Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A mid-June night

When they first met, she was twenty-one, studying Biology and madly in love with that dark-haired Adam, who as she would later learn had been cheating on her for months.

It was mid-June, a warm summer night that smelled like champagne, and Clara had just married Harry.

She was watching them both, so happy and carefree together, in their lovely dresses. Clara had the most beautiful blond locks that were floating around her as she danced. Mary remembers that she was a bit envious of them back then – she had just cut her hair short, which turned out to be a disaster.

Now, after all these years, she cannot recall much of that night – only the smell, the hair, and John Watson's face.

Although she was Clara's sister and he was Harry's brother, they had never met before. Harry did not even tried to hide the fact that they did not see eye to eye with one another, so both of them kept their distance. Mary had heard that John Watson was rather busy with his medical studies. Personally, though, she thought it was a convenient excuse not to spend too much time with his sister.

When they were finally introduced to each other, he smiled at Mary – not a polite, fake smile, but a genuine one, which lit up his face and made him look quite boyish. She did not find him handsome – at least not in the dark-haired Adam's way – but he was certainly interesting. Mary spent some time talking with him, soon deciding that he was also intelligent, and – although now she cannot be certain – might have danced with him once or twice.

After the wedding, she did not see him for weeks, until they unexpectedly bumped into each other at Clara and Harry's new flat. Mary only dropped by to return some borrowed books, and she quickly noticed that the reason for John's visit had a short sleek coat, and was named Gladstone.

'Harry was taking care of him while I was visiting our mum in Newcastle', John explained, smiling at the little bulldog. 'I've had him for years', he continued although she did not ask, 'and we've had some great adventures together, haven't we?', he looked at the dog fondly, as if reminiscing something from the past which only he could see. Mary thought that he must be that kind of person who smiles a lot.

She also thought that he would be that kind of person who likes dogs. Somehow, it suited him perfectly.

Then, she broke up with Adam, who was that sort of person who smirked instead of smiling. She had no reason to think about John Watson and his adorable dog.

The third time they met, it was Harry's thirtieth birthday. As always, Harry couldn't help but invite all her friends and family, insist on The Beatles songs and provide insane amounts of drinks. Predictably enough, she was as loud and overwhelming as ever. Clara didn't mind.

Mary did. She was tired, having spent the previous night studying while recovering from the flu, and all she dreamed of was a good night's sleep. She escaped to the kitchen, which fortunately was a bit quieter, and wished she could just disappear completely for a moment or two.

'Mary', she suddenly heard, what are you doing here alone?'

It was John Watson. Smiling, of course. Again.

Now, after all these years, she cannot remember what they were talking about. But she is sure that was the night which has started something new.

Something new consisted of quite frequent, though irregular, visits in various cafes, where Mary would have plenty of opportunities to notice that John Watson's smile was not plain at all, and even his hideous jumpers could not hide the fact that he was quite an attractive man.

And yet, she was painfully aware that John Watson had a lovely girlfriend named Karen. To him, Mary was only Clara's little sister, cute and great to talk to, but also – although, to be fair, he probably never realised that – ideal to break the heart of.

Now, after all these years, Mary can admit that he almost succeeded in it.

And then, a year later, when she finally learnt how to get used to the idea that she could not always have the guy she wanted, John Watson told her that he had just enrolled into army.

She knew she must have cried.

He asked her to take care of Gladstone. She knew she must have promised she would.

And soon, just like that, he was off and Gladstone had sad eyes, and Mary could see every time she looked into the mirror that her eyes were morose as well.

Now, after all these years, Mary cannot believe how young they all were. The past drifts slowly in sparkling, smooth pictures, sometimes sorrowful, sometimes sunny; Gladstone's death, Mary's yet another break-up, graduating, starting her job, and soon she realises that she is here, not in her memories, not reminiscing. It is today.

Now, Mary Morstan is sitting in a small dimly lit Italian restaurant, eating the best spaghetti in her life and talking with her fiancé Tom. He is that sort of person who smiles a lot and is fond of dogs. However, neither of Tom's terriers is named Gladstone.

Mary can see in the corner of her eye that there is a man in a hideous jumper enjoying his meal peacefully and talking to his pale, dark-haired, impeccably dressed companion, who for some reason has not ordered anything.

For a second, Mary wants to walk up to that table and say hello. Then, she glances at the man in the suit: he observes John Watson intently, as if her old friend was the most important person the man has ever met. And he murmurs something quietly, with a smug smirk. To her utter utmost surprise, Mary finds that she does not mind this facial expression – not here. Not now. John looks as if he wanted to laugh at something that is not entirely appropriate, his face open, relaxed and almost as young as it was that night in mid-June, years and thoughts ago.

The moment Mary blinks, the urge to interrupt them fades. She smiles at Tom lazily, both of them calm and content, and she decides to leave John and his date alone.

She can see he is happy.

Mary Morstan is happy too and suddenly she realises that this is true.

It is a mid-June night.