Profuse apologies for the delay inwriting this chapter - I hope you enjoy it nonetheless :D

If the week had started a little badly for Mary, with John still unhappy about not being available for her first ante-natal appointment, it got worse with the arrival of the mid-week post.

There were a great number of acceptances to the wedding, one or two declines, and that was to be expected given the fairly short notice, but amid the variety of response cards was a thick cream coloured envelope, superb quality, with very familiar calligraphic writing. Mary's smile faded and her heart plummeted to her stomach as she carefully slit open the textured vellum, revealing a matching cream, gilt edged card.

'My dear Mary,

I'm so pleased to hear of your forthcoming nuptials, but saddened that you have forgotten to include me on your guest list.

Rest assured though, my dear, I have certainly not forgotten you.

Ever yours,

CAM

xXx

Mrs Hudson believed she would never be surprised by anything that Sherlock might get up to, but as she carried up a tray containing a mug of coffee and a plate with a slice of his favourite cake she realised that maybe she had been mistaken.

The hall door leading into the kitchen was completely covered with a handful of black plastic sacks taped together, with a large hand-written 'Do Not Enter' sign on it. The sliding door that led from the living room to the kitchen was similarly covered, this time with a 'Keep Out' sign.

Odd humming sounds could be heard emanating from the room. Mrs Hudson put her tray on the coffee table and called out to her tenant.

"Don't come in!" Came the immediate response.

"Well I wasn't going to, seeing as how you have put up all these keep out signs!" Mrs Hudson replied tartly. "What are you up to in there?"

"Developing photographs."

Well. That wasn't what Martha Hudson expected to hear! After a moment or two she gathered her wits and asked "Have you taken up a new hobby?"

There was a rustling sound, as if someone was fighting their way out of a plastic bag, and suddenly Sherlock appeared, stepping through the smallest of gaps between door and doorframe before closing the door behind him.

"Hobby?" his voice was scathing. "No, I haven't taken up a hobby – whatever gave you that idea?"

With a roll of her eyes the landlady indicated the blacked out room. Sherlock frowned.

"No no no! I need to develop these pictures myself if I am to convince John of the truth." He threw himself into his chair and picked up the plate of cake, tucking into the sweet treat absent mindedly.

"I hope you washed your hands after playing with those chemicals."

Sherlock ignored the comment and carried on eating. Mrs Hudson sat on the couch and looked at him.

"So," she said after the silence had stretched beyond comfortable. "What truth? Are you printing photographs for John to prove your friendship? Because if you are, then you're wasting your time."

Turning his head towards his landlady, Sherlock glared.

"Of course not."

"Good, because he doesn't need fancy gifts as proof of your friendship – after all, didn't he ask you to be his best man?"

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Well it proves that he still cares, even if he feels honour-bound to marry Mary because…"

"Shut up Mrs Hudson, you're rambling."

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"This has got nothing to do with friendship… well it has… just not how you think."

"Do I want to know?"

Her tone made Sherlock smile.

"Actually Mrs Hudson, you probably don't."

xXx

"Are you ever going to give up kidnapping me?" John asked resignedly as he climbed into the back of the large black car.

Mycroft smiled that peculiar smile he reserved especially for John.

"Will you ever believe me when I say that I'm not kidnaping you?"

John looked at him. "No."

Mycroft's driver coughed suspiciously, but his boss ignored him and favoured John with a glare.

"To tell the truth…"

"Well that would be a first!"

"…I wanted to ask you about your wedding list."

John's jaw dropped.

"Really? Gifts or people?" he asked when his brain came back online.

"Why people of course." Mycroft smirked

"Uh… Mary has the definitive list, maybe you should ask her?"

"John, don't be awkward. If I wanted to ask your intended I would have done so." The government official picked up a file that lay between them on the seat, opened it, and passed across a newspaper clipping. "Do you know this man?"

John puffed out his cheeks as he stared at the picture. The man in question was tall, well dressed, and sported a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. The look was topped off by gold wire-rimmed glasses.

"Can't say he's familiar – should he be?"

"I was under the impression that you kept up with current affairs Dr Watson. This is Charles Augustus Magnusson, business man, philanthropist, and one of the richest men in the country."

"I keep up with politics." John replied with a wry laugh. "After all, the government is trying to force new working conditions on junior doctors as well as planning to force us GP's to work seven days a week – I'd be stupid not to keep abreast of their machinations, hm?"

"Quite." Mycroft's voice was as dry as the desert.

