Her life is full of things she’s unaccustomed to -- worry and domesticity.

One of her biggest fears is John’s safety. She worries that he won’t come back -- What if he’s hurt? What if he’s kidnapped yet again? What if he dies? He’s not allowed to die. She has to refrain, every time, from reminding him to take his gun and check in regularly.

The hypocrisy of it irritates her. She’d be indignant if John tried to limit her own freedom or keep her safe (not that he knows about any of her unsafe activities, but still). Danger is what keeps them both happy. But she doesn’t like it.

Still, she sends him out with Sherlock and feels grateful as he goes, even as she worries. Because it keeps John distracted while she does work. Doing her job has been ever so much easier since Sherlock returned.

She monitors Magnussen, and sometimes she tails him in foreign cities. She hasn’t had much luck identifying his new contact with the kidnapping skills, but she keeps trying.

Sometimes, John comes home sooner than predicted -- before she does.

Where are you? Are you OK? He texts at 11 P.M.

At Cath’s, she texts from Amsterdam. Remember? She’s ill. Told you I was going to stay over.

Oh. Sorry, I must’ve forgot.

Honestly, John. Sometimes it’s like you don’t even listen! Or like she never told him. Too busy mooning over someone? ;)

Hush, you.

Good case?

Fantastic. Tell you all about it when you get home. Say hi to Cath for me.

Will do. ...xo

He never suspects a thing.

* * *

She has very little success with Magnussen. He’s become more careful over the years -- but more than that, she’s been forced to become more careful. Mycroft has tightened her leash over the course of her time in London, instructing her to stay further away from Magnussen the more they have to risk.

So she sits and watches Magnussen enter and leave buildings through a telephoto lens. And she grits her teeth. And she thinks about John and whether he’s safe.

At home with John, her worries seem less real. Life seems strangely like a sitcom sometimes, she thinks as she prepares breakfast. She hums tunelessly to herself as she clears the table. (She stops humming briefly as she stares at the newspaper -- a major earthquake in South America, unrest in Eastern Europe, and an editorial arguing that Lord Moran -- currently under house arrest as he awaits trial -- was framed. She snorts at that one.) She sets their places as John comes down the stairs.

He kisses her good morning while still in his bathrobe, reaffirming her sense of sitcom, then sits at the table. “C’mere,” John says, patting the chair beside her. “I have something I want to ask you.”

Mary sits down at the table. “Yes, John, I’ll still marry you,” she says cheekily.

John laughs. “Not that. But related. I was wondering -- do you mind if I ask Sherlock to be best man?”

Mary stares at him incredulously. “Well, of course you’re going to. Who else would you ask?”

John shifts uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. But… he’ll have to give a speech.”

“So?”

“Well.” He sighs. “It will be embarrassing, at best. He’ll deduce and air all the guests’ secrets. Or insult everyone. Or possibly just us,” he adds, after a moment’s reflection.

Mary grins. “Sounds exciting. Weddings are usually so dull!” John grimaces. “No, of course it’s fine. And I should get my bridesmaids sorted, now that you mention it.”

“Yeah -- you asking Janine to be your chief bridesmaid?” he asks. “Or Cath?” She’s been spending a lot of time with Cath lately, as far as he knows; he’s continued to show no more than a polite interest in meeting her someday, which has been convenient.

“Janine,” she says. “But of course I’ll ask Cath to be a bridesmaid.” And won’t that be inconvenient, since she doesn’t exist? She’s dealt with far trickier situations, though. And she doesn’t actually mind a small wedding party, with just Janine on her side of the aisle. “What about you? Any other groomsmen in mind?”

John shrugs. “Not really. Sherlock is pretty much my whole life, except for you.”

She smiles. “I know. Lucky Sherlock -- and lucky me.” She leans forward to kiss him, and he pulls her into his lap for a snog. They’re interrupted a few minutes later as the potatoes on the stove start smoking and the smoke alarm goes off.

John laughs and runs to open the windows. “Glad I can count on you to keep life exciting,” he shouts over the alarm. She wrinkles her nose at him as she rescues the poor potato corpses from the stove.

* * *

OMG YOU SLAG DID YOU JUST ASK ME TO BE YOUR CHIEF BRIDESMAID BY TEXT MESSAGE??

