Who do you want at the hen do? John said to invite Cath. Anyone else?

Cath can’t make it. I’d like to invite Harry, but I’m not sure if she’ll be out of rehab.

Maybe I should invite Lily from the clinic. Sigh. She’s nice but so dull.

Fuck “should.” This is your night. It’s all up to you.

Besides, you and I don’t need anyone else to have a brilliant time.

So true! Let’s make it just us, then.

Perfect.

Hm, that gives me an idea...

* * *

“Stag night’s in a few weeks, yeah?” She’s at Baker Street with Sherlock, waiting for John to arrive from the clinic.

Sherlock grimaces. “Indeed. I have been investigating the traditional options -- pub crawls and strip clubs, as I suppose John and the others will want --”

“Don’t.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Don’t invite a bunch of people.”

“I thought he would at least want Mike and Gary there, to give him the appearance of having a reasonable number of friends.”

“I don’t even know who Gary is."

He stares at her like she's dim. "The detective. You've met him multiple --"

She shakes her head. "No. It should just be the two of you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”

She ignores the question. “You’ll want to get him drunk. Not drunk enough to be ill -- just enough to slur his words a bit. And spend the evening alone with him. No strip clubs. Just drinks, and then come back here.”

“Why--” Sherlock starts again, frowning.

“Trust me.” She grins gleefully. She knows how to get John Watson talking about his emotions. Acting on his emotions. She’s brilliant, and she’s going to give John the best stag do ever -- Sherlock, too, for that matter.

She winks at the baffled Sherlock as John walks in, then turns and kisses the man she’s going to marry.

* * *

“How’s the program?” She asks Harry, sitting down across from her in the lounge of the rehab clinic.

“Fucking horrific,” Harry says. “I hate being sober.” She grins wryly; Mary’s not sure how seriously to take her.

“Are you angry at John?”

“Yes,” Harry says, wrinkling her nose. Then she sighs. “But I think he’s probably right -- it was the thing to do.”

Mary nods, neutrally, and bites down on the urge to say, You were driving drunk, and you’re lucky you only hurt yourself -- hell yes, it was the thing to do. Instead, she says, “How much longer are you in here?”

“Just two more weeks.”

“You can come to the wedding, then!” It’s three and a half weeks away.

“Oh, you don’t want me there,” Harry scoffs.

“Of course we do,” Mary says firmly.

“Trust me,” Harry says with a half-laugh. “John will be much happier without having to stare at his fuck-up of a sister.”

“He doesn’t think of you that way,” she lies.

Harry snorts. “Uh-huh. I can see the disappointment oozing out of his pores every time we’re together.”

Mary’s mouth twists. “Caring for someone can be hard. But he’ll be sad if you don’t come.” Which is utterly true, and the primary reason she's here. She does like Harry, though. Mary studies her; she looks less confident after Mary's last statement. “You should come to my hen night, too -- it’s the Saturday before the wedding.”

Harry’s face hardens. “I don’t need you to make me your pity friend.”

Mary shakes her head. “It’s not like that. I don’t have many friends in the area, and I thought maybe we could get to know each other a bit better. I liked talking to you, before, believe it or not -- and we hardly even got to talk rugby,” she says with a smile.

“Oh,” Harry says, still looking a bit wary. “I… that’s nice of you. Sorry for being an arse about it.”

Mary grins. “I’ll forgive you if you’ll come.”

Harry smiles back. “Thank you. For the invite -- and for the visit. John has only texted.”

Mary nods. “We’ve been keeping him a bit busy with wedding prep, I’m afraid.”

Harry cocks her head. “‘We?’”

“Sherlock and I.”

Harry’s brows shoot up. “You’re letting him help with the wedding? Cor, you’ve no idea what you’re in for.”

Mary laughs. “Oh, I have some idea, actually. Don’t you want to come and see whether it’s a train wreck?”

Harry grins, then bites her lip. “You know what I can’t figure?”

