Frankly, I'm not happy with how this turned out, but I was writting for a prompt and I don't want to disappoint the prompter. Comments are still my greatest love, and I'll be happy if you tell me exactly how bad this is. as always, I don't own this characters, but I did play around with the character of Mary quite a bit. the book she's reading is Thus spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietszche.

I.

It's a nice day. A bit of crime, some shooting, some criminal threatening to skin Sherlock alive and John putting the man down with a nice left hook. Nothing special, really, but quite invigorating.

Then they go for their usual midnight dinner and Sherlock looks at John, who looks tired and old and so happy it hurts to see, and thinks I love you.

John raises his head, his eyes a bit green under the artificial white light, and smiles at him.

Sherlock has a rare moment of complete, utter confusion. That thought and that tight feeling in his chest have absolutely no reason at all to be there. It must be a temporary mistake in his neural connections, he concludes. "Pass me the soy sauce," he says, and smiles back.

It's a rare afternoon of clear skies and Sherlock is sitting at his small table in the living room, typing on John's laptop, while John's making tea.

Later, John will wonder why exactly he had to look over his shoulder at one point. But look he does - just a glance and sees Sherlock reclining in his chair, eyes closed, face completely calm, and a warm glow of sunlight all over him like a golden veil. He is quiet and still like the air before a storm and he has golden butterflies of light in his hair.

And something whimpers in the depths of John's chest.

He has to close his own eyes for a moment. Bit not good.

Mary Morstan is sitting in front of her favourite coffeehouse and has just closed her book in favour of watching the small man sitting next to her. He seems to be the first interesting stranger in her whole week; Zarathustra can wait.

He's small and holds himself straight, but with none of that tightness of posture short men in general so often adopt. Comfortable worn clothes, but classic brown brogues. A kind face with eyes of steel.

Contradictions all over. Interesting. Mary grins. She's always loved contradictions, perhaps because she's a walking contradiction herself. And she does feel remarkably at peace with the world today.

II.

"I don't think you can sweeten your life like this."

John's head jerks up. "Excuse me?"

A tall woman at the next table is looking at him, leaning her chin on her palm and grinning like a little girl. She has a book in her lap, a wild mane of flaxen hair and three empty teacups on the table in front of her. "Your tea," she says, darting her eyes to it and then back to John's face.

John looks down and realizes he's just put about five packets of sugar in his tea. "Fuck," he says.

The woman howls with laughter. "Here," she says and drags her chair closer to his table. "Order another one. My treat. And if you want, you can tell me why exactly did you decide to enhance your poor Earl Grey in this terrible way."

John studies her for a moment. She is tall for a woman, probably an inch taller than him, and her face of classic, understated beauty looks strange combined with the black motorbike leather jacket she's wearing. She looks both older than her clothes suggest and younger than a few slight wrinkles around her eyes testify, and John nods at last. "Thank you," he says. "I've had a trying day, I suppose. John Watson."

She has a firm handshake. "Mary," she says. "Morstan. Not Holy Virgin." And she laughs again when his eyes widen for a second. "Sorry, I never get tired of this one."

They drink tea and talk. John tries to really look at her, figure her out like his best friend would have him to, but all he can think about is that her bright, shining eyes remind him of Sherlock's.

Sherlock is lying on their sofa, glaring at the ceiling as if it has somehow mortally offended him.

Then John walks in, and he has a little bounce in his step. "Not much happened while I was at work, has it?" he says as a greeting, throwing a brief smile in Sherlock's direction and then disappearing to the kitchen.

Sherlock huffs and curls his body into a knot, pressing his face against a pillow, furious with the whole world.

It wasn't a mistake in his neural system.

III.

Meeting Mary is a bit like meeting Sherlock all over again. She's the strangest woman John's ever known, and he likes her immensely.

She is a writer, and has a small flat overflowing with books and unfinished manuscripts and random pieces of art and a lot of dust. John worries that they'll have nothing to talk about, but she turns out to be delighted whenever she can tell him something new.

Also, she turns out to be the first girlfriend ever who wants to have a Bond movie night. Grinning, John prepares himself for a few hours of her sighing over Sean Connery and Daniel Craig, but she manages to surprise him once again when she keeps the sighing to a minimum, but expands her admiration to all the Bond girls as well.

The next morning, John returns to Baker Street whistling and smiling like a fool.

That's when Sherlock stops talking to John for two weeks.

After fourteen days, he decides it really isn't John's fault if he went and got himself a girlfriend. He asks if he can meet Mary with alarming politeness.

The meeting of Sherlock and Mary doesn't go according to anyone's plans.

John plans for them to have a nice, relaxing dinner together. They don't.

Sherlock plans to put on the best display of his worst behaviour and thoroughly scare Mary away. He doesn't.

Mary plans to finally have a long chat with John's fascinating flatmate. She doesn't.

It goes like this: when Sherlock and John walk into the restaurant, Mary is already sitting at the table. John greets her with a kiss and moves to sit down, but Sherlock ignores her offered hand. He leans down and gives her a long, piercing look.

Mary arches her eyebrow, but doesn't avert her eyes. After a few moments, a slight smile appears on her lips.

Finally, Sherlock straightens. "I thoroughly approve," he announces to John.

Then he leaves without another word and promptly proceeds to ignore all of John's subsequent texts.

IV.

Mary is definitely far more interesting than a majority of people out there, and if John weren't his, Sherlock would indeed approve.

Even so, he doesn't concern himself too severely. It will burn out after a month or two, he concludes.

(Here's the problem: it doesn't.)

V.

