The short-term solution is easy: Mary needs to believe that John is oblivious to her shooting me and that he still loves her. There is one problem. John has many talents that I could praise for hours, but telling lies is not amongst them. So, when I wake up from my postoperative slumber once more and hear Mary's singsong threat, I am relieved beyond words.
But obviously, we are in need of a long-term solution to be truthful. I also have many talents that I could praise for hours (which I do occasionally) (well quite often, to be true), but dealing with romance is not amongst them. So I decide to use the only scheme I am familiar with. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption.
Love has already been promised between the married couple (more than enough for my taste), and I must admit that I am selfish enough to look forward to causing Mary the pain of loss.
John objects to the plan. Not to the basic idea (fooling Mary into revealing at least part of the truth to John, who will be completely surprised and outraged and will leave her for a while until generously forgiving her), but to my time scale. Thinks I should be completely healed before leaving the hospital in order to carry out our grand stage performance. But every day he spends with Mary is another day during which he could give away himself. The thought alone frightens me more than I care to admit.
So, one day (much sooner than he would have preferred) I sneak out of hospital (note to self: tell Mycroft that in the future I'd prefer hospital rooms on the ground floor). John runs around looking for me, asking so many people where I could be. (As if he wouldn't know best. But people are stupid, even the nice ones, and they all believe that John has no idea where I am. They all believe we are not into this together.)
When he arrives at Leinster Gardens, we prepare the stage. John sits down in the wheelchair Billy has stolen for me, and I ruffle his hair (with great enthusiasm. Many times. Until he tells me to stop and proceed with the rest of the preparations. And that I'd be free to ruffle his hair as long as I want in the near future ... Looking forward to that.)
The confrontation with Mary goes better than I expected. I know (theoretically) that John no longer loves her. But seeing the full display of her usually well-hidden viciousness (she knows of course how much bending down to pick up that coin hurts me) only helps John to show his anger.
He is glorious that night. We both are. I place the "surgery shot" lie in Mary's head. John puts all the hatred he felt when reading her file into his performance and pretends not to be scared to death by how sick I really am. At Baker Street we are so convincing that Mary hands us a flash drive, presumably filled with information on her. And all the time I manage to keep the distance from John as if scared off by his emotions.
Only in the very end, when I realize that I have probably driven my transport too far, when I feel my heart tumbling into ventricular fibrillation, I instinctively stumble towards him, his hold on me the last thing I remember when darkness surrounds me.
When I wake up, I am not lying in hospital, but sitting on the bed of John's room. Have unintentionally entered my mind palace. That only happens when I am close to death, the last time mere days ago.
John's room became part of the mind palace when I left London. I needed a place to retreat, somewhere safe. Funny choice, for I never really spent much time there in real life. But it is filled with things that remind me of John, his laptop, that ridiculous green jacket, his mug. It was in this room (somewhere in a shabby hotel in Slovenia) that I realized I love him.
Mary is sitting right next to me. She looks like the nice woman I got to know during my first weeks back in London. Charming, a slightly childish gleam in her eyes, yet intelligent and open-hearted. Wears jeans and a grey t-shirt that says "I'm with stupid." There is an arrow beneath the lettering, and it is pointing at me. When I move it follows me. Looks like my mind is not in the mood for subtleties today.
"Oh, Sherlock," she says, "look at you. Dying again to safe John. Doesn't it get boring?"
I want to ignore her. Want to turn away and leave her alone. Want to smash her head against the wall until her face is nothing but a bloodied mass. Would be perfect to do it in here. No child to endanger. She smiles, "Not that different, are we?"
There is no running away from the creatures my mind makes up in here, I know that. So I stand still and watch her silently, not knowing where this is leading to. (Ignore the rising fear.) She gets up from the bed and comes to me. Stops right in front of me. (Way too close.) The friendly smile on her face does not quaver when she lightly caresses my cheek. (Repugnant. Yet I stay where I am.)
"This could have been the four of us," she says and tiptoes to ruffle my hair. "Would have let you babysit the little one when going out with John. Would have let the two of you working on as many cases as you would have wanted." She presses an (abhorrent) kiss on my lips. Her voice is playful and soft, "But now you have ruined everything. As always."
