Necessary Faith
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 6 - Breadcrumbs
Rating: PG-13
Posted: April 28, 2012
There are people—things—out to get Mary Morstan the hunter.
It takes them almost three weeks to unravel the mystery around the pearl and the invitation initially left at William Lamont's headstone. John's sure it would have taken Sherlock less than three days, once given the right tool set.
The contents of the envelope they retrieved from inside the coffin of a sixty-year-old burial are sitting on the hotel table. The grave had been disturbed before by another hunter, judging by the burnt state of the skeleton found within. Both this new pearl and the one from London are resting on top of the paper with a coded message.
Any sense of satisfaction or triumph had swiftly faded once they returned to their room.
The hex bags planted under each of their pillows doesn't kill them. But after three hours of retching over a toilet, John is beginning to wonder if death would be kinder. Mary's face still has a tinge of green when she returns from burning the bags.
"I think someone is toying with us," he finally says when he manages to stay out of the bathroom for more than five minutes at a time.
Mary is packing for John as they need to return to London as soon as possible. His vacation ends in two days and he's expected back on shift if he doesn't want his colleagues filing a missing person report on his behalf. They're also out of leads until they manage to crack the code.
"John, I have a really bad feeling about this." She turns and looks him in the eye.
A small snort of laughter escapes despite himself. "Really? Was it the hex bags?"
Her face tightens. "John, I'm being serious."
The small smile drops from his face. "So am I. And if you think I'm going to let you do this alone after what's happened so far—"
"We're dealing with witches," she clenches her fist. "Do you know what usually goes hand in hand with witches, the bad ones? Demons! Do you know how often hunters deal with either of those things and live to tell the tale afterwards?"
"I gather not many."
The silence stretches out between them like a vast plain.
John straightens his shoulders and moves until he's standing in front of her. When he grasps her shoulders lightly, she winces at the touch. "Mary, we still have plenty of time to figure this out. Let's go back to London and take it from there. Just remember that you're not alone, and that I chose this. I have purpose again because of you."
Her arms wind around his waist and pulls him into a hug. He plants one hand against her shoulder blade and runs the other gently through her hair. She smells like lavender.
Her words are muffled against his chest. "Your Sherlock would probably never forgive me if anything happened to you."
For the first time, John's heart doesn't constrict painfully at the mention of his friend. "Your Will would be just as cross with me for the same."
She shudders and sighs, almost in relief. "Now go rinse your mouth. You smell like vomit." She pushes him away and turns up her nose.
He drops a chaste kiss against her forehead, while she punches him lightly in retaliation.
-x-x-x-
They find the key to decoding the message in an old naval cipher. What is revealed are the words, Noli me tangere, and then a web url to a page with an map applet of England with a marker over Newbury in Berkshire. They stare at each other over the top of the laptop, trading glances and muted expressions as blows in their nonverbal arguments.
It's strange. He used to do the same with Sherlock, over crime scenes and across their living room.
"You couldn't stop me even if you wanted to," he finally says.
Her shoulders slump, whether in resignation or fatigue John wasn't sure. "I know. I'd be a shit friend if I didn't at least try to convince you otherwise. For your own good and all that."
John folds his hands over hers. "Going with you is the best thing for me. I need this. You know that."
"Yeah..."
What had John done to deserve people like Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan in his life?
As soon as he goes home that night, John puts in his two-week notice with the hospital. His supervisor is less than ecstatic at first, which only means it's going to be all the harder to find a job again when—if he stops hunting. But by the end of John's first week back, the administration offers to let him go early (with extra severance pay) just to not deal with the paparazzi camping at the hospital entrance.
John should have known it was a fruitless fantasy to hope the media had forgotten about him.
He's grateful for the small mercy that is the short-term lease on his current flat. The landlord doesn't blink when John says he's not renewing. Other than making preparations with Mary, John ties up loose ends at the hospital and packs his remaining belongings into a storage locker.
The "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" campaign is still going strong. The initial wave of vandalism is giving way to more property-friendly acts of chalking messages on sidewalks and walls, and posting fliers and posters. An impressive art rendition of Sherlock's likeness is taped to the front door of 221 Baker Street when he goes to visit Mrs. Hudson. She has no idea who put it there in the first place, but she doesn't plan on taking it down either.
