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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
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Chapter 12

Mary felt the stab of guilt while she got ready to leave, despite the sense of betrayal she still harboured. A nasty part of her mind tried to convince her that she should have seen this coming, should have noticed clues, much like Sherlock did in looking over a crime. But she had no idea John and Sherlock had even been in a relationship in the past.

She was a little thankful that they needed to restock on groceries. It hurt a little too much to stay in the lodge at the moment, and going out for a couple of hours might be a fitting distraction. With a rueful sigh, she surmised that she must have still loved John for it to still hurt like it did.

What was going to happen between her and John? Should she make the effort to forgive him? Should she move on and try to enjoy the rest of the vacation as best as possible?

Rubbing at her eyes and grabbing her purse and the keys to the rental car, she exited the bedroom and noted that John and Sherlock had already left to further investigate. Partly she was a little relieved that she did not have to tell them goodbye in an already uncomfortable environment, and she left the lodge, started the car, and drove out of the parking lot.

It hurt how easily John had chosen Sherlock's company over hers even this very morning. Was that abrasive, ill-balanced lunatic really that much more interesting than she, Mary wondered, that John would rather run himself sweaty through a dense forest riddled with mosquitoes instead of spending a quiet, peaceful, relaxing day with her at the poolside?

The cruel little voice from earlier returned, suggesting that looking for clues was not all the detective and the good doctor were up to in the woods. Mary had a sudden and most unwanted mental image of Sherlock deep-throating John against a massive tree and almost swerved into a ditch.

She slapped the steering wheel in response to her inattention and, with considerable effort, pushed the image out of her mind. John had been genuinely sorry for breaking her trust and would not do it again. Or so she wanted to believe.

Why did she agree to go on a trip to this godforsaken place with him? Mary suddenly wondered if she ought to curse the day she met John Hamish Watson, as her life had turned exceedingly complicated ever since they began dating, and not in a good way. In retrospect, she realized she most likely would have turned down the doctor's advances had she known about the tall, alabaster-skinned consulting detective he called his flatmate.

A life with John Watson that did not include Sherlock Holmes was unlikely to become reality. Mary suspected that if pressed, John would choose Sherlock over her any day. Who was she trying to fool, thinking anything but the obvious? What did she have to offer? She was just Mary Morstan, a boring and mousy graphic designer. Certainly not mysteries and adventure. Or a penis.

She briefly considered dropping everything and heading for the nearest airport to purchase a one-way ticket back home. She had everything of importance in her purse; passport, phone, credit card and enough cash to get by. Never mind that most of her luggage was left at the cabin, or that she was wearing a sleeveless top and denim shorts.

She sighed, utterly torn. She had no idea where to turn. And within seconds, focusing as much as possible on the road, she felt the same way quite literally.

The paved road was little else but winding twists and turns, and even craning her neck to look ahead at where the curves would lead was nearly impossible, as the grounds were thick with trees. Added to the problem were the forks in the road that seemed at first to be the right path, but simply rendered her more lost than before. She crept along, figuring that she had to reach an end in this marginalized, cramped place, and that at least she might be able to turn around or find someone to ask directions from.

She should have taken a map, as suggested. In her lack of focus, she had at some point in the drive taken a wrong turn.

Mary drove for several minutes, delving ever deeper into woods and finding no other separate paths, and she was worried. Suddenly being lost in somewhere like Sussex seemed like a breeze compared to this. Presently the pavement had come to an end and she was now driving on dirt. Coming to a complete stop, she considered making a three-point-turn in the middle of the road, but the thought of someone familiar with the path coincidentally careening through at that very moment made her nervous. Even now, remaining immobile was a potential hazard, and going back in reverse would be worse.

"I can't fucking believe this..." she muttered to herself, not yet ready to face the very real possibility of being lost. Thus anger was a way to shield her from the fear which was sure to set in once the severity of the situation had made itself known.

Why had she agreed to make this stupid trip to the dollar store in the first place? Because Sherlock Holmes was too high and mighty to get his own groceries? And because John Watson - who was supposed to be her boyfriend, goddamn it - was too busy worshipping the ground he walked on?

Mary felt a sudden tightening in her throat and before she even knew it, she was fighting back tears. She knew that driving in her current condition was not a safe option and hazarded a stop by the roadside, as far out on the shoulder as possible, just in case.

She tried to remember the turns she had taken and felt her frustration increase when realizing that she couldn't. Left, right, right again, left... It was practically hopeless. She did not have Sherlock Holmes' photographic - no, eidetic - memory to help her along.

Could it really be true that she was lost in the forests of West Virginia? She fished her phone out of her purse just to be sure, but it was as bad as she had expected. Probably one could not get a decent signal for miles and miles around these areas.

Mary felt the first sting of actual fear. How long would it be before she could flag down someone to ask for directions? Would that person even be able to help her? Would they be willing to?

