For a long time we neither talk nor move. John keeps holding my hand, his thumb softly stroking the back of my hand. I drift off into sleep occasionally, the warmth of John's touch anchoring me.
One of the times I wake up again, John is looking at me thoughtfully. "What kind of danger are we talking about?" he asks, instantly continuing, "I mean, will she take me to the cleaner during the divorce? Or will she stab me in the back with our meat knife?"
(Divorce sounds wonderful to my ears. But can't linger over it.)
Because no, she wouldn't stab him in the back. I don't know anything about her past, but her demeanour at Magnusson's office made it clear that she was trained in what she was doing. No trained assassin would risk facing John Watson in close combat. (Some did so in the past. Not all of them got the opportunity to regret it.)
I know I shouldn't, but I can't help imagining what she would do instead. I am standing in the Watson's kitchen. (My favourite room in their home.) I can see John eating. Mary serves him one of those coffee things she always produces with this tedious machine. Something with milk and steam and flavour. Strong enough to cover the taste of cyanide.
(Would be a brilliant choice. Kills almost instantly, but is easily traceable. Mary knows that I once called it the most boring poison of all. Knows that I normally refuse to investigate cyanide poisoning because it's too clichéd. Knows that her choice will break everything inside me that will be left when John is dead.)
John drinks it. He knows something is wrong after the first gulp, but it's too late. I can see that he feels dizzy. He stands up but sways, has to reach for the edge of the table. He breathes, fast and desperate, but getting air inside his lungs is not the problem. His body is already reacting, his cells unable to use the oxygen any longer. His legs give in, he falls to the ground, his lips blue. His hands cling to the collar of his shirt, irrationally trying to widen it to get air. He panics, his legs kicking frantically at nothing. Then his movements slow down, until a seizure shakes his body. I can tell from his eyes that he is dead before his body stills.
But would she really use poison? Too much of a cliché, maybe.
The scene is rewinding fast, then starts again. This time, John gets up from the table unharmed. He kisses Mary on her cheek. "I need to go, Sherlock has a new case." (Bad liar, John.) She smiles and wishes him fun. When he turns to leave, she grabs the gun from her apron and shoots him in the back.
I watch him drop to his knees silently, then, after a moment of swaying, falling forward, hitting the ground. He is still alive, but just barely, blinking, utter astonishment on his face. His breath becomes ragged, blood spraying out of his mouth, then his eyes lose their light, his dying breath painful. It is over within 95 seconds.
But no, John is a soldier. He would not just die without fighting.
The scene rewinds again, up to the moment when the gun is fired. This time he drops to his knees with a soft cry, more surprised than in pain. He falls forward, but breaks the fall with his hands. He knows he is shot, and he knows he needs help. He tries to get up again. I watch Mary coming closer, a predator waiting for her prey to die. She kicks his arms away, and he falls to the ground once more. "Mary," he starts, reaching out for her. She just smiles and watches him. He knows he needs help, and starts trying to get his mobile out of his trouser pocket. But his hand does not work properly any longer. He fumbles, helplessly, and she ...
There is a sharp pain on my cheek, and the Watsons' kitchen disintegrates around me. I blink at John, who stares at me angrily. "You slapped me," I can't help but blur out. (Stating the obvious? How deep have you sunk?)
"Don't." He nearly shouts. "Don't do that. Stop picturing me dying instantly!"
We stare at each other for a moment. He slapped me. He knew what I was doing to myself inside my head and solved it in his very own fashion. Is it any wonder that I love this man?
"To be fair, I tried to gently shake you out of it first," he feels the need to explain, but my mind is already moving ahead. John mentioned divorce. Does not want to continue that relationship. Wants to leave a professional killer with trust issues and a jealous streak. Who has not hesitated to risk the death of his best friend (me). My subconsciousness was right (of course). John is in danger.
"I don't know what Mary will be capable of doing, I never researched her past." Have to admit that. Seemed a bit good back then when I decided to. Like something John would want. Would have done everything to be forgiven after my return. Even something stupid like not investigating her. I point at his left trouser pocket, "Call Mycroft."
