Chapter 14: Menace starts with M

Funny how much this is panning out to be like a proper Bond movie script, John thinks for the umpteenth time that day. Even the pretty girl gets her role, only it's much better than it ever is in any of the actual movies. She's not just a sidekick or a pretty face on miles-long legs strutting around seductively. Oh no, she's so much more. She's a reminder that in a world of men the best weapon is being underestimated. Centuries of damsels in distress working as perfect cover for the fact that amidst dramatic dialogues, blown-up egos and hero complexes, there' s a single unperceived threat in form of a 164 cm of lean curves and short mousy hair. Not a typical Bond-girl, admittedly, but all the better for it. Bond girls are fantasies projected onto silver screens, terrifyingly beautiful, but in the end just that – fantasies. Light and lenses and coloured film. But the pretty girl in this script is none of that – not a fantasy nor an apparition – and for that she is all the more terrifying. Real.

And unlike in the movies, for once, the pretty girl really has the best role – she is the plot twist.

John turns around to face her, the black abyss of a gun's barrel fixed in his field of vision like a symptom of retinal damage.

"Hello, Mary."

John's voice is clipped, tight. He waits for shock or surprise to hit him like a bullet or a moving wall, but they never come. It was too simple, even then, her tidy exit out of his life. Yes, he knows she was only in it because of Mycroft's directive, so it should be surprising that she hadn't caused an upheaval while getting out, but if John Watson learned one thing, it's that when things seem simple, that's when one can know for sure they are about to get complicated in ways previously incomprehensible.

There are many theories about the name Mary. One of them is that it means "sea of bitterness". John finds it ironically fitting, because that's what she feels like right at that moment, like a bitter sea weeping at the shores of his and Sherlock's tender, new world that never got the chance to fully become itself. Waves of vitriol wash upon the strand and John wonders if he should have seen it coming, the tide that appears when the Moon calls upon it. John speaks, the end of the world on his breath.

"So, not held captive, then."

"No, not quite."

Mary's eyes are closed shutters, unreadable but not cold. Simply blank, like monitors of a computer that had all its programmes eaten up by a virus. It makes John feel as if he should know some sort of password that would bring all of this to a halt. But he doesn't. There's no password, no magic tricks that can reverse the tide.

"Good to know Mycroft gets it wrong every once in a while" John throws words at nobody in particular, his tone coloured heavily with faux-conversational levity, hoping that being snide will do a good enough job in conveying how very tired he is of thing tangling ever more tightly in a frustrating knot of betrayals and half-truths, back-stabbing and outright lies.

Isn't there supposed to be some giant cosmic set of scales keeping track of how much misery was served to each individual on the last round of "life-going-down-the-drain"? If there is, it's very much off-balance, John would say.

"Why don't you take Captain Watson here down to see the sights?" Small's voice is thick with malicious amusement. It drips like toxic resin, filling cracks in John's spirit with dark, viscous pools of those lowest passions of men, the urges to hurt, to destroy, to cause pain.

"I think I just might." Mary's blank eyes never leave John's as she speaks. With a sharp movement of her head indicating that John should go down the stairs, she moves behind him, wresting the gun out of his hand in the process.

John can't tell how much time has passed since he left the hotel. It could be just a bit over an hour or it could be a whole epoch. Maybe the ice age is over and the glaciers have melted. That would explain the rushing noise of crushing water that swoops into John's ears as he descends the stairs only to find himself standing in what seems like a concrete bunker or garage, carved into the mountain below the cabin and ending in a vast, rectangular opening on the far end. The opening leads onto a natural terrace, a small, roughly semi-circular patch of ground, all of protruding into the vertical fall of cliffs around it. From it, a spectacular close-up of the waterfall demands attention. The patch of rock and soil stands out among the geometrical, obviously human-made lines of the cabin, left unchanged in its wild irregularity. There is no protective rail cordoning off the unsafe edge of it, to which Mary brings John.

Small leans on the side of the bunker entrance, hands in pockets, a prefect image of a relaxed tycoon enjoying the fruits of his riches. The Sun is high now. There's nothing soft in its glare, just sharp razors of light cutting air and brandishing their shine like swords of judgement.

"This place is stunning, isn't it?" Small inquires in a chatty, breezy tone. "Very practical, too. The scenery makes it so easy to rid oneself of evidence."

