"John! Jo—"

"He's not here, dear," Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock gently. "Now I'm sure he'll come round after work to plan for the big day, but why don't I make you a nice cuppa in the meantime?"

A confused expression flickered over Sherlock's face. Oh. Mary. Wedding. Right. That was fine. Of course it was fine. Why shouldn't it be fine?

"Oh, Sherlock, he's only moved out; he's not dead," Mrs. Hudson said. Sherlock hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. "Not like someone I know," she finished, giving him a pointed look.

Two minutes later, Sherlock held a cup of tea and an apple ("because you're all skin and bones again, love") and was again alone in the kitchen.

He stood there for a few seconds before realizing that the cup was burning his hand, and went to set it down on the coffee table. He still needed someone to explain his current case to. There was no John and no skull—Mrs. Hudson had an uncanny knack for confiscating it, almost as remarkable as his talent for getting it back.

But there was an apple.

Sherlock set it down on the table with a sniff. It would have to do: The three bodies in that Whitechapel warehouse weren't going to wake up and find their murderer themselves (although that would have been rather fun). Huffing at the injustice of the world, he began.

"The killer obviously came through the north-facing door. All the other entrances have footsteps coming through them. So: it's been swept. That explains the rag."

This was the right time for John to ask, "What rag?", but the apple refused to acknowledge him. Sherlock gave it his most threatening stare. Nothing.

Fine. Two could play at that game, he decided, taking out the rag he'd found discarded in a nearby dustbin. He would have explained this had his companion been less… intransigent. (Apparently, "stupid", "idiotic", and "brain-dead waste of oxygen" were all not good.)

Sherlock pointed out a very important splotch on the cloth. "Right there, you can see—"

He broke off, narrowing his eyes at the apple. It ignored him pointedly. Sherlock had a sudden vision of having to explain his deductions to an apple forever and shuddered. The prospect was nearly as terrifying as being locked in a room with only Anderson for company. He shook off the idea, trying to regain his train of thought.

"You can see," Sherlock continued painfully, "that there's a light-colored stain where he grabbed the rag to wipe the floor. It isn't grease, which rules out most of the people actually working in the warehouse. It's a skin emollient."

He stopped, tired and fed up, and eyed the apple. He wished for a second that it would turn into someone more attentive, before chiding himself for being so ridiculous. It was an inanimate object. It was not supposed to listen to him or ask the right questions.

Then why did he want to throw it across the room?

NO. Petty emotions would not get the better of him. With some effort, he forced himself to concentrate.

Sherlock sniffed the rag. "The frankly ridiculous amount of diprobase cream on this should make it obvious."

This was the best part: Everyone would lean forward, a gleam in their eyes, as they waited for the final reveal. Sherlock would never admit it, of course, but he loved that. Maybe he didn't care about impressing 99% of the world, but there was a small subset of people whose opinions he actually did value.

The apple did not lean forward expectantly. Its skin didn't even shine much brighter. As far as Sherlock could tell, the fruit could have beaten a painting in a staring contest. In fact, it looked as if it had already won and was looking forward to challenging the Sphinx.

Sherlock jumped off the couch, annoyed, and snatched the apple off the table. What was he doing, talking to a fruit, anyways? That was boring. He needed something to keep him busy. An experiment. That would take his mind off things. He strode over to the kitchen, carefully not looking at the empty armchair in the way.

He sent a quick text to Lestrade: Arrest tax collector with eczema. SH. Then, he grabbed a pair of goggles and an apron and got to work.

A knock at the door interrupted him a few minutes later. For a split second, he hoped it was John, but it was too early for that to be likely. Three knocks. Soft. Mary, then.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson—no, I'm just grabbing my phone; I left it here yesterday, no, I'm fine, thanks." The voice got louder as Mary's footsteps sounded on the stairs up to the flat. They stopped abruptly. Then, the sound of coughing informed Sherlock that she was trying to see him through the smoky haze coming from the kitchen.

"Why are you blowtorching an apple?" she asked.

"It was being annoying," Sherlock said, turning off the device. He glanced up at her. "And your phone is in your left jacket pocket, so…" He looked at her expectantly.

There was silence for a few seconds as Mary glanced between the blowtorch, the apple, and him. She processed four facts:

It took a lot to get even mild emotions out of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock might be eccentric, but he did (usually) know the difference between people and things.

So if he was cross with an apple, he was probably upset about something else. Very upset.

Which meant that what she wanted to do would be quite difficult indeed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock waited for Mary to unfreeze (the average shock time after seeing an experiment was twenty seconds, forty if he was using livers) and busied himself examining a sliver of apple under his microscope.

After eighteen seconds, she spoke up. "No, it's just something small: John's a bit worried, what with the big day coming and all, and I just wanted to ask if you could take him out on a case over the next couple of days—you know, show him nothing's going to change just because of the wedding." She paused, eyebrows raised, and looked over at Sherlock. He hadn't moved. "Because you do realize this isn't going to change anything, right?" she continued. "You'll still go out and solve crimes and all that."

"Of course it doesn't change anything. I'll find something later." His voice was a little too flat. He turned, and she could see pain, loneliness, and anxiety flicker over his face in quick succession before being covered by a practiced blankness. "Now, is that all?" he asked. "I'm busy."

"Sherlock, you can't fool me like John."

Sherlock turned back to the microscope. "Bye."

"Sherlock…" Mary unplugged the microscope from the wall, turning the slide light off and forcing Sherlock to look up, annoyed. Mary walked over and looked down at him, unblinking. "Sherlock, if there's one thing I've learned since I met John, it's that nothing can keep you two apart. Not pain, not death—and certainly not him getting married."

Sherlock stared at her. His lips twitched up almost imperceptibly.

"So just find him a case, all right? Show him that nothing's going to change." Mary smiled and walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

Sherlock watched her leave with a bit of newfound respect. Who is this woman? he wondered. A list of what he'd already deduced flashed before him, but none of it explained how she could understand what he was thinking.

Eventually, he sighed, shook his head, and got up. He threw away the remains of the charred apple and grabbed another from the fridge. He was sort of hungry.

A/N: Special thanks to inspiration99 for editing/beta reading.