The next months were hard.

Sherlock healed and headed back to Baker Street. John stayed with him for a week or so until he was sure he healed enough not to be a danger to himself. (Because everybody knew that Sherlock had no sense of restraint where his own physical well-being was concerned. It was just transport, after all.)

And then he stayed another week because the old, familiarity of Baker Street was a comfort and John soaked in the peace of it.

He didn't talk about his problems with Mary to Sherlock.

He could have, he knew. Sherlock might normally be bored by ordinary sentiment and God knew that listening to other people's marital problems were boring for anyone, but he would have participated in this case. He had a moral obligation to, didn't he, since he'd dragged Mary's secret past out into the light for John to see?

Except it wouldn't have made a difference, John knew. He already knew how Sherlock felt—he thought John should forgive Mary. Sherlock thought Mary had done the right thing by shooting him—his only objection seemed to be that she had kept the secret from John.

Because, of course, John couldn't complain that Magnussen was dead.

Luckily, the investigation into Magnussen's death had run into a dead-end. The Press tried to make something out of Sherlock and John being there at all, but Janine's gleeful tell-all stories in the tabloids had only served to back-up Sherlock and John's story of being there to propose. (And helpfully gave Sherlock an 'excuse' to no longer be seeing her.) Forensics had not found any physical evidence about the shooter, and the only witness to the shooting had been singularly unhelpful.

Sherlock took a fair amount of teasing for that, in the end. Between his prodigious memory failing him over something so vital as his own shooting and Janine's spree in the papers, John didn't think NSY would ever look at Sherlock in quite the same way.

No, dealing with Mary was something John needed to work through on his own. And so, after two weeks at Baker Street, he had moved back home. Or the flat that was technically home. That had felt like home such a short time ago.

Now, though, it was just a flat with lots of icy silences. He and Mary were civil to each other and presented a united front of Happy Couple when they were out, but otherwise … it was quiet. No laughter. No joy. No forgiveness.

But there was hope, John reminded himself, in the life burgeoning in Mary's womb. He wasn't going to let his child be born into a home filled with hate or tension, and so there was a deadline for forgiveness coming. The end of the year, he told himself. He would give himself that long to work through what he needed to, and then he would have to forgive her.

Because of course he would. She might have lied about her past … and not an ordinary lies about an ex-boyfriend or being a few credits short of a degree at University. No, it was a big lie—having been some kind of sociopathic spy/assassin before she'd met him. Or he hoped it was before. He still hadn't looked at the thumb drive she'd given him. Her pronouncement that he wouldn't love her anymore after he'd read it had stayed his hand every time he'd considered plugging it in.

He was curious—might always be curious—but…. He had had so much loss in his life. He honestly didn't know if he could afford losing one more person. Not when it was preventable. Not when it was the love of his life, the mother of his child.

If he were Sherlock, he knew, he would have torn though the files weeks ago. Sherlock would have been trying to load them onto his laptop in the back of the ambulance on his way to hospital that very night, if he could have. But Mary had given the files to John, and so it was John's choice. (And if Sherlock had snuck a look without John's knowledge, John didn't want to know.) If there was anything Sherlock truly thought he should know, he would tell him.

Well, obviously, because look at the lengths he'd gone to after the shooting? Sherlock would always make sure John knew what he deserved to know. John just hoped there wouldn't be such melodrama next time.

No, reading those files would be irrevocable and would lose John the wife he loved, the wife he chose to believe was still here. Because John was reasonably sure she still loved him. They might not be laughing these days, but she went stoically through her days trying to do what he needed, and … why else would she do that? If she were truly a sociopath like Sherlock (which was to say, not a sociopath, but maybe with leanings and/or training in that direction), she could have picked up and left by now. She could have smothered John with a pillow, or presumably killed him in any number of creative and undetectable ways. (Part of John would be curious to see which of them would win out, Mary or Sherlock, if she ever murdered him … except he'd be dead and not exactly in any position to observe anything at all.)

No, John felt reasonably certain she wasn't going to kill him any time soon. Or at all unless he forced the issue somehow.

The biggest sticking point ultimately wasn't her past. It wasn't that she had lied to John or that she apparently could kill without a qualm. John had been in the army. He understood that. He might have preferred to have learned this in a different way, but ultimately, well … everyone had skills!

No, his biggest problem was that she shot Sherlock. His best friend. The best man from their wedding.

And, as much as John knew that Sherlock had forgiven her before he was officially out of hospital, this was the hardest part for John to forgive.

He supposed it was just lucky for all their sakes that Sherlock hadn't been more seriously hurt. As gunshots to the torso go, this had been about the best possible shot. (And yes, he appreciated the skill even as he was appalled by the fact that it was his wife who had the skill.) John honestly didn't know what he would have done if Sherlock had died. Or almost died.

