They ended up at Angelo's, of course they did. Angelo tried to give them the table in the window, the very same one that John has sat at with Sherlock that first night, but John just shook his head and instead pointed towards an empty table in a more secluded corner. Just for a few hours, he wanted to imagine what a less complicated life might be like. A life where there was only Mary and the baby and no Sherlock Holmes and all that came with him.

It was a pleasant fantasy. John and Mary discussed the nursery and what they needed to buy; which brand of buggy was best, whether to get a travel system or a separate car seat and stroller, which cot, cot-top changer or dedicated changing unit, bouncy chair or rocker. Mary pulled up pictures on her iPhone, and John smiled at her enthusiasm and wondered how much this was going to cost him. They could have been any other expectant couple across the city, discussing what was best for their child.

Finally over coffee (with a non caffeinated version for Mary, of course), Mary took his hand across the table, 'When are you coming home, John?' She asked.

John frowned at her, blinked and then pulled his hand away slowly. 'I can't,' he said. 'Not yet.'

'Not yet, or not ever?'

'I don't know,' he said.

'Because you want him more?' she asked in a conversational tone.

'For fuck's sake Mary, keep your voice down!' he exclaimed.

'Pot, kettle,' she murmured and he realised that several of the other customers were darting intrigued looks in his direction.

John closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, tried to make sense of his scrambled thoughts. For one mad, crazy moment he thought about telling Mary the truth; that it was not that he didn't know what he wanted, but that he wanted all of it. He wanted to be a family with Mary and the baby, to watch his child grow up, say her first words, take her first steps. He wanted to be there for all of it, not as some part-time, weekend Dad living elsewhere and with visitation rights.

But he wanted Sherlock too. He wanted him so badly that even considering giving him up was so painful that it made him want to vomit. He wanted Sherlock in a way that he couldn't remember ever wanting another human being in his life. He wanted to be with him, all day everyday, to wake up next to him, to sit in Baker Street and watch him work, God help him even to run round after him as he hunted down clues on cases. And at the end of the day, when the work was done, he wanted to go back to Baker Street and just be with him. To lie on the sofa, arms round each other, maybe to even have a bath together. John was aware that his cheeks were probably turning pink as his thoughts progressed from there. They were not images that you should linger on when you were having lunch with your pregnant wife.

And so John wanted Sherlock, but he wanted Mary and the baby too. And Mary had never looked more beautiful to him that that day. Pregnancy suited her and as she sat there, one hand resting lightly on her bump, he realised that past-life as an assassin apart, he really did have everything that he had ever wanted; a good job, a house, a wife who loved him and a baby on the way. So why couldn't he just be happy with that?

Because Mary had shot Sherlock and everything had changed. Because he still loved Mary, despite everything, but it was fading, like the love that you felt for an old friend who has disappointed you in some major way, who in their actions had proved themselves not to be the person that you thought they were. You still loved them, but that love was somehow irreversibly flawed, like a favourite mug with a chip in the rim. You still drank from it, but it was always with a feeling of regret for the days when it had been perfect. And you drank with caution, never knowing when or if it was going to damage you in the process.

Sherlock and Mary, Mary and Sherlock. He loved them both in very different ways, he needed one and the other needed him. Had it not been for the baby then his choice would be been clear. But there was a baby, and the baby needed Mary. And Mary needed him. And the baby needed her parents to be together. And wasn't that what Sherlock had said too? That the baby woukd need them both?

And then John realised what Sherlock was doing. He was pushing John away from some misplaced sense of duty. He was being selfless and noble - Sherlock Holmes, who was never selfless was doing this for John, and for Mary, and for the baby because of that ridiculous vow that he had made in their wedding day. He would not allow John to give Mary up, and how could John fight that? And nobleness and selfishness aside, did Sherlock even want John? Really, truly want him in the way that John wanted him? Not just as a sidekick, but as a companion and a lover. Would he ever be able to give John what he wanted?

He became aware of Mary watching him, in that quiet, observant way that she had. As if she could hear everything that you were thinking, or perhaps read it on the expressions on his face.

'You've gone ever so quiet, ' she said finally, and there was edge to her voice; half teasing, half concerned.

John shook his head, unable to put his thoughts into words. 'It's complicated, Mary,' he

'It doesn't have to be,' she said, fingers slowly, so slowly, creeping across the table to touch his. 'I love you, John. This baby loves you and needs you. I want us to be a family. Why can't we have that?'

'You know why,' John said, his voice cracking.

And Mary, his beautiful wife, smiled at him almost pityingly, and said sadly, 'But he can't give you what you want, John. You know that.'

It was an almost precise replication of the conversation he'd had with Sherlock the night that he'd woken up on ITU, 'I can't give you what you want,' he had said, and in his heart of hearts, John knew that it was probably true. Sherlock Holmes was a man so broken, so locked up in his own set of rules and protections that he had never in all of the time that John had known him had a relationship. He pushed everyone away. At that moment, sitting holding Mary's hand in the fading light of the October afternoon, John knew that it was hopeless. That he should hang on to what he had; to his wife and his child and the life that he had fought so hard to rebuild.

And after the bill was paid, and they had been ushered out with many handshakes and hugs by Angelo, John somehow found himself sitting in a black cab with his wife, walking though his own front door with her, and as the day slipped through dusk to night, re-acquainting himself with her changing body in the soft comfort of their own bed. He fell asleep wrapped around she as he always used to, her back nestled into his chest, feet intertwined. For those few hours, he allowed himself to forget Sherlock Holmes, and all that had happened in the last few weeks. He allowed himself to forget that his wife had lied to him and betrayed him. For those few hours he was John Watson, husband, family man and father to be, and not Dr Watson, sidekick of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. For those few hours, he allowed himself to indulge the fantasy that this was his life, and until he woke the next morning he could almost believe that that was the case.

Authors note

I know that many of you won't have seen this coming, and I can almost hear the collective gasps of horror from here!

And to be honest, this wasn't something that I saw coming myself until I started writing it, and realised that this was exactly what would have happened. Pregnancy is a time so full of emotion and biological drive, and seeing your unborn child on an ultrasound screen is an indescribable experience for both parents. It would throw up all kinds of conflicts for John. As if the poor chap didn't have enough to deal with already.

Because above all this is the story of three adults trying to negotiate their way through an almost impossible situation. And Mary and John are after all a married couple, with a baby on the way and falling back into intimacy is the easiest thing in the world in that situation. It's almost like muscle memory.

Does it mean that John has given up on Sherlock? Of course not.

Next installment coming shortly when all will be revealed. Well partly at least.