#notdead. Yeah, I'm one of those "doesn't update for months for no reason" kind of people. Buuuuuut I just ordered a commission for part of a scene from this story from one of my favorite Sherlock fanartists, so I convinced myself that I had to finish editing and posting this before that was done. Ergo, chapter eleven. Only one more to go after this. I'll be honest, once this is done, I'm not sure when I'll have time to get to the sequel. I'm moving to London, England next month to start working on my Masters, so time will not be readily available. I vow to you, however, that this story will be completed before I go. You will, my friend, at least have this. As always, thank you for your kind words and favoriting, and let me know what you think.
Chapter Eleven
True night had fallen when they landed down silently, obscuring any relevant details of where they might be. Sherlock held John's elbows as John held his, glancing around him in an attempt to take in the scenery. They were outdoors, about a mile or so away from the outline of what looked like a small town. The hilly landscape sloped down towards the coast, which could just be made out from the occasional blink of a lighthouse beacon. Though it was summer, the breeze that broke across from the water had a chill to it, bringing with it a crisp, salty tang that the Thames always lacked. Sherlock could faintly make out the sounds drifting up from the small town, people closing their shops for the night and saying their farewells. As he watched, streetlights began flickering into life, lining the twisting roads with faint dots of yellow.
John took another deep breath before finally releasing Sherlock's arms. He answered Sherlock's silent query with a sharp shake of his head. There was a worn gravel path, not unlike children would make over many passings across the field, and John led the way down it and into the town. He kept his head low as they walked, for once causing Sherlock to rush to catch up with him rather than the other way around. They skirted the main roads by darting down low lit alleys, eventually making their way closer to the coast. Sherlock noticed immediately that there were enormous cliff sides, hidden from view in the distance, causing an immediate drop down to the sand and surf. The sensation of walking along them reminded him of standing at the edge of the roof of Bart's, and he unconsciously made sure to place John between him and the edge.
"Is this…" Sherlock began in a low voice that petered out. He spotted a small cottage in the distance, set back just before the beginning of a dense forest, that seemed to answer his question before he could fully ask it. John, however, answered anyway.
"My hometown, yeah. Lovely, isn't it? I haven't been back here since the day my parents died, but somehow I still remembered the way, even in the dark." John's voice was hollow, taking on the analytical tone Sherlock recognized from when he reverted into doctor mode to shut off his emotions. Neither spoke as they approached the cottage, but John shot out an arm to bring Sherlock to a halt. "You aren't going in there."
"Of course I'm going in there," Sherlock replied, his tone matter-of-fact, and made to dart around John's arm. John gripped at his shirt and forced him to stop, refusing to release him until Sherlock met his eyes.
"You are bloody well not going in there, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," John growled. Sherlock attempted to keep back the shiver that John's captainesque tone sent through him, but he knew he failed at the almost imperceptible twitch of John's lips. "If I'm right and Mary's in there, that means that we are going up against a murderer with a wand who has already killed you once and probably doesn't give a shit about doing it again, particularly now. Unless you have a wand of your own, you're not going in there."
"What if I did?" Sherlock asked, a slight smirk on his face. When all John did was blink up at him in reply, Sherlock reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a long, sleek wand.
"Where in the ever living fuck…Sherlock! Did you snitch that in Azkaban? I swear to God if that is Harry bloody Potter's wand – "
"Of course it isn't Harry's, John, don't be an idiot," Sherlock scoffed at him. "I doubt Harry would have let me get away with it, he's got an eye on his wand at all times because he, unlike the rest of the lot, actually has a bit of intelligence. It's Faulkner's, he wasn't paying attention to it during all of the activity going on and I could see from the grain of the wood that it was one of the more lenient types. It's helpful the core isn't unicorn hair either, so it should be fairly straightforward to get it to work for me with a bit of force and determination."
"Putting aside the fact that you stole a guard's wand while we were in ruddy Azkaban prison, what do you expect to do? You aren't a wizard, Sherlock, you haven't been properly trained, even if there is a possibility you've got a bit of magic in you."