"So, this Magnusson bloke – what has he got to do with the guest list for my wedding? I sincerely doubt Mary knows anyone that rich and famous…"

"She does."

"What?"

A haughty quirk of an eyebrow was Mycroft's only response to John's raised voice. The doctor cleared his throat, a flush of embarrassment tinting his cheeks.

"I'm sure I would know if my future wife had a friend on the Sunday Times Rich List."

"I can assure you she does; maybe you'd like to ask her about him?"

Embarrassment turned to anger and John reached forward to rap on the privacy glass between them and the driver.

"Stop here – I want out now!"

The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror, and receiving a nod from his employer pulled smoothly into the kerb.

xXx

Normally Sherlock wouldn't bother answering his phone while he was busy – after all, if they wanted him they would call back – but a quick glance at the screen showed it was John, and that was unusual enough to make him pick up. He'd barely said his name when John launched into his tirade.

"What the bloody hell is your brother's problem? Why does he insist on sticking his bloody great nose into my life? The wanker is trying to tell me my fiancée rubs shoulders with rich philanthropists – I mean, I'd know if she had rich mates! Mary wouldn't be able to resist teasing about it; you know what she's like…"

"No, I don't actually."

"What? Oh, well you know what I mean anyway." John seemed to have run out of steam, and he breathed heavily down the phone, waiting for Sherlock to say something. He didn't have to wait long.

"Who is it?"

"Pardon?"

"Don't be feeble John. Who is this rich friend that Mycroft is sure your… Mary… has?"

"Some bloke called Magnusson, Charles Augustus Magnusson – you know him?"

"Heard of him." Sherlock stared at the batch of photographs in front of him. There in black and white was John's Mary, sitting at a table outside a once fashionable French café with her back to a table where none other than Magnusson was drinking coffee. To the casual observer they were just two strangers at the same café, but to Sherlock's experienced eye all the subtle nuances were there, the body language, the slight tilt of the head, it was all there. Magnusson was communicating and Mary was listening.

To what, he wondered.

"Sherlock? Are you still there?"

"Of course I am John."

"Well? What about this Magnusson bloke? What does Mycroft think he's playing at?"

"Oh he never play's John." Sherlock said softly. "Are you going to ask Mary?"

John groaned. "Not you too?"

"Will you?"

"Why are you both so keen that I ask my fiancée about what is probably a vague acquaintance from way back?"

"Because John, we want to know what she'll say."

xXx

Magnusson sat back and watched the television screen, replaying once more the shadowy scenes from both inside and outside the rather dilapidated municipal swimming pool where Moriarty had held John Watson hostage.

To the casual observer he appeared to be unmoved by the situation unfolding on the screen before him, but a closer look would have revealed the slowly creeping smile of a cat that had cornered a rather juicy mouse, a smile that was echoed in his hard pale eyes.

Slender fingers slid over the controls and the film froze, leaving the image of a dark clad assassin whose black balaclava did a poor job of disguising blond hair and hard killer's eyes. Magnusson now smiled openly.

"So, Mary Morstan, I wonder what you will make of my little missive."

xXx

Mary flinched as the front door slammed. One glance at John's face told her all she needed to know about her fiancé's mood, his jaw was clenched so tight she feared for the state of his teeth.

"Dinner won't be too long." She called through from the kitchen. Silence greeted her, so she peered out of the kitchen.

John was sitting staring at his hands – never a good sign.

"Tea?"

"What…no…er, no thanks."

"What's wrong, bad day at the clinic?"

Without answering her question John looked up from his hands and into her face.

"Have you got any rich friends?" Even as the question left his lips John wished he could recall his words. He acknowledged – if only to himself – that he was playing once more to Sherlock and Mycroft's whims, and that thought made him angry. How dare they make him doubt both his fiancée and his own judgement? Still, the question was out there, and John had to be honest with himself and admit he was interested to hear what she had to say.

Mary frowned down at him.

"John? Do we have money problems?"

John's face was blank.

"No, should we have?" he asked.

"No – I mean…" Mary laughed, but it was a brittle sound. "I'm just a little confused as to why you're asking about knowing rich people…"

"It was just something…"

"Just something what? Something that your posh ex used to have? Something that you miss having around?" Fear had made Mary careless – if she had been a bit more careful and thought about her words she could have brushed the whole thing off as unimportant. Foolishly however, she had brought Sherlock into the equation.

