When John and Mary entered their building following yet another doctor's appointment, they were met—so very dishearteningly—by one of the cruelest signs a pregnant woman can behold: ELEVATOR OUT OF ORDER.

"They must be joking…" Mary remarked incredulously to herself, since she knew her husband likely wouldn't be responding (he hadn't uttered a word all day, save for the doctor's medical questions).

John did however look annoyed at the sign as well, and felt bad for what it meant for Mary, but she didn't notice. "Maybe I can get it working," he proposed softly.

Her eyes briefly widened at the fact that he had spoken, but she declined the offer. "No, no…I can take the stairs. Clearly they just didn't get the memo that there's a woman 30 weeks pregnant living on the second floor."

John only nodded and took the first step, holding out his hand for Mary which she gladly accepted. They made their way up slowly, only stopping once. With only 7 weeks to go, Mary was being treated to the gestational works. Her back ached, her ankles were swollen, she was always exhausted, and of course, her stomach was growing every day. Most people who took an interest often remarked how well she carried the weight. Patients did not usually guess she was already as far along as she was, but that didn't help her. She felt huge.

When they finally made it all the way up, she leaned against the wall, trying to mask how out of breath she was. John saw right past it though. "Are you alright?" he asked, thumbing through his keys for the right one.

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine…perfectly."

He gave her a second look of concern, trying to decide if he should check her out when they got inside, and then pushed the door open. Mary went in and headed straight for the bedroom. By the time John came in, she was already laying down with a hand over her forehead. She had had a headache all day, mainly from the gut wrenching anxiety persisting at the fact that two days from now she would be sitting down to Christmas dinner at the Holmes'. She still wasn't sure how she was going to do it.

John eyed her as he hung up his jacket and scarf in the closet. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, John, I'm fine! Stop being so worried all the time," she snapped, immediately regretting being so hostile.

John was taken aback by the sudden mood swing. Sure, she had plenty of those these days, just usually not directed at him. He mumbled something like "fine" and left the room. It was clear she didn't want to be around him and, though he hated to admit it, that was fair.

He ventured into the living room and took a seat in the armchair. All the Christmas shopping was finished, all the recent cases were blogged, and neither he nor Mary had to go into work today. There was literally nothing to do. He couldn't leave though, he refused to. Mary had been… off for the past few days, and even though he felt it had something—if not everything—to do with the Christmas plans, he didn't want to risk leaving her alone and having something happen. So, he just sat.

For two hours.

He was pretending to be interested in the paint swatches that were scattered on the coffee table (as they had been for months) when he heard an impatient knock at the door. He practically leapt up off the chair to go answer it. "Sherlock, hey."

"Hello John." Sherlock briskly entered the home, shedding his coat as he walked and tossing it carelessly onto the couch, to which John scowled and rolled his eyes. "Is Mary here?"

"Yeah, course… We got back from the doctors a while ago," John reported, following his friend into the living room.

Sherlock turned to take one quick look at John and then plopped down into the armchair previously occupied by the ex-soldier. "Yes, two hours ago. Sorry it didn't go the way you'd hoped."

John looked down, despite knowing it wouldn't hide anything from the sleuth. "Mary got a good report. Baby's heartbeat sounds strong. Everything went well."

"Except you didn't get a new sonogram like you always do and you still haven't found out the sex."

The army doctor exhaled heavily and sunk into the couch. "Why do you always have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Embellish things even when you know they're shitty just to remind everyone you're clever." Now it was John who was snapping.

Sherlock didn't seem affected. "Are you making your gloom more obvious as a way to tell me I'm not that clever?"

"Just shut up."

"Oh, if it were that simple…" Sherlock quietly cracked to himself. "Where is your wife, anyway?"

"She's lying down." He leaned his head back into the cushion. "Bit worn out."

Sherlock gave an understanding nod, tapping his fingers against the chair. "And you're sitting out here alone because…?"

"She doesn't want me in there. She's tired, she's achy, and I'm pretty sure she hates my guts."

"Stupid saying."

"Yeah well, it seems to apply." John looked down into his hands where his fingers were unconsciously playing with his wedding ring. He stopped immediately before Sherlock could start in on it. "Were you just in the neighborhood?"

"Actually I need your assistance."

"With what?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "A case, what else?"

