Ch. 1 After Goodbye

The plane landed with a gentle easy thud, a testament to the pilot's competence and experience. Sherlock was already out of his seat and walking down the aisle towards the closed door, ignoring the tightly pressed lips of the stewardess. Then it was down the short airstair and back to John. He stood unsmiling with his hand in Mary's. She was triumphant in her red jacket. It covered and hid the swell of her belly. That bump was a quiet and poignant statement of possession. John belonged to her, it said. Her eyes said the same even as they looked at him fondly.

"Well," Sherlock said. Silence followed, stretched, becoming awkward. John took a deep breath and let it out all at once.

"He's back, you're back. What now?" John asked. Loose jaw, eyes bright, hands relaxed, back: soldier straight. The most dangerous criminal they had ever known had returned from his grave and John was excited about it. Sherlock smirked.

"I don't know. I don't like not knowing. I need to get back to London," Sherlock said, glancing at Mycroft. A black car pulled up behind them. Sherlock paused, his gaze on John's still face.

"I could use your help, John."

"Of course!" Mary smiled. His eyes still held onto John's as he waited for his answer. John was doing his best to shield his feelings with a mask of indifference. Emotions could be tricky to read. Not really his area. His eyes traced over the lines of John's face. There could be anger there but all at once he was unsure. John finally gave him a tight smile followed by a smart military turn, leading Mary back to the other waiting car.

The ride to London was quiet. Mycroft alternated between crossing his legs, looking out the window, and giving Sherlock sly glances.

"What?" Sherlock finally snapped.

Mycroft shrugged delicately, looking at the ceiling. His fingers drummed on the seat beside him.

"Magnussen," Sherlock said.

"Oh, most certainly working for Moriarty."

"And if we stop him?"

"Then you'll have the support of a thankful nation. That should be enough to justify a pardon. Others have been forgiven for far worse."

There was a long pause until Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

"What now?"

Mycroft inhaled through his nose and pursed his lips.

"I thought it was obvious."

"Either tell me or shut up. I'm trying to think," Sherlock replied.

"Did you notice Mary's shoes?" Mycroft asked.

"Black leather, most likely an old pair of nursing shoes, laces double knotted. She's pregnant, Mycroft. They're comfortable."

"I would expect you of all people would see past that."

Sherlock put his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. The tarmac was there, far away against a backdrop of blue sky. Then suddenly he was standing by the plane, his surroundings as clear as a photograph. Everyone was frozen in their places. John's hand was in his. To the best of times, John, his own voice echoed in his head. He walked around himself in a slow circle, trying to examine his expression, but his face looked out of focus. The closer he peered, the worse it got.

Sherlock waved one hand and the scene began to move backwards in time. He played it forward again, watching John carefully as he walked over to speak with Sherlock one last time. John had pulled tightly into himself, holding every emotion carefully in check, every inch the solider.

John's eyes gave him away. In them Sherlock saw an echo of the loss he'd felt at that moment. The realization made his heart clench in his chest. John had known that Sherlock was going on a suicide mission, that he would probably never see him again. It was evident in the way he turned to look away as he asked how long Sherlock would be gone. John didn't want to say goodbye for the last time - not again. He couldn't.

… there's something I should say…

Sherlock tore himself away and walked towards Mary where she watched them both with her hands in her pockets. The moment was frozen once again so he could study her. His eyes took in her hair; the breeze had lifted it up and would set it down again if the seconds moved forwards. She'd had it cut recently. Her makeup was light, her usual colors and technique. A scarf draped around her neck over the red jacket she favored. Over the left pocket, like it was covering her heart, a brooch was pinned.

Then there were the shoes. Black - recently polished to hide the scratch marks at the heels from where she had toed them off again and again without undoing the laces. Her other shoes she never bothered to buff so why these? Mary was as careful about this detail as she had been about taking on her new identity. She took secrecy to the point of paranoia. Those shoes looked familiar.

Then the scene shifted, the world tilting crazily to one side as he and Mary moved to Magnussen's office. Mary dressed all in black, from the beanie covering her hair to the black shoes on her feet - the same shoes she wore on the tarmac. His mind sifted through the times he and Mary were together, juggling the information, searching for connections and looping mental threads of string between them.

