Who did you kill (3/4)
Part three.
.
.
.
The intertwined fates of men give the demon its Form.
When a being not of this plane clings onto a person’s thoughts and feelings, it creates a demon. Truth is a demon’s physical state, and Regret is a state of mind.
“So you’ve come to kill my demon?”
“If I could kill it now, my work would be easy. I must discover the demon’s Truth and Regret, and without its Form, I cannot draw the Sword of Exorcism. Your demon is s a troublesome one, indeed.”
Sherlock’s magic created a changeable space around them, one that resembled a stage; ready for a story to unfold. With a gesture full of theatrical flourish which distinguished his Exorcist form so sharply from his more contained, everyday human conduct, he opened the first act.
“The life of Mary Watson, part the First.”
He’s taken on cycling to work every morning.
Mary looked out of the kitchen window, watching her husband rounding the corner, and clenched her hands on the worktop. Past the thirty-five wasn’t the best age for a first baby, and though the bicornuate uterus diagnosis that showed up after her first screening wasn’t a horrible problem in itself, it just added to her decision to take a sick leave for the better part of the pregnancy.
They didn’t have bars over their ground floor windows; this was a safe neighborhood. It just felt as if they had them.
Every day, he’s finding new little ways of escaping, she thought. The cycling was just a tip of the iceberg. Meeting his old Uni mates for a game of cards every Friday, bets rising just a little every time. John’s always been a gambler. Soon will come the day when he would ask to be taken along on a case again. Some day after that, he won’t even have to ask.
And just like that, with the constant lure of danger on the edges of John Watson’s new life, this new life would be soon forsaken. It would be over.
Her trap would slowly rot from inside and leave her free.
Except she knew that, with the child on the way, the equation has changed. This easy way out has closed in front of her. Because even when she knew the exact extent of John’s conscious determination to love his wife, she also knew how he would love his child: to the last draw of his breath, to the last drop of his blood, with all his broken heart, mindless of the pain.
He would always come back to her, no matter what, because of the child.
Her trap was never more secure.
“Why did you not leave him?” Sherlock was standing behind her, leaning casually against the kitchen table. His eyes, attentive as ever, scanned the contents of their perfect little household.
“Who is it that you really killed?”
He startled her. “Who did I really kill?” She refused the question making any sense to her. She felt the wooden handle of a kitchen knife beneath her fingers, a familiar shape and weight after months of cooked dinners. The blank walls of the Yard’s interrogation room closed on her once more.
“Mary,” Sherlock was standing in front of the one-way mirror, “if you believe this place binds you, it will be your prison. It’s the same as your house. You thought of it as a prison.”
She frowned on her own reflection as if she saw herself for the very first time. “Why did I not simply leave?” Oh, but she knew an answer to that.
The scenery changed once again.
The dimply lit room was furnished with expensive taste and meticulous attention to details; every piece served a purpose. A Spartan room, functional and effective: Magnussen’s office.
There were two people in that room with them: Charles Augustus Magnussen himself, and Mary. Only it wasn’t Mary for that moment: there was still a lingering undertone of Amy. Her hair was already blonde, but still long, and Magnussen was twirling one of the strands around his forefinger as he spoke to her, ignoring her personal space with the same malicious delight with which he always disregarded every social norm.
“You’re so... exceptionally talented. It’s almost a shame to waste such skills, but there you have it: Man proposes...”
He abandoned her hair in favour of taking one of her hands and bringing the inside of her wrist to his nose.
“You should wear this.” He produced a small bottle of perfume out of his pocket. “You’re not that old for a bit of juvenility.”
“My perfume is just fine for me, thank you.” She didn’t sound like thanking at all.
“This is my favourite,” he insisted and rubbed a drop into the smooth skin just above her veins. “Mmmm... delectable,” he hummed and then he licked her skin, a broad swipe of his tongue. “You’ll learn to like it too; it’s just the perfect scent for you.”
Mary watched as her former self did her best not to lash out and strike that lecherous face, her small frame stiff with suppressed rage. “What if Watson simply won’t be interested?”
