A/N: I'm considering writing the scene John describes here... we'll see. Anyway, this is just a short thing about John and Mary (John's wife, from the books) after Sherlock comes back. Kind of implied Johnlock-ish.

Dr. John Watson stumbled to the door of his flat. He had to try the key a few times before he could make it fit and twist the way it was supposed to. The door flew open and he stepped inside in a daze. It took more patience to get his key back out of the lock and close the door without slamming it. He made it to the living room, where his wife sat by the fire reading a book. Then he stopped.

She looked up at him and smiled, but that was quickly replaced by a look of concern. She set her book to the side and stood up.

"John?"

He reached out to her and she immediately landed in his arms. He squeezed her, probably a bit too hard, and finally broke down.

She didn't say anything. She just held him while he cried, gently smoothing back his hair. They had been married six months and while it wasn't common, it also wasn't unheard of for John to cry in her arms for reasons she didn't know yet. So she had quickly learned to accept it. She squeezed him back, waiting patiently for him to collect himself.

He finally did, after two minutes without speaking. He straightened up, wiped his face, and sat on the sofa. She sat next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"What's going on?" she asked softly. He hated the sadness, the resignation in her voice – why did he have to be so broken?

"It's... Sherlock bloody Holmes," he spat out furiously.

Mary didn't flinch. "What's he done now?" she asked. She wasn't surprised – nothing could get that kind of reaction from John except his old friend Holmes. Every now and then, something would remind him of Sherlock too much, make that hole in his heart ache anew. Occasionally, over the three years since Sherlock's death, John would learn something that Sherlock had done that would make him angry or sad, always hurt.

John wouldn't look at her. He stared away from her, into the fire that cracked merrily in the fireplace. Finally, he forced himself to say it:

"He's alive." It came out breathy and low and his voice cracked.

"Sorry?" she asked, sure she had misheard.

"He's alive," he repeated, clearer this time. "He's alive, he's alive, he is alive..." He seemed unable to stop saying it, so she touched his face and turned him to look at her. Tears were falling and as soon as his eyes met hers, he closed them and scrunched up his face, trying to stop crying. She pushed his face against her shoulder and rubbed his back – she wanted to comfort him but she was horrified. Alive? Her heart was pounding and she glanced quickly around the room as though expecting to see Sherlock Holmes standing in a corner, watching them.

"How – how can he be alive?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

"I don't know," he said and he took a very shaky breath. "I got a message today, asking me to go to my old flat at Baker Street."

"You didn't go alone?"

"No, Lestrade went with me. He waited downstairs in case it was some kind of attack. He was there. Sherlock. He was in the flat when I got there."

Mary closed her eyes, willing her own tears not to fall. "What did you do?"

John hesitated. "I beat the hell out of him."

Mary started and had to catch herself from letting out a horrified laugh. "You hit him?"

"Lestrade heard us and ran upstairs, had to pull me off him." John leaned back against the sofa, breathing deeply. He took Mary's hand. "Three years," he whispered, finally looking into her eyes. "It's been three years I've grieved for that man. I've missed him, I've cried over him countless times. I've been through hell because I thought he was dead, and now here he is, after three years, and he comes back into my life like it's nothing. I was just starting to get better. I have you now, we're happy, I have a job that isn't trying to destroy me, we have a nice flat, I'm not in therapy anymore, I'm moving on, and it turns out he was never dead at all."

Before she could say anything to that, his mobile phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it.

"It's Lestrade," he said bitterly. "He's called a hundred times, I'm not answering."

Mary took the phone from him gently and stood up. She answered. "Greg?"

Lestrade let out a heavy breath. "Mary, thank god, is John there?"

"Yes."

"I've been worried sick. I was just going to try your number if he didn't answer this time." He paused for a beat. "He told you what happened?"

"Yes, he did."

"Is he okay? I mean, considering."

She looked at him, slouching on the sofa, all of a broken soul. "Yes. Considering."

"Look, I'm not trying to rush him, but please tell him to call me sometime. I do know what he's going through and I think it'd help us both if we could talk about it together."

"I will."

"Thank you, Mary. I'm sorry he's having to go through this, and you too."

"So am I. Thanks for calling, Greg." They said good-byes and rung off. She put the phone in her own pocket and sat down again.

"What'd he say?"

"He wanted to know if you were alright and he wants you to call him when you're ready. He thinks it would be good for you two to talk about this, since he understands what –"

John snorted. "He understands? D'you know what he did when he saw Sherlock? He hugged him. I beat the hell out of him, Lestrade picked him up from the floor and hugged him."

She put her hand on John's arm. "The reactions were different, but you know he's hurting from this too. He has to be. He's grieved too. Sherlock left him too." John looked angrily at the floor but Mary knew the anger wasn't directed at her. She leaned against him and wrapped both arms around his shoulders. He relaxed into her embrace. "Did he say – anything? About how he faked his death? Or why?"

John took a deep breath and snaked an arm around her waist. He nuzzled his face against her neck. She was warm and comforting and being so close to her helped melt away the bitterness he felt. His mind felt a little fuzzy still and it took a few seconds of thinking before he could remember the answer to her question.

"I was going to die," he said. "Moriarty was going to kill me – and Lestrade – and Mrs. Hudson, our old landlady – unless Sherlock died. I dunno, something like that."

"So... he was protecting you," she said softly. John was silent at that.

Mary settled back and stroked his hair, preparing to embrace as long as John wanted. It was almost twenty minutes before John spoke again – Mary had been about to drift off into sleep.

"I don't know what to do, Mary," he said. She forced her eyes open, tiredly. "He said he would understand if I didn't want to see him again, he'd leave me alone forever. I know, I get it, that he was given an impossible choice and I shouldn't blame him for it. And he's probably not been exactly happy the past three years. But I don't... I don't think I can even look at him again... without hurting. It hurt so badly to see him today. Would it kill me a little bit inside, every time I saw him?"

"Would it kill you a little bit inside, every day you knew he was alive and you didn't see him?" She kissed his forehead. "There's no easy answer, love. It comes down to... which way would help you heal?"

"I just don't know. I don't know. I don't want – to go backwards. But everything's so different now."

"Of course it is," she said gently. "You've changed. Your situation has changed. When you met, you were both bachelors who needed a place to live."

"Technically, he was married to his work."

Mary smiled. Joking was certainly progress. "Well, now you're married too. And you don't need a flatmate. Maybe you could try a more normal relationship? One that isn't as all-encompassing and draining as the one you used to have. You could just be – friends."

"I don't know if that's possible," John muttered.

"You can think on it. It isn't like he needs an answer tomorrow."

John sat up and looked at her. His eyes had a scary defeated look in them. They stared at each other for a few seconds before he said, "I loved him."

Mary felt a chill go down her back. It was something she had known since the first day they met, though what kind of love it was she had never been truly able to pin down. She slowly nodded.

"I know," she said. She took a deep breath and touched his face. "I want nothing more than your happiness, John. It hurts me to see you sad, and I know that you have been depressed every day without him." She kissed him and watched as his eyes fluttered shut. She savored every movement of his lips and felt tears well up in her eyes. She pulled away slightly. "I want you to do what's best for you," she said, her voice cracking. "No matter what kind of relationship that means you'll have with him, and... no matter where that leaves me. I never want to hold you back. Whatever you decide, I will support you."

He scrunched up his face again, fighting back tears. He shook his head. "You don't deserve this," he whispered. She pulled him close and they both cried.