Mary looks at the flash drive full of Russian files that Mycroft gave her. She should get started on it -- it may not be the most exciting work, but it’s work.

Instead, she thinks about another flash drive, and the fact that she hasn’t heard a peep out of John in the days since Sherlock was discharged.

She wants to spy on him again, but at the same time, she can’t bear to watch.

* * * 

She picks up her phone and types. Read the files, John. Read them so that you understand. Read them, and then talk to me.

It feels satisfying to type. She stares at it, wishing that sending it would do any good -- likely, it would make John dig his heels in deeper. She deletes it.

* * *

She makes herself go for a run. Her body is more strangely shaped now, lumpy and sensitive and still not feeling like her own, but moving feels good.

She tries to pound the frustration and anxiety and negative emotions out of her body and into the pavement. To empty and focus herself. It doesn’t work nearly as well as it used to.

* * *

She types a message to John. Sherlock told you that you could trust me. Listen to him. She deletes it.

* * *

She frets about what Magnussen is up to, about whether he’s likely to visit Sherlock and John again now that they’re back at Baker Street. She wouldn't be surprised if Magnussen decided to reassert his power over them. To do something that would stir the boys' anger and cause them to act rashly and get themselves in more trouble. (God knows, it wouldn't take much.) Or to say something to John about Mary that would make him even slower to forgive her. Knowing she’s not supposed to, she opens up her laptop and attempts to access the camera feeds on Appledore and CAM tower. The password has changed.

A moment later, the Mycroftphone buzzes. Have you forgotten what your current assignment is - and is not? If you do not have enough translation work to do, I can assign more.

Sorry. Old habits.

I assure you, we have your former target under ample surveillance.

She wishes she felt entirely reassured, but Mycroft's goals and priorities are not the same as hers.

Thanks. I’ll work on the files you gave me.

She doesn’t.

* * *

As days pass and become weeks, her body continues to swell -- belly, breasts. She feels tired and hungry and dizzy and irritable.

Though maybe she’s irritable because her husband is ignoring her.

* * *

Don’t be so stubborn, John, she types into her phone without any intent to send it. I know you’re angry at me, but we could straighten all this out quickly if you’d just look at the damn drive.

* * *

Her phone buzzes, and her heart leaps. What if it’s finally John -- responding to all her unsent texts? She scrambles for the phone.

It’s from Sherlock. When did Magnussen first contact you?

The disappointment grips her lungs for a long moment. She wonders what John is doing while Sherlock is texting her. She wonders how he is.

A moment later: John is well. He’s put on 4 pounds.

She laughs at his deduction, but it’s a bitter laugh. She knows this is Sherlock at his kindest, working on her case and also giving her information he thinks she wants. But rather than gratitude, she feels a sharp twist of jealousy in her gut. Sherlock is living with her husband, having sex with him, making him happy. So happy that he’s not reading her damn files. So happy he doesn’t need her.

She wants to scream.

She wants to cry.

She texts back. Sorry, Sherlock. I can’t talk to you right now. Not until John and I talk first.

She wonders when -- if -- that will happen.

* * *

She should go to her OB/GYN appointment. She’s already missed some previous visits. She’s running out of time to decide what to do about the pregnancy.

Five minutes after her appointment is suppose to start, her phone rings. She ignores it until it falls silent.

* * *

There’s a knock at her door. She tells herself it’s not John as she rushes to answer.

It isn’t.

It’s Bill Wiggins. When she opens the door, he just stares at her.

“Hi?” she says, finally.

“You need anything?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I was told to check on you. See if you need anything. If you’re okay.”

“Told by whom?”

He shrugs. “Can’t say.”

She knows exactly who. She feels angry that Sherlock’s checking up on her. Especially when John can’t be bothered. “I’m fine,” she says shortly.

He looks her over slowly, skeptically, and peeks over her shoulder at her and John’s flat -- or tries; she shuts the door until it’s only open a sliver. Then he shrugs. “All right. I’ll leave my number, ‘case you need anything.”

“I don’t.”

He shrugs again and presses a shred of paper with numbers scrawled on it into her hand. “I’ll be around.”

* * *

Her back aches.

Scratch that -- all of her aches and itches and is overly sensitive in turn. Some bits more often than others.

