It had been months since John met Mary, and weeks since Sherlock had returned from his long, three year absence. It was beginning to be an internal struggle between her beauty and grace against his, and it was beginning to take it's toll on Doctor Watson. He had become instantly enamoured by Mary's wit and feminine charm, but he had been harbouring unrequited love for the detective since they had met. They were equally full of grace and wit and striking beauty. He was starting a life with Mary, a normal life without gunshots and drug smuggling rings and kidnappings. A life he had forced himself to want, a life he made himself need. It was a boring life, once he thought about it, a life full of morning routines and a steady job and dinner at precisely 6 every sexless night. It was only Sherlock that complimented him so beautifully and so effortlessly with such burning perfection and only Sherlock who roused such a deep and burning passion inside of him. It was time to ditch the normalcy he worked so hard for, and it was time to return to Baker Street and return to the action he so often craved.