"I'm going out. I'll see you later," he called to Sherlock as he snatched up his phone and wallet from the coffee table. Sherlock appeared in the kitchen door.

"Going out with what's-her-name?" he intoned.

John snorted sarcastically. "Yeah, what's-her-name. The one you spent two weeks with solving the murder of her father. The one I've been dating ever since."

"The same woman for weeks on end," Sherlock mused acerbically. "A record for you, isn't it? And not even a kiss to show for your investment of time."

John rolled his eyes. He really did not want to know how his friend had deduced this. "Three weeks. And I like to let the lady set the pace in a relationship, for your information. It's called being a gentleman."

"Hmm. From all the evidence I've seen, the obvious emotional and probable physical abuse she suffered in her childhood has rendered her incapable of any sort of intimacy. Good luck, John." Sherlock returned to the kitchen, leaving John staring after him in disbelief.

"You see why I don't bring her over here, don't you?" he observed, a bit sharply. "That's the sort of deductive reasoning that you really need to keep to yourself, Sherlock."

This brought Sherlock back into the sitting room, something akin to concern on his face. "You're serious about this one," he observed wonderingly. "I've never seen you serious before. This is new." He studied his flatmate as if he were one of his specimens in a petri dish. "This one could really break your heart, couldn't she? She matters to you."

John nodded. "Yeah. She matters. She . . . could," he admitted softly. "I really think she could."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Where are you taking her, then?" he inquired at last.

"Just to the cinema."

"Dull," Sherlock declared sternly.

John sighed. "I know. After rushing about with you for forty-eight hours with almost no sleep, it's all I have the energy for tonight. But, I just have to see her. I can't wait until tomorrow," he confessed.

"Well, try to stay awake," Sherlock advised. "From what I understand, falling asleep on a date is considered bad form and will be frowned upon."

This made John chuckle. This was as much approbation as he could expect from his friend. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," he grinned. "See you later."

Walking to the tube station, John mused on Sherlock's deductions. John himself had early on come to the same conclusions about Mary. He was a doctor, after all, and all the signs were there: a complete lack of lasting or meaningful relationships; a tendency to hold the world at arm's length; a reluctance to talk about the past; an aversion to shallow relationships. These facts were inconsistent with her warm and friendly nature and her open honesty in every other area of her life. They were becoming good friends, and he hoped—he longed—to become more.

John Watson had always enjoyed the company of women, and he had never had any problem getting dates. For whatever reasons (and he was not vain enough to speculate what those reasons might be), women seemed to fall for him quite easily—initially. Maintaining a relationship for any period of time had always been the problem, and John had grown accustomed to being eventually dumped, usually in a messy, humiliating way. In Uni, it was his single-mindedness towards his studies and his throwing himself into sport that annoyed women—they tended to feel neglected. After he joined the army, he was constantly moved about and always on call—women who were initially attracted to him as a romantic figure in uniform soon resented his busy and dangerous lifestyle. And since he'd come to be Sherlock Holmes' flatmate, the chaos that was his life was further complicated by being the equivalent of a single father raising a petulant and demanding three-year-old. The only constant in his life was uncertainty, and he'd never yet found a woman willing to put up with it for very long. Ugly break-ups became an inevitable part of his life; one he hated and dreaded, but had come to expect as a given and as the price for being himself.

Still, he had to admit to himself that, had he found someone he really wanted, he might have made more of an effort and might have made a go of a meaningful relationship. The truth was, he had never before found anyone more exciting and attractive to him than his job was. But Mary . . . . Yes, Sherlock had deduced him correctly. Mary was different. For Mary, he would even be willing to give up The Work and settle down for a normal life, if that would be the price he had to pay to be with her. Mary mattered. This one could, indeed, break his heart.

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The evening had gone much better than he could have expected, given his exhaustion from the case and lack of sleep. They had held hands during the film, and he had been surprised at how intimate it had been. The warmth from her hand had permeated his entire being, infusing him with energy and joy he could never have anticipated.

And then, at the café afterwards, they had talked and laughed with perfect accord. She had kissed his bruised knuckles, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and had not been dismayed by this evidence of his dangerous life. She could not have been more perfect for him. She had no resentment about being abandoned two evenings earlier as he rushed off to The Work. Instead, she seemed fascinated by the chaos. He had been impressed by her during her own case, as she rushed about with him and Sherlock and never turned a hair when violence ensued. She had seemed amused by Sherlock's insults and tactlessness and was endlessly patient. And she was clever—even Sherlock commented on how unusually clever she was. She was kind; she had a lively sense of humour. She was beautiful and young and full of life. She was . . . .

. . . too good for him. This was bound to end badly. He had never been able to keep a girl happy. His energy began to flag as the past two days caught up with him. He was weary to the bone. And yet, he could not bear to say good-night, and so he suggested a stroll across Westminster Bridge. And now he sat in the taxi as they headed that way and mused on his fate and wondered how long he might have with this wonderful woman before she came to her senses and left him.

They walked across the bridge hand in hand, admiring the magnificent view. And then she said it.

"John, may I be frank?"

In John's experience, there were two kinds of break-ups. Most of them were the messy, ugly kind involving angry words, accusations, sometimes shouting, sometimes tears. But some of them were calm and reasonable and usually began with "May I be honest with you?" What would it be? "Let's just be friends"? "I like you, but I can't deal with your life"? Or, "I'm sorry, but I've found you're just not my type"?

He stopped and leaned against the railing, facing her but not looking at her. Subconsciously, he stood straighter and kept his eyes ahead, dealing stoically with adversity like the soldier he was. "Of course," he told her, his voice steady and kind.

"You know I have difficulty making friends," she began. "That's why it's so amazing to me that we've become such good friends so quickly. I think you're really the best friend I've ever had."

Ah, so it was to be the "friends" one. Inwardly, John groaned. Could he bear to just be friends with Mary; to be close to her and know they would never be more than friends? But wouldn't that be better than losing her altogether?

"I want you to know how much I value our relationship," Mary continued, driving the stake deeper into his heart.

"Um, so do I," he ventured, eyes still on the horizon. "Very much."

"But at the risk of losing something that has become very precious to me," Mary went on and grasped his coat lapels in her hands firmly. "I'd like to say I wish you'd stop dawdling and kiss me already."

"Stop . . . what?" His mind stuttered as her words threw a lifeline to his heart which he'd just confined to the pit of despair. He now dared to turn his gaze to her face, and he saw there the twin to his terror of being rejected. And yet, she was so much more courageous than he, freely offering her heart to him to do with as he wished—whether to abuse and discard it, or cherish it.

"I said," she repeated, her nervous look replaced by a mischievous twinkle, "I wish you'd stop dawdling and kiss me already." Now she was reading him like a primary school textbook, and he discovered he not only didn't mind it a bit, he found it oddly comforting. He grinned, and her dimples deepened enchantingly.

"Well, if you insist," he said lightly, in utter awe of the gift he'd just been given. And then he wrapped her in his grateful arms and kissed her, and thankfully, stopped thinking for a while.