"Yes, I do see how that can prove to be an advantage. After all, it will make deposing of you so much easier if you choose to remain the blithering idiot you seem to be busy impersonation at the moment. Let John go, Mary. Now."

All three heads turn to the source of the voice that rumbles, although not with the easy flow it usually fosters, bouncing off the concrete entombment of the bunker. Stepping out of the shadows and into the brightness of the terrace, Sherlock would look dramatic if only he didn't look so utterly worn. He looks like some odd, elegant roadkill, all pale and sweaty, with too-big eyes and clammy skin.

"Well, if it isn't the great Detective, himself. I must admit, Mr. Holmes, you look a bit better than last time I saw you...A bit, but not much...Is the mountain air not doing you any good?" Small taunts, obviously enjoying the newest development immensely.

Sherlock's hands are shaking in a way John recognises as that of a man trying to fight severe somnolence with unwise amounts of caffeine. 'That impossible man' John wants to laugh; only nothing of this is even remotely funny. But it almost is, it's almost hilarious, the fact that Sherlock somehow managed to circumvent the effects of John's sleeping pills, just long enough to tank himself full of coffee or god-knows-what caffeinated beverage. John thinks that maybe he is suffering from adrenalin poisoning, because he can't come up with a better explanation why his only current urge is to laugh very, very loudly and hug Sherlock for being the silly git he is, until his jittery, over-stimulated nerves calm down. (John suspects he might have just left all traces of self-preservation instincts somewhere back in London. Possibly at the airport check-in.)

The gun in Sherlock's hands bobs up and down as the Detective tries to aim it, unsteadily, at Mary. All urge to laugh leaves John like dirty dishwater through a drain somewhere deep inside him as he takes in the scene of Mary and Sherlock pointing firearms at each other. He knows this is no draw. This is a mate under false pretence – no power play between equals, but the long-in-store tipping of scales. Because, John knows, the chances are very much skewed. Between Mary, a trained government operative gone rouge, and Sherlock, with his twitchy hands, too-wide eyes, and rapid-firing nervous system, it is quite clear who will take the winnings. But it's Sherlock – one never knows and things are never over before the end (and sometimes, not even then).

"Sherlock..." John breathes out Sherlock's name, relief and desperation warring on his breath. This isn't how things were supposed to go. This isn't how they were supposed to go, at all. So why does John feel relieved then? A sickening feeling drenches his stomach in acid – the realisation that despite being ready to die, he is so very, very happy that he might just not have to...because Sherlock is here. Because Sherlock is here. Exactly where Small wanted him. Exactly where John and Mycroft have tried to keep him away from. And yet...and yet, John can't help the mollified exhale that escapes him with the dawning of the idea that he might not end up as broken puppet at the bottom of an Alpine river.

John hates himself for it.

Small is still as relaxed as a jungle cat on a hot, lazy afternoon, standing only a few meter and a half or so from Sherlock. Like a single spectator in a private movie theatre, he seems engrossed in the action (or the current lack thereof) while at the same time being thoroughly convinced of his own imperviousness to the consequences that may come out of it.

"Since it seems like we are all here now, let's not let things get boring. We all know how tedious that tends to be, don't we, Sherlock? Puts a man at risk of falling victim to all sorts of...temptations. You know a thing or two about temptations, don't you?"

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitches, whether from the synthetic stimuli in his bloodstream or the memory of a dingy basement and a box of lethal liquid ecstasy, John can't claim to know for sure. He can sense Small waiting for Sherlock to take the bait, bark out a snide retort, but Sherlock doesn't seem to be in the mood for bickering. Which is, to be honest, rather worrying. Sherlock is always up for bickering. It's his default mode half the time he's awake and talking. So, Sherlock being silent is definitely not contributing to the growing sense of dread in John's chest. Sherlock is only quiet when he is thinking so fast that his mouth can't quite keep up with his mind. And if Sherlock is thinking as furiously as John thinks he is, then that can mean just one thing – Sherlock doesn't have a plan. He doesn't have a plan and he is trying to come up with one at the very moment. All faith in Sherlock aside, John has to admit it's not the most reassuring of prospects.

The silence stretches out, and John thinks maniacally of something to say which would distract Small (or Mary, the only person quieter than Sherlock in the whole ordeal) enough for John to attempt some crazy, desperate move. He decides to just blurt out something ridiculous, aiming for incredulity or confusion, when he catches the slight motion of Sherlock's head instructing him to keep quiet.

