"Alright, you get her feet, I'll get her head." John decided, looking around so as to make sure there was no traffic anywhere before grabbing what must be Mary's shoulders underneath the tarp and dragging her out the best he could. Sherlock helped in making sure the shovels or the suitcase didn't go falling out, and when it was his turn to lift he grabbed the body around the stiff ankles, rearranging the tarp so that it wouldn't fall off during the trip, and following John in some sort of awkward stutter steps up the steep hill towards the side of the road. At some points it felt almost treacherous, for the hill was sloped dangerously and Sherlock knew that should his feet slip he would have no hands available to catch his fall. Taking all of this into consideration, plus the fact that his useless leg could hardly lift to save his life, well Sherlock really was in for an adventure. It was a miracle that John didn't have to bury two bodies tonight. Somehow the two of them were able to get the body up the hill, lugging it up into the grassy overgrown fields. Mycroft had suggested before that Sherlock choose a place that was very obviously untended, and if ever a wild field did exist, this would be the one. Sherlock was sure theirs were the first footsteps to cross this field in a very long time, and as they climbed Sherlock was beginning to feel even more secluded from the rest of the world. A perfect place to hide a body! When finally John deemed it a good spot they could not see the road or a house as far as they cared to look. Even the Holmes house was absent from the picture which was sort of curious considering there shouldn't be anything blocking their view. Unless it was so far away that it appeared to be a mere speck and therefore blended in with the very distant trees and mountains in the back.
"This should be good." John decided, dropping the body carelessly and starting back to the car without a word. Sherlock hesitated, yet followed him back down the slope quickly, unsure if there was anything he could say to ease whatever anxieties were going through John's head. Was he purposely being distant, was he mad about something? Sherlock was too apprehensive to ask, and so he merely followed suit, carrying the shovels from the car while John heaved the heavy suitcase up the hill. Sherlock was happy for the shovels, for he could use them sort of as walking canes, and the trek now up the hill was a lot more manageable. They let the car open, so as to help air it out a little bit, before first making sure there was nothing in the trunk they couldn't afford to lose. Yet there were no valuables in there, nor was there any condemning evidence as to what they were doing in the middle of nowhere, so Sherlock deemed it appropriate to leave the trunk open and unattended.
"Well then, start digging I guess." John decided, letting the suitcase fall carelessly next to the body and grabbing a shovel out of Sherlock's hands.
"I'm not too good at manual labor." Sherlock warned, holding his shovel without really knowing what to do with it.
"I know." John assured. "But you're going to have to help me anyway. I don't want to be here when it gets dark." Sherlock nodded, watching now as John dug his shovel into the ground, deeming a spot worthy to dig and starting his way through the preliminary layers of weeds. Sherlock followed suit, a couple of feet down from where John was so that they could join together and make a hole that was appropriately Mary sized. This would have to be quite a big hole, but thankfully the soil was soft and workable, and the stones didn't provide too much of an issue. Every once in a while Sherlock's arms would begin to tire, yet the more he gave them breaks the more he found them even more tired, and so in the end he chose to ignore his aching muscles and just get on with what he had to do. He was only about three feet down in a hole that was roughly two feet wide on either end, not at all appropriate for a corpse just yet. There was no conversations since they needed their breath for more important things, yet as Sherlock worked he kept thinking of what could possibly be disturbing John so much that he couldn't even smile. This was of course something of a somber moment, for they were burying his childhood crush turned wife, but it was meant to be! John had asked to get Mary killed, so what was he suddenly getting all choked up over? Sherlock's hands were beginning to callus, however they were not about five feet down and such was not an issue any longer. John had dug deeper faster, and so he was now working to get rid of the pile of dirt that separated the two holes. When finally he was visible above the mass Sherlock found that their hole really was a work of art, and all that manual labor was very much worth it. It was a worthy grave, however unworthy of a woman she was. It only took another twenty minutes or so for the grave to be completed, and when finally Sherlock and John were able to crawl out back onto the earth they were rejuvenated with optimism. They thought now, as they looked down at their hand dug grave, that there was no possible way they would ever be caught. They were too clever for that, weren't they? They knew how to kill a person, they knew how to hide the body, they knew how to lie. And now with six feet opened up in the earth for them to hide the evidence, well how could anyone possibly catch on? How even could Greg discover such a thing? It was a false sense of invulnerability, for of course no criminal was uncatchable, no matter how clever they believed they were. And Sherlock and John were no different. Yet all the same they wrapped Mary once more in the tarp, John handling her with something of a harsh carelessness, yanking the tarp and pressing Mary's head so as to contort her into the most convenient position. He treated the body in an almost desecrating manner, as if he could care less what happened to it, so long as it was out of his sight forever. His actions and his attitude seemed to contradict each other, for at one point Sherlock could have sworn John actually cared for his deceased wife, while now he seemed to be going about as if he couldn't wait to rid her and her body from his life forever. Together they heaved the body into the pit, in which it twisted and bumped into the walls, dislodging the tarp enough for Mary's broken, dead face to once more resurface from the depths. It was an unnerving sight, for her eyes were still open, and they were looking straight up. She was wrapped as if in a toga, lying there as if she was merely napping six feet under. Yet she was dead, Sherlock knew she was dead because he had been the one to take her life. So why did such a sight send shivers down his back, as if he was expecting her to crawl from her grave a kill him!