"Really?" They hadn't truly been on a case together in ages. John figured it was Sherlock's way of punishing him for not getting back together with Mary—the same way a child lashes out against divorced parents for not making it work.

"Thirty-eight year old male sleeps over his girlfriend's house for the first time. The girlfriend is a forty year old mother of two teenagers, a girl and a boy. They go to bed, all the windows are bolted shut, and the door is locked. He wakes up the next morning with bruises all over his body and no idea how they got there. Door is still locked, windows still shut, and no one else in the house heard a sound. Thoughts?"

John still seemed suspicious of what was being asked of him. "You want me to help you solve something like this? You really don't have any ideas?"

"Of course I have ideas," Sherlock quickly replied. "But if you tell me yours it will help me eliminate some of them."

"So, my ideas that coincide with your ideas will be the ones that you—"

"Eliminate," he said in an obvious tone.

John's jaw hardened into an irritated scowl once again. "You can't take one day off from being a dick, can you?"

"Stop being sensitive."

"I'm not being sensitive. You came over here just to call me an idiot."

"Pretty sure you're the one name-calling," Sherlock mumbled, folding his hands in his lap.

"I'm not name-calling." John exaggeratedly folded his arms across his chest and sulked. He was clearly uptight and did not have an ounce of willpower or energy to conceal it from his friend.

"Let me ask you, why haven't you seen your therapist at all during all this?" Sherlock posed, but John didn't seem to understand the question. "You had a therapist, as most ex-soldiers do, you saw her every now and then, but not once during this debacle with your assassin wife. Why not?"

John thought it over for a moment, and then shrugged. "Didn't need to."

"Lying," Sherlock instantly deduced.

"Didn't want to," John tried, hoping that'd be the end of it.

"Why not?"

"I don't know…"

"Yes you do."

"Sherlock—"

"You were protecting her, weren't you? Sure, doctors are supposed to take that confidentiality oath or whatever it is, but you weren't willing to take the chance."

"If you already know the answer, why ask the question?"

Sherlock lackadaisically shrugged. "To see if other people know the answer."

John huffed loudly, evidently not amused. "I didn't want to risk the therapist somehow being someone who could be interested in that information. Saying anything to anyone might put Mary in danger. I didn't want to do that. Happy?" The taller man appeared to be, so John moved right ahead to the supposed reason for him coming over. "The bloke with the bruises could be sleepwalking. He's banging himself up during the night and doesn't even know it."

"Could be…" Sherlock said with a slow nod, though he didn't seem satisfied. "However if he were sleep walking enough to injure himself surely he'd cause some sort of ruckus. Loud enough to wake the girlfriend."

"You know, if you want a medical opinion, I'd actually have to see the bruises."

"I suppose; are you free tomorrow?"

John gave him a look. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve."

"So?"

"So, it's Christmas Eve…" he repeated for him, still not getting through. "I'll be busy, and so will your client. Everyone in London will be running around like crazies."

"What could you possibly have to do?" Sherlock pestered.

"Last minute shopping," John answered, in a slightly obvious tone. "Plus Mary volunteered to make something for your parents' dinner, and since she can hardly get around, I'll be picking up all the ingredients…and most likely baking the bloody thing."

"What is it?"

"Irish cream and chocolate cheesecake."

"Mm, nice…"

"Yeah well, we'll see how my rendition of it goes…" John looked down for a moment, mulling over the baking process; and then, something hit him. Immediately he looked back up at Sherlock. "Alright, really why are you here?"

"What are you talking about? I told you why," Sherlock quickly retorted, feigning offence.

John just shook his head. "Nope, no," he said waving his index. "You didn't come here to ask me about unexplained bruises and you didn't come over to talk about desserts."

"You're getting very paranoid in the third trimester," the detective coolly quipped.

"Sherlock…"

"Testy too…something weighing on your mind?"

"Oh gee, what could possibly be occupying my brain right now?" John sarcastically returned, adapting a mock-confused expression. "Bit of a head-scratcher that one."

Sherlock smiled to himself. It was so easy to get his friend riled up these days. "Do all expectant fathers get this way?"

John let out a heavy sigh. "You're just gonna jerk me around then? Is this a wind-up?"

Finally, Sherlock apologetically called a truce. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. If you must know, the real reason I came over here is because…well, I actually do need your help, but not with the case. I have a potential explanation for that one, it's just a matter of testing it."

