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“You’re almost certainly going to die…”
“Focus.”
“What was directly behind you when you were murdered?”
“Don’t go into shock, obviously.”
“Massive internal bleeding.”
“You always feel pain, Sherlock. But you don’t have to fear it.”
“...you don’t have to fear it…”
“...you don’t have to…”
***
Sherlock’s eyes flicked open abruptly, accompanied by a sudden intake of breath. He blinked, forcing his eyes to adjust to the harsh white light glaring down upon him. His surroundings imprinted themselves on his mind in a single glance. Small room. Flowers. Walls painted a clinical white. The scent of disinfectant.
Hospital.
He could feel the familiar numbing effect of morphine as it curled through his veins, working its way through his body. A sharp ache throbbed in his abdomen. He closed his eyes momentarily, pulling the past events from his mind palace to examine them.
Mary.
She hadn’t gone for the head, no, but her shot had very nearly been fatal, nonetheless. He viewed another memory that was slightly hazy due to a mixture of medication, pain, and shock.
“You don’t tell him. You don’t tell John. Look at me and tell me you’re not going to tell him.”
Not even an apology , Sherlock thought wryly. Maybe if she was so desperate to keep John she shouldn’t have shot him. Despite her folly, her priorities were clear. Keep her relationship with John. If Sherlock had died, he wondered if Mary would have told him, confessed that she’d been the one to pull the trigger. Somehow he doubted it.
A variety of sweet scents pervaded his nose and Sherlock turned his attention to the flowers decorating his room. His blue-green eyes flicked over the majority with disinterest - most from besotted fans - before pausing on the bouquet closest to his bed. It was made up of an assortment of blooms: Bearded Crepis, Birdsfoot Trefoil, Eglantine, Red Camellia Japonica, and Globe Amaranth.
Sherlock frowned. The combination, while not unattractive, was unusual. He ran each flower through his mind palace automatically, searching for references and associations to each. It was less than a second later that his eyes lit up with realisation.
In the Victorian language of flowers Bearded Crepis meant ‘protection’, Birdsfoot Trefoil meant ‘revenge’ or ‘vengeance’. Just as the red form of Camellia Japonica meant ‘unpretending excellence’, Eglantine meant ‘I wound to heal’, and Globe Amaranth meant ‘Immortality’ or ‘unfading love’.
Their meaning in correlation with each other was technically open to interpretation, but Sherlock was confident in his conclusion.
Birdsfoot Trefoil typically meant revenge upon the one to whom the flower was given but, in combination with Bearded Crepis and Eglantine, it suggested revenge upon one who has wronged the recipient. Revenge to protect; ‘I wound to heal’. Clever. The Red Camellia Japonica made Sherlock smile at its appropriateness. ‘Unpretending excellence’, is right. Arrogance fit too, he supposed. The Globe Amaranth’s meaning of ‘Immortality’ was fitting in that he was not dead, but he tucked away the love aspect of the flower for further study.
He only knew of one person who would send him a secret message in flowers.
Sherlock reached out to snag the card that came with the bouquet, grimacing as the movement aggravated his wound. He analyzed the card - low quality, cheap - but only briefly as his eagerness to open it won out over prudence. Stretching across the otherwise blank inside of the card, in elegant, if showy, handwriting, was a single sentence.
Get well soon, darling xx
There was no signature but Sherlock smiled. He knew that handwriting just as well as his own. Possibly better; he hadn’t spent days studying his own writing after all. He closed the card. It was a generic ‘Get Well’ card, almost certainly from the small shop in the hospital. From anyone else it would have suggested a need for convenience at best, lack of sincerity at worst. But in context with whom Sherlock knew to have sent the flowers, it meant something more. It meant that he had been here; in order to write on the card, he must have. He had been here, even though he could have simply hired someone to deliver the flowers.
Sherlock reclined back on his hospital bed, a warm feeling gilding his insides. He glanced at the bouquet again, its message flashing through his mind.
Good luck, Mary , Sherlock thought with a smirk and little sincerity. You’re going to need it .
