„No, Mrs Watson. You won't." That sentence, combined with the attempt to step forward, could be considered my second worst mistake during the entire affair. Though it is a bit hard to tell, given the huge amount of mistakes I happen to have made lately.

After escaping my inner Moriarty, I remember opening my eyes on the operation table, and after that, blissful darkness. No mind palace, just sleep. When I wake up again, I feel that one of my hands is significantly warmer than the other. Opening my eyes does not deliver information, everything is blurry.

"Sherlock?"

John. Been with me when the paramedics arrived, my memory supplies. Still with me inside the ambulance. Was concerned. Pretended not to be scared. Surely waited for the operation to be over.

His voice is warm (unlike what has become normal between us after THE INCIDENT), soothing. Not (overly) worried. So I am safe. His figure comes into focus. His face open, warm, but tired. (Concerned about me.) (Again.) (Sorry.) The (very) early morning sunshine coming from the window illuminates his hair. (Love when that happens. But when has be become that grey?) Cannot see his hands, but judging from the way he is sitting on a chair next to my bed, one of his hands is holding mine. (Obviously, the reason for it being warmer than the other.)

Is he doing it on purpose? Better not move my own hand. If he's doing it subconsciously, he might remove it. (Not desirable.) (A stolen moment. Intend to keep it as long as possible.) I hold my hand absolutely still. But my mind starts working again. I remember. John Watson is in danger.

"Mary" I say, my voice raw and weak. Two syllables nearly too much for my weak state. Prepare to explain, no matter how exhausting. No matter how painful for him.

To my surprise, he just gives me a sad smile, "I know."

My brain is too slow. I stare at him for what feels like minutes. Try to focus on his response (but stare into his eyes a bit too long. Wish I could do that more often. Wish I had not ruined everything.) (Too late for that.) (Focus!)

How does he know? Struggle to ask him, get caught in a coughing fit instead. A glass of water with a straw is delivered instantly. (Always caring.) "You have already told me," he explains with a hint of an (honest) smile on his lips. I frown, and he continues, "Four times,actually. We keep having the same dialogue over and over whenever you wake up."

Try to process that. Can't remember waking up here. Can't remember talking to him. Feel (completely) lost. The pressure on my hand increases instantly. "It's all right" he says gently, "it's a common after-effect of the narcotics used."

I look at him and try to smile as well, "Must be boring." He laughs a little. (Been a while since I managed to make him laugh.) (Funny how that makes me feel warm inside.)

"It has just become more interesting again," he quips, "you finally said something new." Our eyes meet (also been a while) and he sobers. "So," he goes on, "my wife tried to kill you, yes?"

Memories of Mary surface in my mind. Mary in front of the kebab shop, "I'll talk him round."

Mary at the wedding, "Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.

Mary with the gun, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am."

"She fooled me," I marvel. And not for a moment. For months. John does not answer. She fooled him as well. Does that change the way he feels about her? About me? Will it still be WRONG? I could ask, but that could lead to an answer I don't want to hear.

This is not about THE INCIDENT anyway. If it were, I could point out to John that I have already repented.

I spent their honeymoon by picturing John and Mary vividly. Withdrew from the real world into my mind palace. I spent hours standing next to them on the beach, feeling the gentle breeze on my skin, watching John kissing her (the way he will never kiss me). Soft at first, then hungry, longingly. His hands (that will never touch me that way) on her breasts, on her arse, on her belly (with the child inside, a mere blueberry sized collection of cells at this stage of pregnancy). I saw her moaning with pleasure, her body pressing against his touch. I (closely) observed him, his face filled with pride and satisfaction at the sounds he makes his wife make.

I stood with them inside their suite, watched them having sex. Mary on top (of course), both slick with sweat. I listened to John's heavy breathing, to the fast delivered sequence of "oh yes" and "harder" and "more" he will never say to me. I looked closely as his body became rigid with pleasure, watched his eyes flutter during orgasm, indulging the knowledge that I will never be able to make him look that way.

(Would I have been able to make him look that way if I had got the change? Probably not.)

When their love making no longer hurt me enough, I started imagining them sitting at the beach during sunset, holding each other. That is all. No orgasms, no explicit talking. Just the two (three) of them, belonging together. That never failed to send me spiralling down into desperation.

Not sure how much of that train of thought has shown on my face, but John is looking at me with a (painful) mixture of sympathy and concern. His hand still on mine. I get bolder and squeeze it. Just a tiny bit. He does not withdraw.

"You kept saying that I was in danger," he mentions then. So my inner Moriarty has told me, yes. Did not have time to think it through. (No time for thinking when John is in danger.) (Bit stupid, that notion.) I just nod, and he looks out of the window, thoughtfully.

In my mind, I conjure Mary next to my bedside. Turn her around, look for all the clues I have overlooked so far. The control she has over her facial expressions. (Used so subtly that I missed it. Not just a liar. An experienced one. A professional one.) The gap in her past, starting five years ago. (And the small gaps in her recent life. More than I wanted to see before. Several trips with an unclear destination. A job that does not pay for the clothing she has in her wardrobe.) Brilliant fine motor skills. Come in handy as a nurse. (And as an assassin.) The way she uses to make sure John and I spent time together. (Giving her free time as well. To do what? Remember her face, her bearing afterwards. Too controlled, hiding something.) The love in her eyes when looking at John.

She really loves him. Possessively. That is why she is so eager on being friends with me. That is why she was so eager to convince him to forgive me. She needs me to be their permitted friend so he won't have to chose between her and me. She needs me to be their friend so I can't be his love.

Does she know how much he loves me as well?

John's head spins around. He stares at me. Oh. Said that aloud. (Not wise.) (His hand still on mine, though.) He flushes.

Can't help but feel smug. Mary Watson does not share her loved one. That is why John is in danger. I figured it out. "It's about sentiment," I tell my inner Mycroft proudly. "I detected it anyway." (Making sure I don't voice that thought this time.)

My inner Mycroft looks at me with pity. "So, now you know what will hurt both of you soon. Will that make it feel any better?" I (angrily) make him disappear.

I look at John again. "Just live with her happily for the rest of your life and you will be safe." I tell him. "Everything is all right as long as you love her more than me."

John avoids my glance for a while. Then he sighs, squeezes my hand firmly. "I guess I'm in danger then," he says. My heart does not know if it should open up with joy or clench with fear. I think it does both at the same time.