“What?”

“How you’re still together.”

She frowns. “Sorry?”

“You’re nice. John thinks he wants nice, but really, he falls for arseholes.”

Mary’s lip twitches. “I take it you mean Sherlock?”

Harry nods. “And some of his army mates -- you’ve no idea how awful they can be.”

Mary thinks back to bootcamp. “Oh, I think I’ve some idea.”

“I don’t know why you’ve stuck around so long, but you should know -- John has a fascination with terrible people and terrible situations.”

Mary smiles. “Yeah, I’m aware. I guess I’m just lucky that he seems to like me in spite of my niceness, eh?”

Harry shakes her head. “I guess. I hope it lasts. You’re really, really not what I expected.”

“Well. I’m not Sherlock.”

“Well, yeah. Like I said before, I expected John to settle down with him. Until Sherlock died. And then --” she shakes her head. “After, I didn’t know if John was going to survive, honestly.”

Mary nods, biting her lip. “He was a wreck, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, you don’t even know. He crashed at my flat for a while, and I don’t think he ate or got out of bed for days at a time.”

Mary reaches out and squeezes Harry’s hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping him through that.”

Harry laughs harshly. “I didn’t help. He scared the shit out of me, and I didn’t know what to do with him. He wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t watch movies. He wouldn’t go for a run, wouldn't pass a rugby ball with me. For a while, I thought he was just going to stop everything. Permanently. I started going out more so I didn’t have to watch it happen. When he did start pulling himself together, it wasn’t thanks to me.”

Mary shakes her head. “That might have been the best anyone could have done for him.” Her heart aches for John all over again. “Sherlock was such a bloody bastard.”

Harry nods. Then she says, “He’s John’s bloody bastard, though. You know, John’s never going to stop being in his thrall.”

“I know,” Mary says with a fond smile for the two of them.

Harry studies her. “I don’t understand you.”

“Come to my hen night and the wedding, then. Get to know me better.”

“All right,” Harry says, but she looks away.

* * *

She and John and Sherlock continue their wedding preparations, and she even manages to enjoy it, now that she has a plan for the future. After the wedding, she’ll continue on the Magnussen case (which is much more interesting now than it has been in years), and she’ll start working more on cases with Sherlock and John, as well. She fantasizes about it whenever wedding planning gets too annoying, and it keeps her cheerful.

Sherlock, though, gets more and more nervous and upset as the wedding approaches. She keeps trying to push him and John to spend more time alone together, but Sherlock is so focused on the wedding that he doesn’t want to take cases.

One day, after an hour of planning and Sherlock showing off his increasingly frazzled nerves via impressive napkin folding, she forces them to choose a case and take off for the afternoon. She heads home, meaning to do work while they’re gone, but she feels oddly tired and curls up with a book instead.

She’s asleep on the sofa when John arrives home several hours later; she feels a bit groggy and disoriented. Midday naps are not her usual pattern. John fixes them both drinks and joins her on the sofa. He tells her all about the case of the bloody guardsman, a grin on his face.

She smiles fondly at him. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re more pleased that you got to save a life, order people about, or see Sherlock Holmes stumped.”

John laughs. “Yeah, I’m actually not sure, either.”

“So how is Sherlock as a nurse?”

“Rubbish,” he grins. “Not to worry, your position’s safe.”

She pats his hand. “Well, that’s a relief. What’s the next step in the case?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. But he doesn’t usually get stuck -- or not for very long. I expect he’ll come up with a lead soon.” Then he quiets for a moment and purses his lips. “I, um. I probably ought to tell you. I tried to talk to him,” he says.

“Oh?” She smiles and sits up a bit straighter.

John gulps his drink. “Yeah. I told him that my getting married won’t change anything.”

“Good.”

“Then I tried to say … to tell him how you and he had both turned my life completely around. How much I need you both.”

She nods. “How’d he take it?”

