Sherlock's eyes were burning. Hunger gnawed away at his insides, and he almost repented skipping dinner. John had tried to force him to eat, but he didn't want to stop working - not when he felt like he was finally on to something.

Together, John and Sherlock had tried every possible combination, unscrambled names, addresses, dates...nothing made sense. At some point, John had gotten up to check on Rosie, rejoined Sherlock on the floor, and then fallen asleep himself. He woke up now, looking disoriented and bleary. Sherlock snapped his eyes away. He didn't want John to think that he had watched him sleep.

"Did you figure it out?" John asked sleepily.

"Not yet."

"Hm." John pulled a few of Sherlock's sheets towards himself. "Have you tried the initials?"

Sherlock snatched the sheet out of John's hand and started scribbling.

James Oliver
Bertha Adams
Frank Evans

Sherlock frowned at it. " - doesn't make any sense. I could rearrange it, but - no. Didn't think so, Bertha wasn't murdered... let's try the names from the nameplates."

John had already drawn up the list.

Yardley Oliver
Upton Adams
Rachel Evans

" - wow, we don't even have to rearrange this - " John said, "You are - what? What are we?"

"You, John Watson, are silver." he whispered.

"What?"

"You're the best conductor of light!" Sherlock declared, flouncing around the room. "Finally, finally something to work on!"

"Okay, but what does this actually tell us?"

"That we're on the right track. Someone's targeting us. The next two break-ins will complete this message."

John looked down at the sheet of paper. There was a prickly feeling at the back of his throat, but he swallowed his doubts and moved on.

The living room was a perfect mess. The papers and files from the previous night still lay scattered around the couch. Rosie's toys and clothes were everywhere. John looked around at the chaos and huffed, exasperated. He almost wished that he had accompanied Sherlock on his revisit of the crime scenes, but he was far too tired from his day at the clinic.

Harry had picked Rosie up a while ago, so he now had the flat to himself. He'd been looking forward to sitting down and sorting through his emotional baggage, but, well, he couldn't do it with the flat so messy. He started cleaning up, mentally cursing Sherlock. Does he live in the flat? Yes. Does he clean the flat? No.

He tripped over a small white shoe and started hunting for the other one. Rosie's shoes had a knack for ending up in the most unexpected places - wedged under the fridge, underneath a sofa cushion, once even jammed up the fireplace. He sometimes had a feeling Sherlock hid them just to exasperate him. Well, this shoe was nowhere to be found; he'd have to check Sherlock's room.

Entering Sherlock's room without him felt like a strange breach of privacy, although there were close to no personal effects in the room (and he slept there every night anyway). He bent down and fished around under the bed - if he has anything to hide, he won't be stupid enough to put it in such an obvious place. He didn't find the shoe, but his hand brushed against something papery. Against his better judgement, he pulled it out.

Instinctively, John knew the letter wasn't meant for him. The envelope clearly said Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street. And yet he couldn't stop his hand from trembling as he pulled out the letter, for the handwriting - it was Mary's.

Sherlock,

If you're reading this, I hope you got my CD. I hope you saved John Watson. I know you have questions, and I'm going to try and answer them to the best of my abilities.

Why would Sherlock hide this from me?

Where do I start? Well, just to clear this up: I am dead. No question about it.

He sat down heavily on the bed.

I am writing this letter because it's only a matter of time before my past catches up with me. Ajay already found me once, in Morocco, and I'm taking it to be my final warning. My time is running out, and I want to be prepared for what comes.

I could write to John, but it would only upset him. He needs to move on. Of course, there is a possibility that I'll be able to live out a normal life with him and Rosie, in which case this letter will be deemed useless.

His breath hitched.

For the world's only consulting detective, you can be incredibly thick sometimes. I don't know John Watson better than you do. I won't even pretend to. But let me tell you this: the very moment that I saw you two together for the first time, I knew that he was gone. His heart was hopelessly sold on you, whether he acknowledged it or not.

He was still grieving when you came back, Sherlock. Two years and still breaking, but deep down, as if there were fissures in his foundation. From the very day you came back, there was a new spring in his step. It was like somebody had breathed the spirit of life back into him. That was when I realized that the John Watson I knew - he was a pale shadow of the real one. And I knew he'd never be the same without you.

He leaned his head against the wall.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have agreed to marry him. Don't get me wrong - I love him, but more than that, I was bewitched by the idea of a settled life. A husband, a kid, a job that didn't involve secrecy. He was supposed to be my one chance at normalcy - and to some extent, I was his.

This marriage isn't working, I know that now. We both try, but we can't pretend forever. It's strange, really. They say that parenthood brings you together, but it's driven us further apart. On that note, do look after Rosie. When she's old enough, tell her about me.

He smiled, and some of the guilt that had been eating away at him dulled a little.

I know you two. And if I'm gone, I know what you could become, because I know who you really are. Last time, I told you to save John, and this time, I'm telling you to protect him. Guard his heart as your own, Sherlock. There is no man who deserves happiness and love more than him, and none who can give it to him more wholly than you.

This is my final gift to you. No more posthumous CDs and letters. This is where my involvement in your life ends.

Mary

John closed his eyes, and it was a long time before he opened them again.

I'm at the church. We need to talk.

