One DAY AFTER THE SHOOTING:

John idly wondered how many times the people he loved most had given him concussion, shot at him, punched him, drugged him, threaten him, tied him up (don't ask!), had him hit by a cyclist, got him arrested, abducted him, held him at gun-point ... It was running well into double figures he thought. Even the Taliban didn't have such an extensive record of almost getting him killed.

One thing. There was plenty of time to think when you were in hospital. Not much else to do, though he could get used to Patient Line - what a neat idea to give patients access to the phone, internet and the TV all in one handy screen. Mycroft had paid a heavy whack onto his card, for the service, when John had refused his offer of a free private room. He preferred it on the ward anyway. Always something going on and someone to talk to when daytime TV let him down.

He'd been disappointed that Richard and Judy was off the air - when did that happen? Always amusing - seldom went as intended. He thought he'd never come across a man so willing to say inappropriate things in a public place, other than Sherlock, of course, or perhaps the Duke of Edinburgh, or maybe Boris Johnson. All good in their way, but none of the others came as a married double act like Richard and Judi - he didn't feel it appropriate to count the Queen as a straight man.

Just when he'd got fed up of reruns of Ready Steady Cook, she came in bringing the sunshine with her smile.

John wasn't in the mood for being lovey-dovey. Not until a few questions had been answered anyway.

"Right, explain to me the blood - don't tell me you keep vials of blood in all your top pockets on the off-chance you might have to shoot your boyfriends," he said, getting to business from the get-go. He was gratified that she didn't look surprised, if anything slightly relieved.

"Don't be silly, of course not. That would be ludicrous! Only top pockets of kevlar jackets and only on the off-chance of saving the life of fiancés - I'd not waste a good kevlar jacket on a boyfriend. It was murder getting that blood stain out."

"Seriously?" John tried not to sound too impressed. That would have taken a whole lot of forward planning and some amazing good luck too.

She looked as if she wasn't going to answer for the moment and then seemed to come to a decision. "The blood was a bonus. I was running a test for Sherlock and stuck it in there when I realised where Moran was hiding out," she said, gazing all the time into his eyes to gage his reaction. She knew that Mycroft had already told him of the identity of the man down the Tube, so she wasn't looking for a reaction to that piece of news. "Sherlock was furious about the blood until Molly agreed to run the tests on what was soaked into my jacket."

"Tell me about your relationship with Moran."

"Relationship? He was my own personal torturer for a while, but I've moved on now, since he jilted me. I know a man who can hurt me more with a look than Moran ever could ... is that what you mean?" She was trying to look amused, take it lightly, but failing for once to keep up the pretense. She was shaking slightly and John swallowed the impulse to stop questioning her further. They were getting married in a few days times and there were still things he had to know first.

"You know what I mean. What dealings have you had with Moran and Moriarty and their happy band? I know you go back way further than Korea."

"John, there are some things I can't tell even you. Not yet. Please believe me when I say I'd like nothing better than to tell you everything, but I can't." She swallowed and turned her head away slightly, her voice coming out in a near whisper, "I'd understand if you are going to cancel the wedding."

"Cancel? Our wedding? Why would I do that?" John reached out to her and she started slightly at the unexpectedness of his touch.

"I know that Mycroft has spoken to you. Not all of it is that farfetched, John. I'd not blame you for distrusting me. At least since I'm refusing to tell you anything more."

"Shan't be doing that, I'm afraid. Wedding's going ahead, as booked, if I have to get all of Her Majesty's Armed Forces to drag you down the aisle - I know a fair few of them and the rest would do anything to help out an injured army doc. Sooner we're married the better in my book. Be able to keep an eye on you then."

"I lie to you more than tell the truth, it's almost a hobby of mine and, even when I tell you I'm lying, you still believe me ... I shot you for goodness sake! Why would you trust me now?"

"Because, whatever you have done, you are on the side of the angels. And beside that - love is blind, you know."

Sometime later she was half lying on his bed, the curtains drawn around them as they talked. The nursing staff were either turning a blind eye, given their impending nuptials, or too busy to be bothered with the couple.

"Name one interesting thing about yourself that I don't know." John shifted onto one elbow to watch her face.

"Interesting or gross?"

"Either," he said shrugging as much as the bandages would allow.

"You know that coconut stuff that I use on my hair? If I wake up hungry and can't be bothered to get up and go to the kitchen, or it's just too cold to get out of bed, I eat that instead."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's great with chocolate and it's 100% coconut oil so not really gross. And that Thai curry we ate the other night - it went into that too and then I rubbed the rest on my face. You?"

"I like to watch you while you're sleeping."

"Aw, that's sweet! ... In a creepy stalkerish way ... but sweet. Nothing gross then?"

"I didn't say that, did I. I live with Sherlock - there's plenty of gross. The contents of our fridge could provide all the props for a full length American horror movie - actually with a sequel, and a sequel to the sequel."

She wrinkled her nose in a manner that John took to be appealing. "Has Sherlock done anything with that seagull yet?"