“Then make him,” Magnussen smiled, his expression designed to silence any arguments.
“But I don’t worry,” he continued. “You’re so good. He’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand by the end of this year. You’ll make yourself indispensable to him.”
Sherlock looked at the scene with avid interest. “Oh, this is a puzzle.”
“Is it?” Mary looked on with sour distaste showing on her face. “It’s a plain blackmail, nothing more. Magnussen knew things about my past. He had information about all my hits. He threatened me that he would alert the CIA and the families of my victims if I...”
“If you didn’t marry John Watson,” Sherlock finished for her. “Your entire acquaintance, engagement, marriage - it was an assignment? Why would he use you in such manner?”
The threatened woman must have asked the same question because Magnussen was speaking again. This time, he looked past her, his dead-stare settled in the direction of their dreamy visitors as if he could see them.
“Every person has their pressure point. There’s a man - a man in hiding, but he won’t stay there for long - whom I’d very much like to own. His pressure point is no other than his former flat-mate; you’ll become the flat-mate’s pressure point and thus, my dear, you’ll give me the leverage I need on Sherlock Holmes.”
Mary turned her back on the scene. She found herself facing a mirror - she remembered it from her previous visit, but the addition the trapped demon - of Moriarty’s figure banging his fist from the other side of the glass - was definitely new. He seemed to mouth a word on her, urgent in its repetition, his eyes commanding what his voice could not: DON’T. DON’T SHOW HIM THAT.
She collected her resolve. “That’s all. He set the terms, I agreed. There’s no need to replay this.”
Sherlock gave her an unreadable stare, but in the end, he simply nodded. “Let’s move on, then. The life of Mary Watson, part the Second.”
***
The sight of the familiar wallpaper of their suburban living room grounded her a bit. She looked around for some signs of their relative position in time: Sherlock seemed determined to take the scenic route.
Oh yes. There was Moriarty staring at her silently from the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece.
“Silence really does suit him, doesn’t it?” Sherlock smirked at her as he flopped himself on the sofa. “Trust me, even as dead, he tends to prattle far too much.”
“Is this home?” Mary’s voice shook just a little. “I mean - are we visible?”
“Does it matter? Why are you so nervous?”
“I’m not,” said she, too quickly. “It’s just... John would be home any moment. This is the time he usually comes back from work...”
Sherlock stared at the ceiling. “Let him, then.”
“Are you serious?” She struggled to keep her voice in check and pointed at the mirror. “With... him there? And you - you never come over, doesn’t matter how many times he invited you, how should I explain that suddenly-”
“Yes, I imagine the questions could get uncomfortable.” Sherlock was laughing at her. She took one step towards him, fingers itching for a gun.
“He mustn’t know about me, Sherlock.”
“He’s already dead, Mary. You killed him - didn’t you? I wonder. Why couldn’t we play this game? The game of John-getting-to-know.”
“I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t lose him, Sherlock. I can’t have him rejecting me. I’d rather...” she trailed off, suddenly aware of the paradox.
“Yes, Mary.” Sherlock stretched out his palm and his little sword landed on it, its toothy smile still almost non-existent. He regarded it with interest. “Getting there,” he murmured to himself.
“Yes,” he repeated aloud, “why couldn’t you let him on your secret? Even if he did reject you, if he told you to leave and never show up again, it would mean your assignment was over. You’d be free. No need to pretend being the loving wife...”
She snapped: “I didn’t-” Even when she swallowed the rest of the sentence, it was already too late.
The sword smiled delightedly, clicking its teeth in a poignant clink. Sherlock sat up, his whole body on alert. “This is the Truth. You didn’t pretend.
“You became Magnussen’s tool, to further his ends. You dutifully met John, made him interested in you, and got him to marry you. And somewhere along the road... you fell in love with him. The trap you’ve set entrapped you as well.”
His accusatory voice suddenly became gentler: “And what’s worse, you knew he didn’t love you back the way you did. Oh, he did love you well enough - but not enough to forgive you if you broke him. John Watson is not the kind of man to give his trust twice.” He paused, then added softly: “I believe that’s my fault, there.”