...Yes. Sorry. xo

I’ll get revenge on you for that thoughtlessness during the hen night.

...is it too late to change my mind?

Muahahahaha.

Drinks tonight?

You’re on. xo

* * *

She’s sitting in her home office and monitoring Magnussen’s latest movements when Sherlock shows up holding a large pile of books.

She has a moment of fear – he's come to confront her about her past. She sits up straight and slams her laptop shut. Then she shakes it off. He doesn't look angry. And the pile of books doesn't exactly scream confrontation. She smiles at him. “Oh, hi! Did you pick the locks again?”

Sherlock stares curiously at her laptop, then looks at her. “Didn’t want to disturb you if you were busy.”

“How thoughtful,” she says with a smile. She forces herself to relax. “John’s not here -- he’s at the clinic.”

“Obviously. We don’t need him yet.” He thrusts the books toward her.

“A Modern Girl’s Guide to Getting Hitched? Poems and Readings for Weddings? What’s all this then?”

He blinks, then says slowly, as if cautiously trying to calibrate his knowledge dispersal for more stupid people, “They’re books. About wedding planning. You will be having a wedding.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Got that, thanks. But… what are you doing with them? Are you lending them to me? Where did they come from?”

“Just popped round to the shop for them. We’ll be needing them. There are only a few months until the wedding.”

“Six months.”

“Precisely. Very little time to plan.”

“It’s not even Christmas yet, Sherlock. And there are a dozen books here!”

“I have more on order. These are just for this afternoon. I also created a YouTube playlist; there are things you need to see.”

She laughs. “Right. Let me put on some tea first, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer, having settled into a chair and cracked open one of the books.

She resists the urge to take her laptop with her; that would be suspicious. Besides, it requires her fingerprint as well as her password to open. Sherlock can’t snoop, even if he wants to.

While the kettle is boiling, she texts John.

Your best man apparently takes his duties very seriously. He’s here doing wedding planning.

What? Now? It’s not even Christmas.

That’s what I told him, but he seems to think we need to start now.

That’s alarming.

It’s kind of adorable, actually.

But I’m not even there.

Do you want to be doing this?

Well, no, actually, now that you mention it. You two have fun.

Will do. see you later… xo

She takes Sherlock his tea, and he imperiously holds out his hand without looking up from his book. She holds out the cup, but he doesn’t move, and eventually she sighs and carefully maneuvers the handle of the teacup exactly into his waiting fingers, which close around it. She shakes her head slightly. “Who brought you tea when you were little? I can’t envision Mycroft doing this for you.”

Sherlock looks up, brow furrowing. “Why, have you met Mycroft?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Nope, just heard stories from John,” she smiles. “He doesn’t sound… nurturing.”

Sherlock sniffs. “No.”

Mary sets down her own tea and perches on the edge of her desk. She swings her legs as she says to Sherlock, “You don’t have to do all this, you know. It’s not required of the best man. Mostly you just need to help John pick his outfit and organize the stag night. And there’s a speech, of course.”

Sherlock frowns. “Do you… not want my help?”

“Oh, no! That’s not it. I just don’t want you to do it out of obligation… and frankly, I’m not sure why you’d want to do any of it. It’s not exactly a case.”

“This will be the biggest and most important day of John’s life,” he says simply, staring at her very seriously.

Her chest floods with warmth, and she also feels a twinge of fear over how much he loves John. “Ah. Right. Well, I welcome your help, then.”

“Excellent.” He pulls out a book from the pile. “Have you thought about color palettes?”

* * *

Another fear occupying far too much of her mind whenever John is off on a case -- that she needn’t even plan this wedding.

That John will come home smelling of Sherlock. That the two of them will finally have stopped undressing each other with their eyes and started doing it more directly. That he’ll announce he’s leaving her.

She really hopes that’s not how it would play out. She’s fairly certain she’s done the best thing she can by encouraging John to pursue whatever relationship with Sherlock that he wants. But if it is, she’d rather know sooner rather than later.

And it’s not like she can’t imagine it. Especially when John is away for days at a time (and she’s watching Magnussen infuriatingly refuse to do anything interesting), she imagines it all too clearly. After all, if it did happen -- if he realized that he could have everything he wanted with just one person -- why would he need her? She’s just boring Mary.