Mary has spent quite some time going through relationships with interesting people, and she's tired now. There was a time when her idea of a perfect partner was a blazing, burning genius, a fellow artist or perhaps a scientist, someone who would understand.

Trial and error taught her that such persons don't exist well when together. One's light always overshadows the other's, and that's when the bitterness starts. There are only sharp angles on both sides and nothing soft and everybody gets hurt.

John happens to be quite an interesting type of a man. One of those who don't exactly understand strangeness, but are helplessly attracted to it. He's very good at keeping her connected to the ground, too, and he actually likes her because of her eccentricities, not in spite of them. And there is no denying the simple fact that they fit together rather well.

It's not the great love from the books she has been reading and writing for all her life; it's not that kind of obsessed, mad passion that makes men into fools. It's ... comfortable, and she's so very tired.

One day, John looks at Sherlock spitting insults to his brother's face, and thinks Iloveyou.

He should be horrified, but it doesn't really surprise him. Sighing silently, he goes to Mary's and tells her the words intended for another.

VI.

And then time has to pass.

It will take three months for Sherlock to realize the sheer extent of the catastrophe that's happening before his eyes. It will take another three to decide he cannot do a thing about it.

It will take about the same amount of time for Mary to come to the conclusion that she is dating the best man she's ever met, but that he doesn't see her when he says I love you.

And for six months, John will fight a battle with his infuriating heart, cursing Sherlock Holmes to Hell and back again. Then, he will give up. He is tired (just like Mary, but he won't ever know that) and the thought of being able to call somebody his own is too tempting. Besides, he could do a lot worse than an eccentric writer who reminds him of Sherlock so much it hurts. He does love her (but not enough, never enough) after all.

(Here's yet another problem, and it will take even longer for all the involved parties to realize it: in his life, John has loved only one person. If only he and Mike Stamford wouldn't run into each other that day two years ago, that honour would indisputably go to Mary Morstan.)

VII.

At last, time passes. And then:

"We should get married." Mary is staring at him with a little smile on her face.

Merely a moment passes, but in this moment John Watson closes his eyes and imagines a whole life he could but can't have, and then he closes one of the two doors in his heart and locks it.

"Yes." He smiles back.

Pieces need to be placed together, but it doesn't take very long.

Mary has no family left and only one or two close friends, and she refuses to do any of the usual wedding nonsense. She does buy herself a pair of ridiculously expensive shoes, though, and a matching tie for John, and doesn't let him pay for any of it. The rest of her time is spent staring at the phone and willing it to ring. (It doesn't.)

John calls his mother and Harry and endures confused Harry's interrogation, because she (and, ironic as it is, the rest of the world as well) expected a different announcement. Then he polishes his dress shoes and spends an hour locked up in his (but not his for long now) room playing the loudest, most cheerful music he owns, so Sherlock can't hear him as he curls up on his bed and cries until his eyes hurt.

Sherlock doesn't do anything extraordinary whatsoever except pick up his phone and send a quick text to his brother.

Upgrade the surveillance status

on one Mary Morstan. SH

A minute later, his phone rings. Sherlock picks it up and throws it against the wall with all his strength, face completely blank.

It's only two weeks, but years and years later, three concerned parties will look back upon it as the worst time of their lives.

VIII.

In the end, it boils down to her and John standing at the altar, her inky fingers in John's warm, strong hands. She can hear the steady breathing of her maid of honour who's standing right behind her, and she can see Sherlock's bloodless face and wild eyes above John's right shoulder.

She honestly didn't think they will come this far. Yet here they are now. And she's still waiting for John to realize exactly what he's doing to himself and all of them.

The priest is babbling in her ear, and she deliberately misses half of it, staring at John's eyes, willing him to understand. You don't want this, you don't want me, why are you doing this? Don't. Stop it.

John's face is tired, but he's smiling and his eyes are bright. Sherlock, on the other hand, is trembling; very slight shivers running through his thin frame, knuckles turned white. He's staring at the side of John's face with his feverish eyes like a man waiting for the axe to fall.

" ... in sickness and health, to love and to cherish ..."

Sherlock leans down and whispers something to John, who jumps when Sherlock's lips brush his ear.

" ... as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," she says. This is madness.

But perhaps it isn't, since John is staring at Sherlock now, eyes wide and uncomprehending, mouth open as if all the words have failed him.

It's a small wedding, so there aren't many guests to murmur, but the priest coughs. "Mr Watson?"

John ignores him completely in favour of Sherlock. "And you go and tell me this now?" he rasps, his hands dropping hers and coming up to grab Sherlock's forearms. Loud and clear enough for everyone to hear and see and, perhaps, understand.

Well, thank God one of us has a brain. Mary has to laugh, relief and sadness making her head spin. The only thing missing now is a proper announcement.

IX.

So they don't have a wedding after all, but there is a kiss of a rather desperate variety, followed by a slap or two, and then some more kissing.

Mary gets rid of the priest and the rest of the guests, even if John's enthusiastic sister gives her a bit of trouble. Then she smooths down her black dress and sits in the back pew to wait.

Her new shoes glint in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, bright blue and with a monstrous heel that made her four inches taller than John. She wonders when - if ever - will she find another man who would love her because and not in spite of it.

After another ten minutes or so, Sherlock comes to her. She looks to the altar to find Joh sitting on the steps with his head in his hands, and then to Sherlock again.

His eyes are burning bright enough to make her heart twitch, and he offers her a hand.

She looks at his shaking fingers and thinks back to the restaurant all those months ago.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

Mary smiles through the silvery pain and takes his hand.

fin