She wanted to cover her ears but the truth, once uncovered, couldn’t be silenced.
“But then, you found yourself with a child. And that sealed the deal. Now John definitely wasn’t allowed to ever find out about you. You couldn’t bear the thought of him hating you - and worse, you couldn’t bear the thought of him tolerating you for the sake of the child.”
“What do you know about that? You’re not even human, you...” she hissed through the tears streaming down her face.
“About loving someone who doesn’t want to love back?” Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “Human emotions are the line of my work, mapping their extent and gauging their strength is my trade. But, sad as it is, I’m not above them myself.”
He stood up and stepped closer to her, tracing one of the tears with his fingertip. “I understand, Mary. That’s how I can help.”
Sherlock turned to the mirror. The demon there pulled on another mask: it looked now very much like Sherlock, only in negative: dark skin instead of pale, white locks instead of raven ones. The demon bared its teeth in silent snarl.
“Self-reproach, unrequited love, desperation. Emotions strong enough for a demon to latch on them, to grow on them, to become a sentient part of your soul. But, you see, in one respect a demon is a creature just like any other: it wants to exist. It was born bound to you, and it needed you to live.
“This one, in his sense of self-preservation, gave you a fantasy where you killed your husband. It was the easiest way out: you’d never have to hear John saying no to you, you’d vanquish the leverage Magnussen craved, you’d eradicate the very point of his blackmail.”
“And then the demon did his best to block your mind from the realisation that in suppressing your love, in hiding under layers of secrets, you’ve, in fact, killed your own soul.”
The sword breathed a single word: “Regret.”
Sherlock took her by arms and led her towards the mirror. “Look, Mary. Who was it that you killed?”
She didn’t want to look, but, in the end, she didn’t have the strength to close her eyes. In the mirror, Moriarty’s face paled and slowly morphed into her own.
“Your Form,” Sherlock said in the same moment as she sobbed: “It’s me.”
The Sword of Exorcism let out an unearthly sound and sprung from its sheath.
to Epilogue
.
.
.
The intertwined fates of men give the demon its Form.
When a being not of this plane clings onto a person’s thoughts and feelings, it creates a demon. Truth is a demon’s physical state, and Regret is a state of mind.
“So you’ve come to kill my demon?”
“If I could kill it now, my work would be easy. I must discover the demon’s Truth and Regret, and without its Form, I cannot draw the Sword of Exorcism. Your demon is s a troublesome one, indeed.”
Sherlock’s magic created a changeable space around them, one that resembled a stage; ready for a story to unfold. With a gesture full of theatrical flourish which distinguished his Exorcist form so sharply from his more contained, everyday human conduct, he opened the first act.
“The life of Mary Watson, part the First.”
He’s taken on cycling to work every morning.
Mary looked out of the kitchen window, watching her husband rounding the corner, and clenched her hands on the worktop. Past the thirty-five wasn’t the best age for a first baby, and though the bicornuate uterus diagnosis that showed up after her first screening wasn’t a horrible problem in itself, it just added to her decision to take a sick leave for the better part of the pregnancy.
They didn’t have bars over their ground floor windows; this was a safe neighborhood. It just felt as if they had them.
Every day, he’s finding new little ways of escaping, she thought. The cycling was just a tip of the iceberg. Meeting his old Uni mates for a game of cards every Friday, bets rising just a little every time. John’s always been a gambler. Soon will come the day when he would ask to be taken along on a case again. Some day after that, he won’t even have to ask.
And just like that, with the constant lure of danger on the edges of John Watson’s new life, this new life would be soon forsaken. It would be over.
Her trap would slowly rot from inside and leave her free.
Except she knew that, with the child on the way, the equation has changed. This easy way out has closed in front of her. Because even when she knew the exact extent of John’s conscious determination to love his wife, she also knew how he would love his child: to the last draw of his breath, to the last drop of his blood, with all his broken heart, mindless of the pain.
He would always come back to her, no matter what, because of the child.
Her trap was never more secure.
