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Mary was lying on the floor before John, unconscious. Mycroft’s team had successfully lead her to the basement, trapping her before she could even understand what was happening. Now, as John had agreed with Mycroft, it was his turn to play.
Silently, he grabbed the chair — the only furniture of the room — and place it next to his ex-wife. Then, he lifted her and sat her on it before carefully and solidly tying her up. He knew two soldiers were waiting behind the heavy door, just in case.
Mary woke up a few minutes later. She blinked and rose her head with difficulty. He must had been a very powerful sedative. Her eyes fell on John who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest. He saw the precise moment when all the memories of the last few days rushed in her mind. Her eyes widened in fear when she understood how bad her situation was.
John liked it.
They stayed silent, eyes into eyes. A thousand words passed between them. Questions. Answers. Dares.
“Are you going to stay like that all day?“ Mary eventually asked. John smiled. She had been the first to break.
“I have all the time in the world,“ he answered.
Mary rose a thin eyebrow. “What about Sherlock?“ She smirked when John’s face closed. It had been an easy blow. “Don’t you want to be with him?“
“Don’t say his name,“ John hissed. “Don’t you dare.“ Not after what she had done to him. Not after what she had done to them.
Mary smiled. “Or what? You’re gonna hurt me? Aren’t you already planning to kill me? What about Rosie? How are you going to explain to her that she’ll never see her mother again?“
“Rosie will be much better without you, trust me,“ John said. The baby, who had turned up to be David’s and not John’s, had been placed in a host family. John had planned to stay longer but the sight of her was already making his stomach twist. “And death is too good for you. I’d rather watch you suffer.“
Mary would have snorted if John hadn’t have this dangerous look in his eyes and this small smirk on his lips. It was the face of someone who had nothing left to loose because they had already lost everything. For the first time in years, she felt the cold finger of fear sliding on her skin.
“You are going to stay here,“ John continued, “for the rest of your miserable life. You will not see the sun again, or even talk to someone. This room,“ he looked at the pale grey walls around him, “is where you are going to die, Mary.“
“Only if you can stop me from escaping.“ She was trying to stay brace. The assassin. The murderer.
John was at her side faster than she thought he could. He was bent over her, hands on the arm of her chair, his mouth close to her ear. “You won’t.“ It was the low voice of the winner. Yes, he had won. But at what cost?
He turned around and left the room without a last glance to Mary. He had to go see Sherlock now.
The genius was sleeping. He did that a lot those days. The hospital was silent — it was the middle of the night. The room was full of flowers, sent by Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade and past clients.
John rearranged the cover to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t get a cold. He really didn’t need that right now. Once sat back in his uncomfortable chair, he took his time to look at his… lover. It was still so strange to use this word when talking about Sherlock.
His skin was paler than ever which, with his black curls, was making him look like a vampire. He was also more skinny than before, if possible. The slow rise of his chest was the only thing keeping John sure that, yes, Sherlock was alive.
John must have fallen asleep because he suddenly woke up to the sound of affiliated beepings and moans. Sherlock moans. Sherlock was having a nightmare. John was at his side in a second, a hand on his arm and another on his shoulder.
“Sherlock,“ he soothed him. “Sherlock, it’s alright.“
“John?“ Sherlock’s voice was tiny and afraid. It shouldn’t be like that. It wasn’t right. “John? I can’t see you.“ His blue eyes were open but kept moving aimlessly around the room. “John, why is it so dark?“
John put his forehead on Sherlock’s and closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to say. How could he tell Sherlock that it’ll stay dark for the rest of his life?