The first Sherlock hears of John Watson is by reputation. He is little more than one of the pretty bits of gossip that Molly shares to fill the silence of their kitchen on mornings before Sherlock leaves for anywhere that isn't home and Molly cleans as though the smell of lemon and the sparkle of glistening countertops will be enough to draw him back. She tells herself three lies of that calibre before his first cup of tea each day. He allows it; he isn't altogether concerned enough to relieve her of her delusions. Besides, he's found gossip to be useful research for his investigations. Women talk and wives tell. Sherlock has found himself married; he may as well make some use of the inconvenience.

All through their engagement, Molly spoke endlessly of what her mother termed 'her nerves.' Sherlock had filed the knowledge away, curious despite himself, and disregarded much of the remainder of Molly's laundry list of personal details. Allergies, he keeps—hospital stays are inconvenient at best and he hardly thinks many are likely to believe he'd become widowed by mere chance. He isn't Mycroft, his art for normalcy is flawed. He deletes the names of the children she'd like to have. There will be none. This isn't a life where either of their desires will be much fulfilled. He won't see children brought in to share the misery. He's been one of those children.

At any rate, it is gossip that brings John Watson to Sherlock's attention. Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, recently discharged after serving honourably on three tours abroad. Sherlock doesn't recall where, doesn't care, but he takes notice of Molly's tone when she speaks of the man.

Sherlock memorizes the particulars of a Buckinghamshire jewel thievery to be followed up later before folding down his paper to glimpse his wife's pale countenance. Excessive pallor isn't abnormal for her. Molly burns easily in sunlight, though she begs off relief in favour of futile sunbathing. Their honeymoon was a nightmare of her whimpering in the night from scalded flesh. When they'd returned home early, Sherlock was relieved and Molly mortified. He hadn't been able to distinguish that from her usual state of being and had continued his business as usual. Her mood today veers from the timid way she usually approaches their association. She's attempting to lie to me. Might his awfully wedded wife be so interesting as to court an affair this early on? Some mulish part of Sherlock hopes she might if only to alleviate the tedium matrimony promises.

Sherlock pretends at nonchalance. "This doctor—Watson, was it? Might he be the ticket to curing your latest attack of nervous fits?"

Molly twists her linen handkerchief in her hands till they've blanched a damask of blood flushed and cadaverous-hued. They betray her more readily than her averted gaze.

"You claim that I don't talk to you, but the moment I do, you clam up. Which is it? Shall we have a life of witless, gutless repartee or one of oppressive silence? I've got the stomach for the former if you have; the latter you'll have to carry on without me."

Molly compresses her overmade lips into a line. Too prim for anger. Dull. "Dr. Watson treats..." Her nostrils flare alongside a flash of emotion in her eyes she fails to adequately supress. Sherlock notices that. "He treats nerves, hysteria and the like. The girls all swear by him."

"The 'girls'? Since when do you participate in gaggles? You've never been especially sociable. You'd have known better than to take up with me if you were. Nobody warned you, because nobody cared. So, dear Molly, do tell; what girls recommended the good Dr. Watson to you?"

"I'll have you know Sally Donovan swears by him."

"Sally Donovan is the mistress of a married man. You should know better than to trust her judgement." Bored, he returns to his papers to see what smaller ventures await.

Molly chokes on false starts. "Irene Adler keeps his acquaintance. You might consider her a fair judge."

Sherlock fixes his wife with a disquieting gaze to conceal the uneasy churning of his thoughts. Irene is a topic best approached with more care than Molly appears to be capable of. Irene is Sherlock's only claim to 'civility,' to want of the feminine form. Leave it to idiots not to understand the attraction of the body for the mind. No one save his brother has ever understood him. His wife will have to find some other way to be exceptional.

"Perhaps I'll give her a call and see. It wouldn't do for a charlatan to take you for a ride."

Molly stammers a denial. "It's nothing so obscene as that."

Sherlock lets false confusion shape his expression. "Obscene? I merely mean to keep him from cheating you out of our small fortune. What did you think I meant?"

Ruffled, his wife flitters off to clear the table, taking away his uneaten toast and jam and her picked-over eggs. Trying to lose another stone. Sherlock sighs, despairing, and drinks his tea lest she dumps it in the sink. He gets only one more sip in before she does anyway, leaving him with a damp spoon and a stain on his placket.

Thank you for the misery, brother. May you share it in good time.

Sherlock's veins itch for a temporary solution to ease his burdensome situation. Without it, he fears his sanity may not last the year.