"Nope, it migrated into the freezer for a while, and then back again when the freezer needed defrosting. It's days are numbered, whatever he says, it's smelling rather bad now. I never did find out what he wanted it for. He gets rather vague when asked."

"Yeah, from being really forthcoming about the severed head and various other body parts!" She was laughing as she spoke and John was reminded again why he loved her so much - she not only tolerated Sherlock, she 'got' him in the same way as he did. "Right, my turn. Name one thing you've done that you're truly proud of."

John looked pensive and almost like he was holding his breath. "One will do, you don't have to write me a list," she said smiling. He let his breath out in a rush.

"Just trying to think how to say it without being boastful ... I once saved a man's life, when we were in Afghanistan, using a bootlace and straw," he said looking modest.

"You couldn't be boastful if you tired, and that's really something, John."

He turned to look at her again and said, "Ok, you know the rules, it's your turn."

"Ah, so many, which one to choose," she said, laughing again. "When I was in Turkey years ago, there was an explosion in a barbers. I thought it was a terrorist bomb and automatically threw myself over the kid who was waiting to get his hair cut after me. Turns out I was wrong and the electrics had just blown, but his father was so impressed that I'd cared enough to risk my own life ... anyway, they're friends for life and they're coming on Sunday. The Duraks. You put them on a table with the youth group. I think they'll like that, Hakan's about the same age as they are now and wants to improve his English."

"She risked her life to get the Hammond Diaries to you-"

Mycroft squirmed uncomfortably. "I can't deny it looked that way ..."

"As for going to meet Sebastian Moran. Either she wants to get her revenge on him for killing her parents and for being complicit in her subsequent torture-"

"Yes, yes, we agreed that was possible. Sentimentality, Sherlock, blinding you to what's going on under your nose."

Sherlock ignored the personal comment, for once, and continued, "Or maybe, she has the diaries and wanted to trade them with Moran; for information most likely. She still doesn't know exactly what happened with her parents and it's obviously eating away at her." He gave his brother a meaningful look. "I'd not put it passed her to, either steal the diaries back, or have given you a good duplicate in their place and arrange for that little conflagration in your safe to make it look as if they'd been destroyed. She could have been using the diaries as a bribe."

"How about this for an alternative explanation of the facts? That she takes copies of the diaries for her lover, Moran, and destroys the originals to make it look like she doesn't want them exposed. I'll not deny that it's possible she's bartering them in exchange for information about her parents, she's not all evil, there may be good reason why she's selling out her country." Mycroft took a breath, expecting his brother to interrupt, but it didn't come. Perhaps Sherlock was having similar thoughts.

Mycroft continued, breaking the silence. "She covers herself by telling John where she is going, but he turns up rather earlier than she expects, he hadn't been due home until later in the day, and nearly catches them in the act. They improvise and make it look as if she is being held at gun point. She has to shoot John to prevent him from shooting Moran - either as he's her real lover or she hasn't got what she wants from him yet. Hell of a risk to shoot your fiancé, even at that range, wearing only that bikers' jacket. It's hardly a riot shield."

Sherlock looked sceptical. "You're forgetting that she genuinely loves him, Mycroft."

"Indeed I am not. People do the strangest things out of higher loyalty. In this case to deceased parents who she believes she has let down. We have reason to believe that she has killed several times in the pursuit of revenge for their deaths."

"Circumstantial at best. And how does that tie in with the Moran-boyfriend theory exactly?" Sherlock seemed to be on a roll now, and Mycroft wondered which of them his brother was trying to convince.

"You are allowing your feelings to cloud your judgement, dear boy. As I have told you before, caring is not an advantage. And this is no more than caring by proxy."

"Not sentimentality, Mycroft. I have good reason for doubting your suggested motive and allegiances, if not the version of actual events. My contacts in Milan and Tirana inform me that there is no hard evidence connecting her to any of the deaths, though her dealings with any of these men may well have a direct causal link."

'Naivety!' Mycroft thought, 'I didn't think him still capable.' "And she's told you all about her past? ... I thought not. Something to hide then, or she'd have shared her holiday photos with John, I have no doubt."

Mycroft suspected that Sherlock was just as intent on contradicting his brother, as trying to prove something so unlikely. "Like you tell me everything, Mycroft? The Hammond Diaries? You want me to help you find the darned things, but won't tell me what they are. Does that make you duplicitous? - Well, obviously you are, yes, but a threat to national security? - Perhaps not in the way you believe she is, anyway." And there it was, the resentment that Mycroft wasn't able, not allowed, to take Sherlock fully into his confidence. The Official Secrets Act wasn't for the faint-hearted or sentimental. Mycroft would take more secrets to the grave than were in several seasons of the average Australian soap opera - Mycroft was rather partial to Sons and Daughters, which he had once mistakenly taken to be a version of a DH Lawrence classic of similar name.

"You ever thought about asking her outright?"

Mycroft looked at his brother as if he'd just suggested lunch on the moon.

"Oh honestly, Mycroft, it's a reasonable enough proposition."