"How are you, dear?" Armed with a familiar maternal expression, she passes him a cup of tea.
"I'm fine."
Each time he says it, the more it begins to feel true.
John continues, "I'm actually going to be out of London for a while. You know, travel for a bit and get away from the press."
He has to let some people know he's going to be away for a while. The last thing he needs is a hysterical Harry or anyone else pleading on the telly for the public to come forth with information.
Mrs. Hudson makes her own displeasure known. "Oh, the bloody press. Someone's always trying to get in here and look at the flat upstairs. I'm never going to find any tenants if they keep snooping around."
John hides his smile behind his teacup. They later part with a firm hug and Mrs. Hudson manages to extract from him a promise to email her during his travels. He stops in at the Tesco Express around the corner to pick up (his flat was once again empty of food and he isn't going to load up when he's planning on leaving soon). Occupied with his choice between a frozen pizza and some other frozen meal, he steps back and collides with another body.
"Oh, so sorry!" he exclaims and bends over to help the woman up. "Molly?"
"John?"
He hasn't seen Molly Hooper since Sherlock's funeral, but he can still remember how shell-shocked she was standing over the closed casket being lowered into the dirt. Her eyes were dark with bags underneath, telltale signs of many sleepless nights. She kept looking around with a sort of trapped and frantic look on her face—like someone trying to wake up from a nightmare. Molly looks much healthier now, her skin soft and radiant. The small toothy smile, which had always been shy in the presence of Sherlock, was fuller and more confident. It was a good look for her.
It becomes clear that she's studying him with the same intensity. He wonders briefly what she sees in him now. She lowers her gaze and bites her lower lip, before looking back up with a hesitant grin.
"What are you doing in this part of London?" he asks curiously. He doesn't mean to be rude but she's not wearing her scrubs, and St. Bart's is almost fifteen minutes away by car.
She holds up a box of mini cannolis. "I'd just thought I'd pick up a little something before visiting Mrs. Hudson."
His former landlady's pretty popular today.
"I'm sure she'd and Mrs. Turner would love those. I just had tea with Mrs. Hudson myself."
"That's nice. How have you been, John?" Her brows furrow in obvious concern.
Since Sherlock?
"Better," he admits. "I'm doing better. I'm going to travel for a bit."
"Travel?" That can't be a flare of panic in her eyes, can it? "Where to?"
John shrugs. "Just around Britain. Never realized how little I've seen of my own country."
"That's good. You're not going alone, are you?" There is definitely an edge of suspicion to her question, laced with even more concern lying beneath.
"With Mary."
Her eyes widen like saucers. "Who's Mary?"
"Just a friend."
The line of questions has suddenly become too personal and uncomfortable to John's liking. It's time to make a tactical retreat. "It was good seeing you again, Molly. Maybe we can chat the next time I'm back in London."
Molly nods vigorously. "Yeah, that sounds great. Have a good time and stay safe, John."
"I will."
He places the box back into the freezer and leaves the shop empty-handed. For some reason, he doesn't feel much like eating anymore.
-x-x-x-
John hasn't gone to Sherlock's grave since late November. He supposes he should feel guilty about that, and for the fact he isn't going to visit again for some time. As he stares blankly at the dark headstone, he wonders if he should have brought Mary along too. No, he balks at the thought, that would just feel wrong.
There are half of a dozen bouquets lying at the foot of the gravestone. They must be from some of Sherlock's internet supporters, still intent on holding him as an example of modern-day martyrdom.
Mawkish, is what his best friend would say about the whole affair.
"I wonder how you would rate Mary's scavenger hunt. A seven or an eight maybe?" He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and allows his shoulders to slump out of parade rest. "Personally, I think it's got all the makings of a nine or ten. An almost decade-old disappearance, a murdered Crown Prosecutor, antique jewelry that belonged the mother that passed away almost 30 years ago. Sounds like a personal vendetta to me, but Mary can't really think of anyone or anything specific."
