eyes is undeniable. Mary is going to pursue this to the ends of the earth. John's stomach churns and something itches at the back of his neck. It's his well-honed instincts that got him through Afghanistan and months of living with Sherlock.
He can't help but feel that she's rushing headfirst into a trap.
After all, hunters can have enemies—powerful ones.
Oh look, a wild plot has been appeared!
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