"You always do that don't you?" John accused, leaping up and glaring at her. "Whenever you don't want to answer a question, or when you feel the need to divert attention from yourself you make some smart-arsed remark about Sherlock!"

"I don't!" Mary yelled back. "I just get sick of you bringing him into conversations…"

"Who brought him into the conversation? I think you'll find you did that." clenching his fists at his sides, John drew in a deep breath straightened his back and added in a slightly calmer voice. "Why must you always insult him, call him names? What has he ever done to hurt you?"

"He has you!" No sooner were the words out than Mary clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. "No, John, please! I didn't mean it."

John shook his head and reached for his jacket.

"I'm going out, see if any of the lads are in town and up for a drink – don't wait up."

Mary watched, dead-eyed, as the front door slammed once more.

"I didn't mean it." She whispered again as tears slipped down her cheeks.

xXx

The Barley Mow in Dorset Street was crowded, loud and too close to Baker Street for John's peace of mind.

None of the lads from the hospital rugby team had been keen to come out, and even Greg had been reluctant – work had been busy and he was looking forward to an early night – which left John with a bit of a dilemma, should he go home, drink alone, or go up to Sherlock's flat and spend the evening trying to avoid the subject of Mary and Rich businessmen? The latter won out as the noise levels in the pub grew louder and John's tolerance of such grew less.

The living room lights were on as he approached the door, and although both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson has insisted that he keep his keys in order to let himself in he still knocked, waiting for Mrs Hudson to let him in.

"Forgotten your keys?" she said with a roll of her eyes.

He blushed slightly, stammering an answer which (apparently) was exactly what she expected to hear as she smiled and flapped her hands at him, sending him up the familiar stairs to the flat.

"Sherlock?" John called tentatively as he opened the flat door, frowning at the black plastic taped everywhere. "You in the middle of a critical experiment?" He knew full well that Sherlock's idea of 'critical' and his were two totally different things, but asked nonetheless.

"No, not at all John." Sherlock's head popped out of the living room, startling his friend momentarily. "Ignore the kitchen, I've yet to take down the covers, but the experiment has been cleared up."

"Really?" A chuckle softened the comment as John walked through to the living room to see his friend scooping up a pile of photographs and piling a lot of plastic into a box. He grinned and looked closer. "Is that a box of old videos?"

"It was." Sherlock hastily slammed a lid on the box and kicked it under the couch.

"Was?"

"Would you make tea please John?"

"Um…yeah." John watched as the pile of photographs were shoved willy-nilly into a desk drawer before turning to fight his way through more plastic to get to the kettle.

After rinsing it out he filled it and switched it on, then took the time to look around. The kitchen was suspiciously clean and tidy, if a little empty of anything edible.

"When did you last eat?"

"Can't remember."

"Thought as much – fancy a take-away?"

"Who's paying?"

John rolled his eyes. Despite having a regular job he was well aware that he was still significantly poorer than Sherlock, and this was no doubt the reason why – because the lanky git can always get someone else to pay. Still, he had originally planned to drink himself almost to oblivion, so he reckoned that the cost of a decent Indian meal evened things out.

"I'll pay – you ring it through."

Sherlock looked pained. John laughed.

"Okay, you win. I'll pay and ring it through, and when it gets here you –" he pointed at his friend. "You can tell me about your recent experiments."

They filled their time discussing Scotland Yard, the lack of decent criminals (John laughed, Sherlock cursed) and the state of the capital in general. John was just about to start on the state of the NHS and the latest government stupidities when the doorbell interrupted them and he ran lightly down the stairs.

Sherlock counted. Slowly. He got to seven before the proverbial shit hit the fan.

"Sherlock!" John yelled at the top of his voice as he took the stairs two at a time. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"Ah, I see Mycroft has delivered our meal."

"You mean you knew he'd turn up? What, did you plan this whole thing?" The doctor was fuming. The only thing stopping him from leaving was the elder Holmes sibling leaning, smiling, against the front door of the flat.

"Do sit down, won't you John? This will be much easier to discuss if you cease to give the appearance of a…" he smirked a little "…rabbit in the headlights."

"Rabbit… Headlights… !?" If he was angry before, John was positively apoplectic now, and Mycroft would have been on the receiving end of John's formidable left hook had Sherlock not intercepted the swing and, using the doctor's strength against him dropped him into his armchair.

"John, you need to be reasonable…"

"Reasonable? This afternoon your brother kidnapped me, you suggest I ask Mary about her rich friend, and she accuses me of always bringing you into conversations…"

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Bring me into the conversation."

