'Mary, I found that glove you misplaced the other day', Sherlock announced. As he expected she played along instantly. And John didn't even bother to notice that there had been no gloves missing. Mrs Hudson was insisting that John took a seat in his chair, by the fireplace, and Mary slipped into the kitchen with a kind smile still lingering in her lips.

'What is it, Sherlock?' Then her face grew colder, it was just the two of them talking anyway.

'Mary, we can't talk here, but you should know, I'm not the last target. You are. This has all been about you. John, me. They are actually circling you, Mary. Someone from your past. Someone you pissed off.'

'Oh, I see', she said, turning to glance at John. Of course that given that ultimatum style of deduction she'd look to her priority. Fire always seemed to draw people into safeguarding their priorities. Sherlock expected nothing less. He had no doubt of the raw strong love she felt for the man sitting on his armchair with his back to her. Oh, but Mary was someone apart from the majority, John had chosen wisely, based only on his instinct. She cared very much about him, she didn't want to see him hurt in the process. But it was more than that. She knew the convenient way out of that dangerous situation was to leave at once. To secretively abandon London and go on the run till the shooter got caught. Painfully enough, she wouldn't be able to do so with John by her side, she wouldn't have enough mobility with an unhealthy man tagging along. That was going to break John's heart, but in order to keep her safe, he'd stoically take that blow, both Mary and Sherlock knew so. The way Sherlock saw it, she'd have to trust him to help her out, from a distance, as he also took care of keeping John safe. It was their collective best option.

Somehow, Sherlock understood only then, as the silent seconds dragged by, that he had misread Mary's final choice. She wasn't going to exit London to keep herself and them safe. She had just made up her mind of two things: of not telling John she was the main target all along, and of not leaving the one she loved the most. And Sherlock just sighed. Love and women. Why did they always conspire to make things the more difficult for him? Even John's unfounded need to be overgenerous and abnegated was more natural than that clinging possessive love Mary kept showing... If it were the other way around, would have John left Mary behind, in the hope that the whole situation could get fixed soon, with no one getting hurt? He'd be out the door before Sherlock could finish talking. And he'd also go blundering round the city making noise and attracting attention so to make sure he was the sole target, thus keeping them safe. Well, that wasn't much better, was it? (John and Mary had a knack for reminding him why he was better off when he didn't have friends...)

'Mary...' he started, but she cut him off.

'John won't know that. You won't tell him.'

'Is that a threat?' he dramatized.

'John's in danger, I'd never leave him, and he'd never leave me.'

'You need to take precautions, Mary.' And so needed John. But then again, that had been obvious for John from the moment he had been shot. At that point, Sherlock was trying to insist that Mary took care. How could he protect all of them at the same time when neither of them actually listened and did what he told them to? Mary wouldn't take cover, John insisted on tagging along on every simple cab ride. If they would just listen to him for a second...

Mrs Hudson called on Mary to take her downstairs for whatever reason. Sherlock returned to the living room as John was leaving it. He'd state calmly recognising his friend's presence:

'I'm just going to catch on some sleep for a couple of hours, Sherlock. Anything you need, please just don't go off on your own, you've got Mary. She's possibly the most perfect partner you'll ever need on the scene, to be honest, and she's quite willing to help you.'

Sherlock frowned slightly. 'What do you mean, the perfect partner?!'

'She's married to me, obviously I don't mean it like that.' He rubbed his fingers over his closed eyes for a second.' You know what I mean, you two are incredibly alike. It's like I found a way to marry you as a woman, that's how weird it is some times. Her past, the one you found out, makes her a lot like you. It's not even funny that it had to be you to find that out...'

He's reasoning was again bouncing off the walls and darting in every direction, Sherlock noticed. 'It kind of happened that way, it wasn't on purpose...'

But John was rambling, in lost steps around the living room. Sherlock stood there, very quiet, trying to understand, not sure what to say. 'You two even think alike', he started over. 'Results over emotions. It doesn't really matter who you hurt on the process, it's all about the bottom line, about getting the job done. I accepted that on you, Sherlock, with great difficulty. Every now and then I saw a glimpse of the warm heart under the cold mask, and I knew a great brain lay there as well, and I welcomed the chance to help you.' He shook his head, feverishly. 'Now, Mary was sweet and kind, and she needed me, my help, and I could help her, and I felt that connection. It turns out it was based on lies, and I can't even know what was true anymore.'

'She loves you, you know that', his friend said quietly.

'So you both keep saying. But if that's true, then why is she hiding things from me again? She went back for her gun. I didn't even know she had a gun. Why does she need a gun. Why is she lying to me again? Why don't any of you two trust me?'

'Come on, John, that's not fair.'

