Mrs. Holmes is terrifying.

She picks Mary up at the train station, greeting her with a hug and opening the car door for her. “Look at you,” she says, clucking delightedly over Mary’s stomach. “When’s the due date?”

“January 15th.” Mary wonders how this gracious, bustling, seemingly ordinary woman ended up mother to such changeling boys.

“Ah, lovely! You must be so ready for it. The due date is very approximate, though, you know. My first one was two weeks late -- and then the second one was a day early. That’s Sherlock for you, rushing in headlong while Mike proceeds with more caution.”

“Mike?” Mary echoes in mild shock. Is that what Mycroft’s friends and family call him? The possibility never occurred to her.

“Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft. Have you two not met yet?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, you will soon enough -- the boys are already settling in,” she tells Mary with a fond smile. “Sherlock wanted to come fetch you himself, you know, but he’s still weak yet, even if he doesn’t think so. And they just came from a difficult case -- well, you know that, of course, what am I thinking -- so all the more reason he should be resting. I told them both to stay put while I came to meet you. Insisted on it.”

That’s when she moves from sweet to terrifying. She tells Mary several times that if she ever discovers who shot Sherlock, that person will suffer some very creatively unpleasant consequences. Mary utterly believes her. Mary nods firm agreement and offers to help hunt the villain down.

Mrs. Holmes switches topics and pats her on the leg as they near the house. “I’m so very glad to finally meet you, my dear. Sherlock talks about you and John all the time. Well, John more so, of course -- they’ve been friends a long time, you know -- but you as well, absolutely. We’re so pleased John has found you.”

Mrs. Holmes has no idea about the separation, then. No idea that John’s been with Sherlock instead and hasn’t spoken to her in months. She should have known that Sherlock would opt for complete lack of communication.

“I was worried for Sherlock when he told me about you at first,” Mrs. Holmes continues. “He’s always had a hard time making friends; John’s a rare one. And you know how it is, when people get married and drift apart from old friends -- I thought John might do that. It would have broken Sherlock’s heart to lose John. You just can’t imagine. So I have to thank you for welcoming Sherlock into both your lives. And you and John should consider yourselves part of our family -- I want you to know that.”

Mary nods as if each word in the speech wasn’t a stab in the gut. As if she weren’t the shooter that Mrs. Holmes threatened to roast like a Christmas ham. “Thank you so much,” she says. “We love your son, and we’re so glad to be here.”

They smile at each other. Mary thinks to herself that this whole thing is a terrible idea and that she wants to go home.

* * *

Inside the house, Mary is introduced to Mycroft Holmes.

“Mikey, this is Mary; Mary, Mike.” Mycroft rolls his eyes, and Mary tries not to giggle.

“Mother, please,” Mycroft says through gritted teeth, standing and extending his hand, “it’s Mycroft.”

“Oh -- ” Mrs. Holmes ignores him and throws up her hands “-- your father forgot to peel the potatoes! Dinner is going to be late.”

Mycroft sighs. “Mycroft Holmes. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Watson.”

Mary shakes his hand. “Mary, please. And likewise,” she says with the polite smile she wears when meeting someone who’s been preceded by unsavory rumors. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Don’t believe everything my brother says. He is unfortunately prone to exaggeration.”

“Mikey, don’t pick fights with Sherlock when he’s not even here to defend himself.” Mrs. Holmes emerges from the pantry with her arms full of an enormous sack of potatoes. “Where’s your father? I’m not sure we have enough potatoes for everyone. I might need him to run out for more.”

“The shops are closed on Christmas,” Mycroft observes, “but it appears you have at least eight potatoes for each person who will be in attendance. I do not think you will run out.”

“Well, Sherlock brought more friends than I was expecting -- oh, not you, dear,” she pats Mary on the arm, “he brought some friend named Ben, or Bill -- something Wiggins -- that I’ve never even heard of. Not the cleanest sort either. Who knows if more will be showing up?” Mary frowns at the revelation that Wiggins is here -- does Sherlock really think she needs a minder, even now?

“I believe every person has already arrived whom Sherlock might call a friend under the very loosest of definitions,” Mycroft says acidly. Mary can think of several others, but doesn’t correct him.

“Be nice to your little brother! You’re the older one; you should behave. Though I don’t know why I expect that, after all these years,” Mrs. Holmes adds with a sigh. “Where is he, anyway? Shouldn’t he and John be helping Mary with her bags?”

“He and his guests are with Father,” Mycroft answers. “Examining an ant hill, I believe. You know how Sherlock is about social insects.”

“Oh, that rotten man! I told him he has to let Sherlock rest. And to deal with the potatoes. Does he ever listen?”

“I don’t believe Sherlock is at risk of relapse from a walk across the field.”