John rolls his eyes. “Didn’t. He got up and left in the middle of my trying to tell him, and I didn’t realize at first. I don’t think he even caught any of it.”

The thought of John struggling to break his reserve, to come up with words expressing actual emotions, only to find Sherlock had wandered off, takes her by surprise. She collapses into gales of laughter, earning a glare from John. “Oh, you poor baby,” she laughs breathlessly. “Did he get bored waiting for you to manage to speak about your emotions?”

“Oi,” he says gruffly. “It’s difficult for me. Talking. And Sherlock’s even worse.”

She kisses his forehead, and he looks at her, mostly mollified. “Anyway,” he hesitates. “I’m not really sure I need to say more than that. I want him to know that he’s my friend, that that won’t change. But… maybe that’s enough. It’s been almost like the old days again, lately. It’s been. Well. Really good.”

“So there’s nothing else you want him to know?”

“Well. I’m.” John scrubs his neck and stares at his drink. “I’m about to be a married man.”

She smiles. “I’ve never been overly concerned with how things are supposed to work, you know. Whatever you want, it's fine.”

He looks up at her, then, and she sees in his eyes what he wants. He may not be able to say it, but it’s there. He shakes his head helplessly. “He’s. I just don’t know.”

She kisses him. You silly men. Thank goodness you have me to interfere and plan your stag night. “I’m sure it will work out, one way or another.”

* * *

Janine claps her hands together and says, “Oh! You look so lovely!”

The dressmaker, an old woman, steps back to fetch more pins, and Mary surveys the dress in the mirror. It looked beautiful when she first tried it on, and now, at the final fitting, it looks amazing. She grins. “It’s perfect -- thank you!”

The old woman goes back to making adjustments and smiles at her. “Whoever you’re marrying is very lucky.”

“So am I,” she says. Janine rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. She still fluctuates between being happy with her boyfriend Albert and thinking romance is for chumps; right now, she’s in the latter camp.

“Hang on,” Janine says, “I’m buzzing.” She pulls out her phone, and a few minutes later, she’s making her apologies and heading on the door to handle a work emergency.

The dressmaker also excuses herself to answer the phone in the back of the store, and Mary has a moment alone to admire her reflection.

The bell above the door jingles. “Aren’t you a pretty picture?” Magnussen says, striding in, and suddenly she understands why Janine was called away. Two suited lackeys follow close behind.

Mary focuses on looking terrified. “Wh-why are you here?” she asks.

“Just curious to see how the preparations are coming along,” Magnussen says, walking in a tight circle around her and examining her from all sides. His breath ruffles her hair, and she shivers involuntarily.

He turns and begins rifling through Mary’s purse on the nearby bench. “I need a favor, as well.”

“Another meeting with my cousin?” she asks.

“More than that, this time. I need you to persuade him to vote ‘yes’ on the upcoming libel reform legislation.” He turns back around, something concealed in his hand.

“Persuade him how to vote? How am I supposed to do that?” she protests.

“Be creative,” he says with a smile. “He’s your cousin, after all.” Then he pauses. “Not your real cousin, though,” he says thoughtfully. “A distant cousin of the deceased Mary Morstan, from whom you took your identity. He’s part of why you selected that identity, isn’t he?” She looks down and gives a small nod. Mycroft has altered the records to make it appear true. He smiles at her. “It’s nice to know someone in power, isn't it?” She gives another small nod. “And now you’re going to do me the favor of talking your dear cousin into voting yes on this bill. You have one month.”

“But we’re not close,” she says, upping the desperation in her voice. “He’s not even invited to the wedding.”

“Well. Still time to change that, or to find other ways to convince him.”

He reaches out and strokes the arm of her dress, and it’s all she can do not to shove him away. “It’s very pretty, very traditional, isn’t it. And you intend to make the traditional promise to your husband, do you not -- your body shall belong to him alone.” She feels a weight in her stomach. Where is this leading?