She starts running longer distances each morning in order to wear herself out enough to sleep at night.

* * *

When she’s not apart from John and worrying about things, she’s awash in unaccustomed domesticity.

They spend Christmas at Baker Street with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. They eat Christmas biscuits and drink punch, and they listen to Sherlock play the violin and Mrs. Hudson tell stories about when she was a little girl. Mary tries to get Sherlock to share stories about his childhood -- she’s dreadfully curious what he and Mycroft were like, growing up -- but the best she manages to elicit is “Dull.”

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson takes Mary with her into the kitchen -- hers, downstairs, where they don’t have to worry about any experiments in progress -- to help with dinner. “It’s nice to see the boys smiling,” she says, bustling about and checking on the roasting hen while Mary chops vegetables.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” Mary says. “It must be so wonderful to have Sherlock home again.”

“Oh, yes! You have no idea,” Mrs. Hudson says. “It was very lonely here, without either of them.”

“I’m sorry John didn’t visit you,” Mary says. “I know he is, too.”

“Yes, well.” Mrs. Hudson shuts the oven with what seems like an unnecessary amount of force. “Bygones, and all that. Tell me, how long have the two of you been together?”

“Oh, well --”

“It can’t have been that long,” Mrs. Hudson cuts her off. “Now can it?”

“Eight months,” Mary says.

“Oh, not long at all, then!”

“Well --”

“Do you really think you ought to be getting married?” Mrs. Hudson says earnestly. She pats Mary on the arm and then starts pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. “How well do you really know John?”

Mary stops chopping and stares quizzically at her. “I think I know him pretty well, actually.”

“Well, of course you do. We all like to think that about the people we love, now don’t we?” Mrs. Hudson clucks sympathetically. “How much do you know about his history with Sherlock, dear?”

“John’s told me everything.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure he has,” Mrs. Hudson says in a tone that indicates the exact opposite. “I’m sure you know exactly where you stand with him. Quite right.

“Well, I’m not one to stick my nose in where it’s unwanted, but If you ask me, you might want to wait a bit. Of course, I’m only telling you this, dear, because I myself married a man who turned out to be not nice. Not nice at all. And all because I rushed into things! I’d hate to see you making the same mistake.”

Mary’s lips quirk. “Are you trying to tell me John is a bad man?”

“Oh! No, dear. I wouldn’t say that. He’s a very good man -- for some people, anyway. But May is so soon, don’t you think? What about October? Or if you’ve got your heart set on the spring, there’s always the following year.”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Mary says quietly. “I’m not stealing John away from Sherlock. I promise. I know how much they mean to each other, and I don’t want to get between them. But I do want to marry John.”

Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders slump a little, and she sighs. “Yes, well. I’m sure you know best. I do worry so about Sherlock, though, being all alone here. He never did know how to take care of himself, before John. And he’s been so alone, for so long. I hear him talking, sometimes, upstairs, and I just --” she shuts her mouth on the thought, pursing her lips and giving her head a quick shake. “But! Well! Yes, weddings. I’m sure yours will be lovely. I’m sure it will all work out for the best. And of course you’re not making a mistake or rushing things. Probably.”

“We care about Sherlock, too, you know. John will still come over all the time, even after the wedding.”

Mrs. Hudson gives another little shake of her head. “You think so now -- but marriage changes things, you know. Ah well. I can finish this up -- why don’t you take some more biscuits up to the boys.”

Mary does so with mixed feelings, and finds the boys deep in their own discussion.

“...won't come close to filling the hall!” Sherlock is saying. “And you don't even have enough for proper wedding parties.”

“We can't just magically generate more family and friends because the numbers don't suit you, Sherlock!”

“Maybe it's best that you don't try. Your friends don't even like you.”

“You always say that, but you're wrong. It's you that makes people prickly.”

“Who are these alleged other friends? You never see them. You never talk about them.”

“He does, though,” Mary chimes in, setting down the plate of biscuits. Mike, Greg. James, Bill. “I’ve heard all about them.” Though admittedly, John mostly talks about his Army mates when he's drunk.

“Well, I haven’t.” Sherlock reiterates dismissively, as if that settles it.

John purses his lips, his fingers alternately curling and straightening. “Yeah, well. You have no idea who I've seen or talked about for the last two years, do you?”