"What is it?"

"The son is pulling a prank, one he thinks is harmless. He found his mother's pills in the bathroom and confused them for some type of woman medication. He crushed them up and gave them to his new daddy—he probably figured the man would grow breasts or start speaking a few octaves higher. If you had met this boy, you'd understand better. He's a complete idiot. However, the only pills the mother is currently on are—"

"Blood thinners," John finished, catching onto the theory. "She's got thrombophilia then….so the boyfriend whose blood is perfectly fine takes the pills and suddenly bruises like a peach. Huh, that's simple enough."

"Rudimentary."

"So what was the actual reason for coming over?"

Sherlock seemed to withdraw a bit, almost as if he were…embarrassed? And then, for the first time, John realized Sherlock had not come empty-handed when his friend pulled a shopping back out from behind his feet. The trench coat had been concealing it all the while they were conversing.

"I need your opinion," Sherlock proceeded, "on this." He pulled out two items from the bag. In one hand he held a tiny bucket of foam blocks; each had a different picture and texture on one of the six faces. In the other hand he held a bright blue mobile, from which hung various shapes made to represent different objects—the sphere was a globe, the cube was a mailbox, the prism was a mountain.

John couldn't stop the smile spreading at his lips or the warm feeling rising in his chest. "You got the baby a Christmas present?"

"The woman in the store said these would help develop cognitive skills by introducing some basic ideas in an interactive way. I don't know if that's true. Also, the mobile plays music when you turn the key." He then remembered something and set the pail of blocks down to reach into the bag. "I got this handkerchief as well…it'll help the baby with object permanence. Peek-a-boo used to be the way to go, but I guess this is the new trend."

John was chuffed. "Sherlock, these are lovely presents; it's very sweet of you."

Sherlock gave a subtle but appreciative nod, still holding up the toys. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't already gotten these, and that the colors were okay. The mobile came in pink, yellow, and orange. And there were other sets of blocks with different pictures. Barnyard animals, urban landmarks, those sorts of things."

John took the bucket of blocks from Sherlock and gazed down at it. His happy expression soon faded, though. "I don't even know if I'm going to have a son or a daughter…" he murmured. It took a second or two, but he shook off the sudden melancholy and handed the blocks back to Sherlock. "Both presents are great, really mate, well done."

"Thank you." He delicately put the items back into the shopping back. "I wanted to show Mary, but if she's not feeling well…"

"Oh, I don't think she'd mind. You should show her," John said with a light, but not very cheerful chuckle. "Actually, I think she'd quite like to see it."

"Alright then." Sherlock stood up and collected the shopping bag. Not five minutes after he optimistically marched into the bedroom where Mary was resting, John heard the muffled sounds of happy sobs and Mary's 'aww's.' He smiled sadly and looked toward the cedar chest that sat in front of the living room window, coming up just below the pane. John rose and shuffled toward it slowly, pulling open the lid with a low creek of the hinges. He smiled down into the chest and took out a light green onesie that he had bought months ago, the week after he found out Mary was pregnant to be precise. The fabric was soft against his thumb and warm from being in a box that sat in the sun all day. He didn't stare at it for too long for fear of getting caught by Mary or Sherlock, but taking this brief moment to remind himself it was there had a way of kicking something—an idea—into motion.

That night, John was lying on his back staring blankly up at the bedroom ceiling. There were so many things swirling around in his head, he couldn't pinpoint which ones to give more attention to and which ones to save for another day. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flashdrive. A.G.R.A. stared him in the face. He twirled it between his fingers a few times, occasionally glancing over at his slumbering wife who had her back to him.

He played their wedding vows in his head, her laughs from their first date, Sherlock plummeting from the roof of St. Bart's, Afghanistan, Moriarty by the swimming pool, the first sonogram, being thrown into the Guy Fawkes fire, hearing the baby's heartbeat, wrestling with the 7 foot assassin, waking up that morning. Finally, he heard Sherlock's voice echo in his head "You chose her…"

All these images spun around his brain like an out of control carousel of his life. And then suddenly, everything stopped. His mind went completely blank and a calmness came over him. And then, without even realizing it, tears began to fall from his eyes, slowly streaming down his cheeks. He inwardly cursed himself and wiped them away, but more came into their place. He gave the flash drive one more glance and then stuffed it back into his pocket. The tears let up and when they did he finally felt…good. It was such a simple feeling and there really was no other way to describe it. He hadn't felt this way for some time.

