Mary was behind the wheel of their Audi, dividing her attention between the road ahead, and John's silent presence in the passenger seat. He was staring blankly at the windscreen, wondering if he had finally reached the point where his emotions had been racked to the limit one too many times, and there was nothing left to feel.

"John, please. Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?

She quickly checked the traffic, then shook her head tightly before she looked back at him. "I want you to tell me what happened."

Now, there was a loaded question. Where to start? "When?"

That startled her. She shook her head again. "What do you mean, 'when'? Did you know he was going to drug me and his entire family? Where the hell did you go? Why was his brother going ballistic in the kitchen when I woke up?" That was all delivered to the windscreen with rising volume while she kept one hand on the steering wheel and gestured tensely with the other. She took a breath and looked at him. "John, where is Sherlock?" She had found her calm voice again.

He could imagine Mycroft's reaction when he realized his brother and his laptop were missing. He must have been a wild man. He looked at her. "Sherlock killed Magnussen. Shot him in the head, in front of God and everybody. It was quite a surprise." He could hear the flatness in his voice, and some part of his mind recognized it as shock. He wasn't too dulled to notice the brief flash of relief in Mary's eyes before the worry came back to smother it.

"Oh my God. John, are you all right?" She reached for his hand and frowned when she made contact. "Your fingers are like ice."

He didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything. "It's winter."

He didn't think they were headed for Baker Street. Probably Mary's house. Home. They were reconciled, after all. For almost six hours, he estimated. He could check his watch, but then he wasn't entirely sure what time he had said his carefully prepared words. The legal processing at the jail had taken a couple of hours so, yeah. Six hours sounded right. Mycroft said they would not let him see Sherlock, probably for a long time. That would obviously have to change.

What had happened couldn't have been what Sherlock had planned. He would not have taken him along if all he was going to do was kill Magnussen. He would have wanted John there to be impressed when he outwitted Mary's blackmailer. That had always been his role, after all. Appreciative audience of one. But it didn't work out that way this time. Magnussen had outwitted them all. The documents weren't there. They weren't even real. John had actually smiled at first, thinking the threat was an empty one now. Looking back, he knew that must have been the moment when Sherlock had realized there was only one way now to save Mary and him, and he had made the only choice left to him. John had replayed it over and over in his head. He might not have a memory like Sherlock's, but certain events were so life-changing that they had a way of branding every moment in even a normal brain with excruciating detail.

When Sherlock had hung back, letting John go out front with Magnussen to wait for the ax to fall, it should have started the alarms clanging, but it hadn't. John had been too consumed with the new threat of spending his life in prison for treason, since Sherlock apparently had no backup plan. When Sherlock had come out to join them, the tight control of his movements and the hollow look in his eyes should have screamed a warning, but John had been too busy squaring off on Magnussen to notice. When Magnussen had decided to entertain himself by humiliating John in front of Sherlock (I'm sorry, just... let him), the murderous rage building in Sherlock's face simply seemed like anger on John's behalf.

Then the helicopter had shown up, and Magnussen had been too busy gloating to notice the change in Sherlock's demeanor. From seething anger to deadly calm. Sherlock had asked Magnussen to confirm that the information he held over everyone was nowhere but in his Mind Palace. John should have seen what was happening, but he'd been too focused on the tactical team taking aim on them from all sides. He hadn't even noticed when Sherlock reached around him to take the gun. Even when Sherlock had stepped in front of him and raised the gun to Magnussen's head, he couldn't accept what was about to happen.

There was no excuse. He'd had so many chances to stop it. He could have left the bloody gun at the flat. He could have paid attention to the mounting evidence that the plan was falling apart, and taking Sherlock with it. He could have recognized the look on Sherlock's face when Magnussen was tormenting him. But at every opportunity, he had missed the signs, and now there was nothing he could do. Sherlock had thrown his life away in front of John's eyes, and he'd obviously been prepared to die on the spot for it, mowed down by automatic gunfire when he had pulled that trigger. Maybe it was even what he'd wanted. The prospect of spending his remaining years in prison would have made the choice easy for him. John's stomach rolled. Jesus, Sherlock.