Sherlock looks abashed at that. Without another word, he spins and heads to the kitchen. John clenches his fists and wears the expression he has when he wants to go out for some air. Instead, he sighs, kisses her, and takes a biscuit.

Sherlock returns a few minutes later with a cup of tea for John, and by the time Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs again, he's playing violin for them. Despite the moments of tension, it’s the happiest Christmas -- one of the only Christmases -- she can recall since childhood.

* * *

Can I borrow some agents as wedding guests?

Shall I assume this has something to do with the case, seeing as how you are texting me on the SSP?

She wrinkles her nose at the Secret Spy Phone, though Mycroft can't see it. Your brother is worried about how few friends we have. I don’t want him to feel tempted to nose around my past more -- he might dig deeper than we like. Truth be told, she mostly doesn’t want John to wonder why she has so few friends, but she doesn’t think that reason will compel Mycroft.

You’re not worried about Sherlock, you’re worried about Doctor Watson.

She sighs. Okay, that, too. He thinks I have friends and volunteer gigs that don’t actually exist. Can I get a couple tables of friends?

You know I am displeased about you taking time off for your wedding and honeymoon, yet you ask me to sacrifice the time of more agents.

Yep. I also know that you’re traditional as fuck and will feel a need to give me a wedding present. This will serve.

Fine.

* * *

In January, John takes her to meet his family -- or, at least, Harry and one of his local cousins. He hasn’t seen his father in years, and most of his relatives live far away.

She tries to get him to invite Sherlock, too; an evening with Sherlock deducing John’s childhood and his family’s secrets sounds like fun. But John says he’d like to give her a chance to make a good first impression without Sherlock there to make anger the general theme of the night. She’s forced to agree that it’s probably safer not to bring him.

It turns out they don’t need Sherlock there to start a row, however.

Harry’s breath when she greets them is enough to cause John to stiffen and look grim. But her hug to Mary is as enthusiastic as her smile, and her face is unmistakably Watsonian, so Mary finds herself grinning back at her even as she winces inwardly.

“Mary, so good to finally meet you! C’mon -- Ingrid’s already got us a table.”

Things get off to a good start with Harry, but less so with Cousin Ingrid. Ingrid first wants to see Mary’s ring and then brag about how her own ring was much larger. She then proceeds to talk about herself and her husband (absent, working late) nonstop for nearly half an hour -- never asking her a single question -- while Harry orders more drinks and John glowers at her.

“So, Harry, tell me all about yourself,” Mary says finally, breaking into Cousin Ingrid’s interminable tales of her own wedding and earning an indignant glare from her. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

“Aww,” Harry says with a grin, “Likewise. John doesn’t call me nearly enough -- shush, John, you know you don’t -- but when he does, it’s been ‘Mary, Mary, Mary,’ for some time now. It’s been a great change!”

“I was all that Eric could talk about, too, when we got engaged,” Ingrid gushes, and under the cover of another of her inane stories, Harry orders another scotch.

“Don’t you think you ought to stop?” John asks, dangerously quiet, as Ingrid chatters to Mary, oblivious.

“Don’t you think you ought to mind your own business?” Harry says. “I’m fine.”

“You aren’t.”

“Am.”

Time to redirect before this escalates. Mary talks over John’s cousin again, ignoring her frown. “Harry, I heard you play rugby?” She sees John relax just a little.

“Yeah, I’m a hooker.”

“Harry!” Ingrid says, putting a hand over her mouth.

“It’s a position, Ingrid,” Harry says, rolling her eyes.

“It’s a number of positions, I’d imagine,” John says with a smirk and an eyebrow raise, which earns him a punch in the arm from Harry.

“I played scrum half in school,” Mary says, though she didn’t, and that leads to a conversation where everyone except Ingrid is happy.

Ingrid breaks into a momentary pause, finally, to say, “I heard you two met at work, just like me and Eric.”

“Yes, we did,” Mary says. With a smile and a wink for John, she says, “It was his mustache that first attracted me.”

“‘You’re such a liar,” Harry says with a grin. “Cor, that was the most bloody awful thing I’ve seen on a person’s face. Ever.” John crosses his arms and scowls.

“Wasn’t it, though?” Mary grins back.

“How’d you make him get rid of it?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Mary says. “Sherlock did.”

