Oh, my dear music, what would I do without you? What You Know by Two Door Cinema Club was very helpful when writing this. :)
And, thank you, Sherlock Nelms, for being my other, irreplaceable muse. I would like to dedicate this story to you and your ever- radiating awesomeness. Seriously. Your comments always mean the world to me. :)
Please tell me what you think!
Mary's smile was bittersweet as she set down the phone. She had one heck of a choice to make today, and none of the possible decisions she could reach could avoid hurting the people around her. But, so was the price of being a spy.
James Bond made spying look like some sort of sought- after profession, but actuality, it was extremely hard to find anybody who was willing for the job. Hollywood has twisted the career so far out of whack that it makes Mary's head hurt.
But why? Some people might ask. Who wouldn't want to be a master of every martial art ever invented, and get to learn like fifteen languages? Who wouldn't want to race down corridors, dodging the bullets flying overhead, and chasing bad guys that nobody else has the guts to chase down? Who wouldn't want to get to shoot things with scarily large guns with no law consequence whatsoever?
Mary sighed, put her elbows up on the kitchen table and buried her face in her hands. People who didn't want to have assassins crashing their wedding. People who didn't want to have to lie to everybody they know and tell them that you're a bloody governess. People who wanted to know, for sure, that they wouldn't ever have to be shipped off to Yugoslavia and have to fake their death to insure they wouldn't be followed.
-story break horray-
Sherlock awoke to the sharp, shrill ringing of his mobile. Sitting up abruptly, he blinked his eyes to try and wake himself up and to cast away the remnants of the nightmares that still lingered beneath his lids. Really, he was amazed he even got any sleep at all.
Reaching a hand over to his nightstand, he grabbed his phone and answered it, putting it to his ear.
"Yes?" He spoke into the device, his tone already disinterested. Even Lestrade, nowadays, couldn't get him very worked up about anything. The light from his world was gone.
A sob on the other end of the line. Sherlock rolled his eyes; this wasn't getting them anywhere. Say it, or don't say it. You don't call up Sherlock Holmes just to waste his time sniveling on the other end of the line.
"Sherlock-" The voice broke off again, briefly, and Sherlock subconsciously stood up. It was the voice from his nightmares.
"John? John, where are you?" Sherlock kept his voice level and let only a drop of concern show, although there was an ocean of it that had formed in his heart. Had John been attacked? Was he in some dark alleyway somewhere, stranded?
"I'm at our flat, Sherlock, but," sob, "It's Mary. She's dead."
Sherlock squeezed his lips together and quickly composed himself. John would get just as worked up as this if he had died, right?
Sherlock wasn't sure of the answer, and it made what little pathetic piece of a heart he had left shrink away.
Righting himself, he quickly censored what he was going to say in case his heart had wormed its way into his speech again. He had to do this a lot in order to avoid... mistakes.
"Do you need to, um, talk about it?" Sherlock said in a perfectly, skillfully even voice. He understood that humans sometimes took comfort in conversing about their troubles with other humans. And if it made John happy, then by all means, he would do whatever he could. Always.
"Do you mind? Could I just... pop over?" John's voice was so weak, so broken.
Sherlock bit his lip. He could say yes, right? That wouldn't arouse any... suspicion? Sometimes he would intentionally snap at John, or call him an idiot, and it hurt- oh God, did it hurt- but it was necessary. It was better to still have only his friendship than to be refused even that.
But this time, he couldn't bring himself to say no. His John was hurting. And he would rather die than refuse to help him heal.
"Of course, John." Sherlock said quietly, already looking forward to the moment when he would step over the door frame.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock's heart melted at the kindness. That was the thing about John, though- he was kind to everyone. Sherlock wasn't special in any way. Sherlock formed and censored his reply, telling himself he didn't care. "You're welcome."
After hanging up the phone, the light almost visibly drained out of his life. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, sighing quietly, and then went to go get dressed.
2 minutes and 33 seconds later, Sherlock sat on the sofa and patiently watched the door.
4 minutes and 9 seconds later, still nobody had entered, but Sherlock would wait. Sherlock would sit on the sofa until the day he died to see John again. It was irrelevant that John would never do the same; this fact did not dull his love one bit.
It just made the ache in his heart turn into pure agony.
Only 7 seconds later, the door handle turned, and again, Sherlock subconsciously stood up.
Only it wasn't John.
"Get out." Sherlock said harshly, never wanting to see that face again, and especially not now, when John was near.
"Oh, but don't you want to know where your little friend is?" Moriarty said, feigning offense.
Sherlock visibly paled. "What have you done with John?"
Moriarty laughed. "Hmm, struck a chord now, have we?" He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, then stepped past him and over to the window and chuckled. "This'll be fun."
"Were you the one who killed his wife?" Sherlock asked, trying his best to snap back.
"Ha! I wish I could take the credit! But, unfortunately, no, that was not my doing. Although," Moriarty said, turning back to face Sherlock, "It did set up quite a... situation, did it not?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, confused.
"Oh, come on. It's obvious that you love him. Well, obvious to everyone except him. A bit ironic, don't you think?" Moriarty paused to take in Sherlock's expression, which he had managed to keep bank, by some miracle. "Point is, she's out of the picture now. There's a place for you to... step in." Moriarty chuckled.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his voice dark. "You know I would never do that to John."
Moriarty smirked. "I knew you'd say that. That's why I'm here. Because I know, with Mary gone, how hard it will be for you to remain out of the picture. I want to be here to watch you suffer. I want to watch you wither in agony as he sits so close to you... and yet you can't touch him. And then, ultimately, you won't be able to resist any longer. And just when he's put his trust in you, John will see you for what you really are, and he'll refuse you. And I want to be here when whatever pathetic excuse for a heart Sherlock Holmes still has is finally broken completely."
"Ah, a wondrous plan, I must congratulate you on your planning, however, it seems to be riding on a very prominent "if"." Sherlock said, barely remaining composed. He could hear, even though he desperately wanted not to, the truth that rung in Moriarty's words.
"Enlighten me," Moriarty said mockingly.
"What if he doesn't refuse me?"
Moriarty sighed and made his way over to Sherlock. "That, right there Sherlock, is why my plan will work. Because no matter what happens, you'll never lose hope that maybe, just maybe, your little fantasies will come true. I'll be watching you, Sherlock." Moriarty said, and then disappeared out the door.
I will seriously love you forever if you review. I expect to write around two more chapters after this one. :)