Summary: Mary learns just how much Holmes needs her husband...
Author's Notes: Inspired by my ficlet 'Wooly Watsons'.

John leaned forward, about to kiss me, when there was a loud knocking on the door to our hotel room.
"Watson! I know you're in there! I think I'm about to die!" Sherlock Holmes shouted thru the door before a loud crash rattled it.
With an annoyed sigh, my John got up and opened the door.
"Holmes, what in blazes?!" he exclaimed as his friend staggered into the room, cradling a young lad in his arms.
"His name is Tolkien, Watson, and he was hit on the head," Mr. Holmes simply replied, handing the boy to my husband, before suddenly collapsing on the nearest flat surface that could bear his weight--which happened to be the floor--when his leg could no longer bear his weight.
I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out in horror at the sight of the knife in his thigh. I turned to face my beloved, to see how best I could help him.
John was torn between taking care of the boy Mr. Holmes had handed to him and taking care of his friend, I could tell by the expression on his face.
"Watson, take care of the boy, I can wait," the detective said weakily, trying to hide the great pain he was in.
"John, I can take care of the lad if you tell me what to do," I offered, seeing my chance.
He gave me a grateful look before handing the lad over to me.
"Holmes said he had hit his head, so I want you to check his eyes to see how they respond to light," John directed as I carefully laid the boy down on the sofa we'd been sitting on only moments earlier.
I heard him bickering with Mr. Holmes as I lifted the boy's eyelids and noted how his pupils reacted quite strongly to the light.
The boy mumbled something, his voice thick with an odd foreign accent, not the French accent I had expected.
"You were teaching him how to what!?" John suddenly shouted, startling the partly conscious lad on the sofa.
"What's your name, young man?" I asked the boy, ignoring the so-called grown men having a fight over the legality of "kidnapping an Irregular and bringing him to France to teach him how to fight with kitchen knives".
"John Tolkien, ma'am," the boy replied, adding, "Mister Holmes didn't kidnap me, I follow'd him on ta th' Continent."
"My husband's just concerned about Mister Holmes' well-being, John, don't fret yourself," I said, as John--my John--yelped in surprise as his disagreement with his friend became physical.
"Boys!" I yelled at them, effectively ending their fight.
Honestly, babysitting twin two year old boys had to be easier than this--at least the two year old boys were acting their own ages.