Harry howls with laughter. “’Course he did. You know, honestly,” she announces, drawing out her words and carefully enunciating them, “I thought John here was going to end up with Sherlock, for the longest time. Even though he claims not to like cock.”

Ingrid gasps. John turns very red. Mary reaches out and clamps a hand on his arm -- for comfort and to stop him from trying to strangle Harry. “Yes, well. Cock is pretty great, after all,” Mary says, earning a glare from Ingrid. “But that’s hardly the only reason to be interested in Sherlock. He’s quite a character, don’t you think? And the two of them are good for each other.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna have to disagree with you on the matter of cock --” Ingrid gets up and stalks off toward the restroom “-- but Sherlock is definitely something. Guess it’s a good thing you waited till he was dead to show up.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry!” John snaps.

“What? He’s not dead anymore!”

“Just, just shut up,” John says. “You’re drunk. I can’t believe I brought Mary to meet you, and you’re drunk.”

“Lighten up. I’m just relaxing.”

“You’re an addict. You don’t get to ‘relax’ like that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Well, you certainly don’t seem to be capable of making decisions for yourself.”

“Fuck off, John. I don’t have to take this bullshit.” She stands swayingly. “Mary, you’re lovely, you’re better than John deserves, and if you ever want to chat without this twat about, give me a call. Good night.” She leaves.

When Ingrid comes back, they briefly try to make conversation about how Ingrid quit her job because Eric takes care of her, and isn’t it nice to be taken care of by a capable man, and John and Mary suddenly both remember that they left the stove on and need to go home.

“Well,” John says. “That’s my family. All the local ones, anyway.”

“I like Harry,” she says.

John looks at her sharply. “Why do you always like the arseholes?”

“Don’t knock it -- why do you think I like you?” She grins.

John fakes a scowl, then sighs. “She was doing so well.”

Mary squeezes his hand. “Maybe she’ll sort herself out again.”

“Thank God for the family I get to pick for myself,” he says, and smiles at her. She kisses him, her only family, and agrees.

* * *

February is mostly dull -- clinic, wedding planning, repeat. Clinic at least keeps her too busy to worry excessively, and texts from Janine occasionally break the monotony.

GRRRR MARY COME SAVE ME BEFORE I COMMIT HOMICIDE

Uh-oh. Your boss again?

Yes. He’s SUCH a pig.

Oh?

You wouldn’t even believe the things he does.

Mary shudders. Do tell…

Sigh. You know I can’t.

Well, don’t shoot him. I’ll come do it for you. ;)

:) Cheers.

Why do you stay in that job? For work purposes, Mary would like Janine to stay working for Magnussen. But as her friend, she can’t really advise it.

Because it pays well. REALLY well.

At least, that was it at first. Now... It’s just hard to get away.

Not for the first time, Mary wonders what Magnussen has on Janine. What would you do if you didn’t have to work?

Retire early. Go to the spa every day. Read. Write. Hold book salons. You?

I think I’d keep working. Though not at the clinic job, she adds silently. But I’d travel more.

You’d keep working?? I guess maybe it’s different when you’re sleeping with your boss.

Oh, yes. The clinic is just one long honeymoon getaway for us. But with extra acne, piles, and ingrown toenails.

UGH

I think you have Stockholm Syndrome. Nobody actually wants a job like that.

It’s better than wedding planning, though. The books make it sound fun but THEY ARE WRONG. :P

I’m coming to rescue you after work for drinks.

Ugh, I can’t. I have… wait for it… more wedding planning.

I’ll have a drink in your honor, then.

xo

* * *

She and John brainstorm who to invite to their wedding, and it’s a small group, even after Mycroft has supplied her with a number of extra “friends.” Even if they invite the neighbors they know (Kate and her children, including the druggie; Alex and his boyfriend, Jake), their colleagues (Lily from the clinic, and her adorable son Archie), all of their actual friends, and an ex or two (she grudgingly adds David to the list, even though they haven't talked or interacted in years, aside from his favoriting every single one of her tweets), it’s not enough to suit Sherlock.

He paces moodily as they wait for John to arrive after work. “It’ll be distracting if there’s just a few people bouncing around in the huge church and reception hall.”

She smiles. “I’m not concerned about it. You’re doing all my worrying for me, I think.”

