The argument had been inevitable. John was expecting it the moment they walked out of the consultant's office. But of course, Mary had waited until they were back at home.

She'd shouted, she said some things that she regretted, mostly about John always prioritising Sherlock before his own wife, resulting in her completely breaking down into sobs. The tears didn't seem to ever stop. But John understood. She felt like he was abandoning her, choosing Sherlock over her, always Sherlock. And part of him knew that she was right. Mary was always right. Not in the same way as Sherlock, but she was always right, right about John. She knew how their relationship worked, and she knew that John would not rest until Sherlock was better, even if that meant leaving her behind yet again.

He had tried his best to comfort her. He held her close, just as she had done, rubbing small circles into her back, not caring that she was leaving black marks from her tears on the shoulder of his jumper. He repeatedly reminded her that it was only temporary, just until Sherlock recovered – if he ever did. He told her that he loved her with every cell in his body, and that was not going to change no matter what was happening in John's life, or however many miles separated them. He promised to tell her everyday just how much he loved her, and thanked her for putting his life back together after the incident involving Moriarty, St Bart's rooftop and Sherlock.

Mary had eventually clamed down and together they packed a suitcase full of John's clothing, ready for his departure to Baker Street the next day. John didn't realize how tired he actually was until he flopped down onto their sofa. His whole body ached with exhaustion and his eyelids felt heavy and he was struggling to keep them open. He could not pinpoint the exact moment when he allowed himself to give in and let sleep take him, nor could he figure out how long he had been asleep for.

John woke up to the smell of something, toast. He woke up with one side of his face pressed against a cushion that someone had obviously moved under his head. He was laid across the sofa, still fully dressed, apart form his shoes which had been removed and were lying next to the sofa, and he was covered with a fluffy blanket. Typical of Mary Watson. Even after they had rowed and even though she was still obviously still making sure John was okay, making sure he had everything he needed. John had not spent the night on the sofa because Mary was angry at him. He had spent the night on the sofa because Mary knew how tired he was and that he needed the rest. She made him comfortable, but made no effort to move him as he rested peacefully in their front room.

As John realized this, he became overwhelmed by how much he loved this woman, and how much she obviously loved him. He moved off the sofa and was lead to the kitchen by the smell of toast. Mary was stood at the counter, spreading generous amounts of John's favourite jam on the fresh toast. She was faced away from him and did not see him come in. Her hair was ruffled, and her cheeks were slightly flushed. She was dressed in her much loved pink dressing gown. To John, she had never looked more beautiful.

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against her shoulder. She let out a little gasp of surprise, but soon relaxed once she realized what was happening. She laid down the toast and turned around, still held tightly by John's strong arms. Her own arms looped gracefully around his neck and John just stared into her eyes. He truly had been blessed with the most perfect woman in the world. He did not deserve her one tiny bit.

Mary seemed to sense this, and she leaned in and kissed John deeply. As they broke apart, John pulled her in tightly, wanting to be close to her, to just be with her.

"I'm sorry." He breathed into her ear.

"I know," she whispered back, "I'm sorry too."

"What for? You did nothing wrong, you behaved like any rational human being would. I'm the one who's leaving temporarily, not you. I'm the one who's going off the rails, not you. You're the one who still takes care of me despite all of this." He pulled back slightly to see her face.

"That's because I love you, you daft sod!" She laughed lightly. John noticed how her smile seemed to light up her whole face. He had always love that about her.

"And I love you. I love you so much Mary."

"Glad to know that you didn't marry me for no reason. I know why you have to go John. Sherlock needs you more than I do, and I know you'll help him. And when he's better, you can come home and I can have you all to myself again. Well… mostly to myself." She kissed the tip of his nose and shot him a cheeky wink before returning to her task of making breakfast. John let her. He could not put into words just how amazing this woman was.

They sat opposite each other at the dining table, sharing fond looks and reaching over to join hands as they ate their toast. There was a mutual understanding between them. John showered and dressed quickly, as there was a taxi picking him up at 11am to take him to Baker Street. He picked up his bag, which until then had been poised in the hallway, beckoning to John to get on with the task at hand.

John was going to go to 221B, and with the help of Mrs Hudson and Mycroft – who had volunteered his services – to prepare the flat for Sherlock's return. Sherlock was still being kept in hospital. According to Mycroft, Sherlock had been too busy insulting all of the staff - including the specialist psychologist who had been bought in to check his mental condition – that none of the test had been carried out. Typical. Sherlock always was a stubborn git, and amnesia clearly hadn't changed a thing.

Except it had, because John Watson was now only a stranger to the man he considered his best friend.

Then, he would stay with Sherlock until he had recovered enough to manage on his own. John had tried to convince himself that he was doing this for Sherlock's benefit – Mrs Hudson would never have been able to take care of him fully. But a small, truthful voice in his head kept reminding him of why he was really doing it. Of course he wanted to help Sherlock, but anyone could have done it, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly. But John wanted to do it, because he thought that if it was him taking care of Sherlock, that maybe, he might be able to remember his faithful blogger. John knew he was clutching at straws, but he was a desperate man. It was eating at him, killing him slowly from the inside, and that's why John was doing this.

There was the sound of a car pulling up, and John saw the shape of a London taxi out of the window. Sherlock would have approved, London taxi's being his preferred method of transport. Mary held open the door for him. He wrapped his arms around her again and kissed her. She made him promise to at least text her when he got there, and waved him off as the taxi began to move away. He sighed and pulled out his phone. He typed out a message and sent it.

Miss you already – JW x

It made him sound like a love-sick teenager and he regretted it almost immediately. But to his surprise, seconds later, his text alert went off.

You just read my mind, Dr Watson. I love you – Mary xx

John smiled. And with that simple message, John felt like he had a little more strength as he headed back to his old flat to attempt what seemed like an impossible task.