Of course, had Sherlock died, John would never have known it was Mary to begin with.

Sometimes he wondered how any of them slept at night.

#

"So, that's it, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It all came down to a weak clerk who allowed himself to be pressured into both sharing the information and into not processing it properly. Your son and John's mother did sign perfectly legal divorce papers and left them with a representative from your very upstanding solicitor's office, and never realized that the paperwork was stuffed into the back of a file drawer rather than being registered."

"I didn't even realize that was possible."

"It's not supposed to be. It doesn't make the papers any less legally binding, it just makes the proof of them that much harder."

"But wouldn't my parents each have had copies?" John asked.

"They would," Sherlock said. "Unless there had been a break-in at both residences about a month after the dated papers. In both cases, nothing was reported as taken, but I find the timing suspect, don't you?"

The earl's forehead crinkled in the exact same way as John's, albeit with deeper lines. "But then why keep the rather damning originals in the files at the office?"

"Well, they were misfiled into the back of a non-related folder," Sherlock said. "And I believe the culprit couldn't quite bring himself to destroy the papers. Hiding them, he could be pressured to do, but destroying them? I believe his morals prevented such a thing. Not that we'll ever know, since he died in a hit-and-run the same week as those two break-ins."

"Suspicious all-around," the earl said. "It's a wonder nobody noticed."

John was nodding. "You'd think the law firm would at least have checked his recent cases to make sure nothing was amiss."

Geoffrey stepped forward. "The problem is that while we did, enough time had passed that this meeting wasn't flagged as incomplete. And since he had filed your mother's will as expected, there was documentation that something had come from the meeting, so … nobody knew there had been another set of papers."

"Poor sod," John said.

"Poor Jonathan," corrected his grandfather. "I wonder if he knew?"

"Hard to say, really, your lordship," said Geoffrey. "I am just glad we managed to resolve this."

"And without any extra litigation," said Sherlock, a sly grin on his face.

"Well," said John's grandfather, "It's hard to sue one's own solicitor. And this has been resolved to everyone's satisfaction … it's not like we're still open to blackmail, anymore."

"Thank God for that," muttered John.

"Besides," his grandfather continued, ignoring that, "The timing couldn't be better." He lifted his glass. "Happy Christmas to all of you."

#

After the last few months, the announcement was almost easy, thought John.

He, Sherlock, and his grandfather had left the study and gone to address the gathered guests. It was tradition, John was told, that his grandfather always spoke a few words. It was his favourite holiday, he explained, and he couldn't help himself.

And so John joined him on the stairs, giving a smile to Margaret and Harry as he took his place alongside his wife as Sherlock melted into the crowd. His relationship with his step-mother had improved since she'd learned that Sherlock had almost died to protect them all from the threat of scandal. Not that it hurt that the information he'd nearly died for had proven that her marriage was valid—she likely would have forgiven almost anything after that.

John was just relieved that they were being civil to each other.

Really, there was a lot of civility going around.

He kept a polite smile on his face as his grandfather announced to the crowd—were all those people really relatives?—that he had some rather startling news. "A few of you know this already," he said, nodding at John's cousin David who joined them on the steps, "But my late son Jonathan managed to keep a secret from me—from all of us—that has just come to light."

He turned and gestured toward John, who stepped forward, trying to ignore the murmuring from the guests at the resemblance. "I would like to introduce all of you to Dr John Watson, former RAMC captain in Her Majesty's army, and … my grandson."

John resolutely kept his gaze skimming over the heads below, watching Sherlock at the back of the room looking outright amused, the prat. He could also feel Mary's hand resting on his shoulder and took comfort in that, too, knowing that she had his back, no matter how frosty relations had been.

His grandfather waited until the gasps of shock had died down. "It was a surprise to all of us. Apparently Jonathan met a lovely young woman when I sent him to California on business the year he finished University. What he didn't tell anyone, though, was that the two of them ran off and got married while he was there … and that nine months later, John was born." He beamed over at John for a moment. "It is my belief that Jonathan never knew about John—certainly there's no mention of paternal responsibilities in the divorce papers he and John's mother signed several months before Jonathan's marriage to Margaret, my daughter-in-law of almost forty years. Really, this has been a surprise to all of us."

John glanced back to see the rather stilted smile on his step-mother's face, but a ghost of a real one on Harry's. That was a good sign, he thought. He still hadn't had much time to spend with his half-sister, but she had a wacky sense of humour that appealed to him. And, of course, it helped that she didn't seem to blame him for his very existence.

