John Watson never stopped feeling a pang as he entered 221B Baker Street. So many happy memories, so many sad ones. No matter that he tried to forgive Mary, who walked into the sitting room in front of him, this room would always be associated with her lies and betrayal. No matter that he had wanted to remain angry with Sherlock, this room held laughter and adventure and cozy nights in front of the telly waiting for Lestrade to call with a nice murder.
John could not shake the feeling 221B Baker Street would always be his home.
Mary's voice cut through his thoughts. "A little help?"
"Oh, of course." John helped his pregnant wife sit on the sofa. She smiled back up at him.
"Thanks. We won't be dealing with this too much longer."
The due date for Baby Watson was rapidly approaching. John did not know if he was more nervous about impending fatherhood or telling Sherlock he would not be available for cases for some time. It was this task that brought him to Baker Street, and he realized he could not avoid it any longer when he heard Sherlock's bedroom door open.
But those were not the sound of Sherlock's footsteps.
"Good morning, Doctor Watson."
John turned from his wife to look at the source of the greeting and said, "I really don't know how many ghosts I should have to deal with in this life."
Irene Adler was pinning up her long brown hair as she entered the sitting room, and John felt anger surging within him.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
"We were never friends, and you are supposed to be dead."
"Two times, by your counting, right?" Irene was amused, as always, by the doctor.
John heard the shower running in the bathroom and felt a twinge of something other than anger at the thought of Sherlock washing the scent of this woman off of him.
"Care to provide an explanation for how you're alive this time?"
"You really didn't know?" Irene laughed. "Sherlock saved me, years ago. Well, I manipulated him into rescuing me, but it's all the same in the end."
John wondered if anyone he loved ever told him the truth.
"So when I told him you were in America, he knew I was lying?"
"Yes. And not very convincingly, which probably led him to make decisions about your ability to conceal his own death later."
Everything was always John's fault, wasn't it.
Irene arranged her face into a mocking pout. "Oh, don't look so sad, Doctor Watson. I won't be here long. You'll have Sherlock's undivided attention again soon."
"You can leave him, just like that?"
"Of course. Sherlock knew exactly what I needed, and he gave it to me gratefully."
Behind him, John heard an indrawn breath from Mary.
John gritted his teeth. "Does he know he's being used?"
"Oh, he's a smart boy. Did you ever think that maybe he likes to be used on occasion? That maybe he enjoys choosing to give of himself?"
Irene took a step towards John, who reflexively took a step back, bumping into the sofa.
"So many people expect things of Sherlock… solve this crime, find this object, write a love song for a wedding. It's such a shame nobody ever asks him what he wants, what he needs."
John flexed his left hand over and over.
"Tell me, Doctor Watson, have you ever asked Sherlock what he wants? What he needs?" Irene presented a sultry smile. "Have you ever asked Sherlock what he would choose to give to you?"
Mary reached a hand out to caress John's thigh, as he was growing more visibly tense.
Irene smirked. "Now the doctor is upset. Jealous to think he cares about someone more than you?"
John was about to respond, when he heard a person walking from the bathroom through the kitchen. He was startled to hear heels clicking on the lino.
A vaguely familiar beautiful redhead entered the sitting room.
"Doctor Watson, you remember Kate."
Kate wrapped an arm around Irene's waist and said, "Good to see you again, Doctor Watson."
"You, too?" Confusion tinged John's response.
"Sherlock has developed a way for Kate to start a new life. We haven't been together in years." Irene caressed Kate's jaw. "I have missed you."
"I still can't believe you're here," Kate replied and the two women exchanged a gentle kiss.
John glanced at Mary, who was wearing a thoughtful expression.
He asked, "So you were just here for Sherlock's help?"
"Of course. What else would he have wanted to give to me?"
At John's silence, Irene continued. "We have new identities, and we'll move to the States. California, in part because same-sex marriage is legal there. " Irene nuzzled closer to Kate. "And I've already scored an audition with a small opera company in Los Angeles. I do think I'd enjoy being an opera singer."
"You have a beautiful voice, my love."
"Thank you."
John interrupted a prolonged kiss between the two women. "And why would Sherlock do this for you?"
"Because he is a romantic." Irene paused as she heard Sherlock walking up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's flat. "And because he knows all too well the pain of not being with the one he loves."
At this, Sherlock entered the sitting room.
Staring directly into John's eyes, Irene continued smoothly. "Congratulations on your marriage, by the way, Doctor Watson."
Mary grabbed John's hand and hoisted herself from the couch to stand beside him.
Irene finally focused on Mary, a trace of recognition in her eyes. "She is not who I would have chosen for you, John."
Sherlock spoke for the first time. "Your car is waiting for you downstairs."
Irene gave him a surprisingly sweet hug, much like a sister to a brother. "Thanks for the use of your flat last night. The privacy was welcome after so long."
Sherlock smiled. "I hope the two of you have a happy future ahead of you."
Kate reached up and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, so much."
"You are very welcome."
Sherlock turned to John and Mary. "If you'll excuse me, I'll escort the ladies out."
At John's silence, Mary responded, "Of course."
After the three walked downstairs, Mary leaned against John and asked, "Are you alright?"
"I'm not sure."
John could not figure out why he felt so unsettled. His anger at Sherlock's deception had dissipated, and his need to protect his friend from Irene was clearly unfounded in this case.
Mary gently lowered to her seat on the sofa. "I knew you didn't like her, but I didn't expect you to react so viscerally to her."
John glanced down at his wife. "Had you met her before? She seemed to recognize you."
