John Watson stood before the bedroom mirror as he buttoned up his shirt. He frowned at his exhausted reflection. Extra shifts at the surgery had taken their toll.

Still, the long days were more restful than the flat he shared with his wife and newborn daughter.

John had anticipated the late night feedings and early morning nappy changes. After the loudness of combat, he'd always relished the sound of children, no cry too loud to upset him because of the life it represented. The process of bonding with his daughter was taking longer than he expected, but he dismissed it as the price of the extra shifts he so desperately needed.

It was not fatherhood that wearied John.

He slipped his feet into his worn brown shoes and sat on the bed to tie the laces. Inertia kept him there for several minutes. John closed his eyes and wished he did not feel so heavy all the time, so burdened. So ungrateful for what he had. He finally forced himself off the bed and into the sitting room. Mary had cleaned it in preparation for the evening, no sign of baby toys and blankets, almost back to the condition it had been in before their wedding. Before everything.

He heard the noises of Mary working in the kitchen, and he slowly wandered in that direction.

John stopped and looked at the table in consternation. Eight places were elegantly set. Crystal stemware, gleaming silverware, wedding china. His wife had such a knack for domesticity. Viewing the lovely setting, he could almost forget her knack for domestic terrorism.

Almost.

John furrowed his brow and called out, "I thought there were only six of us tonight?"

"What?"

He shoved the tails of his dark blue shirt into his trousers and spoke more loudly. "I thought Ted and Stella couldn't make it. So why are there eight place settings?"

Mary poked her head out of the kitchen and stared at him exasperatedly. "We invited Harry and her new girlfriend, Molly and Greg, and Sherlock."

"Yeah, but Sherlock would never show up to a dinner party."

Mary briefly disappeared, then reappeared with a small tasteful floral centerpiece for the table. She placed it and subtly rearranged a few sprigs of lavender amongst the striped carnations. As she stood back to judge her work, she replied, "Well, he is, and he's even bringing someone with him."

John fidgeted with his cuffs. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"No."

"Mycroft?"

Mary laughed. "Not Mycroft."

Her laughter brought John's focus fully to his wife for the first time that evening. Mary was glowing with motherhood. She had quit her position as a nurse shortly before her due date. Now her days were spent at home with their little girl, and John returned every night to a happy baby and radiant wife.

Too bad he didn't know her name.

"You okay?" Mary asked as John squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yeah, of course." John compelled himself to look at her again. Even after a few hours of working in the kitchen, Mary was flawlessly put together in a silk blouse and slim trousers with ballerina flats. John felt as unkempt as his thoughts when Mary drew closer to smooth out John's collar.

She picked a piece of lint from his shoulder and smiled. "Sherlock asked if he could bring a date." Mary winked saucily at John and returned to the kitchen.

John ran his hands through his hair, still damp from the shower, and stared forlornly at the table. A prison cell had never been so beautifully appointed.