"No better time to test it out than to put it into action, then. I've read enough of your old textbooks by now that I have at least a basic understand of what I'm doing, at least enough to defend myself." When John looked unconvinced, Sherlock let out a sigh. "You aren't going in there alone, John. As long as I am here, I will not allow you to face her without me. So you may either attempt to keep me put with some magic and force me to waste valuable time eventually escaping it or allow me to come. Regardless, you are not going into that house without me by your side as always."
By the end of his short speech, John couldn't help the slight grin at his lips. He shook his head and glared up at Sherlock. "All right, fine, but it's under my conditions. You stay behind me at all times, let me put up at least a basic shield around you, and you do not use the wand unless absolutely necessary. That means as defense only, Sherlock, got it? I'm not going to have you try something too advanced and blowing us all up to hell."
"Agreed, though your concerns are groundless. I've already tried a handful of spells using your wand and mastered them with a bit of work. I highly doubt I am capable of 'blowing us all up to hell.'"
"Currently ignoring the fact that you've used my wand without my permission," John sighed as he rubbed at his rough jaw. "Jesus, I am going to be in a shitton of trouble with the Ministry for all of this…hold still." He gave his wand a wave over Sherlock's front and muttered, "Protego." A light blue mist soon surrounded Sherlock, giving him an eerie, almost ghostly glow. John did a quick test to ensure it would do its job before turning back to face the cottage.
It was small but comfortable looking, exactly what Sherlock expected from John's childhood home. Obviously no one had resided there in years; the windows were dusty enough to no longer be transparent, the front steps were cracked and jagged, and the forest surrounding had crept into the yard to overrun the formerly well kept garden. Sherlock instantly spotted the roses that John spoke of often, their silvery gray and burgundy petals contrasting with the excess of green in the shadow of the moon.
John allowed the slightly lit tip of his wand to guide them forward, their legs rustling through the too high grass. When he stiffened at the foot of the broken steps, Sherlock snaked out an arm to rest a warm hand at the small of his back. John melted slightly into the motion, causing Sherlock to feel the muscles beneath his hand loosen their tension. John gave him a slight nod of thanks and they clamoured over the stairs to shove the partially falling door open.
The cottage had been emptied of furniture and the homey touches of active life, leaving the rooms bleak and unwelcome. A fine coat of dust covered the walls and floors, except where a set of feminine footsteps led them through the ground level. They followed silently behind the steps, neither voicing their familiarity with their size and shape. After a complete circuit of the house brought no sign of life, John crossed his arms over his chest and gave a huff as he glared around the entranceway.
"We're on the right track – she was here, and recently," Sherlock muttered, kneeling down to run a finger through the dust and sniffing it. "There hasn't been time for new dust to settle and there's a fairly misty quality around where she stepped. There was dew on the grass outside, from the tides shifting in, so she's only been gone since this afternoon at the latest. She could still be close by."
"Sherlock." John had shuffled over to a window as Sherlock spoke. He used the sleeve of his jacket to rub a small patch in the grime and peer out into the night. When he spoke, Sherlock shot up and crossed to his side, not even taking the moment to clear the dust from his knee. Their view led out towards the water, the cliff side almost invisible as it melted into the horizon. Just along the edge, hardly distinguishable from the dark shapes of the night around it, was an odd silhouette that appeared to be sitting and staring down into the water.
As one, John and Sherlock rushed back outdoors and up to the cliff, both of them halting a few feet away from the figure. When they drew closer, the outline of slim shoulders and short blonde hair became more prominent. Even though their progress out to her was nearly silent, she turned her head slightly when they froze to shoot them a sad smile.
"You're later than I expected," Mary said comfortably, turning back to watch the waves crash in. "I thought the roses might give you a hint. Perhaps it was a bit too obscure."
John readjusted steady grip on his wand, shooting out his free arm to make sure Sherlock remained behind him. "We only learned about Jones and Travers a few hours ago. They had only just found Yaxley and Rosier a bit before we got to Azkaban."
"Ah, you went right to the scene. I should have expected it." She was nodding as though they were carrying on a conversation about the weather, her voice calm and casual. Sherlock could see John's fingers around his wand turning white from how hard he held it, and the arm in front of his chest shook faintly in what he expected was barely contained anger. "Tell me what you think you know."
