John slid off the bed, feeling ridiculously guilty, his mind doing cartwheels.

Mary. Mary was here. And Sherlock had just - Christ what had he done? Admitted what he felt about John? Or had he?

Meanwhile, Sherlock appeared to be making polite conversation with Mary, who brushed past John as she leant over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. He caught a whiff of her perfume. Clair de Lune, and the memory of it made him go cold as the consequences of that evening came flooding back to him.

'How are you?' Mary was asking Sherlock.

'Still alive. Thanks to John,' came his reply.

'Well, he's always happy to play the hero where you're concerned,' Mary said. 'You should always have your own army doctor on standby when you're planning a dramatic collapse.' She smiled at him, to show that she was teasing. 'I thought you'd be on a normal ward by now?'

'There were a few complications,' John told her, fighting the impulse to shout, 'How can you do this? How can you just walk in and act as if you're his friend after everything that you've done? '

'What complications?' Mary asked sharply, oblivious to John's internal turmoil.

John hesitated slightly, and looked over at Sherlock, who shook his head almost imperceptibly behind Mary's back. He looked tired, John registered, trying not to resent Mary for crashing into what was supposed to be their sanctuary from the outside world.

'Oh, you know - normal stuff,' he said lightly, trying to push his irritation to one side. 'Bit of a chest infection, kidneys took a knocking, that sort of thing, They thought he was better off staying here where he could be monitored more closely. You know what general wards are like.'

Sherlock gave him a half-smile of appreciation over Mary's head, and John felt a jolt of satisfaction for having read the situation correctly.

'But you're okay?' Mary asked Sherlock, genuine concern in her voice. 'I mean you're going to be okay?'

'I'm going to be fine,' Sherlock told her. 'Thanks to Doctor Watson here. Now why don't you take John for a cup of coffee, Mary, and let me get some rest?'

'Fantastic idea,' Mary said briskly, just as John was starting to protest. 'I'm glad that you're okay,' she told Sherlock, seriously. 'You had me worried for a while.'

And then she grabbed John's hand, and pulled him out of the unit, John silently cursing Sherlock Holmes, and wondering why it had taken only fifteen minutes of him being conscious before he had lost control of his life again.

...

They headed for the canteen, bought two cups of dubious quality coffee, and found a table in a quiet corner.

'It's been over a week, John,' Mary said. 'You could at least have texted me with an update.'

'My phone battery was flat,' John said, fiddling with his coffee cup, refusing to make eye contact.

'Oh come on, that's no excuse and you know it,' she retorted sharply. John knew that tone. It meant they were headed for an argument. That he had once again been found lacking, but he wasn't in the mood for being told off.

'I needed to be here for Sherlock,' he replied stubbornly.

'And I get that,' she said, her voice more gentle now. 'But I'm your wife, John. I'm carrying your child. You can't just shut me out like this.' She sounded vulnerable, as if she was trying to point out how much she needed him. But in the light of all of the recent revelations, John couldn't help wondering if he wasn't being manipulated. How would he know now? What was truth and what was just acting, a manipulative device to bring about a desired effect? How would he know when he was being played?

Not trusting himself to speak, for fear of the vitriol that might pour from his mouth, he sat in silence and stared at his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, and wondered why it couldn't all go back to being simple. When he was with Sherlock, he knew exactly what he wanted - for everything to go back to the way that it was before. Before Mary, before Sherlock had left, back to Baker Street and cases and God help him - eyeballs in the fridge. But when he was with Mary, it suddenly became less clear. He wanted to make a break with her, to tell her that it was over, to tell her he would help her support the child, but he couldn't. Because a part of him, the post-Sherlock John, the broken one, still loved her. And in moments like this he didn't know what he wanted, because the bottom line was he wanted to be both - Sherlock's John, and Mary's John, but the problem was, they were two almost entirely different people.

So it came to a choice, Sherlock or Mary. Mary or Sherlock. Mary who he had married; Mary who had seen him through the dark days when he had believed in Sherlock's death and in the emptiness that had followed; Mary who was carrying his child; Mary who had lied to him.

But hadn't Sherlock lied to him too? Time and again? And weren't his lies every bit as bad as Mary's? Mary may have lied about her past, but Sherlock had lied about the present - allowing him to believe that he was dead after that leap from Bart's roof. Not just for a few hours, or a few days, but for two whole years. He had allowed John to mourn for him, with no glimmer of hope. He had allowed him to lose his best friend, his home and his job, all in one massive lie, that John had nevertheless managed to forgive him for. If he had forgiven Sherlock, then shouldn't he at least try to forgive Mary too?

'So is this how it's going to be now?' Mary asked, when it became clear that John wasn't going to break the silence. 'Me only seeing you when Sherlock gives you permission? You refusing to speak to me?'

