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Mary rubs a hand across her eyes, blinking in the blackness of night. She reaches a tentative hand across the mattress, hoping to feel John’s warm body, or maybe a spot of heat on the sheets indicating that he was there recently. Nothing. And their youngest child, Sam, is still crying.
Mary swings her legs over the side of the bed, tucking her feet into the fuzzy slippers John’s friend Molly had given her for Christmas last year. She forgoes putting on a robe as well, because it’s not too cold, and her white nightgown will be enough. Besides, she wouldn’t want to ruin the pure white of the silk should Sammy spit up on her.
She stumbles down the hallway, running a hand along the wall to keep her balance. She’s exhausted from having to get up several times a night, every night, for the last six months to feed Sammy. It was easier with Dean, because Dean almost never cried unless he was in pain of some sort, and even then it was more of a soft keening, not like Sammy’s full-blown wail. John likes to joke that it’s because Sam has “younger-brother syndrome" which, according to John, renders the youngest sibling perpetually, inexplicably (and through none of their own doing, he made sure to point out) louder and more needy. Mary doesn’t believe it for a second. She herself is the younger sister, and by far the most independant.
The door to Sammy’s nursery is wide open, and she leans heavily against the doorframe, blinking blearily until the interior comes into focus. There’s a dark shape looming over Sammy’s crib, and she mumbles, “John?" before realizing that the shape is far too tall to be John.
"Who are you?" she demands, voice hardening. The shape doesn’t turn, simply shushing her calmly. She takes a defiant step forward and repeats herself, a bit louder and much more forceful. “Who the hell are you?"
The man turns, and his face is one she barely recognizes. It takes her a second before she can place it. She’d seen it in one of John’s photographs, in the chest he kept at the bottom of their closet, the one that had letters and postcards addressed to “John Watson" instead of John Winchester. She’d never asked because she knew that John wanted some things to remain hidden, but now she wishes fervently that she had. Then maybe she’d know this man’s name, or how to properly handle him without causing herself too much harm, or why he is in her son’s room in the first place.
His eyes are completely black, and a shiver of fear traces its way up Mary’s spine.
XXXXX
John starts awake, screams echoing in his mind. He scrubs a hand across his face and stares at the TV, which is playing an old war movie. No wonder he’d just had a nightmare. He hadn’t had one of them since before he met Mary, right after Sher—no. He’s not going to think about it. He’s going to go to bed.
He stands and takes exactly three steps toward the stairs when he hears another scream, this one anguished and feminine and achingly real. Within a split-second he’s running, old limp once again forgotten, sprinting up the stairs and ducking wildly into room after room, screaming her name. “Mary! Mary!"
There is smoke billowing out of Sam’s bedroom, and John’s stomach drops. He dashes for the door, immediately covering his mouth with his sleeve when the black clouds sting his eyes. “Mary?"
He rushes inside, heading straight for Sam. He has to get Sam out, and find Dean, and make sure his family is safe. He refuses to lose one more loved one.
John grabs his youngest son, not pausing before running back into the hallway. Dean meets him right outside the door, rubbing tired eyes and already stuttering questions. John simply shoves Sam into Dean’s arms and stabs a finger in the direction of the door. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!"
Dean runs, tiny arms carefully cradling his little brother, and John rushes back into the nursery, driven by a need to make sure everyone is out.
But they aren’t.
There’s a tall, thin man standing in the flames, ungodly grin etched onto his pale features, eyes black and fathomless and empty as the grave he’s supposed to be rotting in. He has his hands clasped behind his back and his hair is sticking straight up, suit immaculately pressed and black as sin. He laughs at John’s blank expression, which quickly gives way to fear and shock.
There’s one last scream, and John looks up. Mary’s body is on the ceiling, surrounded by a roiling sea of flame, terror and agony bathing her pretty face with their hellish glow. And as he watches, the fire takes her, engulfs her completely, filling the room with the smell of burned flesh. John screams wordlessly, unable to process anything that is happening.
In front of him, Sherlock takes a step forward.
"You weren’t supposed to forget me, John."