Nearly as soon as she wondered what to do, she just so happened to look to her left and caught a hint through the trees of a distant yet bold red. She squinted, desperate to confirm her suspicion.

A stop sign. Her heart leapt. The sign was very small, but she could see it nonetheless, and a sign meant higher traffic. Opening the driver's side door, she lifted herself above the hood and tried to make out the location of the street beyond such dense vegetation. If she was seeing correctly, she would have to turn around and regularly stop to keep her bearings of the sign itself. But her hope had been reignited.

She began to descend instantly back into her seat, but she paused when she heard a noise. Looking at her surroundings, a little twinge of fear returned. She did not hear the sound perfectly, but she could have sworn it was a footstep, and not from a deer or a fox. For a moment she almost called out a hello, but she had been properly spooked. After all, John and Sherlock were investigating a disappearance, which very well could have been an abduction.

Giving the stop sign one more quick glance, she sat down, closed the door, and turned the rental car around, driving the opposite way.

Attempting to keep the traffic sign in sight made the drive go slowly, but Mary was determined to stay patient. Distracting herself from the task at hand had gotten her into this problem after all. When she came to a fork in the road, she had to lift herself above the vehicle once more, which made her nervous, thinking back to the possible footstep earlier. The left turn appeared to take her away from the stop sign, but the right turn was once again dirt.

She had once read that people choosing directions on random - like those who were lost in the woods - most often went in the direction of their dominant hand. Mary was right-handed, but something within her urged her to choose left; a feeling she could not describe but the closest she could think of was like a needle pressed to the end of her spine. The rational part of her brain baulked at the supposed 'hunch'. Her so-called female intuition, raised to such heights by many women, had caused her to make some truly catastrophic choices in the past. Like when it told her John Watson would be a catch.

In the end, she chose to take the right turn, not intimidated by the lack of pavement, as she had been driving on dirt roads for a good while now. She assumed it was more of a standard in these backwater communities.

Mary drove on for a while, clinging to the vain hope that the next turn would take her onto a bigger road, hopefully with more traffic and perhaps even road signs that would direct her back to Avalon. Though she would never confess it publically, she was dying to see a familiar face, even Sherlock's at this point.

The dirt road was beginning to get muddy, a peculiar thing since it had not rained for several days. However, looking past the trees again, Mary noted that the sign seemed even closer now, and it inspired her to drive onward.

How on earth was the ground so muddy? she wondered, completely baffled. As she continued to drive, the road just grew worse and worse. Where was the water coming from which had made all this mud? Certainly the weather was rather humid, but not to the point of having to drive through dirt the consistency of jam.

While navigating the mud, Mary tried to keep an eye out for the sign. And by the time she realized what the car was approaching, the tires were sinking. She felt the downward lurch and though a crash did not follow, the vehicle still came to a full stop.

Now the panic had returned. Mary pressed the accelerator down, but the car remained still as a stone and the tires spun in the mud without traction.

"Fucking shit..." she cursed, hitting the steering wheel. "SHIT." Mary slumped in the seat, her breath slow as she tried to calm herself.

No way we'll be getting the deposit back on the rental, she thought. Were the circumstances different, she might have laughed.

Opening the door, she inspected the situation in disbelief. A creek traveled parallel to the road, but had also forked across it, thus creating the mud. Mary frowned when she noticed what looked to be a small, improvised dam at the other side of the road.

She started at it for a long moment, wondering if it was truly man-made and not something which - no doubt exceedingly rare - could have formed naturally, or by the intervention of wildlife, such as beavers. After a more thorough analysis, she deemed it unlikely. The height of the construction was far too great to have been done by a beaver, or even several.

But why? It made no sense at all... Unless, of course, the purpose of the dam was to stop the outflow of water from the road and favor the creation of mud. Which in turn would trap vehicles.

Mary's anger grew as she considered the possibility. Was this the 'southern hospitality' - or considerable lack of it - these areas were famous for?

"Fucking rednecks..." she muttered, pressing down once more on the gas pedal only to get the same disappointing results. She realized she would likely burn the engine by trying and instead turned it off, half-expecting to see smoke billow from under the hood.

What was she supposed to do now? Leave the car and walk? At least it offered a modicum of shade and protection from the elements. The sun was relentlessly and mercilessly baking the landscape with afternoon heat. If she couldn't find help, she might get even more lost and possibly die from heatstroke, like Sherlock had been close to doing the previous day.

With trembling hands, Mary reached for the capped water bottle in her purse, suddenly wondering if she ought to ration it. Keeping her breathing slow and her eyes shut, she unscrewed the lid, took a careful gulp, and fumbled with the cap as she tried to close the bottle. She could not stay hidden in the car all day, but the prospect of wandering in the woods all alone still frightened her. Mary took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and opened the door... And froze as she saw the movement of sunlight on metal not twenty yards away.

She wanted to excuse the fleeting sight as a figment of her imagination, of wet leaves being moved by a gust of wind... except the air was dead still.

