A/N - Practically the whole team got to have their say this time. Thank you sevenpercent, Jolie Black, and the no-longer-anonymous Amanda.

John's blog provides a different take on the honeymoon from the one you're about to read. I don't believe Sherlock had any contact at all with John or Mary after the wedding until the events at the start of HLV. This is what I think happened. I'd love to hear what you think. There are more notes at the end. - Ghyll

Sand had permanently lost its appeal by the end of his first week in Afghanistan, but Mary's heart was set on honeymooning on a sunny beach, so they found a resort that fit the bill, if not exactly their budget. As it turned out, they didn't spend all that much time in the sun, but he supposed that most honeymoons were spent indoors. It was sort of the point.

The scenery and the weather were lovely. The food wasn't quite to his taste, but he'd learned in the army to eat whatever was put before him. It was exotic. That's what he told Mary when she asked if he was enjoying something she had ordered for them. It was true, and enough of a positive response to please her without lying. It wouldn't do to lie to your wife on your honeymoon. Lies of omission didn't count.

He had started dreaming of home the first night. They'd been too exhausted from traveling to do more than check in to their room and admire the view from the balcony for a few minutes before falling into bed. Mary was snoring softly less than five minutes later, and John lay on his back staring at the ceiling in the dark because he didn't want to wake her by getting up. He was too wired up to sleep, not that he had anything to be wired up about. He was married, and no matter how much he'd wanted to be, it was a shock to realize it had actually happened. Going from hypothetically wanting something to truly having it took some getting used to, particularly the part where he was suddenly a family man, or would be sooner than he'd ever expected. But he was happy about the baby. He truly was. It was just a surprise.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because he woke in bed alone with the sun shining in his eyes, and the sound of water running in the shower. Remnants of a dream flitted away before he could examine them too closely, but he knew it was something about Sherlock. Mary came out of the shower then, and climbed back into bed with him. They made love, showered together, then spent the day exploring the island. At sunset, they walked along the beach behind the hotel and talked about the future, then had dinner at the hotel cafe overlooking the water. He woke in the dark and stumbled out of bed thinking he was back in Baker Street, following the sound of Sherlock's voice.

He went for a run that morning, pounding up the beach on the damp sand at the water's edge until his leg started to twinge, and it cleared his head. The dream was nothing but his subconscious making adjustments on the fly. Dwelling briefly on the familiar before letting go to embrace the new reality. He was making too much of it.

He didn't give Sherlock another thought for the rest of the day. They ordered dinner in their room that night, and made love like teenagers in the bed, in the shower, and on the chaise in front of the balcony door.

Except that his subconscious wasn't letting go. He dreamed of Baker Street and Lestrade and dead bodies. And Sherlock. The next night was the same, and the next. He dreamed about cases they had solved together, and taxi rides and heated debates and chasing coattails down dark alleys. He was lying in bed next to his wife, reliving his old life, and it made no sense.

He tried avoiding sleep, thinking that if he were exhausted enough, he would not dream. If anything, it made matters worse. He would fall asleep against his will, and the dreams would begin almost before his eyes were closed. He tried a few glasses of wine before bed, something he'd avoided because Mary couldn't drink now because of the baby, but it didn't help.

Sitting in a private cabana on the beach, listening to the waves crash almost at their feet, John closed his eyes and told himself to stop being a prat. He was doing this to himself. It was like the old joke where someone tells you not to think of polar bears, and of course that's the image that immediately pops into your head. It was the power of suggestion. He was dwelling on the very thing he was trying not to think about. All he had to do was stop.

That night, he dreamed of Sherlock and the bomb vest and the swimming pool and woke with the stench of chlorine so strong in his nose that his eyes were watering.

The next morning, he went down to the lobby while Mary was in the shower and called Mrs. Hudson, because calling Sherlock was out of the question. Her first reaction was to panic because why on earth would he call her from his honeymoon unless something was terribly wrong.

"Everything's fine, honestly. I just..." He suddenly realized that this was nearly as pathetic as calling Sherlock, and he had no idea what to say.

Mrs. Hudson probed gently. "There is something wrong, John. I can tell. What is it?"