"Oh no," John seethed, taking a single step forward. "No more guessing games. I've been tossed about by you more times than I know and for once I'd like some fucking answers! I swear to God, Mary, if I have to force Veritaserum down your throat to get the truth, I will do it!"
Sherlock gave him his chance to shout, staying back to simply observe for once. While John quietly huffed out breaths like the silently raging bull he was, Mary continued to sit along the edge and stare out into nothing.
"I was sixteen," she began, voice barely carrying over the sound of the surf below. "They normally would have waited to have me join at seventeen, but my older brother was taking the Mark as well and they wanted us to do it at the same time. Something about symbolism and tradition. The point is that I got it."
"Why?" John asked, voice equally low and hardly containing his anger. "Why the hell would you take it? There's no way you've been living as a Muggle for this long while believing the utter shit they did."
She chuckled a bit at that and continued. "I didn't know what I believed, honestly. I was raised to think that family was of the highest importance and that I existed to bring our name honour. I took the Mark because it was expected of me, not for any particular enthusiasm for the cause."
"They knew they could use your particular skill set," Sherlock added. He wasn't even sure if she knew he was there, but her vacant persona didn't falter at his statement.
"Oh, I was certainly invaluable. Nobody need know I had the Mark if I could change my skin, so I could get into anything, get away with whatever I wished. I was practically a god. The Dark Lord would have destroyed a thousand Muggle towns just to get a single metamorphmagus Death Eater."
"Do not call him that," John snapped harshly, causing her to jump in the first genuine reaction they had seen from her yet. "Don't you dare make him sound like he was some all powerful master, like he was deserving of some great respect. Lord Voldemort was as evil a creature to have been born and he wasn't worthy to breathe, let alone live for as long as he did."
"Evil he might have been, John, but you have to admit his power was impressive," Mary pressed on. Sherlock suspected he may soon have to physically hold John back from attacking her. "He was evil, true, but his power was great. I may not know how I felt on his beliefs, but that much at least is hard to deny."
"You don't fully stand behind what he did, then," Sherlock prodded when he sense John was too incensed to reply. "You knew he was evil, yet followed his orders regardless."
"I still don't know what I believe. I remember times when he'd speak to us of what he thought of Muggles, of the place these lesser creatures deserved in regard to our far more impressive powers. I've lived among Muggles long enough to know they are not to be underestimated, but such ingrained beliefs are hard to break. The lessons of my childhood are ones I can never fully forget."
"You disgust me," John spat out, taking a step backward nearly into Sherlock in his physical repulsion. "How can you, how can anyone, possibly marry someone you thought to be a Muggle and think he's unworthy of basic human rights? How could you marry a man knowing that you killed his parents simply because they were born lacking the gift their son possessed?"
She rose to her feet so fast that it seemed as though she were more spirit than being. The motion caused both John and Sherlock to raise their wands at her, but her own hands were empty. "I had no idea what I was doing the night I killed your parents, John. I certainly had no idea they were yours. I was following the orders of my commander, not unlike you."
John growled low in his throat. "Tell me what happened that night. Tell me how you killed them."
Her face turned instantly impassive once more. "They were another Muggle family as far as we were told, ones that were known to be particularly close to a local wizarding family in the town. I assumed we were to kill them to teach the wizards how weak these friends of theirs were, how pointless their endeavours to become close to them would be. It was a quick job – get in, do the kill, leave the Mark over their house. No different than all the other Muggle attacks we'd done. It was Yaxley's idea to carve Mudblood into their foreheads. Apparently he knew the couple had a son who had gone to Hogwarts and he thought it would be an appropriate added touch."
"You knew they had children, then?" John's voice was wavering with each word he spoke, but he attempted to keep it firm. "You all knew there were children, God only knew how young, and you killed them anyway."
"I didn't know they had a wizard child!" she cried, beginning to pace in agitation along the grass. "I had no idea one of their children had magic too!"
"It shouldn't have mattered!" John screamed, going to leap at her but held back by Sherlock's firm grip on his arms. "These were lives, human lives, who were part of a family! It shouldn't have fucking mattered what kind of child they had, or even if they had them at all! They were human beings, Mary, not pigs out for the slaughter!"