She can’t fall asleep when she wants to, which is most of the time.

* * *

At various times, in various moods, she drafts a number of unsent messages to John.

You’re probably too busy solving loads of exciting cases and having loads of exciting new sex to remember your wife and the files she gave you, aren’t you.

I miss you.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I wanted to hear about your first time with him. I wanted to be happy for you both.

He can’t possibly love you as much as I do. No, I know that’s not true. I know he does. But so do I. Why don’t you love me enough to read the files?

I miss you so much.

You’re the one who wanted this pregnancy. I can’t believe you’ve left me to deal with it alone.

Did you ever love me, or were you just using me as a substitute for him?

I am still your wife, you know. And you are still an honorable and loyal man. Read the files because of that bond, at least? Read it and forgive me. I need you to.

* * *

Would he, though? Would he really forgive her?

* * *

Would it make a difference, if John read the files? After all, it’s not like the truth is so glowing.

She still used nursing as a cover story. She still made friends to further a mission. She still killed people. And enjoyed it.

She still lied.

* * *

She finishes shoveling the food into her mouth that her body has been rudely demanding, not even tasting it, then adds a dirty dish to the pile in the sink.

* * *

Sherlock lies to John all the time, though. John doesn’t mind. John shrugs. John laughs it off. John shouts and then moves on.

Why doesn’t John see that the man he loves is no better than the woman he loves?

* * *

But no, that’s not entirely true, is it? The one lie that John didn’t forgive Sherlock for -- not until coerced into it -- was the lie of Sherlock’s death. The lie that cast everything John believed about Sherlock and their friendship into doubt. The lie that excluded John, that said he wasn’t close enough to Sherlock to be let in on the secret, to help.

That’s her lie, too, isn’t it? That she fundamentally isn’t what she said, and that she didn’t trust John enough to tell him that.

Fuck.

* * *

She should go to clinic -- it’s supposed to be her first day back.

Her phone rings and rings.

She should pick it up -- she should tell them something. She should ask for more time.

The phone stops ringing.

* * *

The thing is, she couldn’t tell John the truth, though. She’s a spy, she’s not allowed to divulge her work. She swore an oath to the crown.

Oh, because she’s always believed in following rules, hasn’t she?

The more she makes these excuses for herself, the more ridiculous they sound. The more she sees the magnitude of all her mistakes.

Shit.

* * *

John left her.

Reading the files probably won’t even change that.

He’s with someone else he loves now… someone marginally better for him. Someone John’s forgiven for his own lies.

Someone she shot.

She needs to accept that he’s gone.

Needs to accept that she’s irrevocably fucked everything up.

* * *

Fuck.

* * *

She studies herself in the mirror.

Her naked body, now eighteen weeks pregnant, is ungainly and unbalanced compared to the litheness she used to possess. The scar on her leg that she told John was from falling out of a tree when she was young. The small tattoo on her hip -- a loaf of bread surrounding the letters BR. (Even after she told him it was in honor of her grandmother -- her Baba Raya -- and the baking they used to do together, John used to tease her about how the tattoo artist wrote too big and left off the EAD.)

Her body. The body that he knows more intimately than anyone.

He’s never going to see it again, is he?

In the mirror, she sees the first sob travels through her body like an earthquake, shifting and shaking every piece of her flesh. She surrenders and crumples to the floor, fighting and gasping for breath as everything collapses.

* * *

She lies in bed.

* * *

She should get up and go for a run.

* * *

She replays shooting Sherlock, over and over in her mind.

* * *

She should get up and go to the shops. Everything once fresh in the kitchen is long gone, or rotting.

* * *

She isolates and analyzes every lie she’s told John.

* * *

She should do some translation work for Mycroft. She dreads Mycroft showing up looking for completed files. At the same time, the fact that he hasn't indicates how utterly useless she is to him now.

Unlike Anthea. Anthea, who’s never fucked up and is now out leading the life Mary wants -- undercover missions and excitement. Mary could be doing that still, if she hadn’t fucked everything up.

* * *

I wish you were here, she types to Anthea. She thinks about actually sending this text -- Anthea won’t receive it for who knows how long, but surely it will be a welcome sentiment, whenever she does.

