Mary leaned over and placed a flash drive on the table beside her. Sherlock leaned forward a bit, his eyes squinting through the pain as he studied the initials "A.G.R.A" that were written on the device.

"A-G-R-A. What's that?" he asked quietly, beads of sweat starting to break out on his forehead. He alarmingly but quietly registered that his shirt underneath his coat felt wet, sticky—whether from sweat or blood he didn't know. Didn't want to know.

All that he wanted now was for John to understand that his wife had done her best to make something out of an impossible situation. Sherlock had barged in on her affairs and she had done the only thing possible to save her husband's best friend's life.

Humanity! Sherlock thought to himself angrily as his breath hitched for a moment in response to another pang.Such emotional creatures, letting anger cloud their judgment. How can people live like that? How was it that, he, Sherlock Holmes, a high-functioning sociopath with absolutely no interest in familial relationships like the ones John seemed to require had a more level head on Mary than her own husband had at the moment? How was it that even the great Sherlock Holmes knew what was best for John in this moment?

Mary cleared her throat, bringing Sherlock back into the apartment, forcing the consulting detective to push his pain away and listen.

"It's my initials," Mary replied, fearfully looking at her husband. John's glanced over at her and his eyebrows rose, his eyes staring at her accusingly.

Humans could be so stubborn sometimes. This thought kept swirling in Sherlock's head as he watched his friend's heart break with the truth of his wife pressing on him. Couldn't John see this was about Magnusson, not Mary?

"Everything about who I was in on there. If you love me, don't read it in front of me," said Mary sadly.

"Why?" John asked accusingly?

Mary's eyes welled up. "Because you won't love me when you're finished." Her voice broke, "and I don't want to see that happen." They both looked down at the flash drive. John grabbed it from the table and put it in his pocket.

Mary decided to get straight to business instead of linger on John's anger. She turned to Sherlock, her eyes flashing with sadness as she looked at his pale form. She pressed on, though.

"How much do you know already?" she asked with authority.

This is why Sherlock approved of Mary—and maybe why Mary had told John as soon as she met Sherlock that she liked him. They understood one another. She didn't bother to question his cleverness, and he understood that actions needed to be taken—sacrifices were necessary. They both knew that Magnusson did not deserve to live.

Sherlock breathed heavily as he answered, shifting in his chair slightly to try and alleviate the building pain in his chest.

"By your skill set you are—or were—an intelligence agent," he answered slowly, his voice low and strained.

His eyelids felt heavy. Just a while longer, he tried to convince himself. He had to make John understand. "Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something. You've used your skills to disappear. Magnusson knows your secret which is why you were going to kill him. And I assume you befriended Janine in order to—" Sherlock clenched his hands on the armchair and shut his eyes tightly, his face screwed up in pain as another, much larger wave from his chest hit him. He was unable to hide it this time and let the pain enter his voice. "—get close to him," he finished, gasping and opening his eyes.

John made a move to help his friend, for a moment forgetting his anger in light of the situation. He stopped abruptly, though, as Mary—strong and steady, focusing only on the story, ignoring, for a moment, Sherlock's pain—answered clearly, "You could talk." Her voice was playful for once. She knew Sherlock forgave her and she was grateful.

Sherlock smiled in reply, amused that she knew the purpose of such a relationship. Clearly John was the only one he's fooled—even Janine had known he was using her. Poor, innocent John. Always thinking the best of people.

"Look at you two," John growled defensively. "You should have got married."

Mary ignored her husband. He was being selfish, silly, really. Sherlock looked at John wearily. He understood nothing. Mary was perfect for John and John refused to acknowledge that.

Sherlock was tired, fed up with his pain, and desperate for John to understand. His chest hurt, his patience was almost gone, and his eyes were getting heavier and heavier, each time he blinked he found it more difficult to open them again. His heart was pounding in his chest. He knew he wouldn't last much longer. It was paramount that John understood before Sherlock returned to the hospital. They were all on the same page. Magnusson needed to be dealt with—and John's ego was the only thing keeping that from happening.

Stay tuned for Ch. 3! Thanks so much for reading. :)