The setting around us changes. I am sitting in a chair next to a fireplace, a glass of whisky in my hand. The Cross Keys Inn. Mary is sitting on the armrest, her grey t-shirt now decorated with Christmas trees and elks. The arrow still pointing at me relentlessly. "Telling him you don't have friends? Really, Sherlock."
She moves aside, clearing the view to a frozen image of John sitting in the other chair, obviously hurt. I hate remembering that moment. Probably (definitely) hurt myself more that him. I try to make the look on his face go away, but fail. Apparently am no longer in control of my mind palace at all. Briefly wonder how close to death my body really is.
"That wasn't the first time you have hurt him, right?" Mary whispers into my ear, then lightly bites into my ear lobe. My (imaginary) body shivers in response, and she claps her hands in delight. "Oh, but look at how hurt he is, just because you implied he's not your friend." She looks at John, and all of sudden there is a spotlight on his face, highlighting his pained expression.
This demonstration is completely unnecessary. I am fully aware of how mean that comment had sounded. (Mostly because I had wanted it to hurt him. Was lashing out like an animal in pain.) But I have apologized.
Mary just dismisses that with a wave of her hand. "No, you didn't. You explained. Then you said something nice, to make up for the hurt. But you never said sorry."
Oh. She is right.
"There were so many times you've hurt him, right?" She gives me that innocent smile again, while images of John and me are scrolling down on the wall next to me. I recognize all those situations, but some of them stick out because I regret them more:
Me letting John believe I simply didn't needed him in Soo Lin's flat instead of admitting I was nearly being strangled to death.
Me putting (surprisingly not drugged) sugar in his cup of coffee.
Me, stupidly disguised as waiter, seconds before telling him I'm back.
Me on the rooftop, mobile in my hand.
The last image is the one that makes my chest burn the most. A triumphant grin on Mary's lips, and we are there, on top of St. Bart's. "Two years, Sherlock," she sings, "two years of mourning. That was the worst, wasn't it?"
Yes. And I hadn't seen the impact it had on both of us coming. I step closer to myself, watching the tears running down my cheek. They were real. "Oh, but that does not matter, dear" Mary tuts.
"No," she relentlessly continues, "What matters is that, regardless of how much he means to you, you will always go on hurting him." She comes closer to me, driving me away from my past image, towards the middle of the roof, until I am leaning against a chimney. "Why do you think you will stop doing that just because now you love him?"
I don't think I will stop.
The gleam in her eyes turns into something feral, she moves closer to me again. (Way too close.) "Of course, now that he loves you too, it will hurt him even more than before. Do you really think he deserves that?" She slips her arms around me (dislike that), places her hands on my back. My (imaginary) body stiffens with rejection. She laughs and lets her hands wander down until they rest on my bum.(Dislike that deeply.)
"What do you think, how many times can he still stand all that hurt before he will leave you?" She squeezes my buttocks, then one of her hands moves swiftly to my front. I flinch, but her other hand holds me firmly in place. Stronger than in real life, of course. No way to get away from it. She starts to caress my penis through my trousers. My throat closes, feel like I can barely breathe, and yet my (imaginary) body reacts to her (imaginary) stimulus. (Absolutely embarrassing.)
"He will leave you in the end, and you know that." She is whispering now, her voice low and dangerous. She stops the caressing and grips hard instead. (Stopping exactly on the threshold between arousing and painful.) (Can't stand the embarrassment any longer.) My legs give in, but her hold on my back is so strong that my body remains pressed against her. (Physically impossible.)
"And not just him. Think of the baby, Sherlock." She stretches her hands a little, now also including my balls. (Stop it.)
"Think of how you will grow to love it. How you will see John in it, how you will open up and let it into your big old romantic heart as well." She squeezes me again, with increasing force. (More pain than arousal now, or is it? Not sure.) (Want her to stop. Want her to stop right now.)
"And then you will ruin it, and John will take the baby and they will both leave you." Definitely pain now. I can't help but cry out, (imaginary) sweat on my (imaginary) face. The pain increases, stretches all over my body now. Can't breathe, can't move. (Panic.) The last thing I see is her smiling face right in front of me. Then everything turns bright, too bright, and I close my eyes -
and wake up (for real this time) in a hospital room. While my brain struggles to fully regain consciousness, I feel like I've lost something I never had first place.