***
Mary walked in step with John, away from the hospital. The staff had all but thrown them out after visiting hours. She linked arms with her husband, feeling a twinge of guilt as she read the fervent worry on his face for Sherlock.
“He’ll be alright,” she said, doing her best to comfort him.
John squared his shoulders and nodded.
“Yeah. He’s Sherlock. There’s no way he’d let a bullet kill him, he’d want to go out with a bang. Fireworks. Something flashy. He’s a drama queen, you know.”
The ex-soldier was still rambling when a large white van with tinted windows pulled up next to them. Alarm bells pealed and every single one of Mary’s instincts screamed danger. She pulled on John’s arm - they had to run - but it was too late. Some number of hired arms poured out of the vehicle and surrounded them. Each was armed with a handgun and an AK-47. These guys worked for someone professional.
John had his soldier face on as he reluctantly raised his hands. Mary forced herself to follow suit despite the encompassing need to get out of here . But there wasn’t anywhere to go. She didn’t have a gun or even a knife, having stupidly assumed that she was safe with her new identity. Two of the men forced John to the ground. Mary gritted her teeth and stayed still. Something shifted. Behind her . Before she could turn she heard a sickening crack and everything went dark.
***
For an assassin-spy, Mrs Watson didn’t put up much of a fight. Although, he supposed, it must be hard to when one is surrounded by an obscene amount of guns wielded by people chomping at the bit to use them. No amount of skill could get you out of that, especially when you were unarmed, unprepared, and fresh out of luck.
Still, it had been too easy. Anticlimactic.
Boring.
He would just have to ensure that what came next wasn’t.
***
Mary swam into consciousness slowly. Cold metal bit into her wrists and ankles. Restraints. Panic shot through her but she kept her eyes shut and her breaths slow. What had happened? She and John had been walking from the hospital, then… Oh. That’s right. A dull ache pulsed in the back of her head. She must have been knocked out from behind. But what about John? She had seen their attackers force John to the ground but nothing more. They had clearly been after her, which meant this had something to do with her past. It was a coin toss between them leaving John behind because he wasn’t who they’d come for, or bringing him to use as leverage against her.
She rerouted her focus to learn what she could from her surroundings whilst feigning unconsciousness. Her restraints locked her to the cold metal chair she was sitting on. She didn’t dare test them for weak spots in case she was being observed. A breeze caused her bare arms to ripple with goosebumps. Somewhere draughty.
She fought the urge to tense as footsteps suddenly sounded from behind her. They were loud, the owner making no effort to muffle the echoing clack of expensive leather shoes.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” A lilting male voice sang. “With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.”
She didn’t move, even as the footsteps came to a halt directly in front of her.
“I know you’re awake,” the man sing-songed. “Your breathing pattern changed.”
Giving up the ruse, Mary opened her eyes. The speaker was a dark haired man with big brown, almost black, eyes. His expensive suit was tailored to his shorter than average frame, and was a stark contrast to the dingy surroundings. If Mary had looked, she would have seen that they were in a large and eerily empty warehouse. For the moment though, she was too busy staring at the man in front of her. Her mouth dropped. She knew that face, but not from her past. Likely everyone in England would recognise it.
He was supposed to be dead.
“Moriarty,” she breathed.
His head tilted to the side and his face morphed into an expression of exaggerated delight.
“Aw, the bitch remembers me.” Then his voice and face abruptly flattened into a neutral mask. “Should I be flattered? ‘Cause I’m really not.”
Mary watched him warily. His way of speaking - unusual dips and perks in pitch, an almost perpetual singsong - and how he flicked through emotions, seeming to choose one at random, unnerved her. She wasn’t sure how Sherlock had gone head to head with him as many times as he had.
But what did he want with her? Was this a way to get at John, and therefore, Sherlock? No, John had been with her. If that was what Moriarty wanted he would have gone straight for John. Could he want to blackmail her?
Moriarty rolled his eyes,
“And now, because you’re stupid ,” he snapped the word, “you’re wondering what on earth you could’ve possibly done to attract my attention.”
The malice in his eyes made her shudder inwardly. She ensured that she appeared unfazed when she spoke.
“Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to guess?”
Moriarty looked at her like she was an idiot.
“You. Shot. Sherlock.” He enunciated each word clearly, as though he was talking to a child.
Mary frowned, trying to understand. Why would he care? What… Oh. Her eyes widened in realization. She’d encroached on his territory. He read her comprehension on her face.
“There it is. Now you get it.” He wandered off to the side and dragged a chair in front of her. His suit rustled as he sat down. “I freely admit that I’m possessive by nature. No one touches what I consider mine. And Sherlock is mine .” He bared his teeth before his face collapsed into an emotionless canvas.
“In case your little mind can’t make the leap, here’s the big part. The part that concerns you the most. Because you shot Sherlock, and pissed me off in the process, you get to die, in the most painful way possible.”
Mary frowned. There was something off. What she’d done may be reason enough to kill her, in Moriarty’s mind, but he could have hired someone for that. There was no reason for him to be here… unless there was more to the story. That this was about more than encroaching on his territory. What was it about Sherlock that had provoked this? She took a shot in the dark.
“If you’re trying to gain his favour by killing me, you clearly don’t know him very well.”
Moriarty leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into hers.
“I know Sherlock better than anyone. I’m him. He’s me. We’re one and the same.”
Mary didn’t know what to do with that statement. She tried to sound confident.
“Sherlock won’t stand for this. He and John will find me. It won’t be hard for him to track this place down.”
If Moriarty had John locked up somewhere she’d just given him an opening to gloat, and one for herself to gain information. The consulting criminal just smiled at her, a self assured expression that said he knew something she didn’t. She’d seen that look before, on Sherlock. When he spoke, his words did not take the direction she’d expected.
“Sherlock knows exactly what I’m going to do to you.”
She blinked.
“What?”
He gave a delighted laugh.
“I sent him a message. He’s had enough time to find a phone if he wanted me to stop. And look at that.” He retrieved his phone from his pocket and held it near his ear, as though listening for a notification. He pulled a face of mock shock. “No new messages.”
She didn’t respond. That couldn’t be right. Sherlock would find her, for John, if not for herself. She felt a twinge of guilt for shooting him.
Moriarty tapped out a message on his phone and hit send. A moment later a clatter of wheels drew Mary’s attention to an approaching cart wheeled by a tall blond man. His bearing suggested a soldier, and his gun narrowed it down to a sniper. She swallowed as she caught sight of what lay on the cart. Knives, pliers, blunt instruments. A torture kit. It was wheeled next to her, and the sniper took up a stance a few metres away. Moriarty took one of the knives and flipped it casually.
“I don’t usually like getting my hands dirty, but for you? After what you did?” He grinned. “I think I’ll make an exception.”
***
“Sherlock! Sherlock!”
The consulting detective jerked awake to John’s shouts grating on his ears. He groaned and turned his head into his pillow. On the rare occasions that Sherlock actually slept, he was not fond of being woken up.
“Sherlock!”
John’s brash voice wasn’t going away.
“What?” Sherlock bit out sharply, turning to face his flatmate.
John’s face was creased with worry. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him. Oh. He was here about Mary.
“Sherlock, Mary’s been kidnapped!”
Sherlock sighed. Predictable.
“And?”
“’And?’” John yelled incredulously. “What do you mean ‘and’?
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“ And what would you like me to do about it, John? In case it has escaped your notice I am trying to recuperate from a near fatal gunshot wound.” Then, too low for John to hear. “Most missing persons cases are boring anyway.”
A trace of guilt softened the angry furrows of his brow. The ex-soldier tried again.
“Sherlock, this is Mary we’re talking about! My wife!”
“Yes, it is.” Sherlock muttered distractedly, looking at the bouquet from him . “I’m afraid I’m not particularly inclined to aid the person who shot me.”
It took a second but Sherlock had the dubious pleasure of seeing John falter as just what Sherlock said hit home.
“What?” He gasped. “No. Sherlock what are you talking about? Mary wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s what I thought,” Sherlock hummed. He needed to reconfigure the Mary in his mind palace in light of that incorrect prediction. Though it was unlikely he’d need her again. He was broken out of his musings by a hand on his forehead. He raised a brow at John.
