Chapter Text
Mary has always been quite a good demon. She doesn’t mind torturing, tricking, tempting. Matter of fact, she quite enjoys it sometimes. She’s gotten multiple commendations, and has collaborated with some of the best - worst, actually, of course – on temptations and the like.
Unfortunately, Mary cannot be proud of herself, because of the stupid do-gooder angel John, whom she has encountered on rather more than a few of her – er – missions. He’s fiercely loyal, and he has bright blue eyes, and when she’s around him she wants to be good.
It’s sickening. She tries not to think about it.
But when she does, she’s forced to admit that the reason John affects her so much is that she, well… sometimes if she lets herself consider what she really wants, if she –
She fancies him.
There it is, out in the open. Mary is a good demon in every way but one, and that one is significant, because she fancies an angel. She finds herself ashamed of herself and her demonic nature when she’s in his presence. She finds herself wishing – and here she retches, because just the thought of it is so spectacularly undemonic that her biology rejects it – that John could love – no, not love, of course she doesn’t love him, she fancies him, that’s all, thinks he’s lovely, not love, not love – her back. That they could live – ugh – happily ever after.
It’s absolutely ludicrous, and Mary hates it, but there it is. She tries not to think about it too much. When thoughts of John press in on her and she’s forced to admit that she’s not a great demon, not like she’d be if she could get over this ridiculous crush, she consoles herself with the fact that Molly is an even worse demon than her.
At least when Mary goes topside, she does her job. She tempts and teases and corrupts souls like the best of them, and if she sometimes feels guilty then that’s for her alone to know. Molly, on the other hand… Molly loves people. She loves teenagers and kids and the elderly and everyone in between. On her evenings off she’ll wander through hospitals dispensing curses on shaky hands and scattered brains so that surgeons find themselves making steady incisions and physicians make extremely accurate diagnoses and helpful prescriptions. She’s one of the gentlest souls that Mary has ever known.
She shouldn’t have Fallen.
Mary knows it’s blasphemy, but she’s also a demon and doesn’t care. Molly should still be in Heaven, reveling in the Lord’s Grace and Love, free to dish out as many blessings as she’d like. Instead she’s down here, cut off from God, pale and thin and sad, all the time. She gets caught, sometimes, because Molly’s affection for humans exceeds her care for her own well-being, and is subjected to the kind of punishments that Hell bestows on traitors. Mary always watches, because she’s the closest thing Molly has to a friend. She never cries, because she’s a good demon, but she always wants to.
If the demons involved in the torture sometimes disappear under suspicious circumstances, well, sowing strife and discord and causing pain are part of Mary’s job description.
Mary didn’t know about Sherlock until 1351, when Molly, bright red and stammering, asked her for a favour.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” she said, in that awkward, hesitant way of hers. “And I really don’t mind doing it, it’s just – well, I’d rather not be in Sweden just then, I’d like to be in Greece, and I know it’s – well, if you don’t – ”
“I’ll do it,” Mary had interrupted, and Molly had broken into such a bright, beaming smile that Mary had been forced to cover her eyes. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it,” she’d grumbled, although, truth be told, she wasn’t particularly upset. She had reason to believe that John was going to be in Copenhagen around the time this temptation was supposed to be performed, and if they happened to bump into each other…
That’s exactly what happened. She and John bumped into each other, and she tempted him into taking a stroll with her (tempting angels is always a good idea; looks good in the reports), and he mentioned that his friend was in Greece.
“So’s mine,” said Mary, thoughtlessly, and then hastily amended, “acquaintance, I mean. I’ve an… acquaintance. In Greece.”
“Hmm,” said John, looking at her in the way that always made her melt a little. He had the most gorgeous eyes. “My friend’s name is Sherlock.”
“Mine’s Molly,” said Mary, distracted by the gorgeousness of John’s eyes, and then wanted to strangle something for mentioning a name and not making it clear that she didn’t have friends. Before she could amend her statement, though, John’s eyes were widening.
“You know Molly?” he said, voice sounding very strange.
“Do you?” scoffed Mary, because why would John… but then she looked at him, and he looked at her, and she felt her stomach drop. “Why do you know Molly?” she demanded, heart (which she didn’t need, strictly speaking, but found quite comforting, though she’d die before telling anyone that) pounding. Why did Upstairs know about Molly? What were they –
“Sherlock knows her,” said John, “and he won’t shut up about her.”
Something in his tone soothed Mary, but she had to be sure.
“What? What’s he planning?”
She saw comprehension dawn on John’s face, and he hastened to reassure her because he is an absolute darling.
“Nothing bad!” he said quickly. “He…” John looks at her, clearly hesitating, and Mary rolled her eyes.