He did choose her, didn't he… He saw something in her—something dangerous, wonderful, and an absolutely perfect match for everything in him. He had spent the last seven months unable to come to terms with it all…but what exactly had he been trying to accept? He told himself it was Mary…but that just wasn't true, was it? Mary turned out to be the woman of his dreams. What did that mean about him? It meant Sherlock was right. Per usual. He was twisted. Abnormally attracted to dangerous people and situations. He'd been fighting that unappealing truth since he came back from Afghanistan, but there it was again clear as day, large as bloody life. He chose her…and even more importantly, she chose him.

He turned onto his side and began to drift off to sleep. He shouldn't have fought it for so long. It was always going to be Mary. And he was finally ready to make peace with that.

OOOOO

"The problems of your past are your business; the problems of your future are my privilege."

OOOOO

It wasn't Christmas anymore, not technically anyway. It was past twelve when John and Mary finally made it back to their flat in London. They were both exhausted and still numb from how the events of the day had transpired. "I can't believe he did that…" Mary whispered so softly it was a miracle John had heard it. "I just… can't believe he did that." She was completely at a loss for words sinking down onto the foot of the bed.

John, equally drained, sat down next to her and placed his hand over hers. "I can believe it," he said nearly as softly. "Easily."

Mary shook her head, tears welling up in her troubled eyes (she was surprised there were any left; she sobbed almost the whole car ride home from the Holmes' estate.) "You know, he's always saying 'high-functioning sociopath' and that…but he's not." She turned her sad eyes to John. "He's not."

He just nodded. "I know."

"Surely there must be something they can do; I mean Mycroft basically is the British government, isn't he? For his own brother, I'm sure he could figure out something."

"He assured me he was going to do whatever he could to help Sherlock," John offered, hoping it would calm her down a little bit. "The tricky thing is, Magnusson never actually committed any crimes that someone could prove. All his blackmail stuff…all in his head."

"I know," Mary responded sadly. "Sherlock texted me to tell me about Appledore."

"Course he did," John mused. He gave a little chuckle, the way people do when they are too distraught to be sad. "I wonder how much trouble Sherlock's causing in whatever cell they're putting him in for the night."

Mary tried to smile, but it proved difficult. "I don't know how to feel, John," she admitted. "I was thrilled before when you said what you did…and knowing that Magnusson is gone is, well…" she instinctively brought a hand protectively to her tummy. "More than words can say." John squeezed her other hand and pressed a kiss into her hair. "But Sherlock in custody for trying to help me… it's awful and wrong. It makes me feel sick. I mean it, how could I let him do this? I should have known he would go straight for Magnusson. What was I—"

"Mary," John quickly cut her off, before she could work herself into hysterics. "Don't do that now. Sherlock will be alright." She didn't seem so sure, so John gave her hand another reassuring squeeze. "He always gets out of these things. Oi, this is the guy who faked his own suicide on a crowded street in the middle of London and managed to go with it for two years. He'll be alright. I know it."

"Do you?" Mary hoped John wasn't just trying to convince himself. After everything they had all been through in the last year, she desperately wanted some normalcy. At least for a little while.

"I do…" John confidently answered, and after a couple seconds even managed to get a small smile out of his wife. "But I don't need you panicking now. Today was exciting enough without you sending yourself into early labor."

"Alright, I'll try to relax…as much as possible anyway." A comfortable silence hung in the room, only to be disrupted by the sudden buzz of John's phone. He immediately yanked it out of his pocket and felt an enormous relief come over him when he saw it was a text from Sherlock. "What's he say?" Mary jabbed, leaning over to read it herself.

This person who designed this jail cell is an idiot. 23 easy ways to escape and counting.

They both chuckled at the text, relieved to see Sherlock was holding up well. "Why on Earth did they let him keep his phone?" Mary quite rightly asked.

"My guess is they took it away and he swiped it back within the next six seconds without anyone knowing. It's amazing he doesn't have a more impressive criminal record."

Mary nodded in agreement and then gasped loudly. "Ooh, big kick," she said, rubbing the spot on her belly the baby had just struck.