Would it really, though? Has she really been a good friend to Anthea? She’s been a terrible, self-centered, needy friend, hasn’t she? She hardly knows anything about Anthea at all.

Anthea deserves better than getting a self-pitying, self-absorbed message. Anthea deserves better than her.

* * *

She types a draft of a message to Janine. I’m sorry. I’m a terrible person and a terrible friend. But I need you to forgive me because I miss you. And because my husband has left me, and I’ve lost my friends and my job.

It sounds pathetic. She wouldn’t forgive her. Nobody should forgive her. She deletes it.

* * *

She should get up. She should shower, brush her teeth. She’s not sure how many days it’s been.

(Food wrappers scattered on the nightstand and floor might provide a hint, if she could be bothered to count.)

She should get dressed -- though none of her clothes fit anymore. She should buy new ones.

* * *

She can imagine another life, an alternate universe in which she never lied to John and he never left her.

She imagines the two of them raising a beautiful child together, a child with a thirst for adventure and sense of loyalty like John’s. And Sherlock would be very much a part of their lives and the child’s -- maybe they could all live together, and people might talk, but they can bugger off -- and their child would be brilliant. Brilliant and perfect and part of a wonderful family that loved each other and loved the child more than any being has ever been loved.

This is what she has made impossible.

This is what she has destroyed.

* * *

She should get up and pack and leave.

At nineteen weeks, she can still end the pregnancy, then end this facade of a marriage and a career.

She should start over.

There’s nothing left here except the negative space of what could have been.

* * *

She’s good at that, though, isn’t she? Destroying everything and then running away?

This wouldn’t be the first time.

* * *

When her mother died, she enlisted without telling a soul. She ran away from everything that would have been hard. Rebuilding the friendships that had waned while her mother was ill. Maybe even reaching out to her father.

It was easier to just run away, to leave behind her hometown and those wrecks of relationships without telling anyone, wasn’t it?

* * *

When Mycroft showed up to ask her to be a spy, she left behind a great deal. She had new fledgling friendships with a few of the other combat medical technician trainees. She had a plan to work her way up in the ranks, to build a career, to save lives.

It was easier to trash all those plans for the chance at a bit of excitement and a silly childhood dream, though. She walked away without looking back.

* * *

More friendships started and abandoned when training with the CIA. And again, in Moscow. Building anything, including relationships, is hard. Running away was easier.

Creating things, saving lives, doing good in the world, is also hard. In Moscow, she’d been positively gleeful about assassinating people (terrible people, to be sure), ending lives. Even as she was simultaneously destroying any chance at her own safety and stability.

* * *

She builds nothing. Preserves nothing, improves nothing -- even the people she’s treated at the clinic have been just a cover for her job. Her friendships and relationships have been built on lies, and they have all crumbled thanks to her.

She comes, she destroys, she leaves.

* * *

The nurse in her recognizes some aspects of her thinking as symptomatic of depression. (The fake nurse; sure, she trained, but then she abandoned the role and has never practiced except briefly, as part of a cover story.) But even if she arrived at this point partly thanks to depression, she also can see that her recent introspection has uncovered some hard truths. And it’s long past time for some truth.

* * *

The fantasy she spun of herself and John and their perfect family is just that, isn’t it? A fantasy. She could never have that. She could never be a mother. She can’t even handle pregnancy.

A real mother wouldn’t spend her pregnancy regretting and resenting all the things she had to give up doing.

A real mother wouldn’t miss her appointments and lie to the doctor.

A real mother wouldn’t scale a thirty story building or engage in potentially deadly combat, endangering both their lives.

A real mother wouldn’t be so selfishly destructive.

She’s botched this entire pregnancy -- the full first half, at this point -- but it’s just as well. She could never be a mother.

* * *

Her stomach twists uncomfortably.

She should eat.

Should she eat?

* * *

She should go to the doctor and end the pregnancy.

And then she should leave town and start over.

* * *

Should she, though?

Is it time to enact this cycle again?

Time to take the coward’s way out, and run?

Time to inflict herself on new people, tell new lies, and start ruining a new set of lives?

* * *

No.

* * *

She has destroyed everything, fucked everything up, her whole life.