Mary's shoulders lowered as she finally stopped pacing. She turned back toward the water, gaze facing down at the sand below. "You're right, of course you're right. What they were, or rather what they weren't, shouldn't matter. Doesn't matter. But it was done and there isn't anything more I can tell you besides I'm sorry. Destroying the last of those who did you harm was the best I could do."
No one spoke for several minutes until John drew in a deep, long breath to calm himself. "And what of Cecelia?" he finally asked in a quiet voice. "As far as you know, she's a Muggle. What would you have done if I never found out and she turned out to have no magic? Or did you have plans to drown her down at the river like some dog you didn't want anymore?"
"How could you think that, John?" Mary's eyes flashed with tears when her head shot back to face them. "I am not a monster! Cecelia is my child! I will love her, regardless of what she is, until the end of time! Nothing could ever be done to change that!"
John nodded once gruffly. "May I see it? The Mark?"
Without replying verbally, Mary pulled up her sleeve to reveal her right forearm. Against the pale skin was the skull and snake, standing out in stark relief in the moonlight. Although Sherlock itched to inspect it closer, he remained solidly at John's side. Even from the distance, he could see the lines along the edges of the Mark morph along her skin as though it was always there, more natural than any Muggle tattoo and significantly more permanent. Yet even as they watched, the skin along her arm wavered and rippled. Quicker than it likely took for the Mark to first be placed, the skin on her arm cleared back to its normal solid peach as though it never existed. Though they knew she was a metamorphmagus, having such solid proof of seeing it happen before their eyes was still a shock.
"I want to see you," John suddenly said, eyes darting up from her arm to her face. "The real you, not this picture you've painted of the Mary I thought I knew."
Mary held her hands open to them, palms facing upward. "You've had her the entire time. I didn't want to be a witch any longer, so I took on my born shape and joined the Muggle world. I wanted to start my new life with a truth, one I could actually claim as my own. You've always had the real me."
"You were never mine," John stated flatly with a shake of his head. "I lost faith in that the very moment I heard you shot Sherlock Holmes. I never wanted to see you, hear your name again, when I held that flash drive in my hand. The only reason I stayed was the baby that you held and the belief that I could figure out some way to get out and back where I belonged with her as fast as possible."
"You did read the drive, then." He hadn't actually said it, but she could sense it from his tone.
"Yeah, and a fat lot of good that did me. Even your supposed truths were a lie. Even if I thought I could trust you again, this is the final straw. I couldn't trust you if I needed to in order to live."
"I never had you anyway, John Watson," Mary said with a sad shake of her head. "I was never yours and you were never mine, despite how hard we tried. You found your second half long before I ever came around." When she pointedly stared at Sherlock, John reached out his free hand to grasp on to Sherlock's hand. The motion caused Sherlock to jolt, eyes shooting between John's fierce face and their clasped hands. When he gave it a tentative squeeze, John replied with one back with double the force. Though they could see the tears in her eyes, Mary smiled slightly at the motion.
"I could never say sorry enough, John, never do or say enough to deserve forgiveness. I've killed without regret, killed those who had absolutely no way to defend themselves and only did it because they weren't born the same way I was. I wish I had some sort of excuse, but nothing ever comes to mind." She took a deep breath and clenched her eyes shut before turning them on Sherlock. "You watch over him, Sherlock Holmes. You hold in your possession one of the greatest, strongest hearts I've ever met. I'd say you don't deserve it, but honestly? You may be the only one who does." Without their noticing immediately, she began to gradually step backward, getting closer to the edge. "Give Cecy my love. Help her to understand that regardless of what happened, I loved her with all of my being."
Sherlock realized what was happening a second too late. He lunged forward to grab any part of her he could, his eyes wide in shock. The last sight he had of her before she fell backward over the edge was her sad smile.
"NO!" he shouted as she gracefully fell, her blonde hair whirling in her face from the movement. The sound of her hitting the beach below echoed up to them, and even from the distance Sherlock could tell from the mangled shape of her body that she was gone.