“But it won’t be true -- I own you, don’t forget. Oh, not like that. So dull. Just think of the things, though, that you can share with me that you’ve never shared with anyone else -- not even him.” He leans in until his face is an inch from hers. “Tell me -- can I lick your eyeball?”

She flinches, not having to fake it at all, and he laughs and pulls back. “Well, not now, then. We’ll wait until after the wedding, shall we?”

She hopes her trembling makes it look like she’s afraid. She doesn’t want him to know that she’s instead straining to stop herself from attacking him. He’s a hideous bully, and he deserves to be ground into the carpet like a bug. But she keeps her fists clenched at her side and her eyes cast downward so he won’t see her rage.

“Oh, come now,” he says, placing a knuckle under her chin and lifting it until she meets his eyes. “Why so sad? You’re about to be married. Here, I’ll help cheer you up.” He opens his own fist and reveals her lipstick. He removes the cap and twists, then slowly draws a dark pink arc across her mouth and cheeks. He stares at her dress a long moment, as if contemplating vandalizing it as well -- and she might actually punch him if he does. But then he turns back to her purse, replaces her lipstick, and pulls out her phone.

“Time for your first wedding photo.” he says. He hands the phone to one of his guards, then puts his arm around her and pulls her close. She fantasizes about spinning, kicking his kneecaps, and shooting both his lackeys before they can respond. Instead, she lets him clutch her tightly. “Smile!” he commands, and does so himself.

Afterward, the phone is handed back to her, and she stares at her sullen face sporting the clownish fake smile, and the way she looks like she’s trying to pull away, but he won’t let her out of his grip. “There you go,” Magnussen says. “Beautiful. Something to remind you of our agreement as you prepare for your big day.” Then he leans forward, his mouth extremely close to her eyeball, and licks his lips. “Don't forget,” he breathes.

With that, he sweeps out of the store, leaving her still trembling.

* * *

Her first impulse is to go back to Appledore and burn it to the ground.

Instead, she makes herself go home and go for a run. Six miles before her head is clear -- before she’s ready to be sane and talk to Mycroft. (And truthfully, she'd hoped to run at least six more, but she finds herself too tired; the encounter with Magnussen took a lot out of her.)

First, she devises a better plan. More satisfying even than arson. She will confront Magnussen on his home turf – not Appledore, but still, a place he feels safe. She will make Magnussen fear for his own life. Just briefly, before she must appear to give up entirely (because he will have another threat – men like him always have a backup plan), but oh, she plans to savor every moment of it. Just for a few moments, he will feel completely powerless. And owned.

She looks at blueprints and surveillance footage of the London office. The London office, which is nearly unassailable. Perfect -- he’ll feel abject terror when she breaches his security.

The strong to go now, to enact swift retribution, is strong. But she promised to be good. Instead, she sends a text on the Mycroftphone. Target upped ante, as predicted. I have a plan. Sending encrypted file.

There's a pause, and then Mycroft responds, I’ll consider it.

* * *

She’s regained her equilibrium the following day when Sherlock summons her to Baker Street.

“I’ve solved it,” he tells her.

“Solved what?”

“How to fill the church and reception hall.”

“Oh?”

“The Homeless Network.” He smiles triumphantly.

“Of course,” she says, not hiding her skepticism.

“Plus some clients who owe me. I have enough to fill the hall, including a couple who will look fetching in the lilac bridesmaid dresses -- don’t want the wedding party photos to look too sparse.”

Her lip quirks at the thought of a hall filled with more agents of the Holmes brothers than actual wedding guests. “There’s only a week and a half left until the wedding, Sherlock. There’s no time to have more dresses made.”

“Everything’s doable with sufficient funds. Mycroft will provide budget to clothe them all appropriately.”

She frowns. “He will?”

Sherlock smiles. “It’s a little game we play. He changes the passcode to his bank account periodically, and then we see how long it takes me to work it out.”

