I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.

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I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.

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CHAPTER 2

John cleaned the sole of his shoes on the doormat. As soon as he opened the door, he could smell homemade cooking. Mary seldom cooked, so it made him smile. He hung up his coat and took of his shoes, letting his toes feel the cold floor and letting his new home ground him. It wasn't exactly his new home, but after spending the afternoon at Baker Street, everything else seemed out of place.

John seemed out of place. Or rather felt out of place. How lucky of a guy was he that now nowhere felt right enough, he asked himself, sighing and heading to the kitchen.

Mary was peeking into the oven. The rare sight made a new burst of warmth rush through John and he was glad for it.

"What is all this?" He asked, hugging Mary from behind and inhaling her familiar scent. He gave her a kiss right behind her left ear.

She grinned and turned over to give him a proper kiss. She tasted like the wine she was having while cooking, and her cheeks had a lovely pinkness to them. "I felt like cooking," she said simply, as if it explained everything.

"Okay," John said and decided to leave her be. "How was your day?"

Mary poured John a glass of wine and offered to him. "Very good. I met the florist, and met Kathy to gossip about my dress. You know, wedding stuff," she smirked.

"Oh," John said, trying to remember if he was supposed to have gone with her to meet the florist. He did remember something about that. But wasn't it the following week?

"Don't worry," she told him, while caressing the frown that had appeared between his brows. "I took care of it. You would have been bored by it. I was bored by it!"

John thanked the gods above for Mary, but wished he had gone anyway. It was their wedding, he wanted to have a proper part in it. Mary was smiling at him. "What?" He asked, sipping his wine and sitting on the chair that was nearer her.

"As long as you are there to say 'yes,' it's all good," she laughed.

John laughed, but it seemed strange in his own ears. He had asked her to marry him, he should have been there to meet the florist. It was no use asking for her hand and leaving everything for her to sort out. "I'll be there."

While Mary finished the cooking, John busied himself setting up the table. Since she was cooking, the occasion asked for their finest plates and silverware. Not for the first time that day, John knew that he should be feeling a contentment that was right in front of him, but he couldn't grasp it. He blamed it on the strange day he had had. Being around Sherlock for that long, being around his previous life that long, was certainly enough to leave him unbalanced. It was understandable. He decided he shouldn't beat himself up about it.

Everything would fit in the end, he hoped. His previous life, his new life. Never mind both things couldn't seem more unfitting to John if they tried. He would make it work, he told himself. He would make it work.

"I will take a shower," Mary said, snapping John out of his thoughts and making him cringe by the fact that he had just zoned out.

"Okay," he said, trying to pretend his mind had been into it all along. "Should I keep an eye at whatever it is that you're cooking?"

"I set the timer," she said, already walking out of the kitchen and heading to their bedroom. "Don't eat without me!"

John laughed. "I'll try!"

While listening to the sounds of the shower, John went to their bedroom and changed into his pyjama bottoms, choosing a random old t-shirt to go with it. He felt drained, even though he hadn't really done anything all day. He had sat all afternoon at Baker Street, sipping cups of tea and trying not to get swallowed by the walls and the carpet. Now, sat on his bed, he thought about his old one, the one that had been a flight of stairs from him the whole afternoon, emanating a menacing cloud of unresolved tension. He had once been happy there. He knew he had been. Maybe Sherlock's coming back should have made him feel lighter about all the dread he had felt for two years, but it hadn't. John found it awfully unfair that having his friend back didn't erase all the suffering John had been through.

Maybe there was something wrong with him, he thought. Maybe he wasn't a nice person, maybe he didn't have it in him to forgive and forget. Mrs Hudson seemed so happy having Sherlock around again. Lestrade seemed over them moon at having his favourite consultant to help him again. People that had been tricked just like him, but could adjust to Sherlock's presence in a way John couldn't. He just couldn't.

But then again, how could he? John had had a completely different experience of Sherlock Holmes than those that Lestrade or even Mrs Hudson had. When Sherlock had died – no, when Sherlock had left, John corrected himself – Lestrade had lost a colleague, maybe a friend. Mrs Hudson, for all her love of Sherlock, had lost a presence that she had had now and then, during tea time or while randomly visiting to straighten things up and remind them that she wasn't their housekeeper.

