Mary Watson spun the shining band around her ring finger- a sign of her promise of infinite love, a sign of devotion and cherished smiles, a sign of marriage- as the cab she hid in rolled along. It was another 'ladies night'; she'd been going out of the house every week, for three weeks, on Saturday, demanding that her beloved husband have a drink with his mates and watch some crap telly, but he just wanted to stay home that night. "I love you," John had said while he adjusted the child in his good arm. Mary had peeked her head out of the car door, given his cheek a quick peck, offered a smile, and disappeared without saying anything in response. How clueless John could be, falling for her tricks and believing her sappy lies every time she came home, every time she caressed their daughter's plump cheek and smiled a soft, sad smile- one that was seen by her family as a pleasant upturn of lips. Sherlock had barely been in their lives ever since the infant came into this treacherous world; he couldn't tell her family of her lie when he wasn't present or aware that any of this was happening, so Mary was safe for the time being. He'd promised he had the perfect name for the baby, so they were waiting for him to come back from wherever he was and give them her title; for now, she was simply 'the child' or 'our daughter'. Mary's frown deepened as she recalled their undeniable trust and compassion, while she did... this. This went against everything she'd promised John. All the vows they had made were bound to be broken, torn, shattered, taped together and thrown against a brick wall all over again. She nearly told the cab to stop, to turn around, to leave what horrid deed she was about to play out and go home- but the vehicle stopped and she was already at her destination. Mary thanked the cabbie and gave him the same amount of currency she always did; fifty pounds to bring her to such a place. She took a deep breath, closed and reopened her eyes, and crawled out of the cab.

Slipping through the front door of the seemingly abandoned warehouse, Mary took a look around. It was all vaguely familiar: dimly lit scenery, a bed with satin sheets behind closed doors at one end of the building, a small kitchen with an island bar and three bar stools in its center, and a living room, complete with a flat-screen television and cool leather cushions upon the cream sofa. Her red heels gave a sound click, click with every step she took- the sound of footfalls jumbled her thoughts of what was to come. Mary was frowning again. She didn't enjoy the idea of doing this, but... a doctor's wife? Worthless infant's mother? She grimaced visibly upon that thought- no, the child wasn't worthless, she was a mere babe, and couldn't do anything of importance yet. Actually, she was born, and that was the happiest moment of Mary's life; cradling a newborn in her limp arms, beautiful but red and squishy and sobbing, and she nearly cried as memories flooded her sharp mind. "She's perfect," John whispered gently, cupping his nameless daughter's face and giving it a fat kiss. "So perfect, Mary. I love her. I love you. Forever." Mary smiled weakly, tears spilling over her eyelids and down her flushed expression. "Yes," was all she said, and left it at that; she couldn't lie to him right then. Mary sniffed and sat herself down on the couch, her pocketbook in her lap. Another deep breath. She stole it from the pleasant-smelling air around her before calling out.

"Jim?"

John suspected something was wrong. He felt it in his gut; it was his gut feeling, and he relied on it. It had saved him countless times before. As he moved spoonfuls of carrot-flavored mush into his daughter's mouth, he thought of this. His stomach hurt and made him queasy- so much so that he simply packed up the Chinese takeout he'd gotten from his favorite albeit revolting restaurant (Sherlock made him get chow mein from there whenever he actually ate. It was the only place other than the shop below their flat he would get food from) and stowed it away in the fridge. Mary didn't have many friends, from what he knew; she was always at his or Sherlock's side or working, but they worked the same hours, so that was out of the question. Was she with Sherlock, solving crimes? Did Sherlock disappear but keep talking to Mary? Did he like her more, think her investigation skills were better than John's, and leave John to fend for himself while Sherlock stole his wife away, slowly and painfully, bit by bit, until John and the baby didn't matter? Was she... cheating on him with Sherlock...? John shook his head violently at that- Sherlock made his first and last vow to help their partnership, not destroy it. The consulting detective was 'the virgin', anyways. Why would he waste his purity on an affair? John realized he'd been sitting there with a miniature spoon full of orange goop in his hand without giving it to his child for at least two minutes."Oh, Christ-" He blinked and swooped his forearm inward. His daughter swallowed the food immediately; she'd been waiting. It had been two months since she was born and she could already escape the confinement of her bedroom. She was very quiet, though, and barely ever babbled or cried, but she was very curious. She'd once crawled out of her crib, down the hall, and caught her parents shagging. They didn't notice until they were finished because she sat in the doorway soundlessly the entire time, staring and listening intently- observing. John was reminded of Sherlock just then; Sherlock had done the same thing once, only he was under the bed, and they didn't find out until he grunted- he was flattened against the carpet with every thrust of John's hips because of the force it applied to the bed springs. John laughed at that; he was livid when he had to stop and check under the bed, finding a consulting detective staring up at him and looking frazzled. "That hurts," Sherlock's baritone voice was slightly muffled against the mattress above him. "I can only imagine how Mary feels." And the three of them ended up giggling like teenagers after they were all dressed again (and after John was finished). Snapping out of his thoughts to focus on feeding the baby in front of him while watching the telly wasn't too hard- John liked to melt his brain with romantic comedies and bad-smelling jars of who-knows-what. So he did that instead.

Just as the doctor was pushing the last bite into his babe's mouth, his mePhone beeped. He knew that chime; simple and curt, but familiar nonetheless. He almost thought it was Sherlock texting him but he knew better. "Greg," he murmured under his minty breath. He'd decided to brush his teeth before feeding the baby since he didn't plan on eating. "Wonder what's wrong." Crossing the kitchen was no longer an easy task because of the building weight of stress on his shoulders- and in his leg. His cane tapped rhythmically against the bathroom-like tiles on the floor as he went for his mobile. John leaned against its hooked shape with one hand and reached out with the other, snatching his phone up and unlocking it.