Trembling hands gripping the door frame until they were white, Mary hardly gave another thought before the flash of metal hurtled towards her. The arrow whistled past her ear and lodged itself deep into the dashboard, and Mary fought every instinct to bolt out of the rental car and run. She had no bearings here and whomever was attacking her would quickly run her down and find her. And kill her. Likely amongst several other things.

Mary slammed the door shut, locked herself in, and hoped desperately that steel and glass would be enough between her and her attacker whilst she tried to get this damned vehicle to move, god damn it, move!

The car, however, refused to cooperate. The wheels spun helplessly in the mud, failing to obtain leverage. Part of Mary realized that her panicked attempts to get the car moving were detrimental rather than helpful, but another part refused to admit defeat. Doing nothing equaled giving up, and there was no way she was going to do that. She would fight, tooth and nail, to the last breath to stay alive.

Another arrow was fired toward her, this time shattering the driver side window and embedding itself in the headrest of her seat. The pane of glass practically exploded, showering the woman's hair and features with tiny shards. Mary screamed, even though she could not feel any pain at the moment. Her adrenaline-fuelled body did not allow it; her two choices consisted of fight or flight, and thus far, she was set on flight.

Crouching down behind the steering wheel to make herself as small as possible to avoid being hit by an arrow, a bullet, or any other projectile that her attacker might feel like hurling in her direction, Mary considered abandoning the car to seek refuge amongst the foliage. In here she was an easy target; too easy. She would put herself at risk when crossing the road (she now thanked the fates for the narrowness of it), but if she managed to launch herself into the thicket, her chances of survival would increase by far.

She cowered at the floor by the pedals for another few seconds, which seemed to stretch on forever in her fear-riddled mind. She even asked herself the - mostly rhetorical - question: what would Sherlock Holmes have done? Rhetorical because she was not Sherlock Holmes.

Mary was trying to collect enough courage the fling the car door open and make her spurt.

"You can do it, you can do it, you can do it, you can do it...."

She kept chanting the words to herself, as if uttering them enough times would make them true.

Her decision was taken from her when something massive landed on the roof of the car, heavy enough to make a dent in the steel. A scream lodged deep in Mary's throat finally broke free, and she surrendered fully to panic.

A shrill cackle that nearly did not sound human followed from above. Whatever had landed on the roof was now laughing at her predicament, at her scream of terror.

The unseen figure jumped once in excitement on the roof, and with a horrible crash, it slammed its weapon against the windshield, sending a spider web of cracks into the glass. Shielding her face instinctively behind her hands, she doubted she would be able to break loose from the car and reach the woods in time. Whatever the thing from above was wielding, it would likely stop her. Already she could imagine her skull cracking the same way the windshield had.

Instead of continuing with the windshield, the cackling thing jumped down from the roof and took a swing at the front passenger window, shattering it and peering inside. Mary was in disbelief that a human being could look so horrible. Giggling and grinning with more gums than teeth, it reached through the broken window for the lock.

Mary backed up against the further end of the cramped space, bending her legs. Perhaps if she timed her defense well enough, she could kick the evil bastard when the door was finally forced open.

The hand fiddling with the lock, she realized, only had three fingers, and the skin was scarred and blemished, practically knotted in places, the fingernails scraggly and long, claw-like. The creature was human, but just barely. It made another maniacal, high-pitched cackling sound as it finally managed to unlock the door and reached to open it.

Mary kicked at the wretched creature and caught him clean in the face. Her only regret was the fact that she was wearing Converse sneakers rather than stiletto heels, but she was nonetheless proud of the force behind the kick. Her attacker staggered back for a moment, clearly surprised by her ferociousness, but he did not howl or cry out, as one might expect from a fellow who had just received a vicious kick to the head. A trail of blood leaked from his aquiline nose, staining the few misshaped teeth he had left, but he quickly returned, wearing an expression on his scarred, deformed face which suggested he did not simply want to kill her, or rape her, but literally gnaw the flesh off her bones. He was actually salivating.

Mary threw herself at the driver side window, hell bent on getting out before this monster could get a hold of her. She was blind to everything else, uncaring that she cut open the skin of her forearms against the shards left by the broken window, or that she was likely to be intercepted by him as soon as she had gotten to her feet. All that mattered now was to get out of his reach. The car was a fortress she had to abandon. The siege was over.

Mary lashed out a second time when she felt his hand wrap around her ankle. The uncomfortable angle greatly reduced the strength in her legs, but fuelled by panic, she was still able to dislodge him. Feeling like a trapped caterpillar, Mary slid out of the car, landing heavily on her back. The fall caused further abrasions, but she had no time to concern herself over those. What drew her full attention were the boots which seemed to fill her entire range of vision. They were indeed the biggest boots she had ever seen.

Looking up, she barely made out the hulking, enormous mass that was the giggling lunatic's companion before it knelt towards her and drove a massive fist into her face. She knew nothing then.

TBC...
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- 13
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The Prey