His grandfather was running down some of John's accomplishments now and it was all John could do not to edge behind him. It was positively un-English, he thought, standing there while someone sang his praises in public. He supposed it would help ease any concerns about his being suddenly presented as the next Earl—he might not have been raised to it, but at least he had proved he was a capable man, hadn't he? Except for that whole, being-shot-and-invalided-home thing?

Oh, Christ, his grandfather was looking to him now as if he expected him to make a speech. Had he known he was going to do that?

Mary's hand tightened on his shoulder and he glanced back at her, seeing the conviction there that he would do well. He patted her hand and cleared his throat. "Right. I'm not terribly used to speaking in front of a crowd—much less one I'm related to. This is really quite a shock, you should know. Until a few months ago, the only family I knew about was my mother, my step-father, and my wife. Oh, and my best friend, too, who counts even if he doesn't like to admit it. Finding out that I had actual blood-relations on my father's side came as a complete surprise. Mum never talked much about him—mostly just saying that their marriage had been doomed from the start. Which, well, it might have been, but that didn't stop her from keeping the wedding photo safe for when I started asking questions."

He looked out at the room of interested, somewhat sceptical faces. "Of course, she never bothered to mention that my father had been the son of an earl. I don't think she knew, to be honest with you. Basically, this was about the best-kept secret ever since it wasn't until the massive coincidence of my grandfather hiring Sherlock for help with a mystery brought us into the same room together that any of this came to light." John cleared his throat. "It all sounds like the kind of story my wife enjoys reading about in novels. This is my wife, by the way, Mary. Mother of our soon-to-be child. As Grandfather said, I was a surgeon in the army until a few years ago and now I work as a doctor—with Mary, in fact, who is a nurse. I look forward to getting to know you all … though if you could pace yourselves a bit, that would be helpful. I don't want to feel like I'm under attack—it'll just bring up flashbacks from Afghanistan, and I don't think any of us want that."

He smiled at them and then turned his head toward his Grandfather who gave his hands a clap. "Wonderful! Now, we've got some time before dinner, and I'm sure you're all bursting with questions."

It got somewhat crazy after that—really, how was it possible that John was related to all these people? At some point, though, he found himself standing alone, staring at Mary as she talked to Margaret in a corner.

"Are you ever going to talk to her?"

John glanced over at Sherlock and nodded. "I was thinking that now seemed like a good time. What do you think?"

His friend slanted him a smile. "Finally. I was starting to think I was going to need to lock the two of you in a room together."

"And that would be different than our sharing a flat how, exactly?"

"That's the part I hadn't worked out yet," Sherlock told him, unable to keep the corners of his lips still. "Go on, then."

John gave him a nod, because yes, this really was the right time for this. He crossed the room and smiled winningly at Margaret. "I need to borrow my wife, if you don't mind."

He didn't wait for her answer, but took Mary's hand in his and headed for the study. "I need to talk to you."

"Oh, are we having conversation today? It really is Christmas."

He just looked at her, feeling a sense of joy bubbling up, because it really was, wasn't it? Peace on earth, good will toward men, all that rubbish … except it wasn't rubbish at all. No matter her faults, this was his wife and he loved her, he did, and it just didn't seem right to continue punishing her for doing something not even Sherlock blamed her for.

He couldn't bring himself to say anything quite yet, though, he was so busy marvelling at the play of emotions on her face—the trepidation and dread. Did she really think he would be so cruel as to break her heart on Christmas day? With his entire, unknown family just down the hall?

But she obviously did, and knowing what he was about to say, he felt like a boy again, bursting with anticipation of the joys to come as he watched her face as he pulled the USB drive from his pocket.

"Now?" she said, voice flat and pained. "Months of silence, and we're going to do this now?"

He just nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. She was a trained spy or whatever, after all. She would read everything on his face in an instant … or she would if she weren't so busy trying to deal with her own flooding emotions. And so he told her, "These are prepared words, Mary," because how else was he really supposed to do this?

"Your past is your business, but your future," he looked up to meet her eyes, brimming suddenly with a hope he hadn't seen in months. "Your future is my privilege."

With a sense of relief he tossed the computer drive into the fire. "There," he said, punctuating its demise, as he reassured her, "I didn't read it."

"But," and her emotions were truly overflowing now, "you don't even know my name."

He watched her, tears streaking down her face and thought she'd never looked so lovely. "Is Mary Watson good enough for you?"

And the relief burst over her face as she sniffled and nodded, wiping her nose with her hand like a child. "Yes!"

"Then it's good enough for me," John said, and then she was in his arms, and all he could do was marvel. He was in an Earl's study with a house full of unknown guests that were all somehow family. It was as unfamiliar as any place he'd ever been, including Afghanistan, but none of that mattered.

Standing there with his wife in his arms again, it suddenly felt like home.

##

THE END