John takes out his mobile (doesn't hesitate a second when I ask him to do something. Does not even ask why. Never did.) and searches his contacts for my brother's number.
"I asked him insistently not to research her as well," I explain. "Tell him to send us everything he has found out about her since then."
Of course I am right. When I wake up the next time, John is flipping through a manila folder. There is an expression on his face I have never seen before. At first, I thought it was anger. Then I realize it is hatred. Never knew John would be capable of hate so concentrated. His jaws must hurt terribly by now.
When he looks up at me, his face turns softer instantly, but there is something dangerous still lurking just one blink of an eye away. "Her being a professional assassin would be bad enough," he states calmly (never is he more frightened than when he appears to be calm). "She has done things, Sherlock ..." He stops mid-sentence, his breath betraying his state of mind.
I try to mirror his faked ease, but my heart and my mind are racing. "How much in danger are you then?" I ask. He knows me too well, knows I am not calm, but plays along. The only way we can both go through with this.
"Mycroft thinks that he found out about fifty percent of her past. The rest is hidden so well even he couldn't get to it." Not good. In my mind, I correct my assessment of her. Not just a paid assassin. Someone much higher up on the criminal ladder. Someone with enough resources to hide something from my brother. Moriarty had not been able to do that.
(An unusual feeling rises inside of me. One I experience so seldom that I cannot figure it out instantly.)
"Want to know the worst things she did?" John goes on, grim determination on his face. I nod, and he tells me about this job she did in Argentina. Abducted the nine-year-old daughter of a minister. Blackmailed him into transferring a huge amount of money to a bank account on the Cayman Islands. Then arranged the handing over of the girl. Set her free and then shot her in the head just seconds before she reached her father's arms.
(The feeling intensifies. What is it?)
Killed at least two former lovers.
(Fear.)
Been at a similar point of her life five years ago. Settled down with a nice, ordinary man. Got pregnant. Relationship didn't work out, he left her when she was into her sixth month. Two days later she had an accident at home, lost the child. Her description of the accident did not match all her injuries, but doctors blamed it on the shock of losing her unborn child.
(Fear for John's life. And for the life of his unborn child.)
After that, John stops talking for a long while. I steal the folder from him and study it further, while I watch him out of the corner of my eyes. She has managed to become a CIA agent, turned herself into an even more efficient killer by undergoing the CIA training. Four agents got killed during her time with the agency, but no one saw the connection.
There are more atrocities listed up, but studying John's expression becomes more important that Mary's past. I deduce that he wants to say something important, but can't bring himself to open his mouth. Usually I need a Tube carriage and a bomb to make him talk about it. (But he said he loved me, didn't he?) (Shouldn't that help me make him talk? If only I knew how.)
I don't know what to do, so I wait. Try to ignore the increasing fear for his life. Finally, he clears his throat and says, very quietly, "I love this child, Sherlock." His eyes shine with a sadness that (for a reason I cannot understand) makes my chest hurt. "I mean, it is only as big as a walnut now, but … it is my child. I can't stand the thought of being with her any longer, but … "
He never manages to finish that sentence, but he does not have to, anyway. He looks at me, the painful expression burning itself into my brain. (Will be un-deletable, even if I would try.) "I made a vow," I remind him (don't think my own voice has ever sounded that soft before). "Even if Mary is excluded now, the vow does still apply to you and your child. I will think of a way out, I promise."
(Will simply not think about how it will go on now between us. If we can be more than friends now. How a child would fit in.)
He looks at me for another while, then, without a further comment, he leans forward and takes me in his arms. Carefully, without hurting my already wounded chest. It is an awkward embrace. John has to keep up the tension in his spine in order not to lean against my wound, I on the other hand cannot lean forward without hurting myself.
It is an awkward embrace, but with his left hand in my hair and his right pressing against my back, and with my cheek gently leaning against his, it is perfect.