Sherlock didn't need to ask which one. John wasn't religious, and there was only one church that he frequented - the one where both Sherlock's and Mary's funerals had been held. He turned his coat collar up against the crisp night air. Sometimes, he felt like these dingy byways and labyrinth of inner alleys were the true heart of the city. This was where they lived - the misfits, the criminals, the rebels. No time to muse on that now, he reminded himself, setting a brisk pace for the church.

Someone had lit all the candles, giving the church a soft glow. There was something solemn about the empty pews, the high windows, and the deserted room, and he tried to muffle his footsteps. He could see John sitting on one of the benches, staring down at a piece of paper. Even from here, Sherlock recognized it - Mary's letter.

When he got it, he had thought about showing it to John, but something held him back. What if Mary was wrong and he ended up making a fool of himself? He'd hidden it under the bed because he knew John thought him too clever to choose such an obvious hiding place - or maybe he subconsciously wanted him to find it. There are two possible outcomes to this situation, he thought -

1. He's going to tip over the candles and set me on fire
2. He wants to talk about emotions

Sherlock wasn't sure which option was worse.

He sat down next to John, who was still staring at the letter. Sherlock didn't even need to read it again. He'd practically memorized it by now, rereading, hoping, wishing.

"So." John finally said. He didn't sound angry or disappointed, just sad. "She's right. Everything - it's the truth. I didn't know that she knew." His voice broke a little, and he finally looked up.

"Yes. I suppose that's why she saved my life. We never did get along. We only pretended to, for your sake."

John nodded a little and folded the letter, then reached out and took Sherlock's hand. He hesitated for a moment, then interlaced their fingers. It felt like an eternity had passed before he finally spoke again.

"I did love Mary, and she's the mother of my child." he said softly. "There is a part of me that will always love her, Sherlock, and you've got to understand that."

Sherlock nodded. What's coming? he thought. Is this how he comforts people before he breaks them?

"But I wasn't in love with her, though I did think I was. It's you. It's always you."

"Plagiarism."

"Shut up. I've been in love with you for far longer than you can possibly imagine. When you came back, it drove me crazy - I couldn't choose. You were as unattainable as ever -"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off.

"It's true, what she writes - wrote - for both of us, this marriage was the life we thought we wanted. But I was wrong. After we got married, things were worse than ever, because that's when I realized - I couldn't fall in love with her. I didn't want her or the feigned normalcy or the settled life I'd always craved. I wanted you, and I still do."

Sherlock's eyes widened. John paused for a minute to stare at him, then took a deep breath and kept talking, as if he knew that if he stopped now, he might never be able to say everything he wanted to.

"When she shot you - that was the last straw. I knew in that moment that I could never be happy with her again. Even looking at her - all I saw was you, lying on the floor in a very scary pool of blood. I don't think I would've stayed if she wasn't pregnant. So, well - that's how I ended up texting Eurus. I wanted to feel that emotional connection again with someone else, just to prove to myself that my feelings for you stemmed from an unhappy marriage and nothing else."

"Obviously, it didn't work. And when Mary died, I - god, I felt so guilty. Guilty that I'd spent the last few month pining after you instead of paying attention to my wife. Shutting you out was my way of punishing myself. I didn't think it would matter to you."

"And then I found out that you were on drugs again. I'll admit, I was angry. Mary died to save your life, and you were ready to throw it away with both hands. Then you roped me along to help with Culverton, and for the first time in days, I felt like my old self. Then I just started feeling guilty again, because I was supposed to be sad about Mary. One afternoon with you was enough to dull the pain, and that just made me feel even worse."

"In the morgue….everything just bubbled up and over the top. I blamed you for my guilt, for making me fall in love with you, and it was wrong, I was so wrong. I didn't want to deal with my own feelings - it was easier to pin them on you. You made a vow, but so did I - only mine were wedding vows. I lost control, but I swear to you, it will never happen again. I'm talking to Ella, and I'm going to do everything I can. I will never hurt you again. Can you trust me?"

Sherlock finally managed to find his voice. "John, you know I've already forgiven you for that. As for trusting you - I'd trust you with my life. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you're being too hard on yourself? Do keep in mind the fact that you never had a healthy outlet for your sorrow. Your therapist was Eurus, and we know she's a master manipulator."

John cocked his head to the side, something like relief washing over his face. "There is some logic to what you're saying. Still, I take full credit for what happened. I can't blame anyone else for this."

"You're not a monster." Sherlock said softly.

John interrupted him again. The words were simply rushing out of him now, as if they had been caged away for years and were just now breaking through the bars. "You keep saying I'm abnormally attracted to dangerous situations, but I'm not just addicted to the danger. I'm hopelessly addicted to you, Sherlock. I mean, with you...I'd even be content living in a lonely cottage out in the middle of nowhere."

"That sounds excruciatingly boring, but I do appreciate the sentiment."

John smiled a little then, but it melted into a look of resignation. "You 'appreciate the sentiment'? Is that all you have to say?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but his words froze somewhere in the back of his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was completely overwhelmed by the fact that this was happening, actually happening, that John was saying everything he'd always wanted to hear. Part of him wanted to reach out and pinch himself just to confirm that he wasn't dreaming.

John nodded. "So that kiss was just a kiss, then? If you didn't feel the same way, Sherlock, you could've told me."

With that, he got up and walked away.