Author's note: in this chapter John and Mary get up to some adult stuff in which I do not fade completely to black. Consider yourself warned.

That first time they were together wasn't perfect. Perfect, in Mary's experience, didn't involve the man getting creepy and weird about taking his undershirt off. Nor did it involve him confirming, anxiously, "This is just a casual thing, right?" just as he was removing your bra.

But she had to acknowledge that probably in Jim's version of perfect sex, the bra that he'd have removed would have been part of one of her half dozen adorable matched sets. What he'd actually gotten was an enormous beige grandmotherly thing paired with red Wonder Woman underoos, since she'd been in a bit of a laundry crisis at the time she'd got dressed. Her old self would have planned for all contingencies, but Mary had really not anticipated how this date would end, and thus awkward underwear had been the order of the evening.

Even with all that it had been really a lot of fun. Admittedly... Jim's subsequent actions made it clear that he'd decided that since she slept with him straight off that they couldn't possibly be serious about one another. It was just like she'd been warned as a girl with the buying milk and the cows and whatnot. This, she considered, was probably a good thing. Because while the imperfect sex was still nice enough that she wanted to keep having it, greater exposure to Jim Watson showed that he was really not boyfriend material. Not for someone like Mary Morstan.

Oh, yes, physically he was just her type, and as a lover he absolutely knew what he was doing. Jim was charming when he wanted to be, quite intelligent, and he had a very nice sarcastic sense of humor.

But he drank far too much. God knew that was a common failing, typical of about two thirds of the doctors Mary had known (and ninety percent of the intelligence agents, for that matter). Less commonly and more worryingly, he was angry, a sort of swirling nebulous anger that occasionally would find its way out at bad moments.

Jim never directed that anger at her, which would have been a deal-breaker, life being too short for any of that nonsense. The trouble was more that the anger would break out in traffic or with belligerent teens in bars or while dealing with that uniquely snooty class of French-style London waiters.

Thus between his obvious commitment phobia and her desire to have sex more often than never but not really thinking he was going to be a runner, they worked out a system without ever really discussing it. They would text and arrange a get-together nearly every week-end, and maybe occasionally on the weekdays.

Well, maybe twice during each work week. It had been a long dry spell for her, after all.

Mary always went to Jim's flat, he never came to hers. That was safe. She never stayed the night, because that was safe. They mutually avoided Valentine's day because that was not safe, but by the time Janine's important launch party came up in early April they were well-established friends with benefits.

She was prepping for the party by watching a Youtube tutorial on "How to do a smoky eye" while her nail varnish dried when Jim texted:

-Fancy a visit tonight?

Carefully, mindful of her wet nails, Mary tapped out:

-Sorry, I have plans.

-Is it book club night again? You could come by after.

-I think it's likely to be a late evening, actually.

Ten minutes of nothing, and she had just started her next coat of varnish, when:

-Right. Have fun.

Which seemed a bit curt, and suggested Mary should probably disabuse Jim of the idea that she was a mobile sex-dispensing unit with nothing better to do than hop to his whims. She decided to worry about it later and got out her smallest makeup brushes.

Mary arrived at the party about twenty minutes after the start time on the invitation, looking very well (she thought, smugly) in her bottle-green silk, although the smoky eye had been an entire failure and had to be wiped off. She proceeded to have a wonderful time, as she always did when she got to be glamorous. That had been one of her greatest disappointments in spy work: it involved far fewer swanky white-tie parties and far more sitting in filthy rooms listening to dull conversations than the James Bond films had implied.

But this party, all credit to Janine, was excellent. Janine had even been right about the presence of a great many rich men. As was usually the case, they were mainly directing their attention at the other very rich men… and when they were not, they were distracted by the equally great number of women half Mary's age and ten times her level of beauty.

Mary didn't care. The champagne was Veuve Clicquot, the food was Joel Robuchon, and if she mostly spent the evening having the same exact conversation with idiots about why they ought to vaccinate their children that she did every day… well, at least she was getting to do it while looking fabulous.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Periodically Mary caught sight of Janine and her boss (the only really tall billionaire Mary had ever seen) standing in the crowd, greeting people. Mary caught her friend's eye, and gave two thumbs up and an exaggerated grin. Much to her surprise, Janine abandoned her post and threaded through the crowd towards her. Skipping over any greeting, she said, "Hey, can you come over here for a minute? He wants to meet you."

Mary frowned.

"Well, fine, but… why?" Because for the life of her she couldn't imagine why a publishing magnate would take the least bit of interest in her. Or at least, the current version of her. The other one would have been a rather different story.

Janine looked oddly unsettled, and replied, "I'm not… exactly sure, but he did say. Come on. He's not all that patient," before nearly dragging Mary off to tall billionaire, whose name, Janine said in her quick introduction, was "Mr. Magnussen."

Mary did her best smile, extended a hand, and said, "I'm so pleased to meet you, Mr. Magnussen. Thank you for having me. It's a lovely party."

Magnussen took her hand… and ugh, clammy palms… and actually kissed it instead of shaking it. He seemed truly delighted to see her, grinning widely, and he said, "Mary Morstan! I've heard so many tales of your adventures."

He hadn't let go of her hand, and when she tried to gently withdraw it he didn't let her. "All… good things, I hope?" Mary replied, maintaining a smile that was beginning to feel forced.

"Oh yes," he said, "Very, very good indeed."