Sherlock flicks his eyes to Small, keeping his body still and positioned so he is facing Mary full-on.

"You have what you wanted. I'm here. You can go on and blackmail my brother. I'm sure he'll be royally annoyed. You'll probably force him to skip desert. Always puts him in a foul mood, that." Sherlock is rambling and John knows it's his 'buying time' ramble, but there's a spark missing in it. Even the snide comments regarding Mycroft feel listless and automatic. "Let John go. You don't need him here anymore."

The laughter that erupts from Small following Sherlock's words is an ugly, loud sound that carries through the clear air and bounces off sides of cliffs that surround them.

"Blackmail Mycroft? Oh, my dear Sherlock, do keep up. I have no need to blackmail Mycroft."

Small's grin takes on a sinister edge, and for a moment John is struck by the chilling thought that maybe Mycroft sent them into a trap. But just as cold sweat breaks out on the small of his back, Small continues.

"You were slow. Too slow. I admit, blackmail was my initial plan, but that was ages ago. While you and you brother took your time finding me, I have secured an exit strategy that doesn't require anything as messy as blackmail. No, too many loose ends there.

Once I'm gone from here, Mycroft will never find me. He will try, trust me. I will give him many more reasons for that than drugs. More motivation, shall we say. But he won't find me. And even if by some miracle he does, he won't be able to touch me."

Sherlock seems thrown off by this, finally angling his body slightly towards Small and turning his head to get a better look ('mistake' Sherlock would tell himself), while keeping his gun on Mary.

"Oh, please do tell. I assure you I am dying to hear this majestic plan of yours." Sherlock's voice is surprisingly cold and cutting, considering the state his body's in, but Small just laughs again.

"I know stalling when I see it, Sherlock. So, no. I'm not telling you my plan. But I'll give you this – you are right about one thing. You are definitely dying. So is your dear Captain Watson. And quite soon, if I may add." The smile melts off Small's face alarmingly quickly as he utters his next words.

"Mary. Now."

John doesn't have time to react beyond spreading his eyes in shock as Mary, in one fluid motion, spins, shifting the aim of his gun from John to Sherlock. She is fast – very fast – and Sherlock doesn't manage to turn quite all the way back from where he is turned towards Small.

Sun glints off the weapon in the pretty girl's soft hands.

A shot rings out.

The water keeps falling. A body drops.

Mary's gun radiates heat into the crisp Alpine air.

Three lives for the price of one.

The Worldmakers and the (Double) Plot Twist stand together as red blood eddies, pools, and then slips away, a small waterfall of its own, down the edge of the terrace.

"God, that man could never shut up." Mary groans as she re-does the safety on her gun, her motions economic and sharp. "I guess we're all in for some storytelling, aren't we?"

John is still standing near the edge of the cliff, mouth hanging open in shock. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to have already recovered from any surprise he might have suffered, and is standing next to Small's crumpled body, eyes never leaving Mary, with an air of deep thought surrounding him like a rainbow-halo that lingers over the junctures where waterfall meets river in a rush of foam and spray.

Mary casts a glance at John, then at Sherlock. There is nothing apologetic in that gaze, no softness John used to associate with Mary. His Mary. Was there even his Mary to start with? Or was there always just this person? John decides to add that to his long list of questions for the woman who is currently standing between him and Sherlock.

They've come full circle, somehow. John, Sherlock, and Mary.

"I guess we are." Sherlock replies. John wishes Sherlock would look at him, but Sherlock nimbly avoids looking in John's direction. To say it's frustrating would be an unfair understatement.

"Shall we get on with it, then?" John growls out. Mary's eyes snap to him. He still can't read her and that doesn't really do anything for his jumbled-up nerves.

"Yes." Mary and Sherlock reply in unison.

Without further ado, Mary starts towards the bunker, making her way back to the cabin. Sherlock waits for her to pass, standing still in the bright sunlight, still not looking at John.

"John, if you would move away from that ledge, I would be much obliged." Sherlock's voice is steady, but John can see the tremors that shake his hands. He finally realises Sherlock's reluctance to look his way.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

John moves towards Sherlock and together they stalk back up the stairs and into the living room, where Mary is already seated on the big sofa.

It's story-time.