Mary sat on the side of the bed, brushing her long blonde hair in soft strokes, the rhythmic motion almost hypnotically soothing. John was out tonight, assisting Sherlock on a case, the way he had for their entire acquaintance. She could never begrudge him for it, seeing as without it they never could have met, and she knew that Sherlock was as dear to him as she was herself. For all that, there were sometimes nights like tonight, where she sat alone in their bedroom, readying herself for sleep, and knowing that there was some distant chance that she would wake a widow.
The clatter of boots and hush of quiet but jubilant voices brought relief to her heart, and a smile to her face. One night she may wake to find that her dear John had perished while she slept, and she was alone once again, but tonight? Tonight her boys were safe.