From their very first case, Sally Donovan had warned him to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but she'd had it backward. She'd thought she was protecting John from Sherlock. The truth was exactly the opposite.

You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends.

Sally was wrong about that, too. Sherlock had relied on him from the first to help him interpret the people around him who never gave him a chance to be anything but the sociopath they expected to see. He and Sherlock had been friends from the start. John just never understood until tonight that he had, at some point, become more important to Sherlock than his own life.

"John? We're home."

He looked up, not particularly surprised that he had no idea how much time had passed. That six hour estimate was probably just as unreliable. He wondered idly if it was still the same day. He got out of the car and followed her into the house.

She made tea for herself and brought him a glass of Scotch unasked. He had walked to the armchair facing the door and dropped into it without taking off his coat. He accepted the drink and took a long swallow that burned all the way down.

Mary sat down on the end of the sofa, within reach of his chair, but she didn't reach out to him. She sipped her tea and watched him. He sipped his Scotch and let her.

Finally, she took a deep breath and put down her cup. She waited until he looked at her. "You think this is my fault, too, don't you?"

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "I don't think there's anything that matters less to me right now than whose fault it is." He looked at her. "He did it for me, Mary. Who gave him the excuse is just detail."

She reached over and put her hand over his. "You are the last person on earth who has anything to feel guilty about. You saved him, John."

He winced at that. "I can't save him now. I don't have anything left to fight with. He's thrown his life away." He raised his hand from the arm of the chair, dislodging hers without meaning it. He'd simply forgotten hers was there. "There's nothing anyone can do."

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she blinked them away. "What's going to happen to him?"

The breath he pulled in to answer her hitched in his throat. "It's over. No matter what comes next, he won't survive this."

She shook her head. "His brother won't let that happen. He's-"

"His bloody brother is the one who had him arrested. He can't do anything about this. Sherlock shot Magnussen in the head in front of twenty witnesses, all of them cops of one type or another. There's no way out of it. He might just as well have invited a news crew in to broadcast it live. Let the whole bloody country watch." He shook his head. "I need to think. I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it anymore." When she didn't respond, he looked over at her. "Are you okay?"

She pressed her right hand to her lips to muffle a sound that could have been the beginning of a sob. She shook her head. "This is all my fault. And stop right there, John. I'm not saying this to get you to deny it. When we talked at Sherlock's parents', none of this had happened. I have to know what you're feeling now. Please. I know it's not fair with what you've just been through, but I think if we don't talk it through now, the damage might be permanent."

He exhaled slowly. "Mary, I love you. I want to be here for you and the baby. Isn't that enough for now?"

"No, John, You can't do either of those things forever in a vacuum. You thought not reading the memory stick was proof of trust, but that's not how I see it. You're trying to ignore what I am and what I've done, and that won't last. We can't rebuild on willful blindness.

You have to know that."

He knew she was right, but he was so fucking tired. He felt as if the bones had been jerked from his body, and there was nothing holding him up but adrenaline. He was afraid that his decision to come back might not be able to withstand the challenge she was asking him to accept. If it wasn't, maybe this was the time to find out. He put down his drink. "I think I'd like a cup of tea. No, I'll get it. Put your feet up. I think it's going to be a long night."

When he came back to the living room, she seemed composed and ready. He handed one cup to her and sank wearily into his chair. "Okay, where do you want to start?"

"When you enlisted in the Army, did you really know what you were signing up for? Looking back?"

He took a breath and puffed it out. "No, of course not. No matter how prepared you think you are, seeing a soldier blown to pieces is impossible to imagine or describe to anyone who hasn't been there. It changes you. In good ways and bad." He patted his right thigh, the leg that had the psychosomatic limp. That proved to be a mistake, because his memory immediately presented him with the image of the two of them leaning against the wall at Baker Street that first night, laughing and out of breath, just before Angelo brought him the cane he would never use again.

