"Come on, just sit down on the bed." John Watson used his most soothing voice, but to no avail.

"No, no time, no time." Sherlock Holmes struggled against John.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, you almost overdosed. We're just trying to help you." Mary Watson's voice was all exasperation and no affection.

Sherlock was determined to stay upright, however. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just need to focus."

John reached out and gently nudged Sherlock in the shoulder, causing him to plop down on the bed. Sherlock looked up at John in surprise.

"You are in no condition to focus. You need to sleep, and I need to monitor your vitals. The only reason you're here at Baker Street and not at hospital or Mycroft's is because I promised him I'd keep an eye on you. So shut up and do what I tell you!" John had not intended to shout, but the stress of the events of the day was building and needed a release.

Suddenly a soft smile appeared on Sherlock's face as he looked around his bedroom. "Baker Street. Never thought I'd see it again." He lay back on the bed, legs still dangling over the side. "I guess it wouldn't be so awful to rest awhile in this bed. My bed. My own bed."

John's eyes met Mary's, and together they started to undress Sherlock as he babbled happily about his bedroom.

"My periodic table!" One shoe off.

Sherlock waved at a lithograph of bees. "Hello!" Other shoe off.

"Oh, my socks." One sock off.

"You haven't disturbed my sock index, have you?" Other off.

As John pulled Sherlock back up to a sitting position to take off his jacket, Sherlock grabbed John's shirt-front and pulled him close. "You'll stay with me, right?"

As always, being the subject of Sherlock's intense focus overwhelmed John. In a broken voice, he replied, "Of course."

Mary leaned over and patted Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll both be right here if you need us."

Sherlock did not acknowledge Mary, instead clutching John even closer to him. "Please, stay with me."

"I'll be right here, I promise." John gently detached Sherlock's hands from his shirt and pulled away. He grabbed Sherlock's legs and swung him up onto the bed. "Go to sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up."

Sherlock nudged his head deeper into his pillow. "My pillow." And then his breathing deepened, falling asleep.

Mary untucked Sherlock's shirt, but as John reached for the buttons, she said, "That's enough."

"I think he'll be more comfortable with his pajamas on, not fully dressed."

Mary pulled the duvet over Sherlock. "I think we've done enough to make him comfortable."

John looked at Sherlock, who had started to emit little snores. "Guess he'll be fine as he is."

Mary smiled, happy to have gotten her way. "Good."

As she turned and left the room, John wondered if Mary hadn't wanted him to see the scar she herself had left on Sherlock's chest. Not now, he thought to himself. Must concentrate on Sherlock. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse and was satisfied at its current steady pace. He studied Sherlock's face - unflushed, no sign of sweating, smooth inhalations and exhalations. Finally, John could allow himself to calm down. They seemed to have avoided the worst.

Mary called from the sitting room. "John?"

At the sound of Mary's voice, John placed the wrist he'd been unthinkingly caressing with his thumb down on top of the duvet. He walked quickly out of the bedroom, glancing back to assure himself Sherlock was still asleep. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he saw Mary sitting in Sherlock's chair. "Did you need something?"

"No. I was just bored waiting for you."

"I was busy."

"What, watching Sherlock sleep?" Mary grimaced disdainfully. "He's fine, John. He doesn't need you here."

"Well, I beg to differ on that."

"Is that a professional opinion, Doctor Watson?"

John was about to respond to Mary's sarcasm, when Mrs. Hudson lightly tapped on the frame of the open door. "John, I wasn't expecting to see you here." She stopped abruptly when she saw Mary.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

The coldest expression John had ever seen appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face. She straightened her posture and said, "You are not welcome here. Leave now."

John barked a disbelieving laugh. "Mrs. Hudson, what are you going on about?"

Keeping her eyes on Mary, Mrs. Hudson asked, "Is Sherlock here? Is he alright?"

John replied, "He's in bed, asleep for now."

Mrs. Hudson finally looked at John. "When Sherlock is awake, he can invite this woman into his flat. But right now, I'm the landlady of this flat and the owner of this building, and she is not welcome here."

"Mary is my wife. Of course, she is welcome here."

"You don't live here anymore, John. You don't have any say here."

John felt like Mrs. Hudson had punched him in the gut.

Mary struggled to rise from Sherlock's chair. "It's not worth arguing, John. Let's leave."

"I can't leave Sherlock in his condition. You know what drugs he's taken, how much."

"Call Mycroft and have him send someone. Mrs. Hudson can watch till then."

"He needs medical supervision. Mrs. Hudson loves him, but she isn't what he needs right now. And in any case, I promised him I'd be here when he woke up."

"He probably won't even remember, John. We're going." Mary grabbed her purse and coat.

"No."

"No?"

John clenched his hands, his tell of determination. "No. I'm not leaving him."

Mary threw her hands in the air. "Oh, that's just great. You're choosing this addict over your pregnant wife!"

"Don't. Just don't. You never get to talk about Sherlock like that. In fact, you never get to talk about him ever, do you hear me?"