He frowns. “This is an extraordinary event. It should be perfect.”

She raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Extraordinary? A wedding?”

He spins on one heel to look at her. “Not a wedding. John’s wedding.” He says it almost angrily.

She swallows. Oh. “Yes. And he's very nearly perfect, isn't he?”

Sherlock looks at her for a long time. Then finally, with a small smile, he says, “Nearly.”

She returns the smile. Then she says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not trying to stop this -- for trusting me with John.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Trust you? I didn’t.” He frowns. “I called upon Mycroft to dig into your past, due to his superior resources in certain areas. He’s assured me that there’s nothing in your background to concern me.”

“Ah,” she says. That explains a lot.

Once John shows up, Sherlock treats them to an hour and a half lecture on the symbolism of flowers throughout history, which he insists is a prerequisite to selecting their own flower arrangements. She finds herself yawning with increasing frequency, but Sherlock shows no signs of flagging. She gets desperate.

She gives a little jump. “Oh, is that my phone? Sorry,” she apologizes to Sherlock, who has paused mid-sentence to glare. She pulls her phone out of her purse and a name out of thin air. “Hey, Beth,” she says, standing and starting to walk toward the stairs to John's old room. “What's up? Oh, I don't know – let me ask John.” She turns back. “John, can I borrow you for just a minute?”

He gives her a puzzled look, then follows her up the stairs. She continues chatting with Beth until they're in the upstairs room with the door shut behind them.

“Sorry, who's Beth?” John asks, brow furrowed.

“Nobody,” she says cheerfully. “I just made her up.”

“You... what?”

“I made her up! Needed an excuse to get you away and talk about Sherlock.”

“You can't just make people up.”

“Well, apparently I can,” she grins, then curses herself for choosing such a similar name to Cath. Fortunately, John is unlikely to notice. “Anyway. How do you deal with him when he’s like this?”

“Cor, I don’t even know.” John sighs, sitting on his old bed. (It's still there, exactly the same as when he lived here; according to John, everything is untouched.) “I would have bet that he would have deleted anything about flowers not related to geography or poison.”

“Oh! So this isn't normal for him?”

John laughs. “God, no! I've never seen him like this.”

“Okay, that's what I wanted to know.”

“You made up that story just so you could ask me that?”

“Well, yeah. And because I desperately needed a break from flower talk.”

John laughs and shakes his head. “It's so odd,” John muses. “I think maybe I blew a fuse when I asked him to be my best man. He’s been … well, he’s been almost nice. Very nearly thoughtful. And also obsessed with the wedding.”

She smiles at him. “Yes. Well. Maybe you should find another case to distract him soon. It’s been a few weeks.”

“That sounds lovely. I wish Greg would call with something.”

“Or you can do something else to distract him – like snog him.” She winks.

“Erm. Right. No. Probably not. Erm.”

Mary kisses John for being so adorably easy to fluster. Then she says, “Guess we'd best be getting back.”

“What are we going to tell Sherlock about Beth, then?” John asks.

“That we invited her to the wedding?” Mary grins. “Actually, I'm pretty sure you can successfully throw him off the track by asking him about the symbolic meaning of some flower he hasn't got to yet – hydrangeas, maybe?”

John groans and she giggles at him.

* * *

The only thing she worries about as much as not getting married is that she will. And that she’ll perish of boredom as a result.

Though she never thought she’d say it, work is dull. When she follows Magnussen, she follows him at a distance of half a mile or more. She avoids any engagement with his staff -- meaning she can’t search or bug his hotel room, among other things.

Meanwhile, John is running around chasing people, fighting, and shooting at things. It sounds marvelous, and it’s bloody hard not to resent him sometimes when he comes home happy and full of stories.

And she can’t help thinking that this is how their entire marriage will be. She spends a lot of time contemplating marriage, and an increasing amount of time dreading it. Her life with John will be an endless succession of family Christmases and domesticity -- without even the questionable excitement of wedding planning to break the monotony -- and increasing work frustration. Her resentment of John presumably will only grow the longer she sits on her arse and does nothing. And if she’s shackled to him, she can’t very well request a transfer to a more exciting post elsewhere.

And then will come motherhood, probably -- they’ve never talked about it; they haven’t actually dated all that long, when it comes right down to it -- but she’s sure John wants to be a father. John would make a great father.