"I know how much he helped you, John. And I know how much he means to you. So, the hardest part of all is understanding why I would shoot him. I will get there, but I need to do it my way, if you'll let me."

He was having a hard time keeping this fresh bloom of anger out of his voice. He knew she would see it in his eyes. "I want to hear you out."

"Thank you. I know how hard this is." She shifted her position a bit to face him squarely. "When I was approached by a CIA recruiter, I was young and idealistic, which made me a prime candidate. I will tell you as much or as little about this as you want. Just stop me at any point, if you think I'm glossing over anything."

"Let's stick with the least detail, for now."

"Okay. They don't start you out as an assassin. Everyone is an analyst, until various skillsets become evident. It's a bit like the way soldiers in basic training are sorted out by the abilities and aptitudes they demonstrate in those first few weeks."

This was not helping. "And your skillset made them sort you as an assassin? What skillset was that?"

She leveled her gaze on his. "Marksmanship. Languages. Physical characteristics. IQ score. Essentially, I was a smart, harmless looking linguist who was an exceptionally good shot with every weapon they handed to me. They knew they would make me an assassin, but I didn't. They ease you into it. Like relaxing in a warm bath, and having the water temperature increased a degree at a time until you're soup. You don't realize what's happening until it's too late to get out."

"And they chose the right woman, didn't they? You were very good at it." It was anything but a compliment.

"Yes. I was. And for a long time, I truly believed that I was a soldier in a good cause. The missions always sounded perfectly plausible as 'defense of country'. That's how they keep you motivated. But after a series of very questionable missions, I began asking the questions instead of just fuming over them, and it drew a lot of the wrong kind of attention. Not all of the people I worked with, and worked for, were entirely above board. I didn't know that, but I found out. When I tried to leave, I was labeled a security risk. If I hadn't run, I would be in some hellhole of a prison somewhere, spending the rest of my life with no hope of ever getting out. I'm no longer proud of what I did, John. But I will always be proud of my reasons for doing it."

His anger was fading, but he knew that was very likely about to change. "And you lied to me about it, why? Didn't you trust me?"

"How long would you have wanted to keep seeing me if I'd come out with what I just told you? Be honest."

"I'm not talking about bringing it up on the first date, but once things became serious, and certainly after I proposed, you owed me the whole truth."

She studied him for a long time. "Why didn't you ever tell me that you killed a man to save Sherlock when you'd barely known him for 36 hours? And that you suffered no consequences and felt no remorse? Aside from comparing body counts, how is what you did different from what I did?"

There was only one person who knew about this, as far as he'd ever known, and that was Sherlock. "Who told you that?"

"First, answer my question, please."

He felt like he'd been sucker punched. "It's different because I was doing it to save his life, not to pick up a paycheck. The man was a serial killer, and I shot him to keep him from making Sherlock his fifth victim."

She nodded. "And that could be the dossier on every person I was assigned to kill, John. The details differ, but the basic idea was always the same. You were in the military. Did you have the time to analyze every order? Ask for justification? Make sure you were being told the truth?"

He folded his arms. "Nice job distracting me from my question. Why didn't you tell me this before we got married?"

"Nice job avoiding my question, too. You first."

"Military units couldn't operate if every order was up for debate. You knew that I would have to agree with that. I'm sure that's why you said it." He took a breath "You've obviously thought this through, and you've made some points that I can't debate. Maybe I can even accept that you were taken in, and got out of it when you saw what it really was. That doesn't explain why you lied to me until you were cornered into telling me the truth." He met her eyes directly. "Or why you almost killed my friend."

She took a deep breath. "Because I was afraid you would feel exactly the way you apparently feel, and yes I know that makes me a coward as well as a liar. I'm not proud of it, John. By the time you and I were close enough that you needed to know, I was too much in love with you to risk losing you over something I foolishly thought I could keep hidden. I'm sorry, and if I could do it over, I would."

Mistakes can't be undone, John. That's why they require forgiveness.