With this remark he dropped her hand, exchanged his wide smile for a flat-eyed gaze, and turned his back on her. Janine looked over his shoulder at Mary and shrugged as they walked away.

Something about the encounter had set Mary's teeth on edge, and spoiled her enjoyment of the evening. She decided, abruptly, that her friendship duties were now satisfied, and she could do something that she felt like doing. Fishing her mobile out of her purse, she sent a text.

-Turns out I'm freer than I thought. I can be at yours in 45 mins?

He didn't text her back until ten minutes later when she was retrieving her coat from the check, and when he did it was unusually neutral.

-It's a bit late.

-Shame. I'm wearing some really ridiculous underthings.

That seemed to do the trick, and his next text arrived in approximately a picosecond.

-All right, then. See you in a few.

Thirty minutes later Mary walked into Jim's flat and was greeted by the man himself, wearing a t-shirt and flannel pyjama pants. Within about thirty seconds after she got in the door she was peeled out of her coat and dress. Jim pronounced, "My GOD, that is ridiculous underwear," though it wasn't, really, just a matching thong, bra, and hold-ups. He had then herded her into his bedroom, considered briefly, and said, "On the bed, on your knees, grab hold of the headboard."

Mary had done this. And now she was straddling Jim's face as he did some obscenely wonderful things to her nethers. God, buthe was good at this… he hadn't even taken off the black lace scrap that she was wearing as a vague nod in the direction of knickers. Just pushed it to one side and dove straight in, and bloody fuck she was going to leave finger marks embedded in his headboard if he kept on.

She could feel the orgasm curling up in her chest, and so she lifted up a bit and said, "Wow. Okay, that was… I'm ready."

He peered up at her from the vee in her thighs and replied, "Yeah, I know. So sit back down and let's be getting along."

"Don't you want to…?"

"I want you to grab the headboard, sit down, and stay still until I've made you come," he said, and when Mary hesitated, he punctuated his remarks with a light spank to her left buttock and a firm, "That's an order, soldier."

Which should not have been nearly as hot as it was. She had just time to think that she should really be too old to still be discovering new kinks when Jim started up again and all her higher processing capability shut down.

Much later, bless him, Mary was able to catch her breath and come out of her sex coma. She rolled over, gently squeezed the pronounced bulge in Jim's flannel pyjama pants, and purred, "What ever shall we do about this?"

To her surprise, Jim disrupted the penis-squeezing by grabbing her wrist, and said, urgently, "We need to talk."

Her heart sank, since no happy conversation ever began that way. But all she said was, "Okay?"

"You can't keep calling me Jim."

"It's... your name," she said, because it was.

"It's not. My name's John."

"No, it's not."

"No, it really is. Always has been."

Mary's inclination was to argue and prove that his actual name was James, but when she considered it she recognized it wasn't like she had any documentation of the fact. The nameplate on his door at the office said "Dr. Watson," his apartment buzzer was labeled "Watson," his email address contained a "jwatson" and she had apparently been sleeping with a man for two months without knowing his name, Jesus Christ.

"So…" she said, "You never thought it was worth your while to correct me?"

"Well, I'd sometimes think you were saying the wrong thing? But it was always when we were somewhere loud, or I wasn't paying close attention and I wasn't sure. I tried to get you to use my name a few weeks ago at lunch but you just… didn't? It turns out you don't use people's names that much when you're talking to them instead of about them."

"Ah."

"But just now I was very sure," he said, and a smug grin stole over his face, "Because you were going 'Oh, GOD, JIM. Jim JIM JIM EEEK." He pitched his voice up higher for her dialogue, and Mary rolled her eyes.

"Right, got it, thank you."

"Mind you, the thighs are pretty effective as earmuffs go. But you are noisy. I'm amazed the neighbors haven't complained."

He was cracking himself up, the bastard, and so Mary straddled his chest and pinned his arms over his head and said, "Look, John, shut up."

By the widening of his eyes when she did this, she suspected she might have discovered one of his kinks this evening, as well. He gazed up at her with his lovely blue eyes and asked, "Or what?" in a challenging tone.

"Or I'll make you."

And because she generally did try to keep her promises, that is exactly what she did. For a good hour. To the point at which she looked at her watch and winced, because the last trains had gone and she really hated taking night buses.

"I'll have to call a cab," she whispered, feeling too boneless and sleepy to even attempt such a thing.

"Oh just stay, for fuck's sake," Jim, no, John mumbled into her shoulder, "You're always buggering off someplace. I feel like I've demonstrated I'm probably not a serial killer at this point. So. Stay."

She couldn't argue that logic, and fell quickly into a deep sleep.

Sometime in the dark watches of the night, she struggled half out of her slumber into an arousal so deep and powerful it felt like a banked furnace. John was touching her, she was touching him, and she wasn't sure which of them had started it but she finished it, pulling him on top of her, and he hastily found his way inside.

Her sleep-drugged mind was barely able to have the thought that this didn't really feel like sex. It felt like swimming. It felt like flying. They were barely rocking together and it seemed like even that minimal motion took him too far away, like he could never be close enough, even though he was in her.

John was mouthing over her collarbones, murmuring in drugged tones, "Mary... God. Please. Mary. Mary. Marymarymarymary."

Not knowing what else to do, she dug her fingers into his back and keened, "John!"

And together they tipped over the edge.