So I'm on a personal mission to write about as much minor characters as I can. And thus, here's my personal take on Mary. I'll admit that it isn't perfect, but it's something that I've been mulling about for a few months and I decided to take a stab at it finally.

Major huge thanks to the tumblr blog Firestorm Over London for their extremely informative essay about Mary. This person is also the mega mind that I constantly refer to for the Holmes Family series. The link to their tumblr can be found in my profile at the bottom of the page.

Torn Veil

"How did you get in here?"

Well, hello to you too, Magnussen. His thin face drains of whatever color it holds as I walk closer to him, his stare almost unnervingly fixed on me. Almost as if he's...reading me. At one point in my life, it would've bothered me, but now? I only wish that he could at least act a little happier at seeing me. He isn't even willing to put up a fight…at least, not yet. This might be easier than I originally thought.

"On your knees." The command is cold and sharp as it leaves my lips and he obediently gets to his knees, his hands automatically up in the air. "Oh, and I wouldn't bother calling for Janine," I add as he opens his mouth, "she's not exactly available at the moment." I could tell that it's on the tip of his tongue to say something – probably some snark about how horrible of a friend I am or something - but he quietly relents.

I circle him, my steps muffled in the plush carpet beneath my feet. So many times, ever since I knew he was watching me, I've pictured this moment. Every single minute was calculated and accounted for, every second given equal attention in my grand master plan, all ending with a simple bullet right through the head. What a fitting ending for such a man as this. This was not the way that I wanted this meeting to happen, but then again, Magnussen isn't one to play by the rules. And neither am I.

Oh, but even though I've waited a long time for this, I can't end his life just yet; how rude of me to even forget about thanking him for that lovely telegram.

"Couldn't resist sending a congratulations, Cam?"

He briefly looks up at me, then back to floor, but there was no mistaking that boyish gleam in his eye. "I've always loved weddings," he says simply, whimpering as the barrel of the gun comes mere inches away from his temple.

"Well, thank you for thinking of us," I say flatly. He doesn't reply for a few seconds and when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice slightly quivers.

"Do you think that John would kill someone?"

I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Magnussen's game hasn't changed one bit; guess when the strategy works, it would be stupid to drop it. So I let him talk and with each passing moment, he becomes more and more hysterical when he realizes that I'm refusing to take his bait, his speech flip-flopping back and forth in between Danish and English. Though I have to admit that when he stresses about what John would say to me if he saw me here, I have to cock the gun to make myself slow down and breathe. Just. Breathe.

Even though I see red, I have to say that I'm enjoying watching him fall apart. I have to remind myself at some point during his pleas to stop playing with my food – I'm a professional…was a professional. And after all, I came here for one reason and one reason alone and it certainly wasn't to listen to Magnussen's incessant blubbering.

As I wait for the opportune moment to pull the trigger, a voice stops me dead in my tracks. Panic overwhelms me, but I quickly gain back control of myself - at least, enough to keep my wits. My jaw clenches as Magnussen's gaze goes past me to look to the person. I don't even dare to breathe as Lady Smallwood's name leaves Sherlock's lips. Like an annoying stray hair in the atmosphere, it hangs in the air for a long, uncomfortably confusing moment. Magnussen beats me to a response. Not Lady Smallwood, he says with one last look to me.

Damn it, this was not the way that I wanted things to happen. But...I have no choice now.

With a swallow to steady myself, I turn around, the gun still pointing ahead of me. Sherlock's expression is subtle, but I can tell that the gears in his head are turning; things are starting to make sense and dots are starting to connect. In that moment, the shadows of my lies are finally beginning to dissolve and fade and I'm becoming more exposed as the pathetic liar that I am. But that doesn't matter to me – to hell with me. Where Sherlock is, John is sure to be right behind.

I ask simply if John is here, almost barking the question a second time when Sherlock stumbles over his words like a clumsy newborn. Rendering Sherlock Holmes speechless – hmm, something to savor when I have the time. Sherlock finally says he's downstairs and I nod. I might only have a few precious minutes before John shows up. Though I feel an utter sense of calm about my control on the situation, horror claws distantly at my stomach at the vision of John seeing us all here…of seeing me here.

Now Magnussen's little teases and threats seem so much bigger. Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it back. I can't even imagine what John would say, what he would think, though I've thought about the consequences countless times. No time to think about that, no time. From behind me, almost like on a game show, Magnussen presents me with the apparent solution to the problem and I gift him a humorless smile over my shoulder. Sherlock steps forward. Let me help you, he says. And damn, does he sounds so sincere about it. But a part of me isn't convinced and it won't be. Sherlock and his bleeding savior complex. I'm so irritated with him, with John, with Magnussen, with my entire damned life that I'm about to make reality the threat of killing him, temporarily blind to the aftermath in the corner that my back is against.

It's when he calls me Mrs. Watson and gently chides me that I realize…that I can't kill him. I simply can't do it.

It doesn't make sense, but I have to follow that thought and go though. Though I'm sparing his life, that doesn't mean that I can let him go. I have to do something to quiet him, at least for a little while, until I can talk some sense into him. The strategist in me takes over and the solution comes to me so easily that the gun in my hand automatically changes angles to aim at his right side – his liver. It may not be the best choice, but it is the safest place to hit him and not kill him. The buttons on his coat easily mark my target and with a squeeze of the trigger, the bullet flies across the room. As the white of Sherlock's shirt turns to a dark crimson where the bullet pierced him, I can see the hurt and shock in his eyes at my choice and the apology leaves my lips without a second thought. Because I truly am. Sorry.

Though the world around me is still, I can feel the foundation of my life shaken within me, the graves of my past opening up to swallow me whole. And I swear to everything above that I will run from it. I'm not ready to face it, face my past, face myself and my choices.

…And I'll never be ready.