I've never truly been satisfied with how quickly Watson forgave Holmes in the original story. Holmes' abuse of his friend's trust and loyalty was sorely trying and I have always wished this had been more thoroughly addressed. So here is my attempt, as Steven Moffat once stated, to comfort my twelve-year-old self, and deal with the Deceptive Detective.

000

After being confined to his bedroom for three days, Sherlock had no desire to enter that room again for some time. He sat up in his leather armchair until the wee hours of the morning, filing the details of the Culverton Smith case in his mind palace. But thoughts of Mary kept interrupting his work.

She had been determined that he should expend himself in making things right with Mrs Hudson. And he had to admit that he'd suffered far more unpleasant fates than escorting two worthy and beautiful women to dinner; and anyway, he had used Mycroft's credit card to pay for it, so the evening had been relatively painless. Mary had also instructed him to stop and buy flowers for his long-suffering landlady on the way home from the Yard that afternoon, and Mrs Hudson's delight had been surprisingly heart-warming. As he had suspected, the elderly woman was quick to forgive and understand after an initial outburst of indignant outrage over tea that afternoon, and he felt confident that this incident would not damage their relationship in any permanent manner.

But Mary. . . . John had explained to him nearly two years ago that Mary was afraid of only one thing—the loss of someone dear to her. She had successfully held the world at arm's length for most of her life, avoiding any meaningful relationships which might end painfully. But when she met John, she'd made the choice to take a chance and open her heart to him. And that choice, to Sherlock's amazement, had included embracing John's friends. Mary had loved Sherlock with an unqualified sisterly affection from the very first and had quickly become his greatest ally and supporter. When even John lost patience with the detective, Mary always stood up for him. "Leave him alone," she would admonish her husband gently. "He's only doing his job."

In fact, Sherlock had never seen her lose her patience with anyone as she had with him this day. Although she had willingly worked with him on the case and had guided him through the process of apologizing to Mrs Hudson, she had been coldly distant to him in manner and had swept off to bed in John's old bedroom without a word when they returned from dinner that night. Could it be that he had at last crossed a line and she was unable to forgive him? Had he actually asked for her forgiveness? He found the prospect of losing her stalwart friendship to be more troubling than he could ever have predicted.

A small, muffled sob broke the silence of the flat, effectively raising the hair on the back of his neck with its haunting, heart-felt grief. That one tiny sound had the effect of teaching him the reason for John's protective attitude towards his wife's emotional well-being more completely than any amount of explanation could have done. Sherlock found in himself an inexplicable desire to go any lengths to prevent Mary any source of grief ever again.

Irresistibly, he was drawn to the door of her room. It was not closed, and he stepped quietly to her bedside, lit but dimly by the streetlight creeping through the cracks around the window blinds. There was the strong and fearless Mary, curled around a pillow with her face buried in it, her body shaking with silent sobs in her sleep. It was terrifying to him to realize that he had done this—he had reduced a supremely confident and fiercely courageous young woman to tears.

He had no idea how to fix what he had done. And would she be angry with him for entering her room without permission? Would she be humiliated to have been discovered in this state? But could he leave her here, gripped in nightmares, without interference? Tentatively he reached out and gently touched her shoulder to wake her. She stirred, and blue eyes opened, at first grief-stricken, then uncertain and confused, and then warm with relief.

He knew he ought to say something at this point, but he could not fathom what that might be. Normally, he would look to Mary herself to guide him through this unbearably human maze of emotion, but he could not expect her to help him this time. "Mary, I . . . I . . . ," he began, and racked his brain for some way to express how sorry he was for grieving her. "I . . . am going to make you some tea," he managed to say at last.

A twinkle in those blue eyes and a pair of dimples appearing in her cheeks rewarded him, and he knew she had accepted his heartfelt apology.

The kettle boiled and the tea steeped, and Sherlock stepped into the sitting room with the steaming cuppa fixed just the way he knew she liked it, to find Mary wrapped in one of John's old dressing gowns and curled up in John's armchair, looking like herself again. He handed her the cup without a word and dropped into the leather chair opposite, and together they sat in silence for some time.