Come to Bart's now. Emergency

And that was all it said. Greg should know to text Sherlock, not him. John blinked and typed in a response with only his thumb.

I'm watching the baby. What happened?

Another ring.

Get a sitter or give her to Mary. COME NOW!

John groaned; he had no idea where Mary went on her ladies' night and it was almost two in the morning (the baby was practically nocturnal- slept all day, partied all night) so he had no chance of calling the neighbors over. "Oh, yeah," he growled under his breath as he hobbled back to his child, phone in pocket. "I'll get a sitter at two in the bloody morning. Or maybe, Mary'll magically come home and watch the kid! She'll totally have the energy to take care of a child without a bloody name because Sherlock went missing!" He'd been having random fits of anger ever since Sherlock left and Mary kept venturing further and further from home. He needed them to stay strong, but one was gone and the other never even said "I love you" anymore. John sighed, collected his thoughts, and decided. He was going to bring the baby with him to Bart's since Lestrade knew better than to bring him to a crime scene without Sherlock. He couldn't handle things properly when he was the sidekick and Sherlock was the superhero. "Okay, babe." John smiled at his blood, sweat and tears in a miniature figure wearing a pink jumper an a diaper with small floral designs. The jumper wasn't even his idea- Sherlock had recommended dressing the child like John before he'd gone missing, before the child was born. He lifted her into his good arm and limped outside, propping his side up on his cane to wave at a cab. It was raining heavily by then and the cabbie must've pitied him, because it actually pulled to a stop at the curb. "Saint Bart's Hospital," he said briskly as he slid into the back seat, gaining a nod in response and a purring engine. "Step on it."

Mary should've known better than to do these things. She was in bed, but it wasn't her bed. It wasn't the bed she shared with John- no, it was the bed she shared with him. Every Saturday night, she would leave her crippled doctor husband and her nameless infant and go to Jim Moriarty's shag pad. She would have some fun for a few good hours and return home early in the morning. She didn't know how it happened, but one night, she found him. Moriarty simply standing in the light drizzle on a Saturday night. She reached for her phone, dialed her husband's number, but he looked so welcoming that she talked to him instead. He spoke of the rain, they disappeared into his warehouse-like cave, and ended up shagging. Hard. His arm was now draped over Mary's side as he snored mutely, his chest, splotched with a soft amount of auburn curls, pressed into her pale back. Moriarty had told her, the first time this occurred, that she could leave as soon as he was asleep so that John didn't worry. She felt her heart crack the first time she heard that, but he also stated that he would be here. In the warehouse. Waiting for her. So she kept coming back and getting addicted to his evil musk. He was sleeping now. His silent snores brushed over the nape of her neck, sent a prickle of excitement down her spine, made her long for more. She wished John would still love her if- no, when- when he found out about her affair, and she felt a sliver of hope seep into her when she recalled what had happened with the failed assassination. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mary quickly pulled the trigger of her firearm, feeling the small jolt run up her wrist to her shoulder from the relieved pressure of a bullet. The lead struck Sherlock in the lower abdomen, and he wavered for what she would say was years before dropping on his back, his coat and the flowing blood pooling around him like an abyss. Sherlock had survived and later tricked Mary into revealing her secret of being a ruthless killer to John- she also told him that she was the one who shot Sherlock. He'd forgiven her even then, so maybe, just maybe...

Mary slid into her red high heels. She had escaped Moriarty's arm slung over her and got dressed a moment before as these thoughts raced through her intelligent mind. Rising from the sweat-damp mattress and hurrying out of the room, Mary padded into the rain. She sighed. "No umbrella," she reminded herself as she waited by the road for a cab. Her mePhone rang just as one pulled over and she slithered inside like the betraying serpent she was before answering the call. "Hello?" "Mary! I've been trying to call for hours." John. Mary swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. What if he already found out? What if Sherlock had returned while she was having sex with her husband's enemy and told him everything? He sounded pissed. "O-oh, I'm sorry... Night got a little bit crazy." She offered a tight laugh. "It's fine, it's fine- hey, can you come to work? I've got the baby here and-" "Why are you at work with the baby?" Mary blinked, pawing a hand over the lower half of her mobile to whisper 'go to Saint Bart's' before returning to her conversation. "Greg called me in. Just- can you come here and take her? I'm busy." John sounded like he was struggling on the other line. He probably was, with their child in a hospital, probably looking at dead bodies... "I'm coming over now. Just got in a cab. See you there." Mary shut her phone off in a rush. She didn't want to hear him say 'I love you'.

-.^.-

The cab slid to a stop on the slick road and its driver gave Mary a polite smile. "Have a good night," he called after her when she payed and darted into Bart's. What could possibly be so urgent at three in the morning? Lestrade should have called Sherlock, not his crippled sidekick and their dysfunctional baby- she stopped herself again. They're perfect. They're perfect and they deserve so much better, she gravely thought to herself as she nudged the door open that led to the stairway. This had been where she met John for the first time. He looked pasty, frail, and very sad all the time at the office. Mary had been rushing to get downstairs because she was called to assist in something she normally didn't take part in; the examination of a corpse. She had been told to simply hold tools while they picked at the body, but she felt a jolt of excitement run up her spine nonetheless. Much more fun than being a lousy nurse. Mary had shoved the door open and run right into John Watson, who dropped a stack of books and splayed them out cross the floor. "Oh, sorry-" She'd flushed and helped him gather his fallen objects, and that was when their hands touched. Before she knew what was happening, she'd accepted an invitation to dinner, and then she'd become engaged, and married, and pregnant, and a mother, and a liar. Mary broke away from her thoughts as she padded downstairs, through the dim hall that led to the room she knew John would be in if called by Lestrade, and stepped inside.