Holmes' Book Of One Shots

Façade

            It is in her mind that the past remains real. It is she who remembers the real reason she’s here. She’s running, hiding in the calmest manner possible. She is keeping her past life undisclosed from the ears of the public. She’s been keeping the secret from her husband, her friends; she’s been keeping a secret from the world.

            She dyed her hair blonde and cut it below her chin. She moved to London in search of privacy. And there she met a man, no normal man at all. His name was John Hamish Watson, and he was on his third way of life. He had been an army doctor, and then the companion of a world famous detective. Now he was a clinical doctor, all alone. John Hamish Watson: a soldier who had seen the battlefield, his best friend a famous, deceased fraud committed suicide before his own eyes. He was damaged, and she could relate.

            Soon after working in the clinic with Watson, he requested a night out, and she was pleased to say yes. They went out to dinner, and talked about themselves. Watson, still in grieving, was happier to ask her about herself than to talk about the recent tragedies in his life. Orphaned as a toddler, moved to London from Yorkshire, had been a nurse all her life; but it was all part of her secret.

            What is her real story?

            Her name is Alexandra Galina Regina Aristov; although her parents called her by her initials, A.G.R.A from the time she was three to the time she watched from her bedroom window as a man in black shot them both in the brain, killing them both. A.G.R.A was only thirteen. She hid from the man, but when she couldn’t hide anymore, she stabbed him in the head with a knife that her father had told her to keep in her room for protection. That was the first man that she killed, and he wasn’t the last.

            It was self-protection, and she was let go from custody, but the event had scarred her. She spent the next five years in an orphanage. Twenty years later, she found herself being in MI4. Two years later, she found herself rebelling. It took years for her to get away; she was ready to get away. She wanted everything to stop. Her mind was haunted with the ghost of her traumatic past.

            “So many people dead, Miss Aristov.” A man by the name of Magnusson had said. “Don’t you ever wonder why you’re still alive?”

            “I’ve been running.” She said, her expression stern.

            “And you don’t want to run anymore?” Magnusson looked into his glass of whiskey, moving it in a circle and watching it as it swirled around the glass. He leaned back in his comfortable looking, white sofa. A.G.R.A stood in front of him, hand at her side as she looked at him with disgust.

            “Yes, Mr Magnusson.”

            “And you need help to cover your tracks?”

            She nodded.

            Magnusson grinned, and laughed. “You know I can help.” He set his glass on the side table, straightening his grey suit jacket as he stood up. He took slow steps towards her. “But will I?”

            She looked up at him. “What do you want from me?”

            “Nothing.” He laughed. “Except, your story.”

            Mary cocked her head and furrowed her brows. “Sorry?”

            “I work in news, Miss Aristov.” He said. “I need stories to make a living. Of course, I’ve already got many stories, but what’s another?”

            “You want to cover my tracks, and make my story public at the same time?”

            Magnusson’s smile widened. “Of course not.” Another step closer. “I’ve already got part of your story, but there are still holes. Tell me your story, and I’ll help Alexandra Galina Regina Aristov disappear.” He took an item out of his pocket and held it out to her. “The only remaining files on Alexandra will be on this USB stick.”

            She carefully studied it. It had her initials, her nickname, written on it in black marker. He knew that she couldn’t say no. She took it in hand and slid it into her pocket.

            “Is that a yes?” Magnusson asked knowingly.

            “Yes.” She said.

           

            Now, she is married to a man she loves, and is two months pregnant with their first child. She has friends, and has almost forgotten that she had another life, until Charles Augustus Magnusson returned.

            In attempt to assassinate the blackmailer, she ended up shooting and almost killing her husband’s best friend, Sherlock Holmes, who had only pretended to commit suicide all those years ago. She regrets it, but she had to incapacitate him. She had to leave, but not before calling emergency services to save him and knocking Magnusson unconscious. He is taken to hospital and treated for a week before he escapes out the window and arranges a meeting with her.

            Holmes said, “Remind you of anyone, Mary? A façade?” 

            Her new name is Mary Elizabeth Morstan, and she's just façade.