Arbitrary, out of sequence intermission because I'm hopelessly arrogant and I really love this relationship that I've created between them okay and you can't stop me. Also, I have support and reasons from patemalah21 and an anon who said my Mary is perfect. I will never, ever stop now. I hope you're proud.

Also, more completely serious than usual now, does anyone know of any other wishful-thinking-Mary-as-a-real-character-even-though-Doyle-didn't-give-her-much-characterization-to-begin-with fics? I'm just curious, since I can't exactly look her up since she doesn't exist yet in this version and I'm lazy.

Gunfire.

The bullets kick up storms of sandy soil and he can see every piece as he runs through it, the bits stinging his face and that can't be right but too late.

He can hear the different, muffled sound one bullet makes as it rams into someone's flesh. Someone's down. A spray of blood. Someone in the arms of another someone and neither of them have faces. Here they are. This part again.

His brain is letting him acknowledge that it is "again." That once every few weeks, in between "God, the flat is so warm" and "what have I got on today?" he's in Afghanistan and getting shot at and someone's getting shot but it's no one because his mind didn't find it important enough to insert a face under the helmet and that's good and so, so awful all at once.

But the colors are fading and what the hell is going on? This is new.

New and familiar and terrifying, because the color is sucked out of Afghanistan and it's London and so godawful and real. The ground is wet and he's holding his phone to his ear and looking at Bart's rooftop and not hearing the words he should be hearing.

He knows what they are, even though that makes no sense. He's memorized this, and the memorization is pervasive. "I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this." That's what he should be hearing. That's what he doesn't want to be hearing because now he knows what it means, with complete certainty, and it's what he needs to be hearing because this is so much worse.

Say something, he prays silently, because for some reason his jaw is clamped shut too. For god's sake, say something!

But he doesn't. And the figure on the roof tips forward and time moves so, so slowly. Slowly enough for him to get help, to call someone, to run forward and catch him even if that won't work at all at least it would be something.

But he can't. He can't move, he can only watch the big coat billowing, trying to get enough purchase on the air and slow the fall enough that he won't have to turn the corner and see what he knows he's going to see.

He stumbles around the edge of the building. Stumbles, even though nothing's blurry and he can see every detail. There's blood, but no spray because that's too easy for this. Sprays of blood are easy. Oozing, dripping, mixing with the puddle his head has landed in, running all over the pavement, sticking the curls to his forehead, that's so, so difficult. The body turns, even though there's no one there to turn it, while he holds the wrist that's so warm and so still and he can see the blue eyes that can't see him and won't glance over things and know too much and won't light up because things are getting rather fun and -

John doesn't shoot up from his pillows like he does after nightmares about Afghanistan. After these, he just lies there, shaking and hoping he doesn't vomit. Mary knows the difference, and she doesn't have to ask. John can't recall her ever asking.

She's there next to him, on her side, looking him over, lightly holding his hand and drawing circles on the back of it. He's grateful for her touch. Sometimes he wishes she'd be more free with it, but then it wouldn't be as special, and she never withholds it when he really needs it.

When his breathing's calmed down appropriately, she touches his forehead and leaves him for a moment. To think about it, or not. Tonight, John chooses not. He just sits there, back against the pillows. Mary returns ten minutes later with drinks - tea for him, coffee for her - and a plate of biscuits. He tries to refuse the tea, for her sake because tomorrow's a Wednesday - it's already a Wednesday, come to think of it - and she's got to be up and functional at a hideous hour and she should get a little sleep, but she gives him a look that's a close relative of the "we both know what's really going on here" look that he's dubbed the "we both know you're more important to me than the brats" look. So he heaves a dramatic sigh and takes the tea, and a few of the biscuits on a second thought, because they're his favorite kind that they don't always manage to keep in the flat and it looks like she's emptied the box and he knows that she'll shamelessly polish them off if he's not quick about it.

Usually, their late night tea parties are passed comfortably not talking about it. Usually, they can talk about work or the rent or something, things that normal people talk about when they're up in the middle of the night, only normal people don't have a reason. But every so often he needs to talk. He does now. The change in the dream weighs heavy on him, that Sherlock was silent. He thinks Mary can feel it, with her "distressed Watson" sense, but she doesn't say anything. As always, it's John's choice when he says, "He didn't say anything this time."

"Nothing?" She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, lightly rubbing back and forth, which is just what he needs.

"Nope."

"And?"

He doesn't have to answer. He knows he doesn't. He also knows that she probably wouldn't be asking if she wasn't fairly sure he would be willing to.

"It's... That's so much worse, isn't it? If... my phone had been off, or something. For him, too, not just me. I told him he wasn't human the last time we were in a room together. Jesus."

She reaches across him to put her mug on the bedside table beside the biscuit plate, accosting his along the way. When she's done, she doesn't move except to wiggle a little further under the covers, her arm still draped across his chest, head on his shoulder, and fingers ghosting over his collarbone where it peeks out from under the band of his t-shirt. He takes a deep breath and wraps one arm around her, kissing the top of her head.

"Get some sleep," she murmurs, tired despite the coffee - maybe they had decaf around after all.

He kisses her again. "You get some sleep. You're the one's got to be up at an ungodly hour."

Thank you and You're welcome.