John had had all those experiences, yes, but he had had all the others as well, all the others no one had had any part in it. John had seen Sherlock lose control, had seen Sherlock almost explode himself in their kitchen, had been there when he needed patching up, scolding and company.

Lestrade certainly had been there to do the arresting after they had caught a suspect. But John had jumped on the freezing Thames after Sherlock to save him as many times as he had needed. John had been the one there to tell Sherlock to run and leave the pool while he still could.

And Mrs Hudson had been there to bring the tea tray with her lovely biscuits, for sure. But John had been the one who would make Sherlock's tea at least twice a day everyday, and the one to force toasts and beans down Sherlock's throat, never mind how difficult he was being about it.

John had always been the one.

Well, not anymore.

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had been happy with Sherlock's return. They were glad Sherlock had jumped from a rooftop to apparently save them. But John couldn't shake off the questions that filled his mind since the very moment Sherlock had approached him with that absolutely ludicrous moustache. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were fine with Sherlock's motives for leaving, but John could not forget that he had left, in the first place. He was glad, for sure. Of course. He had asked for him not to be dead, Sherlock had heard him. But, before that, Sherlock hadn't given a second thought to the fact that he was leaving John behind.

And that was fine, really, John thought, when he heard the shower being turned off. That was fine. It wasn't his place to ask anything from Sherlock. He had been a flatmate. He had been convenient. Maybe he had been just that, a convenient assistant, a gun at hand, a doctor, a maid. Molly had been convenient when Sherlock needed to vanish, and John had not. Just like that, he was left behind. He tried to loosen the fists his hands had tightened into without him noticing and took a deep breath. It was useless to let his mind wander like that, no good could come from it. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking about everything over and over again, while working, or eating, or when he should be sleeping.

While everyone seemed so happy to be there for Sherlock now that he was back, John could not help thinking about how he had wanted to be there all along.

No use to it now, he thought, going to the kitchen before Mary could get out of the bathroom. She did have an incredible ability to see right through him, though not as well as Sherlock.

No use, John reminded himself. No use to think about it now.

ooOOooOOoo

The chicken pot pie Mary had prepared was delicious, John couldn't remember the last time he'd had a homemade meal that tasted as good. It was a pity the food seemed to get stuck in his throat. It was also a pity that the more he tried to pay attention to what Mary was saying, the more out of place John felt.

Just one day, he thought. It was unbelievable what one day in Sherlock's presence could do. Without any foreign rush of adrenaline, it was blatantly obvious how they were failing to find a way to get comfortable around each other again. One day. And however awkward it had been, John couldn't help the feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him ask himself if he shouldn't go running back to Baker Street. Or if maybe he shouldn't just run away from the country.

"How was Sherlock?" Mary asked, out of the blue. John thought it was out of the blue; he didn't know. He hadn't been paying much attention.

"Er,... Good, good. You know how he is," he said, wincing at his own vagueness. Mary was not stupid. It was the first thing he had noticed about her. She was beautifully clever.

"Any crime solving for your blog?" She asked, with a wide smile that made it impossible for John not to smile back. Maybe it was her smile that John had noticed first. Yes, definitely the smile.

"No," John shook his head, while forcing another piece of pie into his mouth and swallowing it slowly. "He was experimenting on some feet, if you're interested in that, though."

Mary laughed joyously and cleaned her mouth on the napkin. "Feet? Of course he was."

"Some mystery murder that happened twenty years ago, that's what he told me. Apparently now he knew that the victim had met someone in a place with cleaning products around. She had some kind of acid on her clothes. Most important, her stepfather owned a factory of cleaning products," John rambled, noticing how he had paid attention to everything Sherlock had told him. Just as he always had.

"Oh, brilliant," Mary agreed. "So will they arrest him?"

John laughed at Mary's interest. He could relate. "He's been dead for ten years," and he laughed harder than he had the whole day. Mary joined him.

They continued the meal in silence. John was cataloguing everything Sherlock had told him about the Feet Lady – terrible title for a blog entry, John chastised himself – and mused if he could write about it. Maybe something as an interlude between talking about their cases, whenever they got at those again. John didn't know. John wasn't used to knowing these days. He wasn't always at hand, he had his own place, his own life. His major occupation wasn't being Sherlock's doctor and sidekick anymore.