His voice dropped to a quiet despair. 'She's still lying to me. She doesn't trust me. You never really trusted me either, you always preferred to keep me in the dark... And I don't know why I am complaining.' He shrugged his shoulders. (Probably that hurt, but he showed no signs, numb.) 'You two are right. I'm the odd one out. Maybe you two should pair up. Because I'll always worry about the two of you. Maybe together is safer for the two of you...' he finally turned to leave.

At last Sherlock stirred from his immobility. 'John!'

'I'm just going to lie down for a second, don't worry about me. Actually, you never do, my bad. I'm just another one of your clients, now. And it's lucky Mrs H knows me and allows me to crash on the bedroom upstairs...'

'John!' But he wouldn't stop or turn this time. He didn't see his friend worried and understanding look. He'd never see that he had hurt him with his words either.

Most of the cases Sherlock had solved, he had solved because of John. He was the human connection, the empathy, the reason why the cases were no longer just mental puzzles for Sherlock but actually meant something. Sherlock used to feel an exhilarating rush solving the puzzles and an utter boredom for the most part when delivering the solution. John's genuine reactions had changed that, had given him pride in his success, and empathy, because John smiled also because he was happy for the clients.

Mary couldn't be John. Yes, she was more analytic and cold reasoning, but definitely not reliable and steady. Her motivations were very different too.

How had John come to think of Mary in those terms? There was much less love between them now but John still held on firmly and refused to discuss it. He'd always do the right thing and he wouldn't walk out. That had been an unburdening speech out of exhaustion and hurt, and John was unlikely to ever repeat it. He'd carry on being the perfect husband to a wife with which he related less. Those two were inefficient communicators, to say the least. By the next morning, John Watson would have internalized his feelings and carry on like all was the same. Sherlock had seen that happen before, usually accompanied with more twitches in the left hand. At the time Sherlock had brushed it off. John was a tough guy, he could take it, he had thought. So what had changed in the mean time? He had found out that John was even tougher than he thought. He really could take it, and he always bounced back to that inner confidence of himself and the world around him. Unfortunately, Sherlock now saw that it hadn't always been that simple. John had carried on, but must have been feeling very alone, silently alone. For some reason, Sherlock could see and feel it now. He probably never had felt it before, his friend's pain, like his own. How had John come to believe that feeling pain for other people was a good thing? He tried to brush it off, like he did before, but somehow now he couldn't anymore. His proximity to John had changed him. Too bad John couldn't see it. Then he'd see his importance and maybe he'd feel a bit better...

-ooo-

'Your turn, Mycroft.'

'You never wanted this sort of information before, but you want it now. What changed?' he inquired, sternly, as he placed a game piece over the structure already created, in a precarious equilibrium over the coffee table at Baker Street. 'Your turn, Sherlock.'

'Who says anything has changed?'

The older brother raised a brow but let it pass. 'Fine, you won't tell me. Should I start to worry about Mary Watson? You always chose the most curious friends...'

'Not like that, Mycroft, your turn.'

'Yes, of course, it was John who chose her, in the first place. And how is our brave soldier?' there was superiority in his words, not a real compliment. The structure of wooden pieces between them crumbled over the brown paper file that Mycroft had brought Sherlock.

'Braving along as always, I'd imagine', Sherlock minimized. 'Is that everything you got?' (All the information your secret services can gather, all the care you can demonstrate for the man who has kept me safe for the last years.)

Mycroft frowned, looking at his brother. 'You'll find that it's plenty. Will I need to remind you that this information cannot be shared, Sherlock? You won't let sentiment force you into making the bad decision of sharing this information?'

(John, he meant tell John all that Mycroft had dug on his wife.) 'Definitely not. Are you caring, Mycroft?' He frowned heavily on his older brother.

'Just because I know things, doesn't mean I get involved. I must stay above it all, Sherlock. I'm letting you in on this one out of consideration. In that sense perhaps I do care about John Watson more than you think.'

'You're going soft with age.' There was brotherly glee on Sherlock's eyes, one that got reflected for an instant in Mycroft's eyes.

'You should take care, it might come to you as well.'

The two brothers parted, with Mycroft leaving Baker Street. If he really noticed the red stained floor boards by the right of the living room door, he ignored their presence cold-heartedly. He'd step on them as he stepped on the rug and on the other floor boards.

Sherlock picked up the file from the coffee table, and glanced over it. His face grew heavier. To be fair, it wasn't the first time he saw that file. He had seen it at Mycroft's office. He still didn't like what he read in those pages. Now he needed to investigate each single narrated event deeper, to find the mastermind behind the shootings. But having the file there was also a danger. John was there. Sure, he could send John home. But he wouldn't. So he needed to hide the file well, where John couldn't find it (easy) and neither could Mary (more challenging, but it could be done). Most of all, he needed time to read the file and scrutinize it. There was only one way of doing that... Sherlock put down the folder and went back into the kitchen and his sucrose dissolving in tea experiment.