"She's watching us." Sherlock commented timidly, looking down towards the woman's face with a frown.
"Good, let her watch. Let her see us burying her like a dead cat." John growled. "Let her see that I had something to do with this all along."
"That's...well John, aren't you a little bit upset?" Sherlock commented.
"About what?" John growled, heaving the suitcase into the hole as well, almost as if he intended to hit the body right on the skull. However the suitcase instead landed on Mary's chest, leaving her face completely undaunted once more.
"About her death? I mean, you're awfully quiet." Sherlock commented.
"I'm not quiet. I'm just angry. I'm angry about her, about my marriage, and I'm angry that we even had to do all of this! She's been a burden this whole way through, and I hate myself for even thinking that I could marry her and get on with my life." John growled. "I'm glad she's dead."
"I'm happy to hear that. For a moment I had thought that maybe you regretted it." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"Regretted it? Why on earth would you think I regretted it? My God, this was the biggest weight off of my shoulders! I just want to bury her and leave her here forever; I could care less what happens now." John admitted with a grumble, shaking his head and beginning to shovel dirt over top of their makeshift grave. Sherlock followed suit, a little bit unnerved by John's constant mood swings, but deciding in the end that it was much better that he was rejoicing in Mary's death rather than mourning it. For Sherlock knew that his entire life was a constant battle between himself and every other slightly pleasurable thing in John's life, and Sherlock had once more overcome yet another obstacle. Mary Morstan, quite possibly his biggest competition, was now just left in the dirt. Shoveled over until her horrible face was hidden as it should be, hidden so that no one had to look upon such a thing ever again. And with that, when the hole was properly filled in and replaced with whatever underbrush they could scavenge to cover the freshly dug earth, they picked up their shovels and started back for home. Mrs. Hudson was paid (she seemed to find the two men's unkempt appearances amusing) and together all three of them headed for home. Now there were only three residents to that house, for their fourth, most recently inactive member, had been properly disposed of. Never to walk those halls, or even taint that garage, ever again. As it should be, evidently.
John POV: The next morning John was left to be a single parent once more, for Sherlock said that he was going to go and fix up the old manor so as to make it at least a little bit livable. John wondered where that man was getting his money, for whatever checks the prison had been giving him were undoubtedly nothing close to what he needed to get on for these weeks. A job would be nice; however it seemed that Sherlock was busy with everything else except employment. Yet as soon as he started talking about fixing up the house, John was immediately on board. Now between the two of them they had three places to live, two of which were subpar when taken into account the massive structure that held their history. Sherlock's apartment could be abandoned, John's house could be sold, and together the three of them could make a family together in the Holmes manor, where they should've been this whole time. The thing was gigantic, and now that Rosie was officially their child they could continue on the Holmes name, if not actually the bloodline. Sherlock and John could marry after all of this time, and finally John could adopt the name that had been haunting his dreams for all of those thirteen years. But that seemed a long way off; even now that Sherlock was freed and John was unburdened it still seemed an impossible dream to unite the two of them together for long. It seems as though everyone was out to get them, it seems as though Fate was pulling their strings farther and farther from each other in an attempt to prevent them from making any more messes with their companionship. They were a destructive pair, baking soda and vinegar at that, yet they were so in love, so codependent if you will, that the explosion that followed was always worth it. Mary's death was an explosion, and John felt as though she was only the preliminary loss. There would be more, for their battle would not be won until they had wedding bands on their fingers, living a luxurious life knowing that the police had gotten off their trail long ago. John dropped Rosie off at daycare, in which he was met with what appeared to be a funeral procession. Evidently rumors about his wife had begun to circulate, and the parents who had collected, along with the staff, all seemed to line up so as to offer their condolences. And it was painful for John to have to pretend to be upset, simply because he wasn't. It was almost a joyous occasion, and laughable when he had to turn his smile upside down and pretend to mourn for a loss he had created himself. Needless to say he was relieved to get back into his car and head for work, despite how boring window sales were these days. His job was so...well it felt so meaningless! It was boring, mundane, and stagnant! He did the same thing every day, he called the same people every day, and he sat in that bloody cubical and stared at the same wall, listened to the same phones ringing off the line... John was beginning to hate his boring life, and yet he knew that such employment was necessary. As free as Sherlock may be, John still had a daughter to bring up. He had daycare bills, food bills, electric bills, well every sort of bill you could imagine! And let's not even begin to talk about the loans he still had to pay back! His life was a financial mess, made more manageable of course by this miserable stagnated job. And so he worked, he called, and he sold the windows like he was meant to. All this time went by, however, and he kept thinking on when he would be able to see Sherlock again. Would he go back to his apartment, or would he come join them for dinner? Would he spend the night, or would he be absent until the next time John got around to calling him? It was a wonderful thing to see Sherlock waiting for him yesterday, almost as if they were already married and moved in together. However gruesome the task they did together, well at least they were together! At least they were united over something! It felt appropriate, like the time the two of them had to work on a group project together, in those weeks when they were first falling in love. With a project or problem on hand it gave the two of them something to solve together, it gave them a task and an excuse to unite. Now with no such problems, they might be separated for days before one of them remembered to call! And so John would have to make a point to call, if such separation would be the case. He would have Sherlock over for dinner repeatedly, not only because he needed the company but he was sure Sherlock could use the charity. Living off whatever weekly paycheck that prison gave him seemed an impossible task, and a free meal always did miracles when trying to keep the wallet closed. At the end of the day John started for the daycare, remembering this time that his daughter wasn't home where she usually was at such an hour. The schedule shifts would take some adjusting to, for Rosie wasn't used to staying at the daycare for that long and John wasn't used to making a detour on his way home. Yet they would work around it, they would learn to manage. John took Rosie home as quickly as he could, disappointed when he rolled into the garage (the thing had been left to air out all day, yet nothing had been taken. Curse this peaceful town!) and found that Sherlock wasn't waiting for him.
