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Her duffel bag dragged from under the bed, Mary threw it onto the mattress and began quickly ruffling through drawers. Underwear and socks first, followed by comfortable, stretchy maternity trousers and tops, were all stuffed into the black sack without a thought to fashion or style. No, where she was going, flexibility and practicality were priority. Awkwardly getting down on her hands and knees, huffing a bit from the extra weight in her middle, she reached under the bed for her tactical gear. As her fingers wrapped around her favorite Welrod pistol she froze, instincts screaming and blood suddenly singing with adrenaline. Holding her breath, she secured her grip and – yes, there – a slight shuffle of clothing, a small inhalation of breath: someone was in the room.
Silently pulling out her weapon, Mary considered her options. Crouched as she was next to the bed and hidden in the night’s shadow, the person in the doorway could not see her. She could aim and shoot fast, faster even than John could, but the baby gave a sudden and fierce kick and she bit back a moan. Free hand going to her distended stomach, Mary felt suddenly encumbered by the life she nurtured there, and while her reflexes were still quick, her manoeuverability was severely affected.
Mary closed her eyes against the wave of despair that washed through her. She had changed her name, recreated her appearance and traded languages, and still her past had caught up to her. As A.G.R.A she had been hunted, as Mary it seemed it would inevitably be the same, but the very least she could do was protect those she loved. John trusted her despite her questionable, if good-intentioned, actions and she had meant it when she had told Sherlock she would do anything to avoid losing him. Her resolve hardening, she raised the gun, her body still protected behind the bed, took aim and, for the second time that night, froze.
“Sherlock?” she hissed, the unmistakable shadow stepping further into the room, his striking features softened by moonlight and eyes glinting strangely. Immediately, Mary lowered her weapon and pushed herself to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes flicked over her, stalling briefly on the gun and the bag, but no surprise showed on his face. “I could ask you the same,” he murmured, his low voice rumbling through the darkness and instilling an inexplicable feeling of guilt in her.
“This is my home,” she replied tartly, raising her eyebrows at him.
“Yes,” he drawled, drawing out the word and deliberately eyeing her black outfit and hasty packing job, “which you appear to be abandoning for an indefinite period. Indefinite due to the fact that you have neither informed John of your impending absence, nor come to me for help.” His voice and face were calm and blank, but his eyes still held some unreadable emotion, and while Mary could detect any lie, she still could not always read Sherlock Holmes.
“What I do – what happens between John and myself – is none of your business, Sherlock,” she informed him, aiming for firm but mostly sounding apprehensive. Of course he knew what she was planning, had probably suspected even before it had become conscious thought on her part, but this was not something he could help her with. Once she explained it to him, once he was aware of the danger, the best thing he could do would be to let her go.
At her words, anger flared in the silver eyes trained on her, no longer unreadable, but not yet clear. No, he was hiding something else, Mary could see. In fact, she was probably one of very few who could see the complexity there, only John and perhaps Mycroft being more skilled, and they had had ages longer to learn the man in front of her.
“Of course it’s my business,” Sherlock bit out. “If it’s to do with John it is my business.”
Mary held her tongue against her immediate retort. Pointing out that she was John’s wife and therefore her leaving was not Sherlock’s concern would get her nowhere.
“I know what you’re doing, Mary, and it’s a mistake,” Sherlock declared, voice soft but adamant, eyes still boring into her unnervingly.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, trying to sound scathing but sounding more desperate instead. “Don’t you see, Sherlock? It didn’t work. I tried running, I tried to hide, and they still found me. Mary Watson is now a target and, because of my name, John is in danger, too. I have no choice!”
“You do,” he insisted. “You do have a choice and you can’t do this.”
“They will come and they will attack, collateral damage guaranteed,” Mary shot back. “Considering all that I’ve done, maybe I deserve it, but I will not have John hurt because of me.”
“You should have thought of that before marrying him!” Sherlock spat, eyes blazing and fury making itself known upon his features. “You don’t wish to hurt him, but your current plan is guaranteed to do so. He loves you, and if you walk away, not only will he lose his wife, but his future child as well.”
Heart hammering in reaction to his violent emotion, Mary felt the baby give another nudge, and the sensation, in addition to Sherlock’s words, brought moisture to her eyes with its implications. Despair and frustration caused her to lash out.
“Walk away like you did, you mean?” her voice properly angry now. “I was there for him when you were ‘dead’, you know. How dare you tell me not to leave when you did the exact same thing.” Sherlock gave a nearly imperceptible flinch, but Mary could detect no regret, surprisingly enough. Using that knowledge to her advantage, Mary continued before he could interrupt. “And I bet you would do it again, wouldn’t you? If you had to go back and relive it, you would still leave him behind to protect him.”
Sherlock shook his head once, sharply. “This is different. You don’t have to do this alone. I can help you, John can help you. When I jumped from that roof, I gave John no choice in the matter, and while I do not regret my decision, I – well – I have come to regret the… pain… I caused him,” he stuttered awkwardly, finally looking away from Mary for a moment. Quickly, his eyes snapped back to her, accusing. “As his wife, you leaving without letting him have a say in the matter is utterly inexcusable and it will break him in ways I cannot fix.”
