âSo, do you think they bought it?â John asked. He looked at Sherlock somewhat warily from the corners of his eyes, his gaze alternately flickering nervously over the interior of DI Lestradeâs office.
Sherlockâs heart broke a little at the sight of his friend.
John looked tired. Exhausted.
âI think so. Yes,â Sherlock said quietly.
Apparently, Greg wasnât back from Bartâs yet, Sherlock realised. He briefly put a hand on Johnâs shoulder, trying a small smile, which he sensed came out forced. âCoffee?â
When John subtly shook his head, Sherlock hesitantly sat down in the chair next to him.
Sherlock felt just as knackered. He pulled in a long breath and held it for a few seconds to steady his nerves. Being interrogated as a witness to Maryâs death by Sally Donovan had taken every bit of his energy and every bit of focus from every single brain cell he possessed. (Usually, that would have meant fun; not so much this time, though.)
Upon entering the interrogation room, Donovan had attempted to act amicably, starting with some inconsequential small talk. Meanwhile, Sherlock had been unable to stop imagining how Maryâs body was at that very moment being taken from the Aquarium to the morgue, then photographed, probed, and documented. He could only hope that Lestrade had managed to get Molly on duty in time. Either her, or some idiot who wouldnât look too closely at the angle of the entry wound. However, if it was Woods, everything he would try to do here could be in vain.
Heâd quickly pulled his thoughts away from that direction.
âWell then. Can you tell me what happened?â the sergeant had asked, earnestly, as she cradled her coffee.
âWe used to be so close. The three of us.â Sherlock swallowed. It was essential that he got this right. Of all the times throughout his life heâd had to give it his all, this was the one time he needed to get it one-hundred-percent-right. For John. Focus.
Make your worry, shock and dread look like grief and, if you have to, let your voice wobble, he told himself.
And action. âShe was so smart, and⌠she always used to help us,â Sherlock said, sounding appropriately taken aback. âWith cases. We were always working together, having fun,â he huffed, forcing out a smile. âLike that time we tried to use a bloodhound to trace the burglar smashing the Thatcher busts.â He paused. âShe was just wonderful. John loved her so much, you know.â
That last bit wasnât even untrue, if you went back in time far enough. John had, at one point, really loved her, Sherlock thought. And even Sherlock couldnât deny that there had been a time that he, too, had actually â surprisingly â genuinely liked Mary, and thought that she could be the person to make John happy.
She had fooled so many people. Even Janine Hawkins, whom Mary had managed to get just as close to, in an impeccable âbest friendsâ act â which, when you thought about it, was at least an equally impressive feat, seeing as thereâd not been any romance involved.
(For quite a while, Sherlock had suspected Janine to be on Maryâs team, but after careful research â during which the amicability he had initially feigned, once again, in order to get close to her, had eventually turned into an actual mutual friendship, ironically â heâd firmly concluded that Janine hadnât been pretending to be anything she wasnât.)
Mary had had an impressive ability of hiding certain skill sets and presenting an array of uncannily convincing personalities, according to what was convenient to her, without any regard for the emotional consequences.
Fascinatingly, she had been a lot like himself, in many ways â both good and bad.
Something painful caught in his throat, so he tried to refocus on Donovan, slowly looking back up at her.
She was frowning. âIâve never seen you two bring her on any cases with the Yard, though,â she said, thoughtfully. âWere things really going that well between John and Mary? I never actually had that impression.â (It seemed like more an afterthought than an actual question, thank God.)
Sherlock sighed inaudibly.
Both he and John had seen very little of Mary indeed over the past months, which in itself wasnât a problem, of course. But her way of vanishing without a word, and regularly even leaving the baby home alone, had been taking its toll on John, not to mention Rosie herself, while it somehow hadnât managed to bring him and John any closer to their goal.
Since last autumn â after sheâd shot Sherlock in the chest and her true nature had come to light, tearing down the fragile domestic life John had carefully built for himself â Sherlock and John had been working together practically full-time, trying to either find hard evidence on Maryâs past crimes or to catch her in the act of one of the offences they knew she was still habitually committing. Theyâd thought theyâd have her behind bars within a few weeks. Because that was the one place she belonged.
But months of shadowing her hadnât proved nearly as fruitful as theyâd hoped.
None of this would of course have been necessary if Sherlock had actually had any damned proof that it had been Mary whoâd shot him, in the first place. But to his utmost frustration, he didnât. (Obviously, his own statement would not have been worth a thing, after he'd suffered severe internal bleeding, almost died on the operating table and spent several hours unconscious and under the influence of heavy painkillers and other medication. There was no chance in hell that a judge would have taken him at his word if he'd said that he remembered it was Mary who shot him. Besides, for the court of law, a mere statement was never enough anyway. However, as was to be expected, the idiots of Scotland Yard naturally had found nothing on the scene. And by the time Sherlock had been well enough to go back and find any specific traces that could be used as evidence against Mary, Magnussenâs penthouse had of course long been cleared.) And he most certainly hadn't wanted to rely on Magnussen's witness statement, as that nasty piece of work would likely have had no problem lying under oath in order to retain the bargaining value of that piece of information, so that he could blackmail Mary even further.
Yes, Mary had been good at hiding her tracks.
Naturally. Or she would have been caught a long time ago.
And then we wouldnât have had to do this, Sherlock thought, looking across the table at the lies Donovan had faithfully penned down in her notes.
Read the rest of The Lost Special on AO3
Tagging a few people whose blogs or writing I greatly admire and who I hope might be interested in this S4 fix-it fic that I wrote based on fandom meta! (Please let me know if you prefer not to be tagged.)
@conversationswithjohnlock @iamjohnlocked4life @cupidford @constancecream @swissmissfanartfavs @hubblegleeflower @we-love-the-beekeeper @inevitably-johnlocked @miadifferent @wellthengameover @atikiology @alexxphoenix42 @sussexbound @vanimelda4 @neverendingjohnlock @yellowmiche @cdlafere @astudyinsnoggy
