The drive back to the hotel was sombre— even Craig couldn't find it in himself to complain about hunger, or fiddle with the radio. It was a forty minute drive back to the hotel from the manor, in which a strangled sort of silence reigned.
Angela had received a call. She let it ring twice before extending a hand to Craig, who, in the passenger's seat, had access to her bag.
She didn't argue. She didn't make any faces, or voice her discontent. She said yes and she ended the call.
"We're to wait until tomorrow, when the note says. There will be someone waiting for us outside, but we can't expect them to actually interfere. We're to capture M, and allow him to be escorted. Nothing more."
Craig was of the opinion that the four of them should leave right now— get it all over with.
With the resignation of someone who know who it was they were going up against, Angela sighed, shook her head, and told the three to at least try and get some sleep.
They pulled up to the hotel and, wordlessly, made their way to their separate rooms.
John washed the smoke out of his skin and hair, slowly and thoroughly— by the time he was ready for bed it was late enough for infomercials on the television that he'd kept on for the company. His hair was still wet when he finally pulled the covers over himself, willing his brain to stop buzzing so he could get a few hours' sleep before regrouping.
He closed his eyes and he kept them closed until he felt tired, then he allowed himself to drift off. It took less than fifteen minutes.
Five minutes later, a soft rap at his door.
John grumbled, something rude about Angela never sleeping. He made quite a show about unlocking the door, loudly removing the latch and swinging the door open to snarl at—
"Oh. Mary."
She smiled at him. That coy smile with the one upturned eyebrow.
"Oh. Will."
He pulled the door open even farther, letting her into the dark room. She took the invitation- she was holding a few papers in her hand, but did not make the motion to give them to him. When he reached for the light, she stopped him.
Instead, she climbed into his bed, pulling the cold side of the blankets from their tight make to pull around her legs.
"It's so cold in your room. Why do you need the air conditioning on so high?"
John shrugged— hoping that she could see him in the moonlight. He locked the door, and, after a moment of hesitation, got back into bed, sitting next to her with their legs under the blankets.
"I sleep better in the cold."
She scoffed— he didn't think she was really listening, just playing with the papers in her hands. He didn't mind.
"What're those?"
He was sure there were some sort of email Angela had asked her to give to him— more battle plans.
"Well."
She waited for a long moment; she looked unsure.
Then—
"Happy Birthday."
His face was cast in shadows, so hopefully she didn't see the look of alarm that fell on it for a split second before he set himself straight. He'd forgotten which day it was. He'd completely forgotten.
" 'S not my birthday. My birthday is-"
"July Seventh. 1973. I didn't really care enough to look for a copy of your birth certificate, but you were probably born on that island of yours."
"... Wisconsin?"
She glared at him.
"Dr. John Watson. Captain. I can show you the papers, if you like."
She smiled, holding up the few printed pages- it looked like a news article. She offered them to him— he made no motion to take them.
She wasn't threatening— Or, it wouldn't have been, had she not just revealed his secret identity. So what was she getting at?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a terrible liar when you want to be, Will. Can I call you John, actually? You never did look like a Will."
He was calm— he realised that he didn't really mind her knowing. It made no difference either way. He was too tired for all of this. He was a terrible liar when he wanted to be.
"I don't know what—"
"The pictures on the desk? They were all labelled. Yours was labelled John."
He slipped rather effortlessly into his own accent— he could see her grin in the dim light.
"Well— yes, I suppose you can call me John."
She nudged the papers at him once more— he took them, angling them up against the moonlight to read them.
The first thing that struck him was the picture— Sherlock Holmes, with his good coat and his short friend, offering at least the semblance of a smile to the camera.
A headline from an American news outlet—
HOLMES FOUND INNOCENT.
John sat up straighter, clicking the lamp on to speed hungrily through the printed article.
Judges ruled today that Mr. Sherlock Holmes... Richard Brook was a fraudulent identity of James Moriarty, who broke into several of London's most secure institutions by exposing corruption at their foundations... several documents were emailed to all of the major British and American news outlets this morning documenting beyond a reasonable doubt... Holmes formally cleared of all charges...
"Someone tried to make it real hard for us to read anything on this when it first happened— there was no news of this in the States. The story was just shut down, you know? Someone tried to make this a safe place for you, I think. Or maybe—"
... Dr. John Watson jumped to his death May 6th, 2012, widowing Sherlock Holmes to the throes of the justice system...
"— But they wouldn't want to give this Moriarty too much attention, either. I'm assuming that's who we're against, is it? Moriarty? Love, M? Well, of course you know, you were over there, living it. Dying it, too, it seems—"
... Not much is known about Holmes' current plans, as he is reluctant to speak to the media and is rarely seen outside his residence at Baker Street...
"Will? John?"
He looked up at her, surprised. Then back down to the article— he'd finished reading it a while ago, but he was clutching at the papers protectively, letting his eyes fall on snippets of text.
She offered him a good-natured chuckle, falling back down on the pillow, shielding her eyes from the light.
"You can keep it if you want. If you want to, you know, memorise it or something."
"Hmm."
He gave the picture one last look, ignoring the pang it brought him to look at his old friend and his old self, so close together- no oceans separating them, no secrets keeping the other from knowing one is even alive.
