It had been a long day at the clinic, and she was fairly exhausted. But they had promised each other to grab whatever chances came along for quality time together. She and John sat in the armchairs in the Baker Street flat and tried to decide what to do with their free evening.

Mary's normal procedure at the end of a shift was to text John and find out where he was. If he were deeply involved in a case and expected to work late into the night (or all night), she would consider just going home and they would text back and forth. Occasionally, she would join them at a crime scene, offer an opinion, and visit with Lestrade. If he were at Sherlock's, researching or helping with experiments or being a sounding-board for Sherlock's deductions, she would join them there, cook them dinner, and help out as much as she could. Sometimes, her boys were at St. Bart's, and she would go enjoy Molly's company while she watched them work, often joining in on whatever they were doing. There was always something interesting happening, and she never knew where she would be at the end of each day.

This evening, Sherlock and John had just wrapped up a case and had nothing new to work on. Sherlock intended spending time on his website, updating his treatise on types of tobacco ash. This left John and Mary at loose ends. They actually had nothing whatever to do.

"We should go out to dinner," John suggested. "We've been trying to go out to dinner for almost two months now and haven't managed it yet. Let's walk down to Angelo's."

Mary dimpled. "We tried that once, remember? We didn't quite get that far."

"We'll make it this time," John said confidently. "Whatever crime is committed in front of us, we will ignore it and go right on. We will also ignore Lestrade if he comes up with a case. Let's be completely irresponsible tonight!"

"And Sherlock will not text us all evening, will you Sweetheart?" Mary added.

"Only in a dire emergency," Sherlock intoned, not looking up, engrossed in his work.

"And the definition of dire is. . . ." John prompted.

"I must be clutched in the grasp of the grim reaper," Sherlock sighed sarcastically, rolling his eyes dramatically, but still managing to keep them glued to his computer screen.

Mary chuckled affectionately. "You're too cute. Text us if you need us, Sweetheart. Whoever it was who hired those thugs to kill you is still out there. I know Mycroft has people watching, but be careful."

Sherlock tore his attention from his laptop long enough to look her in the eye. A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth. Then he turned back to his work. "Try not to be such a worrier," he said in a bored-sounding monotone.

"I love you, too," she returned with knowing smile.

She grabbed John's hand as they strolled down the street, feeling the fatigue of the day drop away as she anticipated a romantic evening with her handsome husband. Then she felt his hand tighten over hers convulsively.

"We're being followed," he told her in a hushed voice.

She frowned. "How do you know?"

He gave her a dark look from under his eyebrows.

"Sorry. Of course you know," she murmured. "It couldn't just be some of Mycroft's people, could it?"

"Why would Mycroft need to have anyone follow us when he has access to all the CCTV in the city?" John reasoned. "And if he wanted to kidnap us, he'd have sent a limo."

Mary nodded thoughtfully. "You think they've been sent from whoever was trying to kill Sherlock last month," she stated.

"Could be," he said cautiously. "Perhaps whoever it is would like to get rid of us, as well."

"Well, you, anyway," Mary mused. "Who even knows I exist?"

"Let's try to give them the slip," John suggested. "Feel like running a bit?"

"I'm game for anything," Mary agreed cheerfully.

They walked on at a normal pace until they reached the next alley, then darted into the darkness between buildings and scurried up a fire escape. Once on the rooftops, they could look down and see their pursuers, two men in their twenties dressed in jeans and t-shirts, looking around in bewilderment.

"Not very good at their work," John remarked. "A bit insulting, sending morons after us." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

Being stalked. Watch yourself. JW

Notified Mycroft. Don't be such a worrier. Enjoy your date. SH

By the time they had finished this exchange, their stalkers had disappeared down the street. John looked determined. "Come on. We're going out to dinner if it's the last thing we do!" They trotted across the roof, hopped over to the next building, and rounded a series of skylights and utility sheds until they were above another alley on the next street over. Back down another fire escape, round a corner, and they were at the back entrance of Angelo's restaurant, panting a bit.

They burst into the kitchen and paused to catch their breath. The stir they caused among the staff soon brought Angelo himself into the room.

"John! My little friend!" the big man exclaimed, grasping the doctor by the shoulders and shaking him affectionately. "You have come to see your old friend Angelo! Come, come, I'll give you best table in the house."

"You remember my wife, Mary." John interrupted this burst of enthusiasm politely.