"Oh, uh yeah?" John released a nervous laugh, not quite sure what the protocol was now. "Could I…I mean, do you want me to …now that we're, uh…"

She just smiled at her squirming husband understandingly. "Let me see your hand." She didn't wait for him to present it to her, she grabbed the hand that had been previously resting on his knee and placed it just below her belly button. "Now just give it a second… Ah, there it is!"

John and Mary's faces both lit up when they felt their baby move under his hand, and they couldn't help breaking into a laugh when it kept going. "I love this…"

"Yeah?" Mary smiled widely watching him watch her belly.

He just continued to grin and nodded. The baby kicked four more times before John realized something, and his smiling face became sort of guilty. "Mary, I have a confession to make."

She cocked her head to the side. "What is it?"

"This isn't the first time I've felt the baby." She pushed her lips together into a tight, questioning smirk, believing that she already knew what he was going to say next. "Most nights…after you fell asleep, I tried to feel the baby moving. I didn't know how to ask you if I could…I didn't think you had any reason to say yes."

"John, of course I would have said yes," Mary replied, rubbing his shoulder tenderly. "And I have something to confess too…"

"Oh?"

She guiltily smiled through compressed lips. "I knew."

"You knew?!" He was genuinely, though happily, surprised. "How?"

"Well, Sherlock told me about the window…"

"What? He told you he was the one who broke it?" Mary nodded apologetically. "Dickhead, that's what he is."

"He spilled the beans to me after Mycroft spilled the beans to you," she elaborated, glancing over at the window in question. "I wasn't sure why you wanted to keep sleeping in here. I thought…I thought you hated me."

"Mary…"

"No, it's alright," she assured him, patting his leg gently. "So one night I was nodding off, not really asleep yet. And I felt you pull the covers down, and then I felt your hand on my stomach. And then I…" she beamed at him. "I heard you talking to the baby. After that I tried staying awake for that part, but I almost never could. It was so, so nice."

John smiled back at her, pausing to watch the dim lights in the room shine in her eyes before pulling her a little bit closer to kiss her cheek. He looked her firmly in the eye. "I never hated you. Not once."

It was something she didn't expect to hear and it was subsequently added to the long list of things he could say that would bring tears to her eyes—the good kind, of course. She smiled at him again, this time only though her eyes. Bringing both her hands to his face, she met him in a deep and long-awaited kiss—their first since John had discovered her true identity. And it felt like all the magic of a first kiss held together by the constancy and safety of the feeling one gets when they kiss the person they have vowed to spend the rest of their life with.

When he pulled away, his face was more serious. "Mary, there's something else I want you to know."

"Go on then."

He bit at his cheek as he formulated how to say the words he wanted to say without sounding too sappy. "Do you remember the night Sherlock came back into my life, into our lives?"

"Is that really a question?" she said in a 'duh' tone.

He nodded with a light chuckle. "Yeah, well, when that happened, I was angry at him, obviously. And I wouldn't blame you for wondering why it took me so long to get over that big mess of me not knowing about your past when I forgave Sherlock for doing what he did in just a few days."

"Oh…" Mary sheepishly looked away. Of course she wondered about that!

"It's a fair question, and the simple answer is, I was much more hurt knowing you had kept something from me than I was knowing Sherlock had. And not just because I expect these things from him."

"Okay," Mary said softly, suspecting there was more.

"The reason it took me so long to move past it goes beyond that simple fact that you're my wife and I am so in love with you…" he hadn't practiced this part, and now he was wishing he had. "You're my life, Mary. I love the other people in my life; Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, the lot of them. But no one in this world could ever replace what you are to me. You saved me, in more ways than one. You're the best person I have ever known, and I could not actually imagine anyone other than you who I would want to share a child with. And," he took a breath when he felt a wateriness sneaking into his eyes, "when I found out that you were not who I thought you were… I felt like I had lost something, everything actually. I thought everything in my life that was good and normal and perfect was gone. I couldn't come to terms with the fact that you may have been too good to be true. And, even more difficult to take… I couldn't come to terms with the fact that part of me was…kind of relieved and, in a way, thrilled to find out about who you were before."

"John," Mary also begun to get emotional, but she cursed her hormones for that.

"But knowing who you are now… and it took me a while to realize this…knowing who you are now," he sighed a heavy sigh that brought a smile to his lips. "You are the only person I could ever spend the rest of my life with. It took me too long, but Sherlock was right. I saw all of that in you, and I fell in love with you." Mary smiled through her tears and kissed him tenderly. "You're an amazing person, Mary. And I'm so sorry I couldn't get over all of this sooner. If there's anything I could take back, it'd be these last few months."

