The Inevitable: Johnlock Fanfiction

A Thousand Lies

POV: Watson

Regret, fear, guilt, and horror surge through me the second I see her in a trench coat, standing alone under the light of the dim room. The conflicting emotions battle, all seeking to break my slowly fading grasp on sanity.

The old chandelier illuminates her face slightly, but there seems to be a dark shadow casting over her. Mary's face is the same one I knew, but there is a coldness that I hadn't seen before.

I look around frantically for a bomb, hoping in earnest that this isn't another sick game with snipers and bombs strong enough to blow up apartment condos. Almost as if reading my mind, she shakes her head and pulls open her coat, and reveals nothing underneath. I sigh in relief, and suddenly an overwhelming sense of betrayal rushes out to greet me.

"Hello John," she greets calmly, crossing her arms tightly.

A bitter laugh of irony escapes me, and my heart seems to erupt with hate. Four times I've been tricked, first by the Woman who also took me to an empty place and walked out wanting my help. Second by Sherlock, my best friend who jumped off a damn building. Third by Moriarty, the bloody man who came back to life, and now may have partnered up with Mary. Last by my own bloody wife, who once again broke my heart and just stomps on it more by strutting right back into my life.

I clench my fists, fighting the urge to take out my gun.

"What, let me guess, you teamed up with Moriarty now?" I bite out, recomposing my features to one of contempt.

I've always thought that if I ever get a chance to revive someone and talk to him or her again, I would apologize and make most of it. Now having faced it twice, I've learned that I'm not a particularly forgiving man when it comes to the people I love utterly betraying me like that.

"No," Mary says firmly. A tiny part of me sighs in relief at that, but the rest grows stiffer in irritation

"I hope there's a damn good explanation for you faking your bloody death because it appears that not only do I choose psychopaths as companions, they also seem to enjoy to fucking break my heart for no good reason!" I spit out violently, clenching my jaw tightly.

She looks down at the sand-colored tiles before responding, "Please let me explain John."

Taking a moment to consider those words, some anger slowly dispels and replaced by twisted curiosity. Giving her a quick nod, I agree to listen.

"I'm sorry for hurting you but believe me, I had good intentions," she starts, nervously wringing her hands.

Letting out a sardonic snort, I cross my arms, my expression hardening. As if there could be any justification for doing that to me again, as if it wasn't enough that she already lied to me about being an assassin.

I wait in silence for her to keep speaking. Instead she stops and appears to be waiting for someone. Footsteps that seem like thunder in the still room echo and a tall figure in a gray polished suit steps out, holding himself rigidly.

By now, I was half-expecting Sherlock to come strolling out, throwing his hands out in a ta-da motion and laughing. The tall man is holding an umbrella and appears to be leaning on it slightly, in the same pose that I first saw him in. Mycroft Bloody Holmes was in on this.

Infuriation posses me. Of course, there had to be a Holmes in here.

"Oh, I see. What's next, my dead grandfather floating in here?" Barely restraining myself from tackling Mycroft and punching that smug face.

Mycroft shakes his head, almost in scorn. It sends another wave of anger through me, and I take in a  deep breath. "Dr. Watson, you really should be more thankful for your wife, what she did was extraordinarily brilliant, if not rather stupidly self-sacrificing."