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Rousing into consciousness after being drugged isn't like waking up in the morning. There's a grogginess involved, moments during which Mary analyzes everything about her. The feel of the carpet on her cheek, the dress and trousers she wears rucked up about her far too large middle. She can't smell the fire any longer - a real fire, not one of the gas contraptions like they had in the city. The Holmes’ had a real fire in their lounge room and that was the first thing that made her realise something was very, very, wrong.
She stays as still as she can on the floor, scanning the room around her. There’s no one here, and no obvious traps or trips. Could it have been Sherlock who drugged her?
It all seems safe for the moment, and Mary pushes up from the floor, wishing that she wasn’t so pregnant and that she had a weapon. A few seconds more and she’s grabbed the book she was reading before all of this started. Still groggy, she wouldn’t trust herself with a firearm, even if she found one.
Mary stands, putting her hand out to catch her balance. This isn’t the Holmes’ house, which means she’s been drugged and brought somewhere. Her thoughts that it was Sherlock are fading, thinking now that it’s something more sinister. Someone that Magnussen sent, perhaps, or an enemy she thought she’d lost. Mary feels her way through the rooms (someone’s flat obviously. She wonders where and how high up she is) until she finds a knife. Then when she hears someone, she’s at least prepared. She won’t let anyone keep her from John. Not now.
”I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to say to you. These are prepared words, Mary. I’ve chosen these words with care.”
She watches him from where she stands just inches from him, watches him turn the flashdrive over and over between his fingers. She doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to know what he’s decided, but at the same time can’t not know. “Okay.”
He’s silent almost for too long. It’s too long for her and she’s considering asking him what he’s decided when he clears his throat and speaks. “The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future ... are my privilege. It’s all I have to say. It’s all I need to know.”
It’s not what she expected, and not what she thinks she deserves, and she’s unable to stop the tears. Mary knows she’s done awful things and that there’s nothing in it that makes her worthy of John’s acceptance and forgiveness, but having it, she wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
She stays as still as she can on the floor, scanning the room around her. There’s no one here, and no obvious traps or trips. Could it have been Sherlock who drugged her?
It all seems safe for the moment, and Mary pushes up from the floor, wishing that she wasn’t so pregnant and that she had a weapon. A few seconds more and she’s grabbed the book she was reading before all of this started. Still groggy, she wouldn’t trust herself with a firearm, even if she found one.
”You don’t even know my name.” She’d cried through the words, thrilled by his statement, but still worried that she’d have to explain to him. That even after he’d thrown away the stick there would be questions.
“Is ‘Mary Watson’ good enough for you?”
It’s more that she’s hoped for these last few months. All she’s thought of is how they can make this work, and now he’s offered her the one thing she never thought of. Gulping in air, she nods, rubbing the tears off her face. “Yes! Oh my God, yes.”
Mary stands, putting her hand out to catch her balance. This isn’t the Holmes’ house, which means she’s been drugged and brought somewhere. Her thoughts that it was Sherlock are fading, thinking now that it’s something more sinister. Someone that Magnussen sent, perhaps, or an enemy she thought she’d lost. Mary feels her way through the rooms (someone’s flat obviously. She wonders where and how high up she is) until she finds a knife. Then when she hears someone, she’s at least prepared. She won’t let anyone keep her from John. Not now.