Through multiple lives, starting to build something, then burning everything to the ground.

Time to end this cycle.

* * *

She texts Bill Wiggins. I need something.

He knocks on the door less than a minute later. She nearly passes out getting out of bed; she has to wait for her vision to clear and hang onto the dresser. When did she become such a contemptible weakling?

She shuffles to the door, opens it, and stares at Wiggins. “How long have you been hanging around outside my flat?” Her voice, unused, comes out as a croak.

He shrugs. “Dunno… weeks, I guess?”

She shakes her head. Great, she’s destroying his life, too -- one more person stuck dealing with her bullshit.

She gets right to it. “I need --” She clears her throat. “I need a drug called Elavil. 150 milligram pills; one month’s supply.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Amitriptyline?” His drug knowledge is wider than she expected -- Sherlock said he was a chemist, but she’d taken it as a euphemism. “That’s a tricyclic antidepressant. Strong one.”

She smiles just a little, bites her lip, lowers her eyes. (She’s been told she’s very winning when she does this.) “Yeah. If you’ve been watching my flat this whole time, you probably know I haven’t been doing that great. I think it’s about time to change that.

“I have an appointment with a psychiatrist,” she lies, “but she can’t see me for a month, and that’s a long time to wait -- and it takes a while for the drug to build up enough in your system to begin to help. I thought maybe I should get a head start.”

He nods, looking relieved. “Glad you’re going to see someone. You know this is a strong one though, right? Tricyclics are easy to OD on.”

He’s a good chemist. She nods and twists her mouth. “Believe me, I know. But there aren’t that many safe for pregnant women -- ” wrap it in truth, then continue the lie “-- and this is the only one out of those that I’ve had good experiences with in the past.” She smiles sadly. “Unfortunately, this isn’t my first go-round with depression.”

His frown clears, and he smiles. “Right. You’re a nurse -- course you know what you’re doing. I’ll get some this afternoon.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s fast. Thanks.”

“I know a guy who should be able to help. And I was getting worried about you. Don’t like having to tell Shezza that you’re still not showing your face. I’m glad you’re doing something.”

She nods, looking down. “Me too.”

* * *

She stares at the pill bottle.

Too much of a good thing is a common issue in medicine.

Take a pill every day for a month, maybe you’ll feel better.

Take a month’s pills in a day, you won’t have to worry about it any more.

The thing is, even if she makes herself happier, it will be artificial. She’ll still be a fuckup. She’ll still be a force of destruction in everyone else’s lives.

So it’s not really much of a choice, is it?

* * *

There are some people she should apologize to, though.

She calls Janine. The number has been disconnected.

She calls John. She gets his voicemail. She hangs up.

There are others she’d like to talk to. But they might understand why she was calling. Too risky.

* * *

She doesn’t own anything of any worth. Her gun is nice; maybe Mycroft will want it.

She doesn’t want to use the gun, though; too messy. She doesn’t want her friends to have to clean that up.

Not that she’s ever had any trouble shooting her friends with it. She supposes recovering from that is much more annoying than cleaning up after her.

Still. She doesn’t want to be any more bother.

* * *

John might be sad for a bit. Sherlock, even, perhaps. But they’re better off without her, and they have each other.

Anthea might be sad for a bit, maybe. But Mary is a crap friend and a burden who Anthea probably only puts up with for her employer’s sake, anyway.

* * *

She writes a few very brief letters -- she’s never been very good with the written word, and she can’t possibly convey everything she needs to -- then seals them in envelopes with the names of the few people she loves.

* * *

Mary lies in bed, staring at the pill bottle in her hand. She feels a flutter in her stomach; her digestive system is unhappy with her -- which is impressive, because she can’t remember the last time she ate.

* * *

She’s never really believed in God, never seen anyone watching out for her. She hopes there isn’t one. She just wants oblivion, after this.

* * *

As she contemplates the pills further, she feels something. It feels like popcorn kernels exploding -- and her belly is the kettle.

It’s a sensation unlike any she’s ever had.

Oh.

She’s aware that some women mistake their baby’s first movements for indigestion or gas. But she hadn’t put that together with the recent fluttery feeling in her gut. (She’s had a few things on her mind.)

