Bill tried very hard not to give into the urge to call John and demand an update. He knew perfectly well where his friend was – or was still going to, given traffic this morning – and bothering him for a useless request for information was a bad idea all around. John had promised to go with Mrs. Hudson to visit Holmes' grave and to meet with Bill for some lunch afterwards.

They'd gotten the verbal promise out of him for both appointments. He would show up. John Watson did not break his word if he could ever help it.

But Bill wasn't going to be here much longer, and John needed a support network that did not include people also grieving over the consulting detective. It wasn't much, but it was all Bill could provide his friend.

So he heaved a deep breath and raised his hand to rap sharply on the door to the small flat he had come to, hoping that Sarah had been right and her boss was at home today.

That was a never a sure thing, with Mary Morstan. The woman was a freelance reporter well-known for her meticulously researched and tightly written stories. Bill had been hoping to find something about the Holmes' scandal that Mary had written, knowing she would have given as balanced an account as could be had, but there had been nothing. The last thing she had written had been on James Moriarty's surprise sentencing, and that had been much shorter and drier than her usual offerings. Bill hadn't had a chance to question her on it, but he was wishing he had now. It wasn't like Mary would have refused to answer him. They'd known each other for nearly three decades, ever since they'd met in primary school, and they had been practically inseparable since. Through thick and thin – falling in and out of love (never with each other), getting in and out of trouble, finding the careers that called to them on the most basic of levels, supporting the other's choices without question, they were the siblings neither of them truly had. The only other friendship Bill had that rivaled the depth of the one he shared with Mary was the one he had with John.

The door opened then, and curious but distracted blue eyes peeked out at him, semi-obscured by the blonde bangs that hung – disordered – into her face. "Yes? I'm afraid I'm terribly busy at the – Bill!"

The door flew open then, to its widest extent, and Mary grabbed his arm, dragging him into her flat. Bill laughed, and let her manhandle him. "Hello, Mary. How's things?"

The door thumped shut with a final sounding click and Mary propped her fists on her hips, eyeing him critically.

"I should be asking you that." Her sharp eyes dragged up and down his form, and Bill let her, smiling amusedly. "Your leave only started about a week ago. What have you been doing to look so worn down still, Bill Murray? Honestly, you're a doctor! I'd think you know how to take care of yourself!"

Before he could answer, she grabbed his elbow and towed him into her sitting room, firmly shoving him at the couch and disappearing to her kitchen to retrieve another mug, into which she poured a generous portion of the tea she had already brewed and waiting on her desk.

"Here," she said, passing the cup to him, not bothering with sugar or cream. Bill fought a smile. The only people who seemed to remember he liked his tea plain were John and Mary. Everyone else tried to add something to it, insisting he couldn't really want just tea. She waited, watching with a hawk's intensity while he drank. Only after he had drained half the cup did she speak again. "I didn't think you'd be by this time, Bill. Honestly, I would have preferred it. You should be with your friend."

Bill spluttered. "What – how did you – I didn't say anything about John!"

Mary favored him with an arch look. It was her Please-I'm-a-journalist-they-pay -me-to-notice-these-things look. Bill sighed and Mary snorted.

"You practically bleed loyalty, Bill. I know your friend was Holmes' partner. Everyone I've spoken to confirms they were close." She leaned forward, expression intent. "So why aren't you with Dr. Watson right now?"

Bill set down his tea, and leaned forward to match his long-time friend. "Because I need a favor." He met her blue eyes squarely with his own steady brown. "Do you know much about the Holmes' affair?"

Mary hmmed low in her throat, eyes sliding half-closed as she pulled up her memory of recent events. "It started shortly after the Moriarty upset. Claims that Holmes wasn't as clever as he claimed, that he was orchestrating events to support his own reputation. There were rumors that he was arrested in collusion with the American ambassador's children's kidnapping. He escaped – with your Dr. Watson, I believe, though I don't know why he would have been arrested as well. And some seven-to-ten hours later, Holmes leapt to his death from the roof of St. Bart's. The funeral was held two days later, and Watson hasn't been seen or heard from since."

