Mary didn't believe that John Watson could ever need his life saved. Not really. He'd always find a way out. Always. Never mind how many times Sherlock had gone after him, or how often they'd had to get each other out of tight spots. She still desperately believed that he would always get through. Because she couldn't imagine life without him. But if it helped him, if he really believed that Florence was the reason he was alive, then so be it. Then she'd be thankful that she'd done so. "Then I'm grateful to her for that," she offered, her eyes involuntarily drifting to the sight of her sleeping daughter.
She prepared the tea exactly as John took it, no sugar, because there was something clearly wrong with the man. Offering him his, she made herself a cup and sat on the edge of the couch, not far from him. "You have to take care of yourself, too, John. You won't do either of them any good by falling apart."