“Well you don’t have a fever,” the doctor muttered.
Sherlock rolled his eyes with more vigour.
“Oh for god’s sake,” he snapped. “Is it really so hard for you to believe that your wife shot me?”
Apparently it was. Judging by John’s expression Sherlock doubted that anything less than a confession from Mary herself would convince him.
“You need rest.” John nodded to himself. “Greg and I will look into it. When you’re feeling a bit better you can help. We’ll text you if we find anything.”
Ah, but what if I don’t want to help, John?
“I don’t have my phone,” Sherlock reminded him. For the sake of being tactful, he decided not to say that they won’t be able to find anything without him.
“Oh, right.” John patted his pockets and tossed Sherlock’s phone to the detective. He caught it, wincing as the movement pulled at his injury.
There was an awkward pause before John walked out. Sherlock waited until he was out of sight before unlocking his phone. A violinist’s fingers flew across the screen as he fired off a text.
***
Mary ground her teeth as a knife scraped at her skin. Moriarty was peeling back each individual layer, the pain increasing as he got further down. Pulling away was hopeless but still she tried. Moriarty watched her with amusement and ran a gloved hand down her skinned arm. She tried, but could not entirely hold back a soft hiss of pain.
As a freelance assassin, Mary had been taught to deal with pain and resist all manners of interrogation techniques. But Moriarty was creative and he somehow knew just what would cause the most pain, would trigger the most memories. She supposed it came with his brand of genius. The ability to know just what to do to break someone.
A two pulse vibration interrupted Moriarty’s harsh ministrations. She breathed a sigh of relief as he ignored her in favour of checking his phone. Drying blood covered her back, aggravating already painful wounds.
Moriarty hummed as he read the message on his phone. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased with its contents or not. Mary felt an ember of hope catch alight. Maybe it was Sherlock. Surely he wouldn’t stand by if he knew what Moriarty was doing to her.
***
Jim smirked as he read the look on Mrs Watson’s face. She thought she knew Sherlock. Ha! Assassin or otherwise, she was ordinary. And ordinary people were incapable of knowing and understanding the beauty that was Sherlock Holmes. He reread Sherlock’s text.
John and Lestrade are searching for Mary. - SH
A courtesy warning, one he didn’t need to give, and Sherlock would have known that. Which meant he simply wanted to make contact. Jim smiled.
Worried about me, darling? ;) xx - JM
No. How’s Mary? - SH
Why not? :( - JM
Because I know that the idiots that make up Scotland Yard will never be able to find you unless you let them. The answer to my question? - SH
Jim would never admit that he felt a warm something at Sherlock’s words. Which was ridiculous. He knew he was brilliant, he didn’t need Sherlock to tell him that.
But, then again, it was Sherlock.
He snapped a photo of Mary, hunched over, bruised and bleeding, and sent it in lieu of an answer.
She looks terrible. - SH
Thank you. - SH
Jim smiled wider.
My pleasure, dear. No one touches you and gets away with it. Except for me, of course. - JM
If we’re arguing technicalities, she didn’t touch me, the bullet did. - SH
The consulting criminal’s temper flared and he heard himself snarl.
Your heart stopped, Sherlock. You were *this* close to being dead. Then I would have torn England apart and joined you. - JM
He fired it off in the heat of the moment, then regretted it immediately. His text showed more vulnerability than he was comfortable with. He almost didn’t want to look at the reply.
I reciprocate the sentiment. - SH
Something unwound in his gut. Jim’s phone buzzed as a second text came through.
With the possible exception of destroying England. It would depend how I felt at the time. But rest assured, I would make sure that your hypothetical killers would die painfully, regretting the day they were born. - SH
Jim licked his lips as his mind helpfully supplied an image of Sherlock carving up an anonymous killer, covered in blood. The crimson would be a delicious contrast to his pale skin.
I need to see that, Sherly, because that sounds terribly hot. On another note, do you have any requests regarding your own would-be killer? - JM
There was a few seconds pause.
