It had been a long and tiresome day for Dr John Watson, and arriving home to flat 221B should have been a relief, but something was wrong….it was far too quiet in the flat. Usually he expected to find his mad-cap flat mate Sherlock (Sherly, although call her that and she might just punch you) Holmes, experimenting, or ranting and one on occasion John returned home to find her shooting at the wall, yelling "Bored! Bored! Bored!" and that was fun day. No, the flat was eerie without her obvious presence, "Maybe she had a case…" John mused aloud, hanging up his coat. Whistling he slipped off his shoes, in favour of his slippers, and padded to the bathroom. John swung the door open and flicked on the light, "Oh! Sorry, I didn't know you were in here…" John gasped but couldn't help but gape at her body in the bath, covered in scars of all kinds, "Turn off the light, John." She whispered, making no effort to cover herself. Fumbling, John flicked the light off and paused, the silence growing heavy in the steamy room. "I can't bear to see my body, you see John? The darkness shields what I really am, a f.." She tailed off, and John asked the question that was now burning in the forefront of his mind, "How did you get those scars, Sherlock?". She swallowed and looked at the ceiling, "Didn't you ever wonder? When you moved in, why there were no mirrors? I hate myself, John. I was made to feel worthless many years ago and I never gained it back." She paused for breath, "I had this…boyfriend whilst I was in university. His name was Daniel and I believed him to be the world, he thought himself to be the world as well, and I loved him. I thought he loved me but….no, to him I was just some….whore who would do it essays." Sherlock spat, flicking a hand in the water. "It started out light, slaps, little hits, a few kicks but it grew to something on another level." Her breath seemed to hitch, like she was crying. John shook his head, never had he seen her cry and he hoped he never would. "Then he would beat me so badly I couldn't leave the flat, he would cut me, burn me, pull my hair. 'You're worthless, you're scum, and you're nothing but a hole for me to fuck'. I can remember being his best lines of dialogue." Her breath hitched again, she was defiantly crying now. "But I couldn't leave him, no, I was too much of a coward for that, no, you see, every time he hurt me, it was followed by an 'I love you' and I thought him to be the first person on this retched planet who ever loved me. Mummy never loved me…no, and daddy, well, he loved too much, and he had a funny way of showing it." John gasped now, knowing what she meant. "And Mycroft, my dearest brother, never really showed me until it was too late. I can still remember." Sherlock closed her eyes, "I thought I was going to die. He beat me until I was unconscious and when I came to he was on top of me and I panicked, I started screaming and screaming. I can still feel his hands around my neck; I thought I was going to die John. I honestly did. But somebody heard my screams and a very young Lastrade came and rescued me. And the bastard is still behind bars…well, I don't think Mycroft let him live, he couldn't not after what he had left me. A skinny wreck of a woman, barely a woman at all." She sucked in a shaky breath, "So I ran away, I got into drugs and I wasted away. But they found me again and they saved me, now look at me. But I don't think I'll find love again. Turn on the light, John." She stopped, leaning forwards, "But you..." John tried to stop her, "Lights. Now." John sighed and flicked the switch, "Who would want me? I'm nothing but a freak." Now that she had lent forward John could see her back, where somebody had carved the word 'FREAK' in large letters in the alabaster skin of her back. She leaned back and closed her eyes, tears rolling into the gradually cooling bathwater. John put a hand to the side of her face, "I love you, Sherlock. I've loved you since the day we met." He leaned down and kissed her naturally red lips, "I love you too, John Watson."