“I swear, nobody watches out for my boys except me.”

Mycroft closes his eyes a long moment and clamps his lips over whatever retort he was about to spout. He then says, “Mary, in the absence of my brother and your husband, may I help you with your luggage?”

They retrieve her overnight bag from the car and walk -- or waddle, in Mary’s case; she keeps expecting to get used to her new gait, but it just keeps getting more ridiculous -- toward the guest rooms. She talks politely but disinterestedly with him about his job as a public servant, and how she met John through work.

They find that John has already claimed one of the guest rooms. He’s not sleeping in Sherlock’s room, somewhat to her surprise -- though she supposes that if Sherlock hasn’t told his parents anything, that would be awkward to explain. Wiggins has claimed another guest room. And, alarmingly, that’s all the bedrooms that aren’t already occupied by Holmeses.

Mycroft shoots Mary a brief glance as he puts her belongings in the same room as John’s. (That’s going to be awkward, later, but she doesn’t have any alternate proposals for where she should sleep.) He pauses and says, circumspectly, “I’m surprised you decided to join us for Christmas. It seems like it could be a difficult trip.” He glances at John’s bags as he says it but also adds, for the benefit of anyone possibly listening, “Or so I have heard about late pregnancy.”

She chooses her words carefully as well. “Yes. But Sherlock told me I wouldn’t want to miss this gathering.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Ah, I see. I hope it lives up to his prediction.”

“I do, too.”

She risks a quick, indirect inquiry about Magnussen. “I saw in the paper that Lady Smallwood’s husband committed suicide.” This worries her; it’s the first sign she’s seen of him resuming his activities in London since she’s been officially off the case.

Mycroft frowns at her warningly. “Oh?” he says, with polite disinterest. “Not my area of government, I’m afraid.”

She hears John’s voice, then, in the kitchen -- along with others, but oh, God, it’s John. She’s missed him so much. So very, very much. She wants to see him, and she also wants to smack him for making her see him first here. She feels a simultaneous impulse to stay away, in case seeing him brings about the official end of their relationship more quickly.

There’s only one way to resolve the uncertainty, though. She heads toward the kitchen, composing herself; tries to remind herself that they saw each other recently, just before Sherlock and John left on their case, as far as everyone knows.

In front of Sherlock’s family, John manages to greet her with a hug that plausibly only looks so awkward due to her unwieldy shape. Sherlock gives her a more genuine hug and peck on the cheek, and then he’s launching into a recounting of their most recent case.

Sherlock’s in prime showing off mode, nearly dancing around the room as he tells the story. John watches Sherlock and interjects, “Fantastic,” periodically, as if he hadn’t been along on the case. He studiously avoids catching Mary’s eye.

Mary tries to listen to Sherlock -- loves seeing him in happy deduction mode, has missed it -- but she can’t stop watching John. Once Sherlock has finished telling the tale -- and been mocked by Mycroft for an incorrect deduction along the way, and scolded by his mother for taking unnecessary risks when he should be healing, and observed with a quiet pride by his father -- he also turns to face John. “And now,” he says, “I think it’s time for the Watsons to have a chat before dinner.”

All the attention turns toward the two of them, and Mary frowns. Why does Sherlock always have to put such direct pressure on them? John is always apt to balk in such situations.

Sure enough, John purses his lips, shakes his head, and says, barely audibly, “Nope. Not today.” Then he clears his throat and says with false cheerfulness, “Right, sorry -- I think I got some ants on me. I’m going to go shower.” He stalks off to their -- his? -- room.

Mary flashes an equally false smile, but it probably looks a lot more genuine; she’s far better at lying than John. “I’m just going to go see if he needs anything.” She’s not going to spend the whole holiday waiting for John to decide whether it’s finally the day to talk to her and causing general family awkwardness in the meantime. If they’re going to talk here, might as well get it over with sooner rather than later.

When she reaches the room, though, she finds he’s locked the door. She can’t even fetch the book she brought with her. And she has no desire to spend more time with any of the others while she’s still so keyed up about how things will go with John. With a sigh, she gives up and goes to peruse the Holmes’s bookshelves.

* * *

Sitting has become a series of events, for her -- a careful lowering of her body, a moving of pillows, a shifting and settling of her belly -- acknowledged by a shifting and kicking inside -- a straightening of her back. Once she has finally finished the process of sitting in an armchair in the sitting room, she intends to remain there as long as possible -- or at least until she needs to pee.

So when she thinks wistfully how she should have fetched a cuppa first, it’s too late. She gives up on the thought and starts paging through The Dynamics of Combustion, a book that appears to have been written by Mrs. Holmes.