Make her scream. - SH
Jim Moriarty did so with pleasure.
***
By the time Sherlock had been released (read as: snuck out) from the hospital, Mary had been missing three days. John, needless to say, was practically catatonic with worry.
Sherlock blinked as he came out of his mind palace. John was pacing furiously beside him. Sherlock tilted his head.
“Why are you pacing?”
John jerked towards him, simultaneously angry and flabbergasted.
“Why am I- My wife is missing!”
Sherlock frowned.
“Yes, I know that. How is pacing going to help find her?”
John gaped.
“You machine . You don’t even care, do you? Is that why you won’t help find her?”
“There’s no longer a crime scene for me to deduce from, John. Ergo, I can’t.”
Lie. He was fully capable of looking past the certain contamination and alteration of the crime scene. John seemed to believe it, although he did storm out. Probably because it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
Sherlock steepled his hands and flicked a glance at his phone. He’d had no further texts from Jim. He wondered what the consulting criminal was going to do with Mary’s body. Something dramatic for sure. Theatrical flair was something they both enjoyed indulging in and possessed in spades. Lay her in the Queen’s bedroom? Hang her from the London Eye? Deliver her to Scotland Yard? The possibilities were endless.
Sherlock heard the doorbell ring, but didn’t move. A moment later Mrs Hudson’s footsteps headed to the door, which creaked slightly as it opened. Then it was closed and the land lady’s tread was making its way up the stairs. Not a client then. She was carrying something, judging by slight alterations in her gait. A delivery, most likely.
Sure enough, when Mrs Hudson finally came into view she was carrying a medium brown box.
“Parcel for you, Sherlock.”
He leapt up and took it from her.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson.” It was a clear dismissal.
“Not your housekeeper,” she muttered as she headed back down to her apartment.
The moment she was gone, Sherlock sat down with the box and analyzed it. It was a generic brown cardboard box, bought from a post office, taped shut with duct tape. Sherlock Holmes was written on the top in Jim’s handwriting. No stamp or address. Delivered by hand, not by post. He lifted the box, calculating the weight.
Ah. He knew exactly what was in here.
He snagged a letter open from a nearby table and cut through the duct tape. A shiver of anticipation stole down his spine as he flipped open the cardboard flaps.
Sherlock smiled, gratified that he’d been correct. Mary’s decapitated head stared blankly at him. The scent of blood and the beginning of decay slunk out of the box, almost shyly. Strands of blonde hair were matted together in rusty brown clumps.
“John, I found Mary!” Sherlock yelled, not taking his eyes off his present.
John’s bedroom door burst open and the man himself raced towards where Sherlock was sitting.
“You found her? How-” John’s voice cut out as he glimpsed the box. And what lay inside of it.
He collapsed to his knees.
“Mary?” He whispered. “Oh god, no. No, no, no.”
Tears began to track their way down his cheeks. He rocked backwards and forwards.
“No… Mary… no,” he mumbled.
Sherlock retired to his chair and, keeping one eye on his flatmate, pulled out his phone.
I think you broke John. - SH
Oops ;) - JM
He’s lost the ability to talk with coherency. - SH
I hear that happens when you’re in shock. He’ll get over it soon enough. Now, did you like the present, darling? I thought it would match the one on your mantelpiece. - JM
Sherlock glanced at where his skull sat.
I did but Lestrade will probably confiscate it. Something about being evidence of a crime, or something. - SH
You know, I’ve always wondered what poor soul has his skull decorating your flat. - JM
I told John it was a ‘friend’ of mine. It’s actually the skull of the first serial killer the Yard enlisted my help in finding. - SH
I hope it was you who killed him. - JM
Self defence. - SH
Sure, darling. ;) - JM
I guess I better message Lestrade. If I wait any longer there will be questions. - SH
Duty calls for me as well, I’m afraid. Later, sexy. - JM
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Jim’s perpetual need to refer to him by silly names. The gesture was more fond than annoyed. As he typed a message to send to Lestrade his mind began to mull over possible ‘thank you’ gifts for his other half. He smirked.
The death of a certain Charles Magnussen would do nicely.