He chuckled, more embarrassed than worried now. "It's nothing. I just had a crazy dream. Not getting enough sleep, I guess." He had intended that to sound a bit risqué to distract her.

She saw right through him. "He's not home, John. He left a little while ago with Greg."

She probably meant that as reassurance, but it had the opposite effect. Sherlock was out on a case without backup because John was his backup, not Greg. "Good. That's good to hear."

She waited for a moment. "He'll be all right, John. I think he just needs a little more time." Her voice lightened. "Maybe you and Mary could come by for a visit when you get home. Show off your tans. I know he would like to see you."

"Sure. Yeah, we'll do that." They talked for a few minutes more about the weather, and the hotel, and how nice it was to be away for a few days. In the end, he knew she wasn't fooled, and he hung up feeling worse than he had when he woke up.

Mary was sitting on the bed when he got back to the room. He had stopped on the way to pick up croissants and coffee, and he put them on the table. "I brought breakfast," he said with a sunny smile.

Mary smiled back, and patted the bed next to her. "Come here and talk to me."

He considered telling her there was nothing to talk about and jumping in the shower. Instead, he sat next to his wife and took her hand. "I'm sorry. I've been a little distracted, I know."

"At first, I thought you might be upset about the baby. It was quite a surprise."

He turned to look at her. "I'm happy about the baby. Please don't ever doubt that."

She nodded. "I know, John. I am, too. But you're upset about something, and I need you to tell me what it is."

He laughed shortly. "I've been asking myself the same question."

"Maybe you just don't like the answer."

He squeezed her hand, then let go of it gently because he suddenly needed to move. Pacing seemed to help, and after a moment, he turned to look at her. "I don't know why you put up with me."

She smiled. "Yes, you do. I love you. Now, tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing to worry about. It's got nothing to do with you, or the baby. I'll work it out, and I promise to keep my neuroses in check from now on. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and it's time for me to start showing you instead of just telling you that."

"One of them."

"What?"

"I'm one of the best things that happened to you, but we both know that you wouldn't have been here for me to fall in love with if Sherlock hadn't 'happened to you' first."

He started pacing again. "That's the best description I think I've ever heard." 'Happened to him'. Like a natural disaster.

"You're being too hard on yourself. You always are."

"Not hard enough by half. I've put up with his demands and his manipulation for years, and I'm still doing it. He's got me so sodding conditioned to worry about him that I can't even stop on our honeymoon. It's ridiculous." He came back to sit beside her and took both of her hands. "How can you be so good about this? You should be telling me to get him the hell out of our lives."

"John, you're such a good man, and you're wiser than you give yourself credit for, but you are an idiot sometimes. I'm not a saint. I won't always be happy to share you, but I'll do it because it's more important to you than you realize. I am a little jealous of the relationship you have with him, but I will never interfere with it because he's part of who you are. You've been having dreams about him since we got here. You talk to him in your sleep." He looked away then, but she cupped his cheek and gently turned him back to face her. "I know it's upsetting you because you don't understand why. I think I do. You think your life has changed so much that it can't include him anymore, but some part of you knows that's not true, and it's trying to make itself known. Stop fighting, and I think it will let you sleep." She smiled. "It will let both of us sleep."

A sudden rush of affection made him pull her into a hug. He kissed her cheek, then pulled back and put his hands on her shoulders. "If you're not a saint, you're the next best thing. I have no idea what I've done to deserve you."

Mary smiled. "You're the best man I've ever known. You may be the best man who ever lived, but that might be my bias showing." She took his hands from her shoulders and brought them together in front of her, then kissed them before she let go. "I'm starving, and croissants aren't going to do it. You need to shower so we can get breakfast before they start serving lunch."

He got up and walked to the bathroom, then turned in the doorway, feeling lighter than he had since the reception. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Her eyes softened. "Every time you look at me."

He gave her the first true smile in days, and disappeared into the bathroom. Mary's smile faded. She sat quietly for a moment, then walked out on to the balcony and watched the waves break against the soft, white sand.

End

A/N -Someone asked in a review of the previous installment when John found time to call Mrs. Hudson to check on Sherlock while he was on his sex holiday. This is when. And why. There will be one more part after this. - Ghyll