For those who pay attention, yes I changed the name from Lucy to Mary. Felt like making it a bit more canon. And if you didn't notice... Well, I probably wouldn't have either:)


John and Mary fit together oh so well, in a way that John hasn't fit with anyone in a long, long time.

He fits in with her life and she with his.

He feels at home in her house, she loves to have him round for dinner. When he discovers a new, Sherlock induced, hate of action movies, she hugs him comfortingly and tells him not be such a girl or no-one will ever want to shag him. He loves playing with her son, Thomas, and Thomas loves to jump on John's stomach when he lets his guard down and foolishly dozes off on the couch.

Most importantly John doesn't shatter when Mary is there. He doesn't shatter when Mary has her arms around him. It's not perfect, of course. It couldn't possibly be perfect, not after Everything That Has Happened. He still wakes screaming if he dreams a dream of Sherlock's pavement blood. He still falters in his steps if the weight of the Dead Detective becomes too heavy in his heart. And he still cracks if he sees a tall man in a dark coat striding purposefully through the streets of London. With Mary it's just easier to bounce back, easier to duct tape over the cracks, easier to fall back to sleep and easier to pick himself back up and fit the pieces together in the right order. He's not healed, not by a long-shot, but he's getting there. He's getting there with Mary by his side. And That Is What Matters.

In six weeks John is closer to her than he's been to anyone in more than a year. Closer to her than he is to Harry. Closer to her than he is to Mrs Hudson, to Lestrade or to Stamford, so it's not really surprising when they fall into bed together after only that long. It's not surprising when John moves in after three months. And it's not surprising when John proposes six months after they met.

Well, it doesn't surprise John and Mary, it surprises everyone else. Except Mycroft, but John didn't expect to surprise Mycroft. Between the constant, compulsory, for-Sherlock's-sake suicide watch and Holmesian eyes that always see Far Too Much, John would have died of shock had Mycroft Holmes not known.

The wedding is quiet, small and intimate. John invites what his left of his family – Greg, Mike, Harry and Molly. He doesn't invite Mycroft, fully expecting him to turn up anyway, and thanks God when he does. Mary invites her sister and some friends from work. Thomas bears the rings, Greg is the best man and Mary's sister is the maid of honour.

Yes, the wedding is small. But the couple love each other, they love the boy that is now their son, they love the people around them and the people around love them.

But the gap does not go unnoticed. The gap where Sherlock Holmes isn't. The gap that John filled with anguish an age of time ago. The gap that, no matter what anyone says, everyone does their damndest to ignore, their absolute best to not mention. Not today.

John Watson and Mary Morstan are happy with their lives. They have a son to love, scold and dote upon. They have a house to keep clean, stain with tea and consider selling. They have love that they savour, enjoy and add to. John has not been happier in a long, long time...

The gap does not go unnoticed.