Angelo pulled her into a bear hug. "The little angel who won the doctor's heart!" he cried dramatically. "Any wife of John's is a friend of mine, my dear!" Mary was relieved that Angelo had apparently revised his former opinion that she was a demonic usurper who had stolen his friend Sherlock's true love from under his nose. The fact that Sherlock, far from heartbroken, had treated Mary as a valued friend must have helped to heal the restaurateur's injured feelings. He led them with great pomp through the kitchen and ushered them into the dining area.

"That couple in the window seat—I'll get rid of them! You must have that table. It is my best table for my best friends!" he declared.

"No! No, thank you, Angelo," John interjected. "We really want to be in the back. Alone. You know, inconspicuous."

Angelo winked. "Ah, a little time to yourselves, eh? Romance is in the air! I will bring you TWO candles!" He led them to a table in a dark corner at the back of the room. John seated himself with his back to the wall so that he had a clear view of the entire dining room.

"My most famous guests! Order whatever you want, on the house! A small repayment for all the new business you have brought me!" Angelo continued.

"What do you mean?" John looked up at the big man suspiciously.

"You and Sherlock! The famous detective duo! I tell everyone that you frequent my humble establishment! See!" Angelo indicated a piece of paper stuck to the wall over the front bar. It was a copy of John's blog, printed from the internet. Beside it was a newspaper cutting with Sherlock's picture prominently featured. Mary snickered. John rolled his eyes.

"Just bring us your house wine, please," he said with a long-suffering sigh, and Angelo bustled away.

Mary had just begun to peruse her menu when John froze and tapped her hand. "They're here!" he said without moving his lips. She noted that although his face remained composed with a neutral expression, he was now on high alert. She saw his hand reach into his jacket and heard the tiny snap of a safety being released. Apparently he was wearing his shoulder holster—a most practical wedding gift from Sherlock. John had been pleased with the tenth of a second it shaved from the time it took to draw his firearm, as opposed to having to reach round behind his back to get it.

"They're sitting two tables away," he said calmly. "Odd. They're staring quite openly at us."

"Not very professional of them," Mary commented. "I don't know if I like being pursued by amateurs. It's beyond insulting."

"They've called Angelo over. They're talking to him and . . . pointing at us." John sounded annoyed. "How do we attract the most imbecilic criminals in London? This is ridiculous."

Angelo returned to their table with the wine and the promised two candles. "So what will you have?" he demanded magnanimously as he poured. "Anything, anything your little hearts desire!"

"Who are those people you were just talking to?" John asked casually.

"They asked about you," Angelo confided. "People come in here and ask about you and Sherlock all the time. Everyone knows you are personal friends of Angelo!"

"Ever seen them in here before?"

"Many times! They're good customers. They come in all the time and ask if I have seen you. For too long, I've had to tell them 'no'! You're too busy to come see your old friends!"

John sighed. "Yes, we've been very busy. Just bring us your special, thanks."

When Angelo was safely away, Mary leaned towards him. "Maybe we should just leave."

John was exasperated. "We've managed to actually make it inside a restaurant and order food. It's the closest we've come to an actual date since our honeymoon. I refuse to just give up."

"You're right. This is our night off. The criminals will just have to respect that!" she declared.

Then John's face changed. She knew that look: the calm, determined army officer had taken over. He surreptitiously slipped his weapon out of its holster and held it under the table, unseen. "When I say get down, drop to the floor," he told her quietly. She nodded trustingly.

"Dr Watson?" she heard a voice just behind her head. She held her breath and kept very still, ready to move instantly when John gave her the signal.

"Yes," John said, sounding perfectly at ease. She was impressed by all he managed to convey with that one word. His face and tone were entirely courteous and civil; and yet there was an icy menace beneath the veneer that was terrifying.

"Erm."

Mary's eyebrow raised. Do assassins say 'Erm'?

"I know it's an imposition, but, erm," the voice continued, and Mary could not resist turning around to look at this remarkably awkward criminal. He and his friend were nervously fidgeting and had awed expressions on their earnest faces.

"We're such big fans. Can we get your autograph?" the boy finished.

John stared at them, a most remarkable look on his face of combined astonishment and embarrassment. Mary hid a smile.

"Ah, sure, mate," her intrepid husband said with a forced smile. He put his gun back in its holster, much to the wide-eyed amazement of his fans, and took the pen and paper they were holding out to him. Two signatures later, it was all over, and the fanboys returned to their table with a fabulous story to tell to their grandchildren.

Mary dissolved into helpless laughter. She had to put her head on the table to stop herself from sliding under it, convulsed in giggles. John snickered, his face hidden in his hand.

And then Angelo brought them their dinner. It was a triumph of culinary delight well-worth waiting for.