“You can trust me,” she said. “I won’t run around blabbing your holy secrets to anyone.” And then, because John looked distinctly uncomfortable, “It’s fine. Out with it!”
“Well,” John said, looking torn. “He, um…” and he leaned in, and Mary shivered a little at his warm breath on her ear. “If I didn’t know better,” he whispered, “I’d say he fancies her.”
And if that didn’t send a jolt right through Mary. She, a demon that was romantically interested (fine, she doesn’t just fancy John, she has never just fancied John, she thinks that he’s thoroughly wonderful in every way and has for a very long time) in an angel, was unorthodox enough, but for an angel to be interested in a demon!
“Wow,” she said, shocked into speechlessness.
“I know,” John had said, still in the undertone. “Between you and me, Mary – ” and she’d shivered again, because she does so like to hear her name in his voice – “Sherlock has never been a very good angel.” He widened his eyes meaningfully.
“Maybe it’s meant to be then,” said Mary, and snorted at the shocked face John pulled. “Oh, shut it. Irreverence is part of the job description.”
“Mm,” said John, still looking a little shaken. “Why would it be – erm – meant to be?”
“Molly’s not very good at being a demon, either,” Mary told him, and she was the one lowering her voice this time. “To be perfectly honest with you – painful as it is – she’s absolute rubbish at it.”
“Hmm,” said John.
And from that moment forward she and John had an Arrangement – one in which both of them did their best (well, in her case, worst) to bring together one Sherlock, Principality, and one Molly, Demon. John felt comfortable working towards this end because Love is Good, and Mary was more than comfortable working for it because corrupting an angel would probably mean another commendation.
Unfortunately, the Arrangement never seemed to lead to anything. Through the years (and decades, and centuries), Mary and John cunningly brought Sherlock and Molly together in Italy, Moscow, Cambodia, Rio de Janeiro, even New York (and wasn’t that a time to remember), all to no avail. Though there were many longing looks and soft stares, Sherlock and Molly remained resolutely on opposite sides.
Though it was disappointing, Mary couldn’t find it in herself to mind that much. Of course she hated that Molly, who had seen so much of death and destruction and felt so much sadness and deserved to be happy, was kept pining after someone she might never have, but on the bright side the Arrangement gave her excuses to meet up with John. She and he grew… well, close is an oxymoron, isn’t it, for an angel and a demon, but she, at least, grew fond of him. Fonder. Than she’d been already.
And then none of that mattered because the end of the world was at hand, Armageddon rushing towards them like a freight train, and Mary had no choice but to suit up, gird her loins with evil, brace for the clash.
She never prays, for obvious reasons, but if she ever did she would have then, to be spared the pain of having to face John in battle. To look what she was in the face. To admit that she could never be with him, ever, in the way she wanted.
Wants. Because suddenly everything was topsy turvy and the end of the world was cancelled and everyone was defecting and who was she to go against the flow?
And now here they are. A lot of confusion and a few scuffles later, Sherlock and Molly are standing in the middle of St. James’ Park, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, and Mary and John are accidentally elbowing each other from their vantage point in the bushes.
Mary watches with bated breath as Molly flutters her eyelashes up at Sherlock.
“Honestly,” John mutters from beside her, “how could he ever think she didn’t feel the same way? He’s an idiot.”
“Shh!” hisses Mary, and John glares at her but he also shuts up.
They’re talking, now, in low, murmury voices that aren’t loud enough to eavesdrop on. Mary starts to use her infernal senses, but John stops her with a look.
“That’s cheating,” he says, looking disapproving.
“Snob,” says Mary, sticking out her tongue.
A few more words are exchanged, and then Molly is crying. Mary is seconds away from barging out of their hiding place and giving Sherlock a piece of her mind, but then he’s leaning down and giving Molly the tenderest, sweetest, most beautiful kiss Mary has ever seen and she decides not to.
“Lovely,” says John, and when she looks at him he’s grinning ear to ear. “About time they found some happiness.”
“Yeah,” says Mary, and John turns to look at her. She blushes hotly, suddenly aware of how much of her hidden longings she was unconsciously wearing on her face.
“You know,” says John, and she could be wrong but she thinks he’s blushing, too, “if you – if I – if we – ”
“Yeah,” says Mary, heart swelling. She’s dreamed of big speeches, of being swept off her feet (because if you’re going to give in and want things that make you a bad demon then why not go all the way?), but it turns out that John’s stammered ‘ifs’ tell her everything she wants to know.
“Really?” he says.
“Yeah,” she says again.
“Oh,” he says, and then they look at each other for a minute, and then they’re kissing, and Mary thinks, fuzzily, as she receives the best (and first) kiss of her life, that she is very glad that the world didn’t end.