"Is Mommy back yet?" Rosie asked as John unstrapped her from her car seat. She was wearing her hair in some sort of pig tails, pulled back with sparkly hair ties that had obviously been supplied by the daycare. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and helping her leap down from the car.
"No, Mommy's not back yet. Rosie, I don't think she's coming back at all. I think she's left us." John admitted quietly.
"That's silly Daddy. She didn't leave, she would've say goodbye." Rosie insisted, and with that she leapt into the house, seeming to be completely unaware of the severity of this situation. It was as if she was waiting for Mary to return, as if she was looking forward to it...as if she thought it would happen at all. It broke John's heart to see the poor girl like this; optimistic for something that would never happen. For Mary wasn't coming back, not ever. She had taken permanent residence in that hole, buried and covered so that no one would ever know to look. She wasn't coming back, and if she did...well if she did John was in a lot more trouble than he could comprehend at the moment. He made a quick dinner of spaghetti, for the very limited range of his cooking skills ended with boiling water and heating up canned sauce in the microwave. It was nothing close to a decent meal, considering that Mary always made her own sauce and always had an abundance of side dishes to go along. She was always a fan of salads and bread with dinner, however John didn't know the first thing of how to make a salad and the only bread he had now was sandwich bread. And so they sat and ate their mediocre pasta, trying to enjoy it the best they could. Rosie still didn't seem very bothered by Mary's absence, almost as I she was expecting her mother to come back any day now. As if she thought that Mary was just on some sort of vague vacation. John didn't know how to phrase it to her that Mary had left them, for while Mary most certainly did not go with her own free will that was a small detail that Rosie really couldn't know. No one could know Mary's true fate, no one but Sherlock and John. Any other confidants would be a waste of breath and stress, for these days you never know who you could really trust.
"How is it?" John asked after Rosie's first couple of bites into her dinner. She had sat back with something of a frown, looking as if the meal in front of her was nothing close to her usual standards.
"It's mushy." She complained.
"Yes well, I think I left it boiling a little bit too long." John admitted with a shrug.
"Mommy never made it mushy." Rosie pointed out.
"Well Mommy didn't make it, did she? I did." John insisted, his tone boarding on something of frustration. He never appreciated the attitude that came from his daughter, a trait that she had unfortunately inherited from him. She shared the same stubbornness, which really made for difficult cooperation between the two of them.
"Why isn't Mommy coming back?" Rosie muttered quietly, picking up her fork only to poke at her spaghetti in a very defeated sort of way. John took a deep breath, shaking his head as if he simply didn't know what to tell her.
"I don't know. But she isn't." John admitted. "I don't think she likes me anymore."
"Why doesn't she like me? Why wouldn't she say goodbye, why wouldn't she take me with her?" Rosie asked, her voice beginning to become angry as she pushed now the entire plate of pasta around the hardwood table. John faltered, thinking now what sort of context that question was put into, what sort of mentality it hinted at.
"You would rather her have taken you, than stay here with me?" John asked quietly, his heart beginning to stop beating for a split second. Rosie was quiet for a moment, as if she was already ashamed of how she was going to answer. Yet she didn't stutter, she didn't hesitate for she had the answer before he even had to ask.
"Yes." She muttered. Well that was something of a dagger in his heart, a sort of pain he had not yet expected to experience. In a world of euphoria, in a world that was now ridden of Mary Morstan...well he had not expected his own daughter to ruin such an experience. John's mouth fell open hurtfully, and Rosie still wouldn't look him in the eyes, however before he could say anything to respond there was a ring at the doorbell. The two Watsons looked up, thankful for the interruption yet equally suspicious as to who would be around at this hour.
"That must be Sherlock." John muttered hopefully, yet even as he got to his feet he began to wonder why Sherlock hadn't called before coming around for a visit. Was there someone else, then? Not cops surely? John fixed his hair and jacket just in case, for he wanted to look professional if not a little bit upset, and so as he walked to the door he practiced his best mournful expression before plastering it permanently on his face. With that he swung open the door, confused as to how now to greet his company, for he sort of fell under the category of both friend and foe.