The first time he'd met Mary there had been one deduction he should have taken more seriously.

Liar.

He'd missed the importance and scope of that particular observation. He ran through the list of deductions he'd made that night, careful to dismiss only the trivial data until only a single anomaly remained.

Guardian.

It could mean she worked for the Guardian. Sherlock dismissed the conclusion as unlikely. And really after that it could only mean it was tied to her past, her ability with a gun and her other more questionable skills. Not guardian then, but bodyguard. Add to that the fact that Magnussen had somehow found out about Mary's past and that he most likely was under the direction of Moriarty. There was only one conclusion. Mary had been Moriarty's personal bodyguard.

"Hmn, bit not good," Sherlock said, opening his eyes.

"Precisely," Mycroft said.

He didn't ask how Mycroft had arrived at that same conclusion with his limited knowledge of Mary. Instead he folded his arms and sulked in one corner until the car rolled to a stop directly outside of 221b. Mycroft held his umbrella over Sherlock's chest when he went to open the door, waiting until he had Sherlock's attention to lower it again.

"There might be more to this than either one of us can say. Best to wait and see what unfolds. I'll be in touch later this evening. Try and be… discreet until then."

Sherlock grabbed his small bag and violin case from the trunk of the car. He reached out with one hand to open the door to the flat, surprised at finding a small bit of comfort in the familiar door with its gold lettering and knocker and chipping paint. He pushed open the door with his fingertips.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called as he entered. His bag was already forgotten on the threshold. The violin case he held close to his chest like a child.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so glad you've changed your mind about leaving! Don't mind me dear," she said, waving him away as she dabbed her eyes with a pink handkerchief. "I've brought up tea and biscuits. John said you'd be wanting some. He seems a bit off. Best not to stir him up," she ended in a whisper.

Sherlock hurried up the seventeen stairs, his thoughts shifting from Moriarty to Mary to John. So much was uncertain, leaving endless possibilities that made his head ache with their weight. The chances of them all making it through this unscathed were minimal.

John stood at the window between the drawn curtains, gazing down into the street. His hands were behind his back and his expression was closed. Sherlock couldn't read anything beyond the obvious – Mary had insisted he get dropped here (good girl), John was thinking of growing his moustache again (laughable), he had taken this week off at the clinic… and John was angry.

"John. Good."

Sherlock set down the violin case next to his chair. When he stood again John had moved to the kitchen. There was the sound of metal on porcelain as John prepared his tea. Sherlock moved slowly to the kitchen, his heart beating more quickly in his chest. John was pointedly not looking in his direction.

"I didn't know how to tell you the truth."

The tea cup jangled down onto the saucer and they clinked together like bells. John jabbed one finger into Sherlock's chest.

"You lied to me again, Sherlock. We're supposed to be friends."

"We are."

"Then you should have told me you weren't coming back!"

John had grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket as he spoke and he hadn't let go. He stared at his own hands in surprise and then his gaze moved to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock felt his pulse speed up again and he took in a deep shuddering breath. He pulled himself away, stepping back into the safety of his own comfort zone.

"I couldn't tell you, John."

"Why bloody well not?"

The room was silent. For a moment neither of them was moving. Sherlock realized he wasn't even breathing.

"Fine," John said.

John grabbed his jacket from off the sofa and headed towards the door.

"When I first met you I thought I knew everything about you," Sherlock said to John's back. "Since then you've constantly surprised me. And there's been nothing you've done that has made me regret our friendship."

John had paused in the doorway.

"You still haven't answered my question, Sherlock."

John's footfalls faded like passing rain, followed by the sound of the door opening and then closing. Sherlock slumped against wall then ran his fingers quickly over his hair in frustration. The tea grew cold, Mrs. Hudson came and went. Downstairs the door opened and Sherlock cringed.

"He'll return," Mycroft announced as he came in. "Now you have work to do."

Notes: I didn't want to come right out and say "mind palace". I hope it's obvious that's where Sherlock went when he put his fingers to his temple to concentrate. I liked the idea of Mary being involved with Moriarty in some way in the past but still in love with John. Sherlock was the third wheel for most of season 3 and there's no reason that would change… yet. Chapter 2 is called "Before the Game".