The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}

Chapter 65- Nurse, Wife, Mother, Killer

Emily's POV

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At first, I see only the gun barrel; a point of round, impenetrable darkness, rimmed with brushed silver, curls of smoke clinging in delicate whorls to the metal. I watch it fade into the air, fascinated, the steady throb of my heart beating the last of the anger away.

And then it blurs, as my vision focuses, sharply, on the arm behind the gun.

The set of her shoulders. The curve of her lips. Her eyes. Her nose.

Her face.

"Mary?"

Shock is devastating.

I can feel it, pressed against my abdomen, wrapped around my throat, pulling the ribs across my lungs in some grim, corporeal constriction. I can't think for it, I can't breathe, in that moment of observation that tears away my last, few strips of stability.

She's almost unrecognisable, having swapped her layers of bright prints and coloured coats for black; simple, forgettable, practical. Her hands are gloved, her hair combed back under a hat, her chest and swollen stomach cased within a protective shell of reinforced fabric. It is specialised gear, designed and worn for a purpose.

Assassin's gear.

Her expression reflects my internal horror, although she is not looking at me; her gaze, like her gun, is still fixed steadily on what is left of Magnussen's head.

She didn't know I was here.

How could she have known? I was all but silent, as Magnussen spoke. She would have heard him, used his voice as a guide, slipped from darkened room to darkened room, lined up her shot, watched him fall - only to be met with the unprecedented sight of me, in all my red-flecked, alcohol-drained glory, standing alone under the white spotlights.

I think of John, and the look on his face when Mary - the nurse, the wife, the future mother - walks into the room.

"Oh, Mary..."

They say extreme revelation is dangerous, and, in these long, timeless seconds, I can understand why. I am looking at the woman in front of me, watching the rise and fall of her narrow shoulders, listening to her steady breathing, but seeing a very different woman in my head; rapid, shifting, cerebral images, Mary and John, bickering, laughing, a suit and a wedding dress, Mary and Sherlock, a mutual sarcasm, an understanding, Mary pouring wine in my apartment, Mary brushing frost from her tartan scarf, Mary and Millie, sipping tea in silent companionship.

Mary and Millie.

"You shot her," I say, hoarsely. Mary doesn't look up. I wet my lips, and try again, my throat tight, mouth dry: "You shot Millie."

I am too disbelieving to be angry. Realisation drenches the kindling embers of my temper in one, steady sluice. Mary's parted lips close, flushed pink with heat and consternation, and I see her eyes move, calculating, quick little darts from left to right.

She lifts her head, slowly, and meets my gaze.

I see agony.

"I'm so, so sorry, Emily." Her voice catches.

"Mary, please-"

"Truly, I am."

She raises her gun, and I know then that this is no bluff.

I have seconds.

It is in situations like these, the human mind shuts down, blocking morality, speculation, thought, and reducing the brain to a primitive state of instinctive movement. I drop - simply drop, let the tension in my joints give out entirely - and feel pain in my wrists as I land heavily on my hands and knees. The gunshot is short and sharp, followed by a burst of glass behind me, then the tinkling confirmation of falling crystal. I silently thank the training that provides me with the reflexes I use now, as I push myself up, reach for Magnussen's abandoned liqueur tumbler, and hurl it at the person I knew as Mary Watson with all the force I possess as an individual.