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He was faced with a conundrum. He loved Mary. Loved her with all his heart. He had felt that after Sarah, after he drifted along from one lover to the next, after Sherlock’s fall, there was no way he’d ever settle down. There was no woman who would ever understand, not completely. So having Mary come into his life had been a surprise and a blessing and he had never been so thankful for her. But he could tell that there was something about her that was a little…off.
Of course, there was something off about him, too.
But with her, it was like she was keeping a piece of herself hidden away. There was more to Mary Morstan then she let be seen, more beneath the surface. He wasn’t sure she’d ever let him find out more. And, frankly, he was fine with that. He loved what he saw, and if she needed to keep secrets then she could keep them. He had his own, he understood.
But would it be enough to love her? When the secrets came out, as they inevitably would, would he still be able to love her? That was the question, he supposed. Was his love strong enough to withstand whatever it was she had hidden deep in her past, whatever dead bodies she had in her closet? He hoped it was. He prayed it was. Because he loved her, and he didn’t want to lose her. He didn’t think he could bear it.