John hung up his mobile. "Lestrade," he told Mary, although she'd probably guessed from overhearing his half of the conversation.

"Any update?" she asked, from where she sat painting cartoon animals on what they had decided would be the 'feature wall' of the baby's bedroom.

John grabbed the roll of wallpaper and started cutting another piece. "Wants to know if I've heard anything about someone digging up Moriarty's grave."

Mary giggled. "Oh yeah? Have you?"

"No. Weird, isn't it? Who'd be crazy enough to do that?" he grinned, slapping paste onto the back of the wallpaper. "Apparently there's a life-size, Tussaud's-standard Moriarty waxwork in the coffin."

Mary stopped painting for a moment to look round at him, surprised. "It's a waxwork?"

"Apparently so."

"Aw, bless."

"Bless? Not a sentiment usually associated with Moriarty," said John, as he climbed up the ladder and started pasting the paper onto the wall.

"Well, clearly he was lonely and made it for company," she said.

John chuckled.

"Reckon he had it sat in an armchair at home, to chat to after a hard day's work."

John laughed out loud at that image. "Don't make me laugh while I'm up the ladder," he said, climbing back down to ground level.

The half-done paper hung off at an awkward angle but stuck for the time being and he moved over to squeeze her shoulder. "Not bad for our first time, really," said John, looking round and admiring what they'd done so far.

Over the past few weeks they'd cleared all the junk out of their spare room and either given it away to charity shops, thrown it away, or integrated it into the rest of the house, leaving a nice little space for them to do up for the baby. John had papered one-and-a-half walls so far in a soft peach and Mary had been painting pictures on the third, opposite where they planned to put the cot - and later, a child-sized bed.

This morning he'd been nothing but miserable, but now he had a nice, warm fuzzy feeling. He could hardly believe that in a few weeks there would be a baby - his baby, his blood - in this flat, and that he (and Mary) would be responsible for keeping her alive and well and happy, and bringing her up to be a decent human being.

Mary put the last stripe on her zebra and joined him in looking at the room-in-progress with a smile. "Doreen's going to love it."

"Doreen!" snorted John.

"It's my great aunt's name," she said, faking offence.

"Oooh, a clue for my Mary Watson case file."

She rolled her eyes.

"What about Harriet?" John suggested.

"We are not naming the baby after your alcoholic sister!" Mary insisted. "You don't even like her - she didn't even come to the wedding."

"I like her! I just... well... at least I've seen her in the past... year."

"Who says I haven't seen Aunt Doreen?"

And the fuzzy feeling faded.

Because, okay, he'd chosen to throw that pen drive in the fire and focus on their future, but... did she really have an Aunt Doreen, did she visit her in secret so that John couldn't figure out any details about her family, her identity, her real name?

"Joke," said Mary. "You've heard of them? They're supposed to make you laugh?"

He smiled, but his eyes weren't in it.

Dammit, he wished that he could put it all behind him.

And so he reminded himself again that he had secrets in his own past. It's not like he'd said, Will you marry me? And by the way, I shot a cabbie in the head for Sherlock Holmes, and I shot another man in Afghanistan and it was self-defence but I still wonder what his story was - why he was fighting, if talking could've changed his mind, what his favourite song was, what he would've chosen as his last meal, and who he left behind.

No, he hadn't told her everything. And he loved her. God, he loved her. There was no other woman like her. And yet -

Who had she killed? Because okay, he'd killed, but only other killers and only in self-defence or to save someone else's life, Sherlock's life. He would never just kill because he could. There was a line - had she crossed it? 'People like Magnussen should be killed,' she'd said, 'That's why there are people like me.'

"Is there an Aunt Doreen?" he asked.

"John..." Mary said, quietly.

"No, no, you're right. I said I didn't want to know and I don't."

"I don't have an Aunt Doreen," she said.

"Oh," said John. "Neither do I."

He laughed, but it was a desperate laugh, because his wife was a pregnant assassin and laughing about it was easier than knowing what to do or what to say. Mary just looked at him, paintbrush in one hand, forehead creased with concern.

"I don't know what you want me to do, John," she said.

He was laughing harder now and the harder he laughed, the sadder Mary became. She reached out to hold him, but he put his hand up, keeping her at arm's length.

"I just..." he said, eventually, "I just want you to be Mary Watson."

"I am," she said.

And he knew she meant it. But he also knew that it wasn't strictly true.

She was A.G.R.A., whoever that was.

Where did A.G.R.A. draw the line on who was 'bad', who 'deserved' to be killed, and when it was 'justified' rather than 'murder'?

Had she only killed murderers? Terrorists?

Had there been enough evidence against them?

Had she questioned what her targets had done to deserve to be killed, or had she just followed orders, killing on demand for someone else's unknown agenda?

Magnussen had said 'freelance' too.

Freelance. A.G.R.A… Mary… who had she killed off her own back?

Before John could think about what he was doing, he was grabbing his coat.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked, sadly.

"Out!" he said firmly, as he slammed the door behind him.


Please comment and let me know what you think so far :)