A/N: Thanks for sticking with me this long, folks. (Extra special thank you to seikoxxx and MT for the reviews so far, I really appreciate them!) I rather like this chapter and I hope you do too. We've jumped ahead a bit - John gets married, Lestrade gets divorced, and Sherlock returns. We get through all of that in this chapter, so I hope it doesn't feel too rushed-over. Reviews are nice and tend to make me smile, hint hint.

Also, before anyone tries to say that Mary feels too, well, Mary-Sueish, just don't. In the books, John is crazy madly in love with her and pretty much thinks she's perfect, so, there. That's what I was going for.

Part Two

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Two years after Sherlock's death, John accompanied his sister to an Alcoholics' Anonymous meeting, where Harry picked up a 1 Year Sober key tag. He clapped along with everyone else and hugged her when she got back to her seat. After the meeting, Harry introduced him to some of her support group, all women, most of them queer. They ranged in their sobriety time from two months to over eighteen years.

One woman, Mary Morstan, was a few years younger than John and had been sober three years. She was easily the most beautiful woman John had ever seen and once they left, John bugged Harry for details about her. She was single and, as far as Harry knew, heterosexual. She was a fairly new member to Harry's group, so she didn't know a lot about her. Harry refused to give John Mary's number, but promised to pass his on to her, with a strict reminder that if they did go out, John should under no circumstances tempt Mary with alcohol like he did with most of his other dates.

Mary called him a few days later and John slipped up and automatically asked her if she would like to go out for a drink. He realized his mistake immediately and fumbled over his words, but she laughed and agreed to meet him for lunch.

At the café, she assured him that she was doing very well in her recovery and she wouldn't be offended if he wanted to have a drink – though she didn't tolerate being around drunk people (aside from those who were trying to stop drinking and relapsed, if she could be of any assistance). They talked easily, comfortably, and on their third date, he told her about Sherlock. She listened intently and patted his arm when he got a little choked up.

Poor relationships with men had contributed greatly to her drinking problem, so she said early on that they couldn't have sex for a while. She said she would understand if John went elsewhere to have his sexual desires met, and while John found that very tempting at times, he didn't do it. After another few dates, John told her about his history, all the relationships he'd been in and the one-night stands. He saved Lestrade's story for the next date, not able to work up the courage to include him the first time. Mary said it sounded like they had a beautiful relationship most people weren't able to pull off, and she wasn't bothered by any of it.

They fell in love quickly, but it was four months before they had sex. Completely swept off his feet, John proposed and they were married six months after meeting. Lestrade and Harry both stood by John as he took his vows and Mary stood with her sponsor and sister from AA. Mrs. Hudson made the wedding cake.

And John was happy.

There were still moments, of course, when memories of Sherlock would surge and he'd cry. They happened less frequently all the time. Sometimes, Mary would be overtaken by her own memories of abuse and assault and relapses, and she would cry. Neither one was embarrassed, and the one not suffering from an attack would just hold the other one until the shaking stopped. Once married, they made love a few times a day, always wanting to be close to each other.

They went to AA meetings, though John never sought treatment himself. Between John, Mary, and Harry, they agreed that he didn't have a problem, so he still occasionally would have a drink with Mike Stamford, out with his colleagues, or Lestrade. But the AA meetings did help him - they always talked about regrets, resentments, and letting them go. He never spoke up in the regular meetings, but surrounded only by Mary's support group and their families, he sometimes found himself talking about Sherlock - and Mycroft. They encouraged him to forgive both of them, and himself, because anger wouldn't do anything to change the past.

Lestrade and John talked a few times every month. When Lestrade finally went through his divorce, two months into John's marriage, John was his shoulder to cry on. That was the darkest time they'd been through in a while, and they drank together. They kissed that night, but nothing else - Lestrade had too much and eventually passed out in John's arms. John had to wake him every few hours to hydrate.

John regretfully told Mary what had happened the next day, expecting a fight or tears, but she had just smiled sadly. "What you have with him is novel," she'd said. "While I don't agree with the drinking, I'm glad you were willing to help your friend when he needed you."

And that was all that was said on the matter.

Lestrade had apologized profusely to him, but John told him what Mary had said and they talked about how bloody lucky John was to have an impossibly perfect woman.

After six months of marriage, John got a call from Mycroft Holmes. He stood, shocked and confused, with the phone to his ear in his living room.

"Dr. Watson," said Mycroft's slow voice, calmly, "it has been a while."

"Er, yes. I suppose it has."

"There is a matter I need to discuss with you. Will you meet me at Baker Street tonight?"

"Bit out of your style, this asking me to be somewhere instead of kidnapping me, isn't it?"

"This must be your choice, John."

John felt a chill go down his back. "What's this about?"

"Nine o'clock, at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is away, the door will be unlocked." The call was disconnected.

John stared at the phone for a moment before calling Lestrade. He quickly explained what had happened.

"Yeah, that's weird, even for him," said Lestrade. "Are you going to go?"

"Well, it's got to be important, hasn't it? I haven't heard from him in years. You still see him occasionally?"

"Yeah, now and then. Saw him last week, now that you mention it. Didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, but you can never tell with him."

"Guess I'll find out tonight, then."

"You said nine o'clock? I'll be at your flat at eight-thirty. I don't think Mycroft would do anything to put you at risk, considering everything that's happened, but it's too suspicious for me to let you go alone."

"Thanks."

"Is Mary there?"