She can’t see herself as a mother, though.

She can’t see herself staying in one place at all.

What is she even doing? Why did she agree to this?

Everything is off-kilter. Her sleep and her appetite fall off drastically. Her cycle, always light, starts disappearing as well. What has she let happen to her life?

* * *

“Can you just shut up about the bloody case?” She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth.

“I -- what? Erm, okay,” John looks hurt and confused. It’s not his fault that he got to break into an apartment and spring a booby trap yesterday while she was on another futile trip, learning a great deal of nothing about Magnussen from a great distance.

“Sorry, love,” she says with a sigh. “So sorry. I just -- I had a rough day at the clinic, and I’m glad you were out having fun, and I do want to hear all about it. Just -- not now?”

He’s out of his chair already, rubbing her shoulders, offering to fetch tea. She relaxes against him gratefully and guiltily.

* * *

She has far too many worries. She’s a woman of action, unaccustomed to sitting or to stewing. Some of the worries she can do very little about. But there is one part of the equation she can control.

She begins to make plans.

* * *

A few days later, she sends John off with Sherlock on a case that will keep them overnight. (“Are you going to share a double room? I think you should; I’m dreadfully curious to hear whether Sherlock sprawls across the entirety of the bed or deigns to share.” “We’re not -- he doesn’t even sleep on cases.”) After he leaves, she takes the Tube to the airport and rents a car under a false identity.

She drives to the middle of nowhere and leaves the car in a field, watching as the sun sinks behind the horizon. Then she heads for the only other thing out here in the middle of nowhere -- Appledore.

Mycroft Holmes would not approve of this reconnaissance mission. But with any luck, Mycroft won’t know what she’s up to until she has such a wealth of data about Magnussen that he’ll be forced to forgive her.

And in order to get that data, she’ll have to break into Magnussen’s home, steal things, and escape, all without being detected by Magnussen’s security.

It’s going to be so much fun.

* * *

She’s identified where all of Magnussen’s security cameras are, she’s fairly certain. She’s wearing camouflage and a mask just in case she’s missed any, though, and she picks her path across the grounds very carefully.

Her heart is thudding in her ears as she finally reaches the outbuildings near the house. She waits several minutes until Magnussen’s personal chef walks past, heading home (Magnussen himself has left earlier this afternoon on several days’ business, so the chef will not be returning soon). Then she sneaks to the house and scales a wall to reach the roof. From there, it’s a simple matter to get into one of the exhaust ducts and shimmy downward into the kitchen.

She drops silently to the floor of the darkened room. (Much of the house is bright, open, windowed; the kitchen has the benefit of being one of the least exposed rooms, giving her time to get her bearings.) She listens at the door to the hall for a long time, hearing no noise, and finally creeps out along the hallway, which is dazzlingly bright after the kitchen. She moves from room to room, surveying the contents and keeping an ear out for Magnussen’s household staff and security.

She’s not looking for something in particular, but rather for anything. He’s the world’s foremost blackmailer and the richest media magnate; he’s bound to have a great deal of valuable information, the kind she and Mycroft can use. She’s hopeful that she’ll learn about his mysterious new partner who helped him kidnap John -- but if not, she still expects to gain a great deal of information.

Which makes it especially strange when she doesn’t.

Room after room, austere, empty. Sometimes there are a few books or periodicals, but not interesting ones.

Where are his files?

Where are his computers?

She begins to panic as the minutes creep on, and her own creeping continues to turn up nothing except close calls as she dodges the household staff on their rounds. Her miniature camera for photographing his papers and the keyboard logger she brought to install on his computers sit unused in her pockets.

After far too long -- including a half hour spent mostly hiding inside a wardrobe while a maid cleans Magnussen’s bedroom -- she’s grudgingly ready to admit defeat. On the physical evidence front, at least. Fortunately, she still has one other option.

She doesn’t know where he keeps his information, but she can still find out. She brought enough bugs for five rooms in the house, which should be a good start.

She’s standing on the desk of Magnussen's office, about to install the first one in the ceiling, when she hears the door handle turn.

Before she has time to reach for the gun tucked at the small of her back, the door opens, and a security guard enters.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, walking in and wielding a heavy baton.