A/N: So I had an unexpected bout of both wifi and down time, so I figured I'd upload one of the shorter doo-dads I've written while I'm here. I'm sure there will be something to do with beach sex or something by the time I'm back in the US, but for now I'm submitting this miserable thing. Also: for the record, I have some serious Mary/John feels, but it's hardly in support of their marriage as I am a hardcore John/Sherlock enthusiast. Anyways... yeah.

Word Count: 700+

Pairing(s): John/Mary, John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Post-TRF, Morstan/Watson engagement, ect

A Tad Complicated

Mary's eyes were extremely expressive. At any given moment John could read exactly what his fiancee was thinking just by gazing into those great caramel orbs, be it dancing joy, nervous apprehension, shy eagerness, love. There was not a moment that John felt that he was in the dark to what Mary was feeling.

It figured, didn't it, that Sherlock Holmes could change even that just by existing.

Fingernails dug into John's palm; he turned to see that Mary was staring at him, eyes clouded and empty. Try as he might, he could find nothing legible in their depths. John swallowed, hard. He felt like the world might've fallen and burned around him for how lost he felt, and he knew it showed thick in his voice. "I thought he was dead," he said. "I saw him fall. I watched."

"Yes. I know." Mary dropped his hand and laced hers together, slender fingers tracing over the engagement band resting on her left.

Breathing was becoming difficult. Through the tiny window in the door he could see Sherlock - real, there, alive, fuck - dragging his feet to hail a cab. He still looked largely the same, despite his disguise and newly mangled face; John's hand throbbed from where he'd punched him. Proof, through it all, that this time he wasn't imagining it. That Sherlock was really back. For a moment, John thought he might be sick.

Mary sighed. "You want to go after him."

John looked up at her again, wide eyed and desperate. Desperate for what, he wasn't sure. "No," he said. "I don't."

"You're a terrible liar." Mary bit her lip. "Don't try and fool the woman who intended to marry you, John. I know you."

"Intended?" John's breath caught. "Past-tense?"

Mary slid the ring from her finger, looking a million miles away. "Yes, John. Past tense." John stared at her with parched lips and she turned, placed a delicate kiss on his lips, and tucked the ring into his shirt pocket.

"I love you," John choked out, chasing her retreating lips with his. Mary allowed it for a moment, soft lips melding gently against his, but pushed him away. There were tears in her eyes.

"I know, John. But not like you love that man. Not enough." Mary laughed, but it was not a happy sound. "It didn't bother me that you loved him more than me, not when he was dead. I could deal with that. But..."

"Mary-"

Mary raised her hand to silence him, trembling slightly. "I know you wouldn't leave me, not when you've asked me to marry you. You're too good for that. But you have no choice now; I'm forcing your hand. The engagement is off. I love you, John, and I will not be the woman who holds you back from being who you need to be." John was crying now, heart knotted painfully in his chest; he hated to break her heart, because he truly did love her. It hurt, terribly, but it wasn't enough to change anything. Mary was right. She was always, always right. Mary forced a smile. "It's okay, John. It's all okay."

John brushed his hands through Mary's hair, a heavy feeling invading his throat. "No it's not," he whispered.

Mary's smile faded. She caught John's hands and pulled them away from her, gentle but firm. "No," she said. "I suppose it's not. But it will have to do."

John clenched his jaw. "Will you be okay?"

"More or less." Mary looked up at the ceiling, curses unspoken on her lips. Despite herself she could not bring herself to be mad at him. She whispered, "Don't call. I'll send your stuff when I find the time, but I don't want to talk to you. I never want to see you again, understand?"

"Mary..."

Mary's voice jumped a pitch: "Do you understand?"

The Good Man in him wanted to argue. To tell her he couldn't leave her, that he loved her too much, that he couldn't forgive Sherlock, that he couldn't go back to that life after nearly a year of domestic bliss, the picture perfect life. But what he truly couldn't do was lie to her and there's a yanking in his heart that he hasn't felt in three years, and it's not towards Mary Morstan.

"I... I'm sorry," John muttered, knowing how lame he must sound.

Mary's eyes, still unreadable, remained fixed on the ceiling. "Go," she said. And, with one last glance, John went.

Reviews would be swell.