It became a game that Mary and Sherlock liked to play over dinner. “Gas balloon.”

“You guessed that and discarded it on the day we met. Please pass the salt John.”

“Silk ropes, ones soft enough that your hands did not gather calluses from constant practice. No thank you Watson, that is quite enough pork for me.”

“But you’ve seen me struggle to lift Gladston - how would I bear my weight aloft?”

“You are underestimating your strength. I have seen you carrying the firewood in a single load when John is ill and the man leaves our portion in with Mrs. Hudson’s.”

Mary’s usual expression of placid calm slipped for a moment before she responded with a twinkle in her eye. “I could possess advanced technology from an alien planet.”

“You, my dear Mrs. Watson, should lay off of the penny dreadfuls.” John interjected. “Although you do concede that it is technological in nature.” He never could resist needling Holmes, and if he could get a jab in at his wife (wife! The word would not get old quickly) all the better.

“Don’t be ludicrous Watson," Holmes responded with an emphatic hand gesture, nearly surrendering his potatoes to the floor. "Of course it is technological in nature. Technology covers any manner of inventions.”

As usual, Mary and Holmes spent the rest of dinner in quick-fire exchange, while John sat back and enjoyed the show, occasionally throwing in remarks designed to make one or the both of them trip up on his or her own cleverness or to make them look at his with fondness. They were building up steam to continue on past dinner, John having nearly decided to spend the evening catching up on some older medical journals in his study while they continued on when Lestrade came in with a minor matter that "shouldn't require Mr. Watson, if you and Mrs. Watson wanted to finish your dinner."

“John, I will send someone to fetch you if it turns out that Lestrade is wrong, as he usually is. Mary, I will figure this puzzle out.” Holmes finished trying his scarf and pulled on his hat, explaining again to Lestrade the puzzle of Mary, “which she has successfully woven for a year.”

“Dear,” John said as they retired to the sitting room to let their hired girl clear the table. “You could just fetch your spacecraft and show Holmes.”

“But John,” Mary replied, mirth dancing in her eyes. “It is much more fun to lord this puzzle over Sherlock. And beside the point, how else will we keep him flirting with us?”

“Mary!” John said, attempting to decide if he was aghast or if he had just fallen in love with his wife all over again.

“John!” Mary responded, mimicking his tone. “After 500 years, one begins to notice the symptoms of a man too married to his work to notice his need for companionship, at least if one has been traveling with a Tardis who has anthropologist aspirations.”

Not for the first time, John Watson contemplated just how interesting his life had become after marrying a Time Lord. And to think everyone told me my friendship with Sherlock Holmes was going to be the most unconventional part of my life after Afghanistan.