It’s the perfect reading material, given that she can’t focus on it at all; she couldn’t make heads or tails of it even if her attention weren’t diverted by the situation with John. The equations and the pseudo-English explanations of them could as well be encrypted for all that she can understand them. She’s terribly impressed.

She looks up as Mr. Holmes comes in with wood for the fire, and she smiles. He’s such an adorable old man in his neat shirt and cardigan. She wonders if John will look like this when he’s older -- probably sans bowtie. She wonders too, which of his parents Sherlock will most resemble when he’s this age. Her smile fades as she wonders whether she’ll be able to watch them grow old.

Mrs. Holmes follows, carrying a mug. “Ah, Mary, there you are.” Mary smiles and accepts the mug, sipping from it. Sweeter than she normally takes hers, but good, nonetheless.

“Cup of tea,” Mrs. Holmes continues. “Now, if Father starts making little humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it.”

Mary giggles, and Mrs. Holmes chuckles along. Mr. Holmes smiles at them. The two of them are just the perfect couple. Then Mary, realizing the book still in her hands, holds it up and asks, “Did you write this?”

She scoffs. “Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn’t read that! Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!”

Mary’s considers how best to respond to the trivializing of the entire field of mathematics and Mrs. Holmes’ own contributions to it, but Mrs. Holmes has already turned toward her husband to scold him yet again -- “Now, no humming, you!” -- inoffensive though the habit seems to Mary. (She wonders, if she and John and Sherlock were able to grow old together, which of their habits would grate the most on the others.) Then she bustles back out.

After she leaves, Mr. Holmes speaks. “Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius.”

“She was a mathematician?”

“Gave it all up for children.” She takes a sip from her mug and tries to smile, hoping that Sherlock's parents don't expect the same of all women. But then again, what does it matter? What does it matter what Sherlock's parents think of her at all? Why is she here?

“I could never bear to argue with her,” he continues. “I'm something of a moron myself.” She doesn't believe that, not for a moment. But she knows how it can feel to compare oneself to great brilliance. “But she's--” he glances toward the door, then turns back and leans toward her as if sharing a secret, “--unbelievably hot!”

Mary giggles. This man is incredibly winning. Also like John, when he's trying to be. “Oh my God,” she says with a smile. “You're the sane one, aren't you?” Relative to his wife, anyway. Possibly, in the way that John is to Sherlock, he's not actually sane compared to other people.

Mr. Holmes raises his eyebrows and says with a twinkle, “Aren't you?”

She tries to keep smiling, but lowers her eyes. Whoever the sane one is among the three of them, if there is one, she doubts it's her. She takes another sip of her tea.

She's saved from having to come up with a response by the door opening again. Much to her surprise, it's John who enters. He says, “Oh.”

She looks down at her book, opening to a different page than the one she was last on (or maybe the same; she can't tell) and flips through, waiting for him to leave, and thinking how she'll explain the awkwardness once he does.

John makes the awkwardness worse first. “Sorry, I-I just, er...” She doesn't look at him.

Mr. Holmes says, “Oh, er, do you two need a moment?”

To her shock, John says, “If you don't mind.”

Oh fuck. Thank God. Whatever is happening, it's happening now. At last.

She shakes her head slightly at Mr. Holmes when he glances inquiringly at her. Mr. Holmes departs, clearly confused, but happy to “go see if he can help with... something or another.”

She takes a deep breath, holds it.

Their baby kicks.

She lets it out.

Whatever will happen, will happen. She and her daughter will be all right, whatever that is.

She looks up at John as crosses to the fire, then faces her. He's not ready to speak yet. She looks back down, wondering if he will decide to postpone again.

“So, are you okay?” He finally asks her.

It's such an absurdly normal thing to ask. As if it hadn't been six months since they last spoke. As if he hadn't told her he didn't want to see her face. As if okay is a thing she could possibly be.

“Oh, are we doing this conversation today? It really is Christmas.” She half regrets the words as they leave her mouth. But even if John has every right to be angry at her, she's also angry at him, still, for leaving this until now.

He reaches into his pocket and removes the A.G.R.A. drive.

“Now?” He nods, shows her the side with the letters, just so she's sure what it is. Her heart leaps and sinks all at once. Leaps because she'd given up hope that he'd ever read it. But sinks because --

“Seriously?” she asks. “Months of silence, and we're going to do this now?” What is John doing? Bringing the drive to the same house as Mycroft? Mycroft mustn't get hold of it, mustn't know that she replaced the flash drive he originally gave her. John should know that if he’s read the drive.

Oh.

He hasn't read the drive.

If he had, he would have just said so, and he never would have brought it here.

Oh fuck.

So... what exactly are they doing now? Can he possibly forgive her, if he hasn’t even seen its contents?