'Nobody has to give me 'permission',' John flashed back, his distress suddenly giving way to anger. 'And you told me that I didn't have to choose,' John reminded her.

'Maybe I was wrong,' Mary said, reaching for his hand across the table tentatively. 'Maybe I've realised that I don't want to share. Not if it's going to be like this.'

'What, you're jealous of Sherlock now?' John said, snatching his hand away. Anger was definitely winning now, despite all of John's best intentions. Exhaustion always gave way to anger in the end, all of that fury bubbling under the surface as it had since his return from Afghanistan, always willing to break out when he let his defences down. 'Seriously? After everything that's happened you're begrudging me being there for him?'

'Should I be?'

John pushed his chair back, jaw tensed and shook his head at her slowly. 'You're unbelievable.' He leant forward to whisper, 'You nearly killed him, Mary. Twice. And what - you just want me to walk away from him and play happy families with you and the baby?'

'Please John, don't do this,' and he realised that there were tears in her eyes. She thought that she was losing him, and he couldn't tell her that she wasn't right.

'I can't leave him,' he said, his voice cracking now, as anger gave way to something deeper.

'I know. I know that you can't. And I know that I shouldn't ask you to.'

'He nearly died, Mary.'

'I know.'

'Twice.'

'Yes, you've already pointed that out.'

'He's my best friend.'

'Oh John,' Mary said, shaking her head at him, her eyes full of compassion.

'What?' he asked genuinely confused.

'Do you honestly think that is all that he is?'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying,' she said, reaching for his hand again, and this time he didn't pull away, although he didn't react either, just allowed her to put her hand over his where it lay on the table, like a dead thing. 'I'm saying, my darling John, that if you think what you feel for Sherlock is friendship then you're kidding yourself.'

He shook his head. 'I can't talk about this now,' he said.

'I came to tell you I've got a scan booked,' she said. 'Next Wednesday at half ten. I thought you'd want to be there.'

'Mary -I'

'This is your child, John,' she said firmly. ' You need to decide if you want to be part of their life or not. Unless, of course, you've already made that decision. And if you have, then it would be kinder to just tell me now.'

'I haven't made any decisions, Mary.'

'But you admit that there's a decision that you have to make?'

And there was the anger again, overwhelming him, making him want to lash out and destroy something, anything. Why couldn't she let it go? Why couldn't she accept that he couldn't think about this now? Why couldn't she just leave him alone?

He stood up and pushed his cup of coffee away. 'You know what? I can't do this now,' he said, aware that he was almost shouting. 'I can't sit here and have this conversation with you when Sherlock is lying upstairs in intensive care.'

'You didn't answer the question, John,' Mary said, looking up at him.

'I don't know!' John yelled at her, then realised that the entire canteen had gone silent and was staring at them. He held his hand up in apology. 'Sorry,' he said to the staring crowd, and waited, leaning on the table until the hum of chatter in the room had resumed once more.

'I don't know, Mary. That's the honest answer. I don't know how I feel about him and I don't know how I feel about you. I just know that I can't do this now. I'm tired, I've hardly slept in a week. I just need some time to think this through.'

'John, I -' she sounded apologetic now, aware that she had pushed him too far.

'I know, Mary, and I'm sorry. When I know what I want, I'll be in touch. Until then, just give me some space to work out what the hell is going on with my life.'

And blinking back tears, he turned and walked away from her without looking back.
...

Sherlock was asleep when he got back; of course he was. He had always used that as a way to escape awkward conversations. John sat there with him for several hours, and when he failed to wake up, eventually went back to the on-call room, packed a bag, and headed back to 221b to do some much needed laundry.

Mrs Hudson was still up when he let himself in through the street door and he found himself quickly relieved of his bag of washing, despite his protests that he could do it himself. Before he knew it, he was sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea and eating custard creams, while he updated her on Sherlock's progress all to the comforting background hum of the washing machine.

He had always liked Mrs Hudson's kitchen. it spoke of comfort and of the days before Sherlock's leap off the roof. The day that had changed everything. If Sherlock hadn't crossed Moriarty, if he had found some other way to deal with the situation that he found himself in, then what would have happened then? Would John still have met Mary? Would he still have become involved with her? It seemed unlikely. He wouldn't have taken that long-term locum post at the surgery in Richmond that was for sure; he would have been running round London solving cases with Sherlock, doing the occasional locum shift to keep his registration up and nothing more.

If he hadn't been working at that surgery, would he have met Mary anyway? Would he have bumped into her in a bar or a cafe? Would fate have conspired to bring them together in different circumstances? And if it had, if Sherlock had still been there, if he hadn't thought that he was dead, would he have asked her out as he had, and would the pull that he had felt for her have been there? He didn't know, and just trying to work it out made him feel tired. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the impending headache that was just starting to throb at his temples.