“Why did you not leave him?” Sherlock was standing behind her, leaning casually against the kitchen table. His eyes, attentive as ever, scanned the contents of their perfect little household.
“Who is it that you really killed?”
He startled her. “Who did I really kill?” She refused the question making any sense to her. She felt the wooden handle of a kitchen knife beneath her fingers, a familiar shape and weight after months of cooked dinners. The blank walls of the Yard’s interrogation room closed on her once more.
“Mary,” Sherlock was standing in front of the one-way mirror, “if you believe this place binds you, it will be your prison. It’s the same as your house. You thought of it as a prison.”
She frowned on her own reflection as if she saw herself for the very first time. “Why did I not simply leave?” Oh, but she knew an answer to that.
The scenery changed once again.
The dimply lit room was furnished with expensive taste and meticulous attention to details; every piece served a purpose. A Spartan room, functional and effective: Magnussen’s office.
There were two people in that room with them: Charles Augustus Magnussen himself, and Mary. Only it wasn’t Mary for that moment: there was still a lingering undertone of Amy. Her hair was already blonde, but still long, and Magnussen was twirling one of the strands around his forefinger as he spoke to her, ignoring her personal space with the same malicious delight with which he always disregarded every social norm.
“You’re so... exceptionally talented. It’s almost a shame to waste such skills, but there you have it: Man proposes...”
He abandoned her hair in favour of taking one of her hands and bringing the inside of her wrist to his nose.
“You should wear this.” He produced a small bottle of perfume out of his pocket. “You’re not that old for a bit of juvenility.”
“My perfume is just fine for me, thank you.” She didn’t sound like thanking at all.
“This is my favourite,” he insisted and rubbed a drop into the smooth skin just above her veins. “Mmmm... delectable,” he hummed and then he licked her skin, a broad swipe of his tongue. “You’ll learn to like it too; it’s just the perfect scent for you.”
Mary watched as her former self did her best not to lash out and strike that lecherous face, her small frame stiff with suppressed rage. “What if Watson simply won’t be interested?”
“Then make him,” Magnussen smiled, his expression designed to silence any arguments.
“But I don’t worry,” he continued. “You’re so good. He’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand by the end of this year. You’ll make yourself indispensable to him.”
Sherlock looked at the scene with avid interest. “Oh, this is a puzzle.”
“Is it?” Mary looked on with sour distaste showing on her face. “It’s a plain blackmail, nothing more. Magnussen knew things about my past. He had information about all my hits. He threatened me that he would alert the CIA and the families of my victims if I...”
“If you didn’t marry John Watson,” Sherlock finished for her. “Your entire acquaintance, engagement, marriage - it was an assignment? Why would he use you in such manner?”
The threatened woman must have asked the same question because Magnussen was speaking again. This time, he looked past her, his dead-stare settled in the direction of their dreamy visitors as if he could see them.
“Every person has their pressure point. There’s a man - a man in hiding, but he won’t stay there for long - whom I’d very much like to own. His pressure point is no other than his former flat-mate; you’ll become the flat-mate’s pressure point and thus, my dear, you’ll give me the leverage I need on Sherlock Holmes.”
Mary turned her back on the scene. She found herself facing a mirror - she remembered it from her previous visit, but the addition the trapped demon - of Moriarty’s figure banging his fist from the other side of the glass - was definitely new. He seemed to mouth a word on her, urgent in its repetition, his eyes commanding what his voice could not: DON’T. DON’T SHOW HIM THAT.
She collected her resolve. “That’s all. He set the terms, I agreed. There’s no need to replay this.”
Sherlock gave her an unreadable stare, but in the end, he simply nodded. “Let’s move on, then. The life of Mary Watson, part the Second.”
***
The sight of the familiar wallpaper of their suburban living room grounded her a bit. She looked around for some signs of their relative position in time: Sherlock seemed determined to take the scenic route.
Oh yes. There was Moriarty staring at her silently from the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece.
“Silence really does suit him, doesn’t it?” Sherlock smirked at her as he flopped himself on the sofa. “Trust me, even as dead, he tends to prattle far too much.”