She shakes her head. Siblings. She’s glad she doesn’t have any. Speaking of… “Wait, where’s Harry?” she asks, peering over his shoulder at the new seating chart.

“She’s not coming,” Sherlock says dismissively.

“She is,” Mary insists. “I talked to her, and she said she would.”

“Hm,” he says, but doesn’t add her back to the chart.

“You’ll have to talk John into this madcap plan of yours, you know,” she says, eyeing all the new and unfamiliar names on the chart.

He waves a hand at her. “John will do what I tell him.”

She smiles. “Yes, I suppose he probably will.” Then, “Are you all set on stag night?”

He looks at her, his expression unreadable. “Yes. And I’ve been doing appropriate preparatory research.”

“Ah. Good.” She wonders what exactly that entails.

* * *

Ready for Hen Night?

Her Friday at the clinic has been long and dull, but Janine’s text makes her smile. Just one more day, and she and Janine will be living it up. Or she assumes they will -- Janine’s kept the plans a secret. Still, she remembers a certain threat about “revenge” in conjunction with hen night.

I don’t know… should I be feeling a vague sense of foreboding?

Worried about your past misdeeds toward me coming home to roost?

Har har.

Worried that you’ll tire out too quickly, because you’re no spring chicken?

Har.

Worried you’re counting your eggs before they’re hatched?

?? ...What does that even mean in this context?

Don’t know -- got carried away.

Worried about being cooped up with you all night, more like.

There you go, that’s the spirit!

But you don’t have to put all your eggs in one basket. It won’t just be the two of us.

Harry’s coming? :D

Nope - alas - but Cath is!

Mary blinks at her phone a few times. That makes no sense.

She’s out of town, she types finally.

Well, she’s clearly a good egg, because she changed her plans to come to Hen Night.

Mary numbly looks up from her phone to answer the question of a patient hovering nearby with a look like he’s strongly considering bolting. (It’s about his genitals. It’s always about genitals -- or arse -- when they have that look.)

She returns to her messages later that night, hoping she hallucinated it, but nope, still there.

“Did you talk to Janine about hen night?” she asks John as they get ready for bed.

He freezes while unbuttoning his shirt cuff. “Why, was I supposed to?”

She smiles at him, taking off her earrings. “No, it’s fine. I just thought -- did you tell her to invite Cath?”

He still looks wary, and like he’s preparing his guilty face for as soon as he can figure out when to deploy it. “No… sorry, did I forget something?”

She laughs and kisses him on the forehead. “I promise, you’ve done nothing wrong. Janine just told me Cath is coming, and I was surprised they’d managed to get in touch without help.”

John brightens and continues undoing his shirt. “Ah, that’s great! I thought she was going to be out of town.”

“Me, too.”

“Well -- I can’t wait to meet her!”

You and me, both. “You’ll be busy, though,” she points out with a smile.

“I guess I will be,” he muses. “I shudder to think what Sherlock has in store for the stag.”

“Oh, I think you’ll like it,” she says, grinning.

“What? Why? Did he tell you when he has planned?”

She laughs. “Something like that.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “I can’t decide if I should be scared…” He leans in and kisses her while she giggles, which makes her giggle harder.

When she pulls back, she stops giggling and looks him in the eye, “John -- whatever happens tomorrow? You have my blessing.” Then she can’t help grinning again and waggling her eyebrows at him.

John blinks. “Well, now I am scared.” But he smiles back and snogs her again.

* * *

John’s already left for Baker Street -- after she gives him one more kiss and a silent wish that he get a leg over -- when there’s a knock at the door. She opens it and greets Janine with a grin.

Except it’s not Janine. It’s Anthea.

Mary’s grin dies. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She wonders if she can still text Janine before she arrives and forestall her arrival. “Do I need to come with you?”

Anthea smiles at her. “I think we ought to wait for Janine first, don’t you?”

“What? Why?” Has Magnussen discovered something? What do they need Janine for? Cold snakes through her gut at the thought.