'Oh John, you look so tired,' Mrs Hudson was saying, and John realised he has no idea what she's been talking about for the last few minutes. 'Why don't you go upstairs and get some sleep? I'll finish your washing for you, and have it ready for you in the morning. I've put milk and a loaf of bread in the fridge for your and a few other bits and pieces for your breakfast, I knew you'd be back.'

'I might just do that,' John said yawning. 'Thank you Mrs H.'

'He's going to be okay, John - isn't he?' She asked, as John stood up and picked up his bag from where it waited in front of the washing machine. He had few clean clothes left, but he would need his wash bag and phone charger. He could always borrow one of Sherlock's old t-shirts to sleep in. It was an oddly comforting thought.

'I think so,' John nodded, smiling at her concern. 'He's got a way to go before he gets home, but he's well on his way now. He's awake and making sense, that's a big step forward.'

'Could I - maybe visit him do you think? Would he mind? I wouldn't want to intrude, but I'm fond of him you know. I missed him when he was gone.'

'I'll ask him,' John told her, unwilling to guess what Sherlock's response would be. 'But he'll be home in a few weeks anyway, and I'll tell him that you were asking about him.'

...

John's planned eight hours of uninterrupted sleep was broken bright and early by the jaunty ring of his mobile phone. He really needed to change it from that irritating ring tone that it always seemed to default to after updates.

He squinted at the screen. Withheld number - he glanced over at the alarm clock. 6.15am, who the hell would phone him this early? He nearly ignored it, but then reasoning it could be the hospital, he fought back the jolt of panic at what might have happened in his absence, picked it up and said, 'John Watson.'

'How is he?'

'What? Who is this?'

'Who do you think it is, Dr Watson. Now tell me how my brother is.'

'Mycroft,' John said with a groan, throwing himself back onto the mattress in annoyance, and rubbing his gritty eyes. 'Do you know what time it is?'

'You didn't answer my question.'

Mycroft's voice was terse, and John realised that he was hearing genuine concern. 'He's doing okay,' he told him. 'It was touch and go for a while, but it looks as if he's going to make it. He's awake and making sense. He's still on intensive care at The London, but they'll probably move him to High Dependency today.'

There was silence on the other end of the phone, as Mycroft took in the information. John could almost hear his relief.

'Where have you been, Mycroft?' he asked. 'They said they couldn't contact you, and I didn't know whether your parents should be told .'

'You didn't contact them, did you?' came the sharp reply.

'No, I didn't . They gave me the letter filed with Sherlock's solicitors. I followed the instructions in that. But he could have died, Mycroft. Surely they would have wanted to know?'

'We have an agreement, my brother and I,' Mycroft said. 'Our parents don't get involved if we're injured or missing. It's simpler that way. I'm on my way back to London. I'll see you at the hospital at about half two. I'll get a full update then.' Just as John realised that the background noise was that of an aeroplane in full flight, the phone clicked off, terminating the conversation.

Swearing, John threw his phone back onto the bedside table, convinced that he would never be able to get back to sleep, but exhaustion won over anger in the end, and when he next woke, bright sunlight was flooding though the gap in the curtains.

There was a clanking of pans coming from the kitchen downstairs, and he walked into the living room to the welcoming smell of frying bacon. 'I thought you could do with some breakfast before you went back to the hospital,' Mrs Hudson said from where she was standing at the stove. 'I've washed and ironed your clothes for you, and left them on Sherlock's bed to keep them tidy.

'Mrs Hudson, you're an angel,' John said, as he sat down at the table which was already laid for breakfast, pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot.

'You will stay here won't you, John?' she asked, 'While Sherlock is in hospital at least? And afterwards? He'll need someone to look after him for a bit, won't he? I don't like to think of him alone.'

'He'll have you to feed him up,' John told her with a smile. 'What else could he need?'

'It's not just about food and clean clothes though is it?' Mrs Hudson said, standing with her back to the cooker, hands holding onto the rail behind her, and John couldn't fail to feel as he was somehow being told off.

'We're just friends, Mrs H,' he said wearily, reaching for his tea.

'Pull the other one John, it's got bells on it,' she said disapprovingly, as she turned back to the bacon, putting it on the plate and adding a fried egg and tomatoes before slamming it down on the table in front of him.

'What's that meant to mean?' John asked as she added a full toast rack to the table, and sat down opposite him with her own cup of tea, obviously settling in for a meaningful chat.

'You know exactly what I mean, John Watson,' she said. 'You and Sherlock were never just friends. Oh, I don't care about what you did or didn't get up to behind that bedroom door,' she continued, holding up her hand to stop his protest. 'That's got nothing to do with it. There's sex without love and love without sex, and I don't know why people always assume the two have to go together.'

'You think that I love Sherlock?' John asked, genuinely stunned.

'Well, of course you do, John. I know love when I see it. And he certainly loves you.'

John froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, stunned into silence, 'He does?' He managed in a strangled whisper, wondering if Mrs H had taken too many of her herbal soothers that morning.

'He's a complicated one, that Sherlock Holmes. Doesn't find it easy to tell people how he feels. He'd do anything for you though John, you must know that. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.'

...

John walked into the intensive care unit later that morning with a degree of trepidation, disturbed by his conversation with Mrs Hudson, and wondering if Sherlock would be prepared to return to the topic that they'd been discussing the previous evening before they'd been so rudely interrupted. Wondering if he wanted to. He found Sherlock sitting up in bed, freshly shaved, looking a hundred times better than the near ghost of the lastweek, flicking through the screens on his phone with the speed of light.

'How did you get that?' John asked. The last time he had seen that phone it had been in Baker Street, on the night of Sherlock's collapse. He certainly hadn't moved it, so who had?

'I have my means, John,' Sherlock said, without looking up, 'Did you know that Magnussen has taken over another newspaper? That man needs to be stopped.'

'But not by you,' John said, taking the phone out of Sherlock's hands, leaving him staring at empty space. 'Did you get Billy to get that for you? When for heaven's sake? You've only been conscious for the last fifteen hours and I was in Baker Street for most of that time.'

'So I hear. Mrs Hudson does like to chat, doesn't she?'

John groaned. 'You sent Billy round to get it last night while I was updating Mrs Hudson.'

'Well deduced, John. I'm impressed.'

'Good to see you haven't lost any of your sarcasm.'

'No, just everything else.' Sherlock said, glancing around at the many tubes and wires with a grimace.

'Not a fan of the bed bath?' John asked with a grin.

'It's not funny, John.'

'No, I know, but I for one are very pleased that you're finally aware enough to complain about it.'

He put down the chart he'd been look at and threw himself into the chair. 'Have the doctors been round yet?'

'It's eleven o'clock, John. Of course they've been round.'

'And?'

'And apparently I'm lucky to be alive - why do people keep feeling the need to tell me that?'

'Maybe because it's true?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'And maybe because they're hoping you might behave like a sensible human being for once and stop running around London trying to kill yourself?'

'I wasn't trying to kill myself,' Sherlock said indignantly, 'I was trying to -'

'To show me the truth about Mary, yes I know,' John said with a sigh.

'Did you talk to her?'

'Briefly.'

'And?'

'And I've told her I need some space to think things through.'

'You've had a week, John.'

'Why are you so bothered?' John asked, fighting to restrain his anger yet again. 'Why are you so dead set on me staying with Mary after all that she's done?'
'Because you need her.'

'I -,' John hesitated and shook his head. 'No, Sherlock. I don't need someone who is going to lie to me like that.'

'But it's purely logical, surely. Mary -'

'Don't,' John said, looking up, and finding his eyes locked with Sherlock with an uncomfortable intensity. 'Just don't. It isn't logical at all. You, of all people, should know that.'

It was John who looked away first, of course it was. 'Mycroft's coming to see you later, by the way,' he said lightly, trying to break the atmosphere in the room.

'He's back?'

'What you mean you haven't deduced that? You are slipping. He phoned me from the plane this morning. Wanted to know how you were.'

'Wanted to know if I was still alive you mean. What sort of plane was it?'

'How the hell would I know.'

'Quality of the engine noise, John. Have you learnt nothing?'

'Obviously not,' John murmured, marvelling at how quickly they fell back into their old pattern, and wishing desperately that he could find a way to return to the quiet intimacy of their conversation the previous evening. They were interrupted yet again by a knock at the door, but instead of Mary, this time there was a nurse there with a porter.

'Ready to go?' she asked Sherlock.

'Go where?' John asked.

'Echo, apparently. To look at my errant heart valve,' Sherlock replied.

'Can I go with him?' John asked the nurse as the brakes were clicked off the bed, and the portable monitor was unhooked and attached.

'It will be boring,' Sherlock said. 'Go and get yourself a cup of coffee John, you look as if you need it.'

And so John was left standing in an empty room as Sherlock was wheeled away from him, having apparently been dismissed. After all of the hours that he had spent in this room keeping watch over Sherlock, sometimes feeling as if he was keeping him alive by the strength of his will alone, discovering that he was suddenly surplus to requirements was an uncomfortable sensation.

The message was clear - Sherlock didn't want John seeing the echo, didn't want him to know what it showed. He was shutting him out, and the door that had been so enticingly ajar the previous evening had been slammed firmly shut. Normal service had been resumed.

Authors Note:

This might be the last chapter for a while, so I'm hoping this mega chapter might compensate for that a little. I'm not finished with his story, not by a long shot, but life is getting in the way a bit at the moment. So thank you for all the comments - please keep them coming, and I'll be back when I can...

Thanks as ever go to my fantastic beta team of J_Baillier and 7percent solution.