"Don't deflect, John."
"Thought you were the master of that."
Sherlock walked into the tense quiet of the sitting room.
Mary asked, "They off then?"
"Yes. Thank goodness. One night on Mrs. Hudson's florid sofa was quite enough for me."
"Why didn't you sleep in John's old room?" Mary sounded more accusing than curious.
Sherlock responded only with silence.
"Were you ever going to tell me that she was alive?" Bitterness bled through in John's tone.
"Why would it matter to you?"
"Because you were lying to me."
Sherlock pointed a finger at John. "I believe, more accurately, that it was you who lied to me about the woman. You were informed she was dead, and yet you told me she was in America."
John protested, "I thought you cared about her. I thought you loved her, and I was trying to protect you."
Mary barked a harsh laugh, while Sherlock stared at John in confusion.
As so often happened, John felt caught between these two polarizing forces in his life.
Mary shook her head. "I can't believe you still think Sherlock is interested in…"
"…Relationships." Sherlock interrupted Mary. "Sentiment distracts me from what is important."
"Well, none of us would want to get in the way of the game, would we?" John knew he sounded resentful, knew he had no right to be. But it was easier to be angry than to study what he was really feeling, this nagging sense that he was supposed to be at Baker Street with Sherlock instead of in the suburbs with the wife he would never truly know.
Sherlock chose to ignore John's barb and asked Mary, "Would you like some tea? Some water?"
Once again, Mary braced herself against John as she hauled herself to her feet. "No, thank you. We can't stay. We just wanted to let you know that John won't be going on cases with you until some time after the baby is born. She's due any day now."
A flicker of sadness crossed Sherlock's face before he smiled at the Watsons. "I understand. You'll let me know when the birth occurs, won't you?"
John nodded silently, feeling a part of his life irrevocably slip away from him.
Mary nudged him back to reality. "We really should get going. We have to go to Stella and Ted's and ask them to be godparents, remember?"
"I'm still not sure how I feel about that."
"Well, who else would you want to ask? Certainly not Sherlock. Drug addict and murderer? No, thanks."
"I don't think you have much room to judge, Mary." John put extra emphasis on the name.
"I'm not any sort of father material, so it's a good call." Sherlock deadpanned to break the tension as he walked the couple to the door. "If I don't see you again before the birth, good luck, Mary." He bent to kiss her on the cheek, and then Mary started to walk slowly down the stairs.
John paused on the threshold, the homesickness already pulling at him.
The rich deep voice surrounded John like a blanket. "Next time I see you, you'll be a father. You'll have everything you always wanted – a wife, a family, a semblance of a normal life."
John turned to his best friend. "Everything I always thought I wanted, at any rate."
The two men stared at each other. John was reminded of being on a tarmac, overflowing with feelings and empty of words.
"Have you convinced her that Sherlock is a girl's name?"
John relaxed enough to laugh. "She doesn't buy it."
"Pity. Sherlock Watson has a nice ring to it."
Sherlock's smile did not reach his eyes, and John averted his gaze from the other emotions shining through.
"I should get going. Mary must have made it to the bottom of the stairs by now."
"Of course. Good-bye, John."
John stopped in the process of leaving, and he impulsively clutched Sherlock's wrist. "If you need me, really need me, call. I will always be here for you. If you need me as backup or to keep the needle out of your arm, please, let me know."
Sherlock shook his head and attempted to pull away. "You have more important things to worry about than me, John."
John used his other hand to grasp the nape of Sherlock's neck and guide him into an embrace. "No, I don't."
John felt his best friend's arms gently circle his waist. Sherlock's nose was still chilled from being outside in the London winter as he buried his face in the valley between John's neck and shoulder. The damp warmth of Sherlock's breath melted the deep cold in John's bones, and he allowed himself to thread his fingers through dark curls.
"John?" Mary's voice drifted up the stairwell.
Sherlock's arms briefly tightened around John, and he deeply inhaled the scent of his best friend. Then Sherlock released John and stepped away. "Your wife awaits."
John walked through the open door, and Sherlock followed. One step down the stairs, John stopped and turned back to Sherlock. John felt his arms reach towards Sherlock of their own volition as he struggled to find words that would forestall his departure. Sherlock hesitated on the landing, waiting for John to speak.
Heavy footsteps tread upon the stairs behind John, and the moment was gone.
"Oi, Mr. Holmes."
"Ah, Wiggins, I'm glad you're here." Sherlock gave John one of his most insincere smiles. "There you have it, John. I will be watched over. You concentrate on your family now."
"Yeah, the missus was looking a bit cold standing outside. It might take awhile to thaw her out this time." Bill Wiggins patted John on the shoulder as he passed him while ascending the stairs.
With a guilty pang, John realized he did not care if Mary was uncomfortable. What a horrible man he was, to be so ungrateful for the life he had chosen to live, having been previously so ungrateful for the life he had chosen to leave behind. No wonder he could be replaced.
From above him, he heard Sherlock say, "Good luck, John." But by the time John attempted to respond, Sherlock had closed the door.
Halfway down the stairs, John was forced to steady himself against the wall to remain upright. He experienced an almost weightless feeling, like he was untethered from reality. Never in his life had he felt so alone. So adrift. Unable to respond to the magnetic pull of the man above him, unable to resist the unyielding gravity of the situation below. He compelled himself to walk down the rest of the stairs and leave 221B Baker Street, to the outside world where his wife, the mother of his child, was waiting for him.
John had made his choice.
And he knew it was the wrong one.