"As far as I know, that's pretty much the sequence. John chinned the Chief Superintendent, from what Mike told me. He went to ground somewhere for about four days, from what Mike and I figure and he turned up at Baker Street again sometime late yesterday afternoon, according to his landlady."

Mary nodded, her eyes still at half-mast as she turned her attention back to Bill. It was her thinking expression, one Bill had learned to respect very early on in their friendship. It usually preceded one of her better insights, whether into the people around them or into Bill himself, which was not always welcome or comfortable.

He wasn't sure what this one would be, so he headed her off at the pass. "I'd appreciate it if you would look in on John from time to time while I'm deployed," he stated, voice even and bland. "He's not got many friends that aren't connected to Holmes' in some way, and his sister is hardly a good source of support. I'll be in Afghanistan again by the end of next week and he needs someone…" Bill shrugged. "Well, someone as far from Holmes as I can find."

Mary's eyes were open all the way now, bright and a little exasperated. "Do you even need to ask me?" She left her chair and sat next to him on the couch, putting an arm around his shoulders and leaning her head against his. "I'm honored you trust me with your friend. I've heard so much about him from you." A soft sigh brushed air over Bill's cheek. "I just wish we were meeting in better circumstances."

Bill slid his own arm around her waist, turning to bury his head briefly in the junction of her neck and shoulder. He squeezed tightly once before letting go and leaning back. "Yeah," he told her, grinning ruefully. "I wish that too."

John had never been much for decorating his own place, but right now it showed. He excused the lack of personal touches with the thought that it wasn't really his place, just a low-cost rental flat, large enough for him and maybe a guest if they didn't mind sleeping on the lie-low that came with the flat.

He really couldn't care less. It's a place to be: to sleep and eat and shower. That's all he needs.

With a sigh, John went back to unpacking the last few boxes he hadn't gotten to while Bill had been around to help. More often than not, the two of them had gotten sidetracked by memories. Either John's – of good times in Afghanistan or with Sherlock here in London – or Bill's – of Afghanistan and crazy shenanigans while on leave with John. It had been a good distraction, even if he still slipped into a melancholy mood more often than he didn't. Besides, he was the only one who was going to really be seeing the inside of this flat, who cared if he didn't have all of his kitchen supplies unpacked quite yet, or that he was unpacking his clothes by the simple expedient of a day and an outfit at a time?

He was in the middle of trying to care about where he put his few mugs and glasses when the knock sounded on his door.

Brow furrowed – Greg wasn't coming by until later in the week, Mike had exams to grade and it certainly wasn't Mrs. Hudson – John cautiously crept to the door. Peering through the peep hole, he blinked at the blonde woman who stood on the other side, bright red jacket pulled close against the chill wind.

For a moment, John was at a loss as to what this woman might be doing seeking him out – she didn't look like a reporter, but that was hardly a guarantee, and she didn't look like anyone he knew – but Bill's words came back to him.

"You're gonna need some help, John. Mary's great at doing that. You'll love her. No, don't give me that look! We both know how good you aren't at coping and your friends are too close to really help. I'll be in Afghanistan. Just…John, let me do something to support you, even if it isn't me doing it."

With a sigh – he'd not really believed Bill had enlisted the help of his childhood friend – John opened his door.

"Yes? What can I do for you?"

That earned him a polite smile, but there was steel in her gaze. "Dr. Watson. Kindly do me the favor of not patronizing me, and I won't do the same to you. We both know why Bill asked me to come here."

John bristled slightly, but couldn't come up with the energy to be truly offended by her tone. He had been slightly patronizing by pretending not to know who she had to be. "I'm fine, Miss Morstan. You really needn't have come," he said stiffly.

Mary raised a hand to hide a smile, arching her eyebrows at him. "Oh, I'm sure you are. And since you're so fine, you won't mind if I come in and see for myself how fine you are, will you?" When John didn't move, blinking in slight astonishment at her, her smile obtained an artfully hurt edge. "Oh, well, if you want to keep a girl waiting on your front step in this cold-"

John felt a smile tug his lips into a small curve even as he shook his head. "You're Bill's friend alright. That's his sense of humor."

