Disregard the Danger [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock, Warstan & Johnlockary]

Sorry

She’s on the Tube when it happens.

She’s still in her black outfit, though she’s ditched the hat and hidden her gun. She’s getting curious looks from the few other passengers in the car. But she doesn’t care. She’s planning next steps.

(And studiously avoiding thinking about what she’s done. Box it up. Set it all aside for now.)

Aircraft, train, or boat? She’s fucked up so thoroughly that the only option is to run far away.

(What will she do after? What can she possibly do? Her mind draws a blank every time she thinks about it. So -- don’t. Break it down. One thing at a time.)

She’s started toward Heathrow (staying away from the black cabs that so often turn out to contain Anthea), but there’s still time to change her mind. The question is, which mode of transit is Mycroft least likely to be monitoring?

She knows the answer is none of the above. She’s not surprised when the driver informs them that the train is going out of service, and they’ll all need to exit at the next station. Nor when, as they file out of the train, someone -- several someones -- grab her. Nor when she feels a needle prick at her neck.

She puts up a struggle, out of principle.

* * *

She surfaces slowly from unconsciousness.

Along the way, there is silence, then voices. Or, a voice -- Anthea. She sounds annoyed, but the words are mostly unclear -- or forgotten by the time Mary wakes. The phrase “Was that really necessary” lingers, bouncing around her brain. For the most part, Anthea seems to be talking to herself, leaving spaces for answers that never come. Then her voice is gone.

Mary feels before she sees. She feels cushions beneath her body and to one side, a pillow under her head, a blanket draped over her. She blinks slowly, looking around at an unfamiliar room. An office of some sort, containing the sofa she lies on. There are also books, chairs, and -- a desk.

Behind the desk sits Mycroft. And yet, somehow, she’s still alive.

She gets the sense that he’s aware of her change in state, but he doesn’t look away from the large monitor on the wall. She looks at it, too, and sees Sherlock.

His chest is open. Doctors are operating. The camera, apparently hidden in the ceiling -- at least, nobody is taking notice of it -- captures it all.

Mary sits, swinging her legs under her and fighting the nausea that has become a near constant in her life. Her muscles ache so much that it’s like her entire body is a bruise.

She looks at Mycroft again, but he doesn’t look at her. On his desk sits a plate of food, untouched, and a cluster of takeaway coffee cups from a local chain.

“How is he?” she croaks.

Mycroft says nothing for a long moment, still watching the monitor. Then, “Critical but stable.”

She swallows. He’s likely going to live, then. The wave of relief is dizzying. “Did I hit his lung?”

A slight head shake. “His liver. The bullet ruptured a vein, as well, and initiated a cardiac arrest.”

Oh, fuck. “Inferior vena cava?”

A nod.

She takes a deep breath. “Cognitive function?”

“Unknown.” Which, of course -- of course they won’t know until he’s in recovery. She just wanted Mycroft to have all the answers.

She looks at him, waits for him to say something more. Anything. Waits for him to lecture her. To tell her her job is over -- or her life. He says nothing.