His words were matter-of-fact, but the undertone of pain and child-like desperation in them was undeniable. Abruptly, the reality of the situation hit her and Mary sagged onto the bed, turning her back to her unwanted visitor and bowing her head over her swollen stomach, suddenly exhausted.
Behind her, Sherlock paused. “Mary?” he asked uncertainly.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “Why are you even saying this? With me gone, you’ll have him all to yourself again.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Is that really what you think of me?” he asked, putting on an offended tone. Mary did not truly think that of him, and he knew it. “I may be selfish and occasionally cruel, but I want John to be happy, and I made a vow to protect you – the three of you – at any cost.”
Fear, for herself, her unborn child, but mostly for John, had her moaning with her head in her hands. “They’ll kill him and make me watch,” she whispered, thinking of the many enemies she had made through her free-lance jobs and assassinations. “If I’m lucky, all I’ll get is a bullet in the brain.”
Behind her, Sherlock was silent, likely trying to control his own reaction to her words, she imagined. “I’d like to see them try,” he murmured at last, voice dark and deadly smooth.
Despite herself, Mary smirked at his tone and raised her head, scooching further back onto the bed to get a clear view of her husband’s best friend and the man she had technically killed with a bullet to the chest.
“What is it about John,” she wondered, “that has us psychopaths so head over heels in love with the man?” Because while she was married to a heterosexual man, and Sherlock was married to his work, anyone would have to be blind not to see the care the two men had for each other.
“He’s the best man I know,” Sherlock said with a shrug, as if it explained everything. And perhaps it did. “So this ridiculousness is over with, then? No more seven-months-pregnant women idiotically hoping to accomplish dangerous field missions on their own?”
With a sigh, Mary leaned back on the bed, her hands resting on her stomach where the baby continued to squirm insistently. “I suppose so. I’m mostly just agreeing because I feel like keeling over after climbing a set of stairs. I hate being fat.”
Sherlock frowned at her. “Coming from personal experience, it is much preferable to work with friends than alone in this situation. Even if you were not carrying a baby Watson, I would not have condoned nor recommended you run off on your own as a way to protect anyone, not even John.”
Mary smiled fondly at Sherlock, honestly a little surprised by this reaction, prompting him to frown harder at her. She laughed. “So, I suppose we have to inform John of all of this once he gets back tomorrow,” she said lightly, trying to hide her tension at the thought.
“Yes, and, though I loathe to admit it,” Sherlock began, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “Mycroft would be of assistance in this situation, as well. Honestly, though, I don’t see why John must know of your initial plans. They are really of no consequence to him now, nor were they ever, really, as I’d always planned to dissuade you from that idiotic notion.”
Mary rolled her eyes at him. “Right, because protecting my husband is such an idiotic notion.” Truly, his arrogance and holier-than-thou attitude was endearing once one knew the sentiment it worked to hide.
“I have come to learn that John is very capable of handling himself and, while he excused my staged suicide, he would never forgive me if I allowed you to walk away tonight.”
Silence fell around them and Mary closed her eyes, attempting to convince herself that Sherlock was right, that staying was the best idea. Setting out on her own was practically a suicide mission, she knew, but she'd much prefer John being alive to grieve than for his body to be in a grave next to her own. However, she reminded herself, she would have many more resources this time around, and if Mycroft agreed to help, she'd have practically the entire British government on her side. When the silence continued, Mary opened her eyes to see that Sherlock had not moved, an uncharacteristically ambivalent expression on his face as he eyed John’s very pregnant wife.
“You may stay if you like, Sherlock,” Mary offered, biting back a smirk. “What time is it anyway, half-three? You might as well rest here for the night.”
Sherlock nodded brusquely, all business again. “Thank you, yes, that would be the most logical course of action. That way I won’t have to come back in the morning once John returns.”
This time Mary couldn’t hold back her mirth as she gave an amused snort. Under normal circumstances, a man coming home to discover his friend staying the night with his wife would cause all sorts of suspicions. Probably wouldn’t have that problem with Sherlock.
“What?” the man snapped, brow furrowed at the sudden display of humour.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Mary replied airily, one hand waving dismissively as the corners of her lips continued to twitch. “You can take the sofa.” She indicated the general vicinity of the family room outside of her and John’s bedroom. “I’d come help you make it up, but I’m sure you already know where everything is and I really don’t feel like getting up about now.”
Sherlock studied her for a moment, eyes unreadable again. “Alright,” he finally agreed before sweeping out in a fashion even more dramatic than his stealthy entrance, coat swooshing behind him. Mary bit her lip to silence the laugh that threatened. “Oh, and you may want to hide the evidence of your packing if you want to avoid a very tedious and melodramatic argument with your husband tomorrow,” he called back from outside the room. Mary did laugh this time.
Kicking off her combat boots and pulling back the covers, Mary awkwardly wiggled herself into bed, her stomach creating a tent of the sheets before she rolled onto her side to face the bedroom door. She would clean up tomorrow, before John returned, but for now she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Whether Sherlock was staying due to some obscure sense of protectiveness or because he still thought of her as a liar she didn’t know, but despite her less-than-modest training, Mary felt undeniably comforted under the protection of one Sherlock Holmes.