Between Bath and London, May 2013
John, sitting bolt upright in the seat by the window, glances down at Mary beside him. She's nodded off, her head lolling heavily against his shoulder. She looks peaceful - carefree.
He sighs and turns to look out at the spring scenery speeding by.
By any definition, they've had a lovely weekend away - charming bed and breakfast, cosy restaurants, long walks steeped in history. They've stopped to admire the offerings in small shops, paused to take photographs amongst the blooming flowers, held hands down quiet paths.
They've slept together for the first time (though they've been dating for months now), and that, too, is lovely. Mary is deceptively imaginative in bed; she exudes a quiet competence in her day-to-day affairs - practical, in the way his mum always was - and he'd wondered if that would translate to a certain efficiency in the bedroom. But before they've even made it to bed that first night, she's doing things with her hands - with her mouth - that he hasn't felt in years, and it's good, so bloody good that he reciprocates in kind, trailing hands over soft skin and tongue over velvet folds until she's pulling at his hair and coming in his mouth. Her body is warm and welcoming; he sinks into it with a sigh, and in that moment she's beautiful and he thinks he could love her.
But the thing is, he doesn't.
It's not that the walks in the park or the little shops of curios or the charming bed and breakfast just aren't 'him'. John's got a streak of sentimentality a mile wide, and he appreciates the quaintness of it all as much as Mary. And it's not that they haven't got things in common - God knows, on paper they're perfect for one another.
It's that there are silences that stretch into awkwardness, and John's known different ones. He's known the electricity of a wayward touch - the exhilaration of being together. He's known breathless anticipation and wonder and passion. The realisation may have been (too) late, and he may not name it still, but John knows what it was that he had; and maybe it's too much to ask of something so new, and maybe he's lucky to have had it at all, much less expect it again.
But he did have it and he can't unlearn it and he'll never, ever forget, and anything less seems wan and weak in comparison. He likes Mary enough to want it for her, too, but he knows she'll never have it from him.
John hates to be the cause of hurt - hates it - remembers every awful thing he's ever said with a sharp regret that, at this point, far outweighs the initial sting of his words. This will hurt Mary, and he wants, more than anything, to feel for her that way he's felt before. He wants to love her, body and soul, and he even thinks he could convince himself, in time, that he does.
But on those nights when the snow falls softly and there's music in the air, he'll know he's been deceiving them both.
The sound of the train travelling over its tracks is gently hypnotic. John closes his eyes with a sad sigh and gently leans his head against Mary's - one last little intimacy before he says goodbye.
London, September 2013
It's the kind of day John loves best - cloudy and dry, a bit of a nip in the air, but not enough to warrant a jacket. He's just stepped out for a bit of air between patients, a quick walk around the block before the Friday afternoon rush.
John turns left down a quiet lane. He's gone only a dozen feet or so beyond the corner when he sees, out of the corner of his eye, the sleek black bonnet of a Jaguar pulling up slowly alongside him. He stills and stares straight ahead; hears the click of an opening door, the soft clap of expensive shoes on pavement. His fists tighten and he takes a step forward. Another. One foot in front of the other, taking him away.
The footsteps behind him quicken until a hand lands lightly on his shoulder, holding him back. John stops dead in his tracks.
"No," he says between gritted teeth, wrenching away.
"Please," replies a voice that's as regretful as the last time John heard it. "John, please - I must speak with you."
John's jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. "I've said everything I will ever have to say to you."
"John," it pleads, and he turns - and looks up into a face he's never seen before. Dishevelled hair and a purple bruise encircling one eye. A long, thin cut - perhaps a day old - on the right cheek. A frantic wildness in his eyes that's the antithesis of everything John's come to associate with Mycroft Holmes.
John stares at him in frozen silence.
"What," he eventually asks, "can you possibly have to say to me?"
"There's no time to explain," Mycroft says. "Come with me, please, John. It's a matter of vital importance."
He reaches out to take John's arm, but John snatches it away and takes a step back.
"No. Not until you tell me what's going on."
Mycroft blinks - casts a shrewd glance around them, then leans in close and whispers in John's ear.
"He's alive, and he needs you."