He went still, remembering. Sherlock's voice in his head was comforting and painful, and maybe the only way he would ever hear it now.

"John?"

He shook his head. "You just made me remember something Sherlock said about mistakes. They can't be undone, and that's why they require forgiveness."

Her eyes grew soft. "He's an amazing man, John. You're so lucky to have found him."

"I didn't find him. He found me." His anger flared. "How could you stand there, look him in the eye, and pull that trigger when you KNEW all he wanted to do was help you? How does it feel to nearly kill someone who trusted you so much that he didn't even flinch when you pointed a loaded automatic at his heart?"

"You know I wasn't aiming for his heart, John." She was on the brink of tears.

"And you know you didn't have to hit his heart to kill him." He was not trying to hide his anger. "He died before the first surgery, did you know that? The doctors had given up and were going to pronounce him dead."

She nodded miserably. "Yes, I know. And he nearly died in the flat after he made us talk. I was there, John. I'm sorry. I don't know what more I can say."

He had his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. "I saw you at Leinster Gardens. Before you knew I was there. You weren't talking to him the way you are to me. It was like he was a stranger to you, or worse. Like someone you were there to silence. Is that why you kicked the coin instead of handing it to him? You know, that may have been when he did the most damage to himself, bending over to pick up that fucking coin. Did you even care how much that was going to hurt him?"

She was shaking her head, tears spilling over. "There is nothing I can say that will ever make this right, is there? I should have let you pretend that you were going to forgive me, and maybe you would have in time." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I made a mistake, John. Everything I've done, including what I did to Sherlock, was out of fear, and it guaranteed the exact outcome I was so desperate to prevent."

"How could you be afraid of a man who was barely five days out of emergency surgery? I don't know how he was even able to stand up. You could have pushed him down with one hand and stepped over him. You didn't need a gun unless you wanted to kill him."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and met his furious gaze. "You are so blind. I was afraid of him for the same reason I've always been afraid of him, John. You love him more than anyone in this world, including me, and you always have." She took a breath. "I can share you with him, but I can't lose you because of him."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "You think I love him more than I love you?" The words came out slowly. Disbelievingly.

"You do, John, but that's not why I shot him. That's why I'm afraid of him. I took my gun to Leinster Gardens because I wanted to make him afraid of me, too, so he wouldn't tell you what I did. I wasn't going to use it. I shot him in Magnussen's office because it was the only way I knew to get out of that building without you knowing I was there. I was wrong. I made the wrong choice. I made a mistake. Call it whatever you want. It all comes down to one question: Can you love me, knowing what I did? Sherlock has forgiven me. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"It tells me he's a better person than either one of us."

"He's certainly a better person than I am, John. But not better than you. He told you exactly how he feels in his speech, and you heard every word of that. You're the best man he's ever known. He and I have that in common."

His gut clenched. "I'm the worst catastrophe that's ever happened to him. I can link every crazy thing he's done since we met to him trying to protect me from someone or something." The more he looked at this revelation, the more it hurt.

"No, John. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him. He told you that. He told a whole room of strangers that. And he told everyone, including you, that he loves you as much as I do. So don't tell me you still doubt it."

"If he does, look what it's gotten him. And you." He let the bitterness come through.

"John, there's no price I wouldn't pay to have your love, and I know Sherlock has already proved that he will do anything to keep you safe. Do you think we don't know the risks? All of us, including you? Especially you. Look at the price you've paid for loving us."

He looked at her then, but her focus had moved to her hands resting on her swollen abdomen, lightly stroking the movement he could see. Their baby seemed to be pushing back. "I owe you my life. I forget that sometimes."

She cleared her throat. "It was Sherlock's brother."

That threw him. "What was?"

"He was the one who told me you shot that man. He was trying to tell me how devoted you are to Sherlock, and why you need each other. He didn't have to convince me."

"How did..." But of course, that was a foolish question. Mycroft knew everything. "When did he tell you?"

"The day he told me that he knew what I'd done. He told me that I might just as well have aimed that bullet at you." She took a shaky breath. "He's right, isn't he? But how does he know that?"