Mycroft half smiled, saying, "I never thought I'd see the day I'd be taking advice on social etiquette from a self-confessed sociopath - even a high functioning one."

"How did you know where to look for Moran's men?" Mycroft asked in a tone he usually reserved for interrogating terrorists.

The young woman was undaunted by his demeanour and answered in a conversational manner, "You quoting verbatim from Beneath the City Streets - I've read it several times, I'm a bit of a Peter Lawrie fan, but I couldn't have quoted him quite so exactly. You must have just been reading it, or at least recently - put me on the track, if you'll pardon the pun."

Mycroft stifled a smirk. He'd forgotten how much she made him want to smile before he'd believed her to be in league with Moriarty's old band of cutthroats and villains. He still wasn't sure of her allegiances but at least she wasn't stringing Watson along and was genuinely marrying him out of love. He'd realised, in that moment, that he cared more whether she was being duplicitous with Sherlock's one and only friend than about her loyalty to the throne. Strange that, in one so committed to Queen and country, he thought reflectively.

He was brought back into the room by her raised tone. "I said - and then I did some sleuthing and was lucky enough to chance on the plans that you'd had hidden in your safe-"

"-how did you- ? Where did I- ? Why didn't someone- ?" Mycroft spluttered.

She looked rather smug and Mycroft was rather reminded of when he'd been wronged footed by Sherlock. "Thought you'd not heard me; that's a much more appropriate response."

"So, I still don't see. We'd looked through those maps and not been sure of Moran's hideout yet." Mycroft inconsequentially shifted some papers on his desk and was aware that she was again watching his every move, reminding him of her attention while he was placing the journals into the office safe.

"Let's just put it down to equal measures of luck and judgement, shall we." She had a slightly distracted air, as if she would rather be somewhere else.

Mycroft remembered Sherlock's advice about direct questioning and thought things would move a little faster, to both their satisfactions, if he came right out with it. "And the Journals? Did you, do you have them?"

She actually looked a little relieved and more attentive following his question. Either there was something that she was glad he was skipping over to get to this point, or she wanted to get on with this and make a full and frank disclosure. "No, Mycroft. You're just going to have to take my word on that one. I handed them in to you and you put them into the safe. What happened next was pure luck on my part. Gave me the opportunity to pretend to have stolen them back again and use them to get information out of Moran."

"Obviously successfully, given that John finds you on the business end of a gun ..."

"Ah, yes, well. Not an unmitigated success. Moran's not a complete simpleton. It's also possible that he was responsible for whatever happened to the diaries - or knows who was." She looked rueful and rolled her eyes as if mocking herself, Mycroft thought. It was like a discussion about an amusing encounter at a family gathering. Was there nothing that she took seriously? Her one true love had almost been killed - at her hand no less - surely she would take at least that seriously?

"Did you learn whether he was involved in your parents' murder?"

"Their murder? No." Mary looked as if the possibility hadn't crossed her mind. Mycroft wondered whether to question her further, but thought that perhaps his quota of honest answers would eventually run dry.

"Mycroft, who was it who came to see you after I'd delivered the diaries?"

"How did you know anyone did?"

"I wasn't sure until I just saw your reaction, but I smelt something I'd not smelt for a long while. A combination of tobacco, a particular exclusive brand, and expensive aftershave. It was ... I ... he couldn't possibly be alive still though ... Mycroft, tell me, was it him?"

I fully expect that much of this story has brought up more questions than it has answered. I'm not good at giving away explanations. I don't like being handed things on a plate - I like a bit of mystery in my fiction - so that's the way I roll. I hope the next short sequence will make up for that a little, for those of you who do like answers. Finally, my OC will be revealed and that bit of speculation, at least, will be put to bed.

John was relieved that the NHS now took a less proprietorially view of their patients and wanted them out at the first possible opportunity. It meant he could make his own decision about whether he was fit to walk down the aisle, and he'd decided a long time ago that hell, high-water, wild horses and even Mycroft could not keep him from doing just that.

Nothing could have keep him from this moment, though he did hold his breath when the Rector asked, "First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now." He'd automatically glanced at Sherlock, who was looking innocent, and as normal, as Sherlock could in public. John finally let his breath go when the request was met with silence.

He was in a stunned state, unable to believe that this was finally happening, that he would get the woman he loved to agree to be his for the rest of their lives. Then it came to the important part, where they exchanged vows ... He took her right hand in his, shaking slightly, as he said:

"I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Mary Elira Morstan, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward;
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,
till death us do part; according to God's holy law.
In the presence of God I make this vow."

John idly wondered whether the Rector's plea to 'forsake all others' would apply to a life of adventure with Sherlock. It was rather a relief, knowing Mary, that he'd never have to test that out.

And so, they all lived happily ever after ... though that little fairy tale is likely going to be tested out before the honeymoon is over ...

THE END...

Can I just say that Mary's middle name in this chapter is not canon - it fits with the backstory I have for my character who, in earlier stories, may or may not have been Mary.