"You really won't be happy until we both drown will you," she laughed, wiping the tears off her face. John laughed too and helped her dry her cheeks.

"Don't cry, this is a good thing…" he tried with another laugh.

"Yes, I know," she replied grinning. She hugged his neck tightly, and didn't let go for quite some time. When she finally did, their eyes met in a loving gaze. It felt like the last piece of dust in the war had settled and the sun was finally coming out. John pressed a long kiss into her lips, and then another.

The kisses slowly transformed into something more intense as they both allowed themselves to fall back on to the bed, scooting their bodies closer to the center, and never once breaking the connection. It had been such a long time. Mary wrapped her arms around John, bringing him closer as their mouths grew hungrier for each other.

It wasn't until Mary's fingers began fiddling with the buttons on his shirt that John suddenly pulled back. "Mary, wait…" he protested through already labored breaths.

"What's the matter?"

He sighed regretfully and leaned his head down into the crook of her neck, a bit embarrassed. "You know, I've always told my patients it's alright… doing this during pregnancy," he motioned between them. "But now that it's you and our baby…I'm actually nervous. I don't want to do anything wrong."

Mary raised her eyebrows and chuckled at him. "Really?"

"Ugh…it's stupid. I'm a bloody doctor, and you're a nurse, I shouldn't be worried about it!"

A nervous look crossed Mary's face suddenly. "You aren't just saying this because you aren't ready yet, are you? I know you said you've forgiven me, but if you still need more time—"

"No!" John instantly blurted. "No, trust me, I want to. I really, really want to. I've missed you, Mary. So much. And I don't mean just because of this… though I have missed that." He sucked in a deep breath and made himself stop talking. "I'm rubbish."

She smiled up at him, hands interlocked behind his neck. "John Watson, you are anything but rubbish." She graced his lips with a light peck. "Have you been this much of a basket case throughout the whole pregnancy?"

"Just ask Sherlock, he's had the brunt of it," he admitted with a laugh as he pushed her bangs off her face. "It's hard finding the middle ground between husband and doctor when you're wife is carrying your child."

"Well, as a doctor, what would you say about this?" she asked, referring to what was about to take place on the bed.

His cheeks stretched into a smile, showing how silly he felt about his concern. "As a doctor, I'd have to say it's perfectly safe as long as you pay close attention to how she's feeling."

"Well, in that case…what would you say about this as a husband?" she coyly followed up.

This time he didn't answer with words. He just met her lips in a heated kiss even more amorous than the one before it. And for the first time in what they both knew was far too long, they made love.

It was nearly two hours later when they found themselves lying under the covers together, completely spent. Though it felt extremely cliché, they both internally resolved that they had never quite experienced anything like that.

"My God," John panted, staring up at the ceiling.

"Yeah…" Mary concurred in a breathy gasp.

He turned his head to her and reached for her hand. "And you're alright?"

She gave him an exhausted, but sultry smile. "Oh yeah."

He nodded, still attempting to bring down his heart rate. "Good." He couldn't believe how much her body had changed since the last time he had been with her. Sure, he had seen pregnant bellies before, he was a doctor after all. But this was Mary, his Mary, carrying his baby. He truly couldn't remember a time she looked more beautiful. "Sweetheart," he whispered to her through the darkness.

"Hm?" John could tell she was beginning to doze off now.

He smiled and wrapped her up in his arms. "I'm sorry I took so long to say what I said."

"It's alright John, I understand. I really do. I didn't at first, but—"

"Let me finish," he said with a smile, gently rubbing his fingertips against her bare arms. "You should know, it was never really about forgiving you…to be honest, I forgave you a long time ago. I just didn't know how to move on from it. Or where to go from there. I was just really…stuck."

Even in her grogginess, Mary could feel what he meant by that. She touched her lips to the closest part of him she could reach, his chest. "I will never lie to you again, John. I promise."

He kissed the top of her head and rested his chin against her temple. "I know."

"Maybe about some things…you know, like those sweaters you love."

John smiled through pressed lips, chuckling into her hair. They drifted off to sleep holding each other, finally feeling that all would be well, even in the face of whatever news about Sherlock came to them tomorrow.