Mary Watson woke to the chirping of birds and the warmth of yellow-white morning sunlight.
John was beside her, chest pressed firmly against her back and arms enveloping her beneath the wrinkled blankets. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the soft cotton of their nightclothes.
For a long moment she just lay there, unwilling to move and spoil it. They did not often lie like this; she curled in his loving embrace. It wasn't that John didn't care for her, she knew he did, it was just… their honeymoon had been interrupted by the malicious designs of that dreadful Professor Moriarty and then by that great and terrible blow; the death of Sherlock Holmes. Since then John had thrown himself into his work with a manic fervor that worried Mary. He left earlier every morning and returned later every night, until they barely saw one another, and took on every patient that came his way regardless of the time or location.
She knew, although he would never say, that he was trying his best to stave off the pain of the detective's death.
He had become thin and worn as an old piece of leather, with shadows beneath his eyes that had not been there on their wedding day. It made her immensely sad to see him so, but she had no idea what to do for him. Mary had never before felt so helpless.
She squinted, peering at the face of the mantle clock. It was nearly half past nine. She ought to wake him, she supposed, but she was loathe to hasten the peaceful breathing of her sleeping husband. Still… he was a doctor and as such a cancelled appointment could be life or death for someone else.
So she shifted a bit, sliding onto her back so that he loosened his grip on her. She turned her head towards him and breathed in the scent she loved so well—the clean smell of soap and the hint of yesterday's aftershave. Their faces were only centimeters apart, she realized, as she examined the handsome features and well-kept moustache. His breath was warm on her cheeks. Mary smiled to herself. In sleep the usually careworn face seemed years younger and more like the young military man that had courted her than the doctor absorbed by others' worries.
"Good morning, John."
Mary whispered, half hoping he would not hear her and would continue sleeping. But her voice roused him and he stirred gently. Mary smiled to herself again. He must have been somewhere in between dreaming and awake, for his eyes were still closed as he chuckled softly and smiled. He retracted his arms then, and rolled onto his back, still chuckling. Mary wondered what was so funny, but was happier that he was smiling than truly curious. His voice, rough from sleep, surprised her when he spoke,
"Gracious, Holmes, you really ought to sleep in your own bed more often…"
The smile died on Mary's lips and she swallowed, trying to do away with a mysterious lump in her throat. She was suddenly cold all over and sat up quicker than was necessary, trying to suppress the myriad feelings swirling about inside her head. Disappointment, irritation, sadness, and a stirring of jealousy. Her delicate white hands clenched into fists for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Calm yourself, Mary. It's nothing. Nothing. She thought to herself. But it wasn't nothing. What in heaven's name had that detective been doing in her John's bed?