He'd been expecting it, of course. He was playing when he heard the car drive up, but only one set of footsteps, and John usually works late on Wednesdays anyway. He didn't turn around, continuing to play slowly, working on a new piece, yet untitled.

He could feel her standing in the door, watching him, but he finished the stanza before he paused, and she waited for him to stop before she spoke. "You lied to him."

Sherlock set his bow and violin aside gently, glancing out the window and onto the street below. "High-functioning sociopath, Mary. I lie constantly."

"Mm, not like this. Not when it doesn't suit your goals."

She came closer, and Sherlock turned to look. Showing now, which was only to be expected. The fetus's internal organs will be maturing now, beginning to look more like an infant and less like a fish. Morning sickness was over, though her back was beginning to cause her trouble. "We both know what you almost told him on the tarmac. And we both know that if he knew, if he really knew I'd tried to kill you, it would be over between us. You'd have him back. So, why, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced towards the window again, turning away deliberately, hoping perhaps if he ignored her she might go away. Of course, he was equally aware that such a hope was entirely futile.

He toyed for several minutes with plausible excuses, with insisting on his story, with simply ignoring her. But in the end, he decided on the truth. On occasion, it was the best move after all. "John has been through enough loss. I judged that there was little point in taking away someone he loved over a minor misjudgement."

"A minor misjudgement? Sherlock, I could have killed you."

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "And I could have overdosed numerous times, to say nothing of being blown to bits, fatally poisoning myself, or various other unpleasant ends; ask John, he'll tell you at great length."

He looked at her, seeing her once again. Lines under her eyes. Not just discomfort from her pregnancy. Nightmares. Not just John's, but her own. Slight tremor in her hands--stress. Guilt. "You could have killed me easily. Shot to the chest is still a kill shot, but you missed the heart, at near point-blank range when you've clearly trained as a sniper. Missing means you hesitated--you were conflicted."

"It could mean it was dark and you're stubborn."

"It could. But it doesn't."

He watched as the tension seemed to seep out of her, shoulders sagging suddenly. "You'd let the man you love live with a psychopath? You can't know if I'll kill him."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You weren't lying about that. You were selfish, yes--but you were selfish in wanting to keep him. You wouldn't do anything to risk his love." After all, it's a forgivable sin to want to keep John Watson with you a little longer.

She watched him a minute longer and then shook her head, ruefully. "Well. I suppose I should say thank you."

"For lying to John?"

"No. For being more unselfish than I could ever be." She turned to start walking away, and then looked back. "Oh, and Sherlock? If anything happens to me, tell him, won't you? He ought to know."

Sherlock found himself with a lump in his throat, and picked up his violin to conceal it. "I don't know what you're going on about. Oh, and Mary?" He played a few notes as she came back into the room.

"If you do hurt him, I assure you...they'll never find the body."

Mary nodded seriously. "The feeling's mutual, Sherlock." And she walked back down the wooden stairs to her car outside.