"Oh, yeah, I hear you." Mary walked towards the door. "We'd have been better off if his plane never got called back."

John was left speechless at the heartlessness of Mary's words. Mrs. Hudson, however, responded, "Do not return here until Sherlock or I invite you back. Are we clear?"

"Oh, we're clear. But I'm not the sort who waits for an invitation. You'll see me when I want you to see me."

"I see you right now, and I'm still standing here, telling you to leave my property."

The two women stared at each other on either side of the threshold. After his agony over Sherlock's exile and anger over his resulting overdose, John could not deal with this any longer. "Mary, just leave, please."

Mary smirked at John. "I'm going. And I'll expect you home soon."

Mrs. Hudson shut the seldom-used door of the flat in Mary's face before John had a chance to respond. As she turned around, Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms in front of her body and glared at John. Her disappointment washed over him, engulfing him and becoming one with his own shame.

"Did Sherlock tell you?"

"About what?" Her voice was curt and unwelcoming.

Barely above a whisper, John said, "Mary."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, but I've been around a lot longer than you, young man. I can put things together." She put both hands on her hips and stared at John. "Why did you abandon him to go back to her?"

"That isn't what happened."

"Isn't it?"

"She's having our baby."

"So sure about that, are you?" Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Go check on Sherlock. I'll bring up some tea."

After Mrs. Hudson left, John collapsed into his old chair. Mrs. Hudson had given voice to a fear he'd been ignoring for months. If Mary had lied about so many other things, why should he trust her in this? He hated to think she could lie about something as important as becoming a parent, but he did not know her. And what he'd seen of her today emphasized the fact he never truly would.

A teacup appeared in his field of view. As he accepted it, he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She sat down across from him, in Sherlock's chair. She sipped her tea, then made a concerted effort at polite conversation. "Are you looking forward to being a father?"

John knew he shouldn't be surprised by the question, but the tumult of the previous months meant nobody had asked him yet. "Yeah." He nodded his head. "Very much, now that I've gotten used to the idea. Never gave much thought to it before, and we weren't actually trying to get pregnant. But, yes, I'm really looking forward to meeting our little girl."

A sad smile appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face. "That's lovely, dear."

The two drank their tea in silence. John allowed himself to become relaxed in the familiar surroundings - the tattered furniture, the dusty mantle, the sounds of Baker Street coming through the open windows. He was also comforted by what he did not hear, as no distress was emanating from Sherlock's room.

"It was on your wedding night." Mrs. Hudson broke the silence.

"What was?"

"When he started using again. It was your wedding night."

John's hand shook too much for him to hold the teacup, so he placed it on his side table. "How do you know?"

"I saw the condition he was in the next day. He tried to hide it, of course. But I knew."

"He said it was for the Magnussen case."

"Well, he lied."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Interrupt your honeymoon? Tell me, John, if I had called, would you have come running back to London?"

At John's hesitation, Mrs. Hudson continued. "And even if you had, what would you have done? After one day of marriage and having just found out about the baby, would you really have wanted to confront Sherlock about the truth?"

John shifted in his chair. "Never a good time to confront an addict."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I don't understand."

"I'm sure you don't want to." Mrs. Hudson ran her hand over the beautiful wood grain of Sherlock's violin, in its stand next to his chair. The waltz Sherlock composed for his wedding drifted through John's mind, as he was sure Mrs. Hudson had intended. Reminding John that Sherlock had written a love song for him.

Avoiding the implication, John instead asked, "Today. Why were you surprised Sherlock came back?"

"Oh, John." Frustrated, she began, "Why don't you want to face…"

John interrupted before Mrs. Hudson could finish. "Did he say anything to you about where he was going?"

Mrs. Hudson spent a few moments looking at her clasped hands, resting in her lap. "You know how everything was left the same here, during those two years Sherlock was gone?"

"Yes."

"Well, I didn't need to find new tenants because Mycroft said he was grieving too much, that he'd deal with Sherlock's belongings later." Mrs. Hudson reached out to pat John's knee. "I wasn't in any hurry to force you to get your stuff, either. I was always hoping you'd come back."

An old guilt welled up in John. "I'm so sorry about how I treated you during those years, Mrs. Hudson."

"That's all water under the bridge now, sweetheart." Mrs. Hudson paused. When she finally spoke, her voice quavered. "Mycroft visited me a few days ago. He told me he would send movers next week."

Adrenaline surged through John, forcing him to take deep heaving breaths. He gasped out, "Sherlock wasn't coming back this time. He really wasn't. I thought the drama was just for show, but… Oh, god, this was a suicide mission. No wonder…"

With urgency, she asked, "What?"

"Mrs. Hudson, this overdose… I think he may have tried to kill himself." John pushed himself up from his seat and rushed down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom. He stood in the doorway and breathed a cleansing sigh of relief as he watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall, heart alive and beating. He braced himself against the doorframe, weakened by his understanding of all Sherlock had and was willing to sacrifice for him.