"I'm going to be away for a bit, Sherlock. I don't know for how long, but I thought I ought to let you know."
The words, "SHERLOCK HOLMES," stare back imperiously. They are unmoved by his announcement.
"Don't be like that, Sherlock. You know I can't hang around London if Mary needs help like this. You know I hate sitting on the sidelines. It's not like I can help much with this campaign to clear your name. It's not official, though anything is better than nothing in the court of public opinion."
John's attention moves to the tree behind the grave, where handwritten message and fliers are taped to the trunk. It's like a memorial wall full of notes from former clients and acquaintances professing their belief in Sherlock Holmes—a shrine and testament to Sherlock's work.
"God, you'd hate all this attention. You're like a bloody folk hero now. I wish there was more I could do to prove that, but I'm not bloody impartial enough," he gives a small huff of laughter. "But I'm not going to stop them either. The world deserves to know you weren't a fraud. I know you're not a liar. Nothing sort of mind control or brainwashing would make me believe that. You were a lot of things, Sherlock, but never a liar."
A flashback to the pool and to the lab back at Bart's.
"At least not when it came to the important things," John corrects himself.
A burst of noise draws his attention away. There's a small group of gawking teenagers standing a few yards away. They stare at him with a bit of awe. John glances at the patterned blue scarves hanging around their necks and the floral wreath clutched in one of their hands, and he knows they're here to see Sherlock. They duck their heads and back away a bit, presumably to give John a few more moments of privacy.
John is once again more or less alone at the grave of his best friend. But it's difficult to completely ignore the eyes on his back and the hushed conversation taking place.
Now people will definitely talk.
People do little else.
"I'll see you around, Sherlock, whenever I get back to London." He wants to turn and walk away, but his feet stay firmly rooted in the dirt. His next words are delivered at a barely audible volume. "I would come back in a heartbeat if you asked me to. I came from the other side of London because you asked. I'd cross the world if you sent me a bloody text to come meet you again. But you won't do that ever again, and that's why I have to go with Mary. She's important to me. Maybe not as important as you were, but you don't get any say in that now. Because you went and died. You had to swan off to somewhere I can't follow you to."
Not yet, at least.
"But if you did—somehow—send me a message telling me to come, I'd still do it. I'd probably leave Mary without a second thought." He hates that he's so self-aware. Maybe he hates Sherlock just a bit. Because Sherlock always made it such an easy and obvious choice to make.
When he passes the teenagers on his way out, one of them steps forward and says, "Dr. Watson, I'm sorry for your loss."
John sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and walks away without acknowledging any of them.
-x-x-x-
"You sure you don't want to change your mind?" She peeks at him out of the corner of her eyes.
The car's boot (they're taking her father's old vehicle this time, a forest green Vauxhall Corsa with a hidden compartment for weapons) is noticeably fuller this time. Things like salt they can easily get on the road, but they want to avoid having to come back to London too often for essentials if they can help it.
"Well, you could just ignore this," he counters.
It's true, they can both easily ignore the trail of breadcrumbs left for them to follow. They can just ignore it and go back to their lives—go back to hunting the usual suspects. Would Sherlock still be here if the detective never played Moriarty's game? Are they about to make the same mistake as Sherlock by participating? John doubts it. Sherlock would never turn down an interesting puzzle, and Moriarty was obsessed. The same can probably be said of Mary's nemesis, by flaunting ties to both her father's disappearance and her fiance's murder and by drawing her attention with little reminders of her long-dead mother.
But she wasn't doing this out of boredom or looking for a distraction. She wants—needs answers.
John can only hope that will be enough to uphold her sense of self-preservation, so she doesn't go flinging herself into the jaws of madness. Like Sherlock did. But the sense of dread in the pit of his stomach refuses to be quelled. John's instincts are working into overdrive, screaming for his attention and better judgment.
Mary isn't going to back down. He can see that from the way she purses her lips in determination and digs her heels into the ground. She is stubborn, can be just as stubborn as himself or Sherlock. "No, I need to do this."
Then John needs to go with her—to protect her from everything. Including from herself, if necessary.
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