He remembered that case, the one in the picture— it was a particularly gruesome one, one of the ones that Moriarty had apparently set up to bolster Sherlock's reputation. It was hard, too— there were times when John had no idea how they were going to put everything together. That wasn't his job, though— that was Sherlock's. And Sherlock invariably pulled through, five days in without food or sleep and the media had stopped them outside their own door, pushing forward, trying to get a good picture while John was just trying to get his flatmate up the stairs before he collapsed.
His arm was around Sherlock's back, right there— no wonder why the press loved this picture. John supports Sherlock, and Sherlock allows himself to be supported— he slept for sixteen hours that night. John didn't have the heart to wake him up, even sent Lestrade out the door when he'd bounded up with a murder case he'd been waiting to give to the detective.
He'd bounded up the stairs in his normal way— Lestrade had. Mrs. Hudson didn't even let them know he was coming in anymore, it was too regular of an occurrence for the Detective Inspector to show up slightly winded at their doorstep.
John, in his chair, was reading the paper, a warm cup of tea perched in his left hand. He didn't have to look back or let the man speak— he knew who it was.
"No. Give him another day, he's exhausted from the last one."
He set down his cup, then folded the paper up, to look back at Lestrade, whose mouth was held slightly agape.
"You're getting just as bad as he is, you are. It's not in my job description to have to handle two Sherlock Holmses."
John had laughed.
"It's not in the job description to handle one, either. It's just the lot you were handed, I s'pose."
Greg, too had laughed. He asked once more— he said there were no lives hanging in the balance, but it'd be helpful to have Sherlock take another look. Didn't want to incarcerate the wrong man. John had told him that he would have Sherlock phone him once he'd woken up and gotten something in his stomach, which probably wouldn't happen until tomorrow.
When he finally removed himself from his memory, he was greeted firsthand with the feeling of being watched. Mary's black eyes peered at him softly- she was smiling.
"You miss him, don't you? Your genius detective. You're fond of him."
John sighed— no, it was more of a scowl. He turned the light off and dropped his face onto his pillow, letting the scowl develop.
When he resurfaced to look at her, she was grinning— laughing at him.
"It was never like that. We're not a couple. Why does everyone thing we're a couple?"
"Probably the same reason why you think that Tony and I are."
He stopped—
"You're not?"
Mary chuckled.
"He has a wife. And kids. Two really, really cute kids."
John's expression must have changed, because she interjected before he could respond.
"And no, I'm not jealous. I don't wish I was her. I don't want any more from him than what I'm already getting."
And it must have changed again, because she laughed and punched him hard in the arm with her dominant hand.
"And I'm not getting any of that, you nasty boy."
She pulled herself down onto the mattress to lie on her side, burying half of her face into the pillow. Her long black hair had fallen in front of her face, and in the dark, just under the beam of moonlight that had previously illuminated her, John could hardly make out her features.
Quietly, she continued.
"I didn't tell you that just to fill the space. I wanted to give you collateral for my knowing your life. And I have no secrets to tell. No— really. I don't, I'm exactly as I am. I'm Captain Mary Morstan, or... whatever sham title the American Army decides to give me to mask what I really do. And I do this a lot— covert operations with governments, things that happen right here on our soil— well, my soil, now that I'm the only Yank in the room."
She laughed, softly. Just a breath of air, blowing her hair partly out of her face, if only for a moment.
"Every secret I know, I'm going to take to my grave, and the road to that grave— well, it's not likely to be a very pleasant one. But none of my secrets are my own— I have no husband waiting for me in some rural part of Midwestern American. I've got— I've got this, and this is all I really need."
John could appreciate that— he understood, maybe better than Tony could. That was why she'd told him.
They remained quiet for some time- the unsynchronised patterns of their breathing kept the silence at bay. Then—
"Yes."
He'd spoken before he'd really thought about it— he didn't think he'd actually meant to.
"Hm?"
She lifted her head, propped it on her left palm.
"I do. I miss him."
Mary smiled— and even though it went to her eyes, creasing the wrinkles that had already started to form around the young woman's lids, John could tell that it was meant to be sad.
"I can tell."
"He still thinks I'm dead, I think. No— I'm sure of it."
"But that's necessary, isn't it? He has to think that you're dead. Or else—"
"Or else he'd come after me. And that's what Moriarty wants— He wants Sherlock to come to America, he wants him to be there in that Hotel tomorrow. He doesn't want us, or that watch back or anything other than getting more revenge on the Holmses. It's necessary, I know. It has to be this way."
"That doesn't mean you can't miss him."
"I know. I—"
I yelled at him before I ran off. Should have stayed with him. Should have tried harder to contact him, let him know.
She must have sensed his guilt.
"Well, we'll get Moriarty bring him in, and there's not much left after that. You'll be back to him in no time. John."
His name sounded strange on her lips— she found it just as strange to say it as he did to hear it, he could tell by the way she said it. Hesitant.
John did not accept nor deny the weak promise— he knew bringing Moriarty in would do nothing at all.
He let the conversation fade to silence.
Her breathing slowed.
"You're not going back to your room?"
He mumbled to her through his pillow— his eyes, too, grew heavy. The warmth of the blankets and the extra body had made him drowsy.
She shifted— neither towards nor away from him, just in comfort. Propped the pillow up with her slim hand.
"No, I don't think so."