No use, he remembered himself again. Why was he thinking about it that much? Sherlock was there at Baker Street. He was in London again, he was less than twenty minutes away, not in Siberia, not in Serbia, not in France. Sherlock was there, among them again. Why couldn't John just bloody rejoice for a moment?

"...And then I told him I didn't want daises because, well, the wedding is not in the morning. I always thought daises fitted morning weddings. And, oh my god, you're not actually listening to anything I am saying, are you?" Mary smiled, half-exasperated, half-amused. "Seriously, John, did something happen?"

"No," John answered her, honestly. Nothing had happened. Nothing. He didn't know why suddenly he couldn't enjoy a meal in his house with his soon-to-be wife. It was like coming back from the war all over again. "I'm so sorry. I'm just a bit out of it, I guess," he took her hand across the table and entangled their fingers. The ring was perfect for her. She was perfect for John. This life, he thought, this was perfect for him.

They talked some more about Mary's day. She told John about their florist, a bloke named George who had a funny French accent, and who was on the verge of hysterics for being responsible for the flowers of the wedding of John Watson, the companion of the famous Hat Detective. John didn't know if he should laugh or cry for all of a sudden being that John Watson again. He couldn't decide if it was brilliant or terrifying. Probably both, considering the fact that Sherlock Holmes was... well, Sherlock Holmes.

Mary continued to tell John about the preparations for the wedding. They had some places to visit in the following week, since they had yet to choose where the reception would happen. Mary had chosen a spring wedding, so she was all for a sunny village. John agreed to that. He agreed to everything without properly listening to any of it. He felt he was cheating, but he couldn't make his mind stay there, it was floating like a balloon. Mary had probably noticed, but had given up getting his attention. John vaguely asked himself if she had actually called his name and he had simply ignored it.

When they had finished the meal, John was in charge of the washing. Mary stood beside him drying the glasses and the plates. He could feel the sudden change in the room. Everything seemed even tenser.

"We can always postpone the wedding, you know," Mary said, as if this was something to be discussed lightly while drying the dishes.

"What?" John asked, holding a plate under the water and splashing water all over himself. "Why would we do that?"

"We don't have to," she told him, giving him a kiss on the cheek and turning off the tap before John actually drowned himself. "I just thought that maybe you two needed some time to readjust."

"We... two?" John asked, even though he knew exactly who the other one was. Always getting in the way, the arse. Even when he wasn't in the room. Especially when he wasn't in the room, John thought, bitterly.

Mary rested her head on John's left shoulder, taking care of not to put too much weight on it. "Yes, John, you two. A few months wouldn't make that much difference. And you can readjust."

"I don't need to readjust," John affirmed, stubbornly, because he really didn't. If he was honest with himself he wanted to get the fuck on with it.

"Maybe he does," Mary said simply, now looking at John.

John snorted because the thought of Sherlock needing time to readjust to anything related to their wedding didn't make any sense to him. "Why would he need time to readjust?"

"Well, he just came back and discovered his partner has a new partner, maybe it's difficult for him." Mary was being so reasonably calm that listening to what she was saying was almost giving John a whiplash.

"I wasn't his partner," John said, out of habit, and then felt completely idiotic for saying that to his own fiancée.

Mary laughed. "Of course you were his partner, and you still are. That's why you may need time to readjust."

"Have you met him at all? He is fine, he is brilliant. It won't change anything," John said, placing a kiss upon Mary's nose, and trying for the life of him to dismiss the subject. He couldn't just shut Mary up, she wouldn't stand for it, he knew.

"Well, I just thought..." she trailed off, looking at John with narrowed eyes. "Well, I just thought I should say something. You two are being bloody stupid about all this."

John was surprised by the sudden swearing. He sighed and decided to just concede to Mary's kindness, unnecessary as it was. "Thank you, love," he kissed her again. "But we really don't need more time."

John honestly had no idea of how much time he would need to readjust to Sherlock. He had no idea if that was possible at all.