“So, have you read it?” she asks, just to be sure.

“W-would you come here a moment?”

She shakes her head. She's not getting herself and the baby out of this damn chair again just to hear bad news on her feet. She'd rather stay seated. “No. Tell me. Have you?”

John sounds exasperated. “Just--” but he pauses, calms himself. “Come here.” That's a good sign, isn't it? That he calmed himself? Or is it just that he wants to have a calm and reasoned tone as they discuss the divorce? Why are they doing this here?

She grimaces, then acquiesces and slowly starts the process of standing up, holding her belly as she does. John tries to help, but she waves him off. He doesn't get to help her.

She winces, at the pains in her hips, her groin, the pressure on her bladder. He has no idea. Or only a theoretical one. He wasn't there for this, for the changes, for their daughter growing inside her. And no matter what he says now, no matter what they decide, he can't change that.

She walks over to the fireplace. To him. They haven't been alone like this, close like this, in so long. It's an overwhelming thing. She looks away to give them both a little more space.

John speaks, finally. Whispers, almost. “I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you,” he tells her.

I should hope so, after six months, she doesn't say aloud. He breathes deeply, and she looks up, catching his eyes. “These are prepared words, Mary.” All right. She's ready. But he's not, and he looks away this time. “I've chosen these words with care.”

“Okay.” This is so odd. What's he doing? Is he about to tell her that he’s actually read it after all? Surely not.

He fidgets with the flash drive, saying nothing. Finally, after several geological eras come and depart, he looks up and meets her eyes. “The problems of your past are your business. The problems of you future … are my privilege.”

She feels the tears welling, and she struggles to hold herself together, but he's not done. “It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know.”

He's an idiot, a loyal stubborn fucking idiot who refuses to listen when she tells him something and makes up his mind based on feelings rather than data. And she loves him for it. She watches as he throws the drive into the fire – idiot – and makes a mental note to dispose of it. Later.

“No,” John says, turning back to her – in case she'd missed the obvious, “I didn't read it.”

She feels the tears running down her cheeks, and she says, still marveling at this man before her, “You don't even know my name.”

“Is 'Mary Watson' good enough for you?” he asks.

“Yes,” she chokes out through the tears. “Oh my God, yes.” It can take him half a year to speak, but he's not bad at putting words together once he does.

“Then it's good enough for me, too.” He smiles.

“Oh!” She reaches for him right as he reaches for her. And it's strange and awkward with the whole of her belly – and their child – between them and just lovely. They hug fiercely around – no, including – the new addition. There's only one person missing to make this scene complete. She wonders where Sherlock is right now.

“All this does not mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you,” John informs her.

She sniffs. “I know, I know.” She's going to still be a bit miffed with him as well, she's fairly certain. And she’s still has so many questions -- starting with, why here? why now? -- but they can all wait.

“I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then,” he continues.

“I know, I know, I know.” She repeats it over and over. I know. You may choose not to know about me. But I know you. I know your anger and how it comes out. I know your loyalty and your love and your understated ways of showing them. I know how very fortunate I am to have all of that, all of you back. I know.

John pulls back a bit, looks her in the eyes. “You can mow the sodding lawn from now on.”

“I do mow the lawn,” she points out mildly.

“No, I do it loads,” he argues, his eyes twinkling. Oh God, that twinkle. It's been a long time.

“You really don't.”

“I choose the baby's name,” John proposes.

“Not a chance.” Not after all she and the baby have been through, with John gone.

“Okay,” he says, and he hugs her again. She never wants him to stop, never wants to stop hugging him back.

“So you realize that, er, Sherlock got us out here to see his mum and dad for a reason?” she asks him.

She feels John's smile against her cheek. “His lovely mum and dad. A fine example of married life, I get that.”

That's not what she had in mind. She had in mind to say that he invited them both because they're family, and Sherlock wanted to introduce them to his folks and have the whole family together for the holidays. Sherlock, who loudly disavows sentiment but can't resist angsty violin playing or cozy Christmas forgiveness, who loves his family even if he'd never say so. Who loves John. Who loves them. Who invited them both into this world that nobody ever sees.

She opens her mouth to say so, but then frowns, a wave of dizziness and nausea catching her. What? This can't be good. Is the baby all right?

“That is the thing with Sherlock,” John continues, oblivious. “It's always the unexpected.”

As she slumps against John, she realizes. There's one person who's out of place in her story. One who doesn't fit. Bill Wiggins. What’s he doing here? He’s not part of the family. Did he persuade Sherlock to bring him along, with some sinister ulterior motive? Has he poisoned her? She opens her mouth to try to tell John to watch Wiggins, but no words come out, just a moan. Everything swims before her eyes. The baby… is the baby okay… is... the ba...