"No, she's working tonight."

"Are you going to tell her about this?"

"Not now. Don't want to worry her. I'll wait and see what it's about first."

So at nine o'clock, John and Lestrade arrived outside 221B Baker Street and just as John reached for the handle, Lestrade's phone rang. They both stopped and waited outside as he answered.

"Inspector Lestrade... What do you mean? Why should I do that?" He sounded angry and John looked around, alarmed. "Y'can't just – no... Fine. But I'm going inside." And he rung off without giving the caller time to say another word. "Mycroft," he explained. "Says I'm not to go upstairs with you. He didn't want me to go inside at all, but you aren't going in there completely alone, I don't bloody care who he is."

John felt another chill and was a little afraid. This was very weird – but his annoyance (and, if he was honest, curiosity) overpowered the fear and he grabbed for the door handle.

John had been to his old apartment a few times in the last few years. He had moved all of his things out and visited Mrs. Hudson occasionally. She had told him that Mycroft was paying to keep the apartment and had left all of Sherlock's things there – why, John was unable to guess; sentiment seemed unlikely. But he hadn't questioned it, wanting nothing to do with Mycroft at the time.

To be honest, he still wanted nothing to do with him. But he left Lestrade at the bottom of the stairs and went up to his old living room. He opened the door and flipped on the light as he stepped inside.

He didn't see Mycroft. He only had a moment to revel in the eeriness that always accompanied the flat before the door closed behind him and he whipped around. He stared for a few seconds at Sherlock, standing next to the door with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, his face thinner and more lined than it had been, but very much alive. John felt his stomach drop, his mind went blank, and then he fainted.

He had no idea how long he was out. When he came to, he was on the sofa and Sherlock was leaning over him, dabbing at his face with a damp cloth. He wore a tortured expression, but sighed with relief when he saw John's eyes were open. John stared at him again before quickly sitting up – his head spun and he fell back down. Sherlock's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Careful, John," he said, and tears sprang to John's eyes at the sound of his voice. "You know how dangerous fainting can be, you need to try to relax."

John tried to speak but couldn't manage to make a sound. He forced himself to breathe slowly, refusing to look away from the face he'd been sure he would never see again. Finally, he tried again to sit up, moving slowly. He noticed his feet were propped up on some pillows but he moved them to the floor and sat properly. Sherlock stood up straight and tossed the cool cloth to the table. Neither of them spoke.

Gradually, John's head cleared of fog and feelings of anger, of resentments came surging to the surface. Everything AA had taught him to let go because they wouldn't bring Sherlock back – what useless lessons those now seemed. He had fallen apart because of this man. He was broken irreparably because of this man. This man had lied to him in the most terrible way, abandoned him to grief and guilt, utter heartbreak.

And he was alive?

He'd waited three years - just long enough for John to move on. And now he was back to mess everything up, the happy life John finally had was going to be ruined by Sherlock bloody Holmes again.

John stood up without another thought, his heart pounding too hard, unable to feel his fingers which he clenched tightly into fists. Sherlock took a step backwards, but too late. John's punch landed on Sherlock's temple, knocking him over. John fell on top of him, pounding every bit of him he could reach and they struggled on the floor, Sherlock not fighting back but trying to get away. Sherlock's long arm flung out and knocked over a chair.

"John?" they heard Lestrade call from downstairs. John heard him running up the stairs and then he was being lifted through the air, dragged backwards, set on his feet. Lestrade's arms were around his waist and the three men said nothing but were all breathing heavily.

John's gaze was set on Sherlock, who was looking back at him from the floor. A bruise was already rising on Sherlock's eye and his lip was bleeding. The spell was finally broken when Lestrade said, "Sherlock?" His voice was curious, confused, but not angry, and John looked around at him, surprised.

Lestrade slowly let go of John, walked to Sherlock, and helped him up. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment before embracing tightly and John felt like he'd been stabbed through the heart. He was jealous of one of them, both of them, and how dare Lestrade not be angry as hell? Sherlock deserved to be attacked, punished, not enveloped by the arms that had provided John's only safe place when he needed it more than anything. Those were arms that had helped heal the heart Sherlock destroyed, the arms that held him when Sherlock abandoned him, and now they would never be comforting again, and how could Lestrade betray him too?

Sherlock's eyes had closed and his bloody face was buried in Lestrade's shoulder for a few seconds but then he shifted to look at John again. John shook his head, no, acceptance and forgiveness from Lestrade wasn't going to change his mind. It would take so much more than that. After a moment, John noticed that Lestrade was crying.

The two men broke apart and Lestrade said, "How? Sher, how? What's going on?"

"It was a trick," Sherlock said quietly, glancing back to look at Lestrade. "Three years ago, Moriarty was going to have you – both of you – killed. Unless I died. It had to be convincing. John, I'm sorry. You had to believe I was dead. If you believed it, everyone would." He was pleading, Sherlock Holmes was pleading, desperate for John to understand.

"It's been three years," John snarled.

"If you never want to see me again, I'll leave you alone," Sherlock said, still looking only at John. "But you're safe now, we've got rid of all of Moriarty's men, so I don't have to keep lying to you. And you deserved to know the truth."

"Go to hell!" John shouted. He wanted to keep fighting, work off his rage, but he knew he wouldn't be able to hit Lestrade, not with tears already in his eyes – and he knew Lestrade would stand between him and Sherlock.

With a final glare at both of them, he stormed out.