Poleaxed, John stared up at the younger man, then flicked his gaze to Mycroft and back again.

"No." he said eventually. "No, I didn't, she did. The same as she always does when she doesn't want to…"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on John's face, and the silence between them stretched.

"Why does she always do that?" John sounded strangely lost, as if suddenly realising his entire world was crumbling around him.

Sherlock held his friend's gaze as he lowered himself into his leather armchair. If it hadn't been so sad he would have thought it hilarious that Mycroft, who never did anything for anyone unless there was something in it for him, dished up Johns food and set it down on a tray on the coffee table.

But sad it was, because Sherlock had the sneakiest suspicion that having broken John's heart once by jumping off the top of Bart's, he was about to do so again by destroying the new life he had made for himself.

"Eat John." Mycroft said quietly. "You shouldn't be having this discussion on an empty stomach."

"Not hungry." John looked shell shocked, as if he knew something was coming that he would neither like nor want to hear.

Mycroft would have insisted but his younger brother signalled him to leave it.

In silence the Holmes brothers waited, until finally John sniffed, sat up and gave Sherlock that sharp nod that meant he was ready to hear whatever they had to say.

Mycroft kicked off the conversation.

"John, because you have been a member of my family for a long time…" He paused and waited for the doctor to snarl a denial but the interruption never came, and so he carried on. "I was concerned that your fiancée, Miss Morstan, had an almost non-existent past, and so I asked Anthea to make enquiries, just to be sure."

Still John said nothing, so Sherlock picked up the story.

"My interest was piqued when you were kidnapped. Mary had received two texts – both skip codes."

"So?"

"So it was Mary that identified them as skip codes, not me."

"That led us to believe that at some point she had worked in an environment where secrecy was paramount." added Mycroft as he finally took a seat on the couch. "But I couldn't find her on the payroll of any of our allies."

The next hour was spent explaining all the actions first Mycroft's team, and then both brothers working together had taken before finally discovering the most damning piece of evidence.

"Moriarty was careless, he didn't think to disable the old-fashioned CCTV from the pool where Carl Powers died, nor did he remove the old fashioned video recording that was running in a constant three hour loop."

"Moriarty?" John seemed to reanimate a little at the mention of the Irishman. He turned and frowned at Mycroft. "I assume you took the tape?"

The government official nodded.

"It showed everything we expected it to show, a marksman in black wearing a balaclava, carrying a laser-sighted high powered rifle, but gave us no clue as to who he was or where he had come from."

"And now you do."

"Mycroft went back to studying the tapes recently, and then he passed them to me. He also passed some intelligence that he had received from the French police, some film taken about five years ago in Saint-Germain-des-Prés." Sherlock rose and retrieved the photographs. "I spent this afternoon printing stills from the videos; I thought you would prefer that I did it rather than one of Mycroft's minions."

Shuffling them into order, he handed John the Parisian photographs and waited. For a moment or two the other man stared at the images before him, then looked first at Sherlock, then at his brother.

"This…" his voice came out hoarse so he cleared his throat and started again. "This is Magnusson."

Mycroft nodded.

"And because Mary is sitting at the next table you assume she knows him?"

Sherlock leaned forward.

"John, you know me. I wouldn't be showing this to you if I hadn't studied the minutiae of both subjects' body language. He may appear to be reading the newspaper, but look at his lips – he is obviously talking. Look at the way Mary looks as if she's watching the world passing her table but the slight turn of her shoulders, the way she sits right back in her seat – she is listening."

Deep blue eyes studied Sherlock's earnest face, not wanting to believe yet unable to refute anything his friend had said. He could see what Sherlock saw; even now he could remember the younger man teaching him the subtle nuances of body language that gave themselves away in photographs.

"What else?"

"John I…"

"What else Sherlock? You wouldn't mention Moriarty and the pool without good reason."

Hesitantly he handed over the remaining photographs. The marksman - the image blown up to show in horrifying clarity the wisps of blond hair, the eyes, the obviously feminine figure. Sherlock watched as John swallowed several times, his breath stuttering as he tried to hold back a sob.

"I'm sorry John, but the 'marksman' that was prepared to kill you was Mary Morstan, your fiancée."

xXx

Magnusson smiled coldly as his mobile phone vibrated on the desk. He picked it up and answered the call.

"They know." A frantic female voice spoke without the courtesy of a greeting. "They know about me. I need your help!"