He didn't want to get into how Mycroft had come to that conclusion. It would mean telling her that he'd actually contemplated suicide more than once after he'd thought Sherlock was dead, and that Mycroft was actually responsible for stopping his closest attempt. Suddenly he realized something, and he looked over at her in surprise.

She sat up straight. "What?"

"I was just going over in my head how best to keep something from you that I have no right to hide. Ironic, don't you think?"

"You see the problem? Not a good feeling, is it?"

"No. It's not." He took a breath. "A year after Sherlock jumped off that roof, I was out walking one night and found myself standing in front of Bart's a little after midnight, and I wondered if it might be time to just give up and follow him."

She gasped and pressed her right hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, John. I had no idea it was that bad."

"Mycroft had me under surveillance, as it turned out. When he realized where I was, and what it might mean, he sent Greg Lestrade to talk to me. I told Greg what I was thinking, more or less. He called Mycroft, and an hour later I was in a private psychiatric hospital. Mycroft paid for everything. I was there for five weeks before I signed myself out. They'd done all they were going to be able to do for me. My therapist was becoming a bit of a broken record with trying to get me to put a label on my relationship with Sherlock. She asked me point blank once if I was in love with him."

"I can imagine how that went over." Mary paused. "You are, you know."

He frowned. "I am 'what'?"

"In love with him," she held up both hands as if warding him off, but she allowed a small smile to show. "I don't mean romantically, for heaven's sake. Relax, John. I know you've been hearing that for years. Did you ever wonder why?"

He snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

"People see how devoted you are to Sherlock, and how much you've changed him for the better. It's a natural conclusion. Sherlock isn't offended by it, and you shouldn't bother responding to it, either."

He shook his head slowly. "Sherlock doesn't respond because he doesn't care what anyone thinks about him. I learned that the hard way."

"He does care, John. He cares what you think about everything. He measures his success by it. That's why-" She stopped, her expression frozen beneath eyes widened with dismay.

"Yeah, that's why he killed Magnussen in front of me. I know that."

Her chin lifted. "John, this is going to work out, I promise you. No matter what, Mycroft will figure a way out for Sherlock. You know he won't let him go to jail for this."

"They have to let me see him." He was feeling the fight or flight push of adrenaline, and started flexing his fists on his knees to release it. "And I think I'd like to go back to Scotch."

Mary got up from the sofa, and this time she let him help her. "Let me get it for you." She came back a moment later with his refilled glass.

"John, are we going to be okay?" She brushed her fingers lightly through his hair.

He decided honesty was the only way to go. "I feel better about us, and I know I love you." He touched her belly softly. "I also know we have one very good thing going for us already."

She bent down and kissed the top of his head. "I know you have a lot on your mind. I'm going to let you work on that while I go put the baby to bed for a nap." She smiled. "Good night, John. And thank you."

He smiled. One hurdle at a time.


Mary lay alone in their bed, propped in a sitting position with four pillows. It was the only way she was comfortable now. The baby made it impossible to breathe if she tried to sleep in any other position. She had put new sheets on the bed for John's homecoming. A bright white background dotted with yellow sunflowers. They were meant to signify new beginnings and the promise of tomorrow. An hour ago, that would have felt like a cruel joke, but she had hope now.

John thought he was the cause of Sherlock's self-destruction, but he was so wrong. He was Sherlock's salvation. She had done this to them. That she had never intended any of it had been something she had wanted so badly to explain, and now it seemed that John was willing to listen. She could ask for no more than that. He was the most fair minded man she had ever met.

Sherlock was beyond the help of Mycroft Holmes? He had given her an entirely different impression. Fallibility was not part of his DNA. So, he was giving up on Sherlock, and making John believe that he had no alternative. Well, she wasn't going to let that happen.

John had actually given her the solution. If it ended up working as well as she expected, she would make a point of telling him that.


A/N - Only one more to go. Chapter 13 will be posted within a few days.


END OF CHAPTER 12