“Is this home?” Mary’s voice shook just a little. “I mean - are we visible?”
“Does it matter? Why are you so nervous?”
“I’m not,” said she, too quickly. “It’s just... John would be home any moment. This is the time he usually comes back from work...”
Sherlock stared at the ceiling. “Let him, then.”
“Are you serious?” She struggled to keep her voice in check and pointed at the mirror. “With... him there? And you - you never come over, doesn’t matter how many times he invited you, how should I explain that suddenly-”
“Yes, I imagine the questions could get uncomfortable.” Sherlock was laughing at her. She took one step towards him, fingers itching for a gun.
“He mustn’t know about me, Sherlock.”
“He’s already dead, Mary. You killed him - didn’t you? I wonder. Why couldn’t we play this game? The game of John-getting-to-know.”
“I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t lose him, Sherlock. I can’t have him rejecting me. I’d rather...” she trailed off, suddenly aware of the paradox.
“Yes, Mary.” Sherlock stretched out his palm and his little sword landed on it, its toothy smile still almost non-existent. He regarded it with interest. “Getting there,” he murmured to himself.
“Yes,” he repeated aloud, “why couldn’t you let him on your secret? Even if he did reject you, if he told you to leave and never show up again, it would mean your assignment was over. You’d be free. No need to pretend being the loving wife...”
She snapped: “I didn’t-” Even when she swallowed the rest of the sentence, it was already too late.
The sword smiled delightedly, clicking its teeth in a poignant clink. Sherlock sat up, his whole body on alert. “This is the Truth. You didn’t pretend.
“You became Magnussen’s tool, to further his ends. You dutifully met John, made him interested in you, and got him to marry you. And somewhere along the road... you fell in love with him. The trap you’ve set entrapped you as well.”
His accusatory voice suddenly became gentler: “And what’s worse, you knew he didn’t love you back the way you did. Oh, he did love you well enough - but not enough to forgive you if you broke him. John Watson is not the kind of man to give his trust twice.” He paused, then added softly: “I believe that’s my fault, there.”
She wanted to cover her ears but the truth, once uncovered, couldn’t be silenced.
“But then, you found yourself with a child. And that sealed the deal. Now John definitely wasn’t allowed to ever find out about you. You couldn’t bear the thought of him hating you - and worse, you couldn’t bear the thought of him tolerating you for the sake of the child.”
“What do you know about that? You’re not even human, you...” she hissed through the tears streaming down her face.
“About loving someone who doesn’t want to love back?” Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “Human emotions are the line of my work, mapping their extent and gauging their strength is my trade. But, sad as it is, I’m not above them myself.”
He stood up and stepped closer to her, tracing one of the tears with his fingertip. “I understand, Mary. That’s how I can help.”
Sherlock turned to the mirror. The demon there pulled on another mask: it looked now very much like Sherlock, only in negative: dark skin instead of pale, white locks instead of raven ones. The demon bared its teeth in silent snarl.
“Self-reproach, unrequited love, desperation. Emotions strong enough for a demon to latch on them, to grow on them, to become a sentient part of your soul. But, you see, in one respect a demon is a creature just like any other: it wants to exist. It was born bound to you, and it needed you to live.
“This one, in his sense of self-preservation, gave you a fantasy where you killed your husband. It was the easiest way out: you’d never have to hear John saying no to you, you’d vanquish the leverage Magnussen craved, you’d eradicate the very point of his blackmail.”
“And then the demon did his best to block your mind from the realisation that in suppressing your love, in hiding under layers of secrets, you’ve, in fact, killed your own soul.”
The sword breathed a single word: “Regret.”
Sherlock took her by arms and led her towards the mirror. “Look, Mary. Who was it that you killed?”
She didn’t want to look, but, in the end, she didn’t have the strength to close her eyes. In the mirror, Moriarty’s face paled and slowly morphed into her own.
“Your Form,” Sherlock said in the same moment as she sobbed: “It’s me.”
The Sword of Exorcism let out an unearthly sound and sprung from its sheath.
to Epilogue