“Well, it would hardly be hen night without her, would it?”

Mary blinks. She replays the comment in her head several times. Finally: “Ohhh! You’re Cath!”

Anthea smirks. “And you’re terrible at maintaining my cover!” Then she hugs Mary and comes into the flat.

Mary smiles sheepishly. “Are you joining us for the whole night, then?”

“Unless North Korea gets up to anything funny, I think we’re good. The boss told me that he found the idea of my attending pointlessly sentimental and foolhardy in the extreme. But he also gave me the night off.”

Mary throws her arms around Anthea. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Anthea squeezes back. “Wouldn’t miss it. I wish I could make it to the wedding, too.”

“Well, I’m sure our boss will manage to video it -- so at least you can watch.”

They’re still giggling when Janine arrives. “The famous Cath!” She and Anthea uncertainly start to shake hands and then end up awkwardly hugging. Then Janine turns to Mary, very somber.

“Ready for your last chance to party before you become terribly dull forever?” she asks.

“Guess you’d better show me a good time, if the prognosis is that bad,” she says.

“We will,” Janine grins. “Starting with… karaoke!”

Mary groans. “You’re kidding, right? You know I can’t sing.”

Janine grins wider and rubs her hands together. “Oh, I know. This, my friend, is what revenge feels like.”

“If you’re going to humiliate me, you better get me liquored up, first.”

“Oh, yes,” Janine and Anthea say simultaneously, and then grin at each other.

* * *

The night is full of music, alcohol, and promises that can’t be kept.

Mary promises not to think about John at all during her final Saturday night as a free woman. (A moment later she imagines John and Sherlock in one of several interesting positions she has been contemplating lately, and she resists the urge to text them and demand video.)

Janine and Anthea -- Cath -- get along like a house on fire. By the time they finish the cab ride to the first bar on their list of destinations for the night, all three of them are giggling like old friends. “Come to the wedding, Cath!” Janine demands. “You have to!”

Anthea bites her lip. “Believe me, I want to. My mum’s having surgery Friday, and I promised I'd come stay for the weekend.”

Janine groans sympathetically. “Oh, fuck -- I’m sorry.” Then she brightens and winks. “If I call up the surgeon and convince him to operate a few days earlier, will you come?”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” Anthea grins back.

“Done,” Janine says, laughing.

Later, after a pitcher of margaritas, Janine promises to become independently wealthy and buy them a Mediterranean island. “With an enormous spa for each of us. And a beach… library… bar.”

Anthea and Mary giggle. “Sounds grand,” Mary agrees.

Anthea promises to pardon either of them if they ever need it.

Janine frowns. “Wait, what do you do, Cath?”

Anthea smiles. “Oh, nothing much right now. Except work for a very demanding boss--”

“Hey, me too!” Janine interrupts to fist bump her.

“But I have ambitions,” Anthea continues. “How would you feel about a knighthood, Mary?”

“Not just now, thanks,” she says with a grin. “But I think you’d make an excellent British government.”

“Thank you,” Anthea beams. Janine blinks at them muzzily.

When it’s time for karaoke, Anthea and Janine promise to sing backup for her on “Go Your Own Way.” But Mary’s ability to carry a tune is so nonexistent that Janine laughs till she snorts, which sets Anthea off. Mary is left singing alone while flipping them a V sign.

Later, on the dance floor, Janine asserts that all boys stink. “Don’t get married, Mary! Run off with us tonight instead. We’ll buy an island.”

Anthea nods vigorously. “With a beach library bar!”

“Absolutely,” Mary says, grinning at them both.

As time and ethanol continue to flow, Janine gets them to vow to be friends always. Mary knows it’s absurd, but on some level she feels utter conviction that she’ll find a way to make it true. She feels light and happy and like everything is possible. It’s no less probable than a lot of things in her life, after all.

She feels loved. She feels happy and excited for the future. She dances with her friends until dawn.