Mary beamed at him. "What's to say it wasn't mine in the first place, Dr. Watson?"

John was never sure just what it was that made him let her in. It might have been pure curiosity about what she would do next. Mary Morstan was bright and challenging and not the least intimidated by his brooding silences or raging temper.

He hated to admit it, but Bill had been right. It was hard not to love Mary Morstan.

John had just pulled the casserole out of the oven when the knock sounded on the door. Since he had been expecting it for the past ten minutes, he didn't bother going to answer it. He'd also managed to mostly forget why this night was happening, and he wanted to keep up the illusion as long as he could.

"It's open!" he shouted over his shoulder, hip-checking the oven door closed as he discarded the oven mitts to the side. The casserole steamed gently and it smelled – even if he did say so himself – quite heavenly. He'd gotten better at this cooking thing since Mary had started giving him tips and recipes.

"Oh," the woman herself breathed, coming into the kitchen, breathing deeply through her nose. "You made the casserole!" Her blue eyes twinkled merrily. "And nothing is burned this time!"

John made a face at her, unable to hold back the smile. "That was only a few times, thank you very much."

Mary laughed, musical and light. "True enough, but when you do burn things, you do so spectacularly."

John took down two bowls from the cabinets and started dishing out the casserole. "Keep it up, and you won't get any," he threatened, not really serious at all. Mary grinned at him, and raised her hands in surrender.

"Of course not, you are a perfect cook, John. Shame on me for implying otherwise."

John grinned as he handed her portion to her and they both eschewed the kitchen table to sit more comfortably in the living room. "So," John said, oddly satisfied as Mary dug into his casserole and sighed in delight at the taste. "Have you heard back from Bill yet?"

Blue eyes blinked over at him, and she swallowed before asking curiously. "You haven't?"

John laughed as he watched her. "I was called in to cover for the A&E for the last week. I've barely had time to readjust to being awake during the DAY, let alone catch Bill when he's on Skype."

Mary blinked, and then nodded. "Right. I knew that." She shook her head and John tried not to grin too obviously. He'd only tell her this if he was sure she was in an excellent mood, but she was adorable just coming up from one of her researching sprees for her articles. Her mind only mostly engaging with the rest of the world again, and still at least a third of it working away on how to phrase things and how to fit all of her pieces together to form the puzzle that would become her article.

He'd been a bit surprised that he'd come to like Mary so much – given his feelings for the rest of the press corps of London. – but she was easy to like.

Very, very easy to like.

Mary gave her mind a mental kick in the metaphorical rear and brought herself back to the task she had come here for tonight. She could see that John had done as she had asked, and gotten out the box with Holmes' things in it. What John could bear to keep anyway, which wasn't much. He'd been pretty much ignoring the box since she had gotten here, but Mary had seen him glance at it from time to time, an uncertain frown on his face. Her heart hurt for him, but this was for the best.

She'd been watching him get better each day after her first face-to-face meeting with him, and then stagnate, unable to move forward because he would not let go of the past.

She'd had enough, and she was nearly positive John had had enough. He just needed a push to move forward. To talk about the things he had loved best about his friend, and the times he had cherished memories of. It would be hard, oh, God, would it be hard, on so many levels, but it would help John to move over the barrier he'd erected for himself. Mary could only be supportive of that. And she'd sworn to stand with John, not only to Bill, and to John, but to herself too.

Mary did find it amusing that she and Ella had both been telling John the same things for months now, though. It had been the unknowing combination of their advice that had made John finally cave to their suggestions and agree to do this.

"He should be coming home for the final time in three months. He didn't want to say for certain, because-"

"-he doesn't want to jinx it," John finished for her, grinning slightly. "I remember the feeling."

Mary beamed. "Well, hopefully he'll be back for good in three months and you two can hash it all out then."

"And you will be where, then?" John raised his eyebrows at her and Mary flapped a hand at him.