Then Mary spoke, looking down into her cup. "Before I met John, I had nightmares sometimes—my mother would disappear again; or my father would put me on that airplane and send me away to strangers once more; or people I had come to depend upon would prove untrustworthy, or worse. But although those dreams were troubling, they didn't frighten me. They represented the past, and I had lived through those times and I overcame them. As long as I never again allowed myself to rely on or care for anyone else, I would be safe from that kind of harm."

Now she looked at Sherlock. "I put that philosophy aside for John. I realized quickly that he was worth any amount of risk. And now, when I have nightmares, they terrify me. It's always the same: John disappears, and you disappear, and I'm left alone again; only instead of the protective aloneness I enforced on myself before, it's a wrenching, disabling, and painful amputation. I'm sorry you saw me in that state."

"I understand your fearing John's death," Sherlock replied slowly. "He's your spouse and life-partner. But why am I included in this fear? I'm only your friend."

She smiled fondly at him. "You make the same mistake so many make in believing that friendship is somehow less important or passionate than romantic love. I have not had a true friend since I was sixteen years old, but you are certainly the dearest and best friend I've ever had, more like a brother to me. Your loss would break my heart, and John's as well."

"I realize now that I ought to have deserted my plan the moment I realized you had come instead of John," Sherlock admitted, and was shocked that Mary's gentle eyes flashed with anger again.

"You should never have had such a plan in the first place!" she declared, her cheek twitching. "Do you not understand yet how much John cares for you? You're his best friend. Planning to make him believe he was about to lose you was cruel and thoughtless."

He opened his mouth to protest, but her insidious right index finger was lifted against him and he was rendered speechless.

"Don't even try to tell me 'it was for a case'! I unequivocally forbid you to ever do such a thing again," she told him firmly. "Yes, John would forgive you, eventually, but you presume too much on his loyalty. And this wasn't even for a compelling reason! This was no genius mastermind you had to outwit. This was an overblown, egotistical, and thoroughly predictable common crook. With your superior mind, you ought to have been able to come up with a plan to defeat him without grieving your closest friends," she concluded.

"You're right, Mary," he agreed when she allowed him to speak. "If I had known your talent at lying, I'd have come to you with the plan in the first place. This is a useful tool," he mused, his train of thought wandering into the realms of possibility that an expert liar at his disposal could present. She cleared her throat, bringing him back to the subject at hand. "I promise I will never deliberately abuse John's friendship again, nor yours. Nor Mrs Hudson's," he added hastily, seeing it in her eyes. He had a moment of doubt as he wondered whether she would expect him to include Lestrade in this restriction; but Mary knew his limits even better than he did and did not press the issue.

"There now," she grinned at him, her natural good humour now fully restored. "Isn't this better?"

He was not sure about that. After all, there was still John to face when he came home, and nothing incurred John's wrath more quickly than anyone's hurting Mary. "Perhaps, now that this is settled between us, we can neglect to mention this incident to John," he suggested. "Omission is not truly deception."

She laughed at him, and he realized that she had already told John all. "I don't keep things from John. And neither should you. If you are to be partners, you should never keep information from him," she told him. "We don't lie to John."

"The last time I upset you, John stole my Stradivarius," he muttered glumly, fearing the worst.

"He certainly did," the object of John's fiercely protective affection agreed cheerfully. "And really, that time he was only rather annoyed with you. This time, he will certainly be in a towering rage. You ought to prepare yourself to endure it; and I strongly suggest you portray a contrite and penitent manner and give self-defence a miss." She smiled at his dismal and resigned expression. "Don't worry, Sweetheart, I'll be your advocate. I can do a much better job of defending you than you can," she assured him fondly. "Now, repeat after me. We do not lie to John."

"We do not lie to John," Sherlock said sullenly, and pouted. However, he had to admit that he was thankful for her patient friendship. She was a most valuable ally. "All this . . . caring . . . is very trying," he complained.

She chuckled affectionately and, rising from her chair, kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, too," she said gently, and then took herself off to bed, leaving him looking after her in bemusement.

It confounded him that, no matter what he did or said, she could always discern exactly what he meant.