00oo00oo00

It was after midnight and John laid wide awake beside Mary, who was sound asleep. They had watched some telly and John had given her a foot massage, partly because he was self-conscious for not giving her the attention she deserved during dinner, partly because he liked admiring her figure while she made little noises of contentment. John loved to bask in her, in everything they had built together and in how easy it was just being with her.

It had never been a hard decision, to go out with her and then to decide to marry her. They hadn't gone on any awkward dates, nor had any forced chatter. They had been working together for a few weeks and they'd fallen in love, just like that, easily, softening the terrible times John had had after Sherlock's death. Mary had carved her own place in John's life, and had changed everything.

He was certain he was the luckiest man on the planet, so it was damned unfair that instead of cuddling up with his lovely fiancée, he was lying there, feeling uneasy. Suddenly, John asked himself what Sherlock would be doing at that moment. Probably playing the violin - and the memory left John feeling a sort of hollowness in his chest that took his breath away for a moment. He wanted to listen to it again, even though he knew the sound would break his heart, reminding him of the many times he had awoken in the middle of the night swearing to God he had heard a violin in his living room.

A living room that had never had Sherlock in it. And that fact had made John think he was losing his mind more often than not.

His therapist probably would have thought that Sherlock's death would mean a new round of PTSD panic attacks and psychosomatic limps, but that wasn't what had happened, not really. Sherlock had been rather like a ghost who haunted him without being kind enough to require any triggers. Dead, Sherlock had been as demanding as ever.

Well, not anymore, John supposed, trying to fluff his pillow.

Now they tried to keep out of each other's way. John because he still didn't know how to sail in the madness of his life. Sherlock because, quite frankly, he had had two whole years to learn to make do without John.

Before John could let himself drown in misplaced self-pity, his phone buzzed, vibrating the whole dresser. He would have been glad for the distraction if it weren't so unusual for him to get calls in the middle of the night. There were times in which they had been normal, but not anymore. John stood up, dreading to hear Harry's voice on the other side, slurping and stammering and audibly drunk. Maybe this time somebody would be contacting him from a hospital.

The name flashing in the screen filled John with a completely different sense of dread. One a thousand times worse.

"Where is he?" He asked as soon as he picked up the phone. There was a bit of commotion coming from the other side of the line and John's heart clutched in his chest. He rose his voice. "Where is he, Greg? What happened?"

"Brixton. We came across this murder...-"

Even before Greg could start explaining it properly, John knew that something had gone wrong. He ran to dress himself. While his mind tried to understand what Greg was telling him, his body began a ritual that could only be explained by instinct. He reached to the box in the back of the wardrobe, and in a few swift moves, he checked the ammo and stuck the gun in the back of the jeans he had put on. The Browning wasn't properly cleaned or oiled, but it would have to do. It had saved Sherlock too many times to fail them now.

"Sherlock didn't tell me, but I think he was on to something, and now my people discovered the guy is much more dangerous than we expected. The guy is up to his neck with a dangerous cartel, John, I don't think Sherlock knows that-"

Of course he bloody knew that, he was Sherlock Holmes, he knew everything, John cursed while hastily fastening his shoes. What Greg meant to say was that Sherlock had known exactly how dangerous it was, but he had ran there anyway, because he was reckless and completely stupid, never mind his brilliancy.

"I've sent some cars, but I am caught up at a crime scene with the bloody Chief Superintendent. And you know Sherlock, the officers won't be able to do much-"

Greg was cut off by someone talking to him and John was torn between waking Mary up and leaving a note. He decided to leave a note, because he didn't want to lose any more time explaining anything.

"You have to go after him, John. Mycroft is out of the country, I didn't know-"

"Send me the bloody address, Greg," John said, angry that Greg felt the need to convince him, as if he would leave Sherlock alone at a time like this. "I'm running there now, I'm taking a cab. I'll try to call him. Leave a bloody ambulance available, I don't care what it takes," he said while scrawling a messy note to Mary.

John hung up without waiting for Greg to say anything else and barged out of the door.

-end-

I am now terrified of Mary, so let's see how things here go, all right?

Please, come talk to me on tumblr and let's ramble about the show, cause I'm in shock and I have some theories. Hahaha.