"As if I'll get a word in edgewise while you two catch up on a year and a half in two days? Maybe three? As if you'd never spoken over Skype at all. Please. I'll be enjoying my testosterone free days by treating myself to hot tea, a good book or two and silence in my own flat."

John burst out laughing, unable to hold it back and Mary felt her smile soften, something warm and quite comfortable settling in her chest at the sight.

John Watson was really quite easy to like.

Really, truly very easy to like.

"Bill!"

Looking up from where he had been double-checking his bags – something always managed to come undone during long flights, he swore there were gremlins or something in the planes – Bill beamed as he saw John waving at him, a large grin on his own face. Quickly re-zipping the small pocket that had gotten opened, he stood back up, swung the pack to his shoulder and strode out to meet his friend.

"John!" Bill said, still grinning widely as he clasped hands with the shorter man. "You are looking well, mate."

"Yeah, well, it's not wise to turn down Mary's advice on clothing. Or food. Or-"

Laughing, Bill completed the litany. "-driving conditions. Or politics. Or anything in the history of ever because-"

"-she is a woman and therefore knows much better than all you-"

"-testosterone-ridden males!"

They nearly fell over each other laughing, and they only drew indulgent smiles from the staff and slightly exasperated but tolerant glances from fellow travelers forced to detour around them. By the time they got themselves back together, after grabbing a taxi back to John's flat and a bite to eat on the way, they had been speaking over and around and at each other for nearly an hour.

And Bill had noticed one very, very crucial common thread.

With a knowing grin, Bill set his drink down on the coffee table and met John's suddenly slightly wary gaze. "So, John," he began, drawling and low. "You seem quite taken with Mary. She's almost all you've spoken about."

John blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again, blinked once more, and then huffed a laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, I s'pose I have, haven't I?" Bill watched as a small, reminiscent grin spread on his friend's face and tried to stifle his laughter. Oh, but Johnny-boy had fallen hard, hadn't he?

John seemed to realize he had drifted from their conversation and sat up straighter in response, but Bill's knowing grin relaxed him again.

"She's really quite…quite lovely, Bill. Mary is easy to like."

"She's always been," Bill acknowledged. John nodded, not looking surprised at all.

"I imagine so."

Bill raised an eyebrow at John.

John blinked back at him, expression carefully blank.

They maintained that stalemate for precisely fifteen more seconds before they collapsed into laughter.

He'd rib John about it later – this was far too good to pass up any teasing opportunities – but for now, he'd just be.

He was home. He was safe.

John was healing.

Mary looked set to have her feelings for John – tentatively confessed over Skype to Bill – more than enthusiastically returned.

Life was good.

If it were possible to kill an inanimate object, he would have done so long before this infernal contraption masquerading as a computer had finally managed to make the connection to the web page he desired.

The only good thing about the abysmally slow connection was the fact that the rest of the machine was old enough that no one would bother hacking it or tracing it or defending against it, because it was so obviously useless.

Well, maybe not completely, but very nearly there. And if he hadn't had the final strands of Moriarty's web to plot how to undo – he was so close, he could taste his victory – he might have shot the thing.

With a huff of irritation, he clicked through the final link, curious despite himself at the new posts that loaded themselves.

Last he had seen, John had left a single text post of support and not touched his blog since. He'd checked, whenever he had the time or the inclination, and nothing had shown up. But it seemed in the past…seven months, John had resurrected his blog.

Had it really been over seven months since he had last checked?

Hm. Well, no matter. John's nearly mindless drivel about his daily life would provide a nice bit of white noise so he could focus on the important things –

Who was Mary? John was his usual stolid and supporting self, setting out on his chosen path, defending his comrades with military staunchness, but this new commentator…

Who was she? The name was not familiar, and he knew all of John's acquaintances and friends, so she had not been around before he left. He would have noticed another –

Oh.

Well.

John was truly moving on then, not just playing at it, if he'd found another insipid girlfriend to carry on with.

Sherlock Holmes shut the laptop without bothering to exit out of the screen, steadfastly ignoring the twisting feeling in his gut to focus on his case.

The sooner the case was done, the sooner he could return to London.