This isn’t indigestion, though. It’s the baby moving.

Oh.

It’s her baby.

* * *

The shock of it propels her out of bed.

She finds herself in the sitting room, staring out the window. She watches the sun set, still clutching the pill bottle.

She doesn’t think. She just feels. Feels nothing, for a while -- then a brief staccato stab.

It shouldn’t make a difference, should it? The baby was almost as developed yesterday.
But now -- now she knows where her (his?) elbow (knee? foot? fist?) is. Now she’s imagined how he (she?) might be sitting, what her baby might be doing.

Her baby is about the size of a mango right now, she’s pretty sure. (Or a banana, maybe? Something like that.) And she (he?) is turning around inside of her.

The knowledge is overwhelming.

* * *

She’s spent so long thinking about the pregnancy as a condition. Something that took over her body and disabled it. Something destructive. Something to recover from.

It’s all true. Still.

But it’s not the whole picture, is it?

It’s also a process. A process of creating a baby. Hers and John’s.

* * *

She wonders what this tiny person that she and John have created looks like.

She thinks about John’s baby photos again. The adventurous glint in his eye, even when he was still shy of two years old. The glance upward from under raised eyebrows, looking up from two fists full of biscuits.

She wants to see the face of their own child.

She wants it very badly.

* * * 

What if, in spite of every mistake, she hasn’t fucked this up? What if their child is still healthy and growing and beautiful?

* * *

She’s not ready to have children yet.

When will she be, though?

She’s been not ready for years. She’s nearly out of time when she can do this. And, whether she’s ready or not, this child is here now.

* * *

There will never be a time when a child doesn’t mean sacrifice, will there?

But everything comes with a cost. There are always paths not taken.

(Even Anthea’s path has costs.)

* * *

She doesn’t want to raise a child alone.

She doesn’t want to be the sole caretaker for a baby in a world where everyone she's ever cared about has died or left or been chased away.

Millions of women manage single motherhood, though.

Is she afraid? Afraid of a little hard work?

* * *

She is afraid.

No question.

She can do hard things. She can do grueling and dirty and exhausting. That’s not it.

She’s afraid because even if she changes her mind about wanting to raise this child, she hasn’t changed. She’s still a force of destruction. Hasn’t she proven it?

She is desperately afraid of destroying someone else’s life besides her own (and possibly John’s, and Sherlock’s, and Janine’s).

But she imagines John’s child, and hers -- a person she’s aching to meet.

She bites her lip, and she wonders.

* * *

What if she didn’t ruin this child’s life?

What if she tried to do better?

Would it matter?

Does she dare try?

Does she dare not try?

* * *

There’s another flutter as the baby punches her (kicks her? elbows her?) again.

She half laughs, half sobs, rubbing a hand over her belly. “You’re just like your father -- always punching things.”

She wipes the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “He’s a good man. You’d like him.”

* * *

John might be better off without her. But without the baby?

She imagines John holding their infant, staring at the tiny face with a delight, fascination, and joy formerly reserved for Sherlock -- and Mary, back before she wrecked everything. He would be such a good father. She hopes to see that.

And a small hope -- probably irrational, but not something she can entirely dismiss -- he can’t ignore me forever if I’m raising his child. And maybe he’ll want to help. Maybe this could bring us together again.

* * *

Even if it doesn’t bring them together, though. Even if John is done with her -- with both of them -- for good.

She still wants to hold their child. (How can she feel such a longing for something she’s never done?)

She wants to take care of and raise and teach and love her (him?).

Their child can still be happy. A blond imp who causes endless mischief and has a fantastic smile. And who never need feel lonely or unloved.

Mary hasn’t destroyed this possible path yet.

* * *

She watches the sun rise. Inside, her child shifts, restless.

“All right, holubka,” she soothes. She remembers her grandmother and mother calling her this -- ‘little dove’ -- when she was a child. “Don’t fret. I’m not leaving you.”

She gets up and walks to the bathroom, still holding the pill bottle. She opens the container and pulls out a single capsule. Looking herself in the eye in the mirror, she swallows it. Then she closes the bottle and puts the rest of the pills away in the medicine cabinet.

She climbs into bed for a few hours of sleep, her hand on her belly.