"Fuck."

Mary Morstan – blonde, blue-eyed, and buxom, the three B's as she laughingly put it when in the mood to tease John about the way he'd described her in his blog after their first meeting – looked over his shoulder to see who the text was from. "Is it the dick you call a flatmate?" she asked as she returned to nibbling on John's ear. "Tell him to sod off, you're busy getting your cock sucked by your latest 'conquest'."

She still couldn't believe that bastard had had the nerve to taunt John about his relationship with her, and in such a cruel manner. Even John's excuse that Sherlock was having a bad reaction to confronting the site of his faked suicide wasn't enough to soothe her considerable ire; the son of a bitch had chosen the wrong woman to fuck with.

"No, it's not him," John replied absently. "It's Mrs. Hudson...shit, what's he done now?" he groaned as Mary gave in to the inevitable and scooted to his side, allowing him to roll over onto his back.

They were in her bed, the covers askew and both completely naked, having spent the better part of the evening fucking each other's brains out in the aftermath of their disastrous lunch with Sherlock bloody Holmes and his massive ego. She really wanted to get on with the consulting detective, for John's sake, but he wasn't making it easy. Yes, John had warned her he would most likely go out of his way to be nasty to her, to try and bait her into a reaction, but what that man had said about her – however true some of it might be – was absolutely unconscionable. The next time she saw him he was going to get the sharp edge of her tongue...and not in the way she'd just been giving it to her lovely Johnny.

"Shit!" The swear was more forceful this time; Mary sat up and watched as John scrambled out from beneath the rumpled covers and started shoving his clothes back on. "Mary, something's happened back at the flat, I have to go."

"What is it?" she asked, jumping out of bed and hunting for her own clothing. They hadn't exactly been neat about where things landed when they'd been removed. "What's wrong? Can I help?"

She was a nurse, studying nights to earn her medical degree, a slow course to take but the only way she could afford her dream of becoming a pediatrician one day. She'd always been patient, at least when it came to achieving her goals.

John hesitated in the middle of shoving his socks back onto his feet; she could see the indecision in his eyes as he considered her offer. "Not sure," he finally replied. "Mrs. Hudson's message says it's urgent, it's about Molly – but that's it. No details. With the mood he's been in today, Sherlock probably said something unforgivable to her, too. No," he finally decided as he pulled her into his arms and gave her a distracted kiss. "I'd better go alone. Molly barely knows you, and if Sherlock's got her upset enough to go to Mrs. Hudson, she might not appreciate more of an audience than the two of us." He smiled apologetically. "Don't hate me, yeah?"

"Never, John Watson," she replied, pulling his face close to hers for another kiss, this one a bit more lingering than the soft peck he'd given her a moment earlier. "Just call me if it turns out to be a medical emergency instead."

Although she had no way of knowing it at the time, those words would come back to haunt her in the days to come.

oOo

"He did what…no, I can't…"

Words failed John as he stared at Molly's tearstained face. She was huddled into an oversized dressing-gown belonging to Mrs. Hudson, her eyes enormous and haunted in a way he hadn't seen since the day he confronted her about her knowledge of Sherlock's survival after his supposed suicide. John's gaze moved downward as Molly reached up to tug at the dressing-gown's lapels, revealing an ugly circle of darkening bruises around her throat.

Bruises that would doubtlessly exactly match the spread of Sherlock's hands.

"He went tearing out of here," Mrs. Hudson said, launching back into the narrative John's incredulous exclamation had interrupted. He had never seen her so angry, so hurt and bewildered all at once, and suspected his own face reflected the same mix of emotions. However, when she glanced at Molly, it wasn't only concern that softened her features; she seemed uncertain as well. "Tell him, Molly," she said in her gentlest, most soothing voice. "Tell John what you told me, luv."

Molly seemed to shrink into herself a bit before suddenly straightening her posture, folding her hands on her laps to still their nervous twitching. Without removing her gaze from John's face, she told him, straight-faced and with no signs of hysteria, that she didn't believe it was Sherlock who'd hurt her in this unthinkable manner. That she didn't want to contact the police, except maybe Greg Lestrade, because she knew they'd chalk her story up to denial and unwillingness to face the truth of what a man she'd trusted had done to her.

"It wasn't him, John. It wasn't Sherlock. It was Jim Moriarty. Somehow he's come back from the dead and taken over Sherlock's body. He's the one who did this to me." Her face turned pleading. "You have to believe me. It wasn't just the way he sounded, but some of the things he said…he said things that no one else would know but the two of us. Things I never told Sherlock or anyone about. Things he couldn't possibly deduce. It's the only explanation that makes any sense. Please, tell me you believe me," she finished up in a choked whisper, one hand reaching out as if to touch him before subsiding to her lap, where it twisted itself nervously around its mate.

"He's been odd ever since he came down from the roof," Molly pressed on when he remained silent, struggling with what she clearly believed was the truth – struggling to decide if it was a truth he could accept or was exactly what it appeared to be on the face of; a woman in denial about being attacked by a man she loved.

His best friend. The same man who'd willingly sacrificed two years of his life, faked his own death, just to keep his friends safe. And bring down a criminal empire, of course, but the original impetus had been entirely unselfish.

Sherlock could do – and had done – many, many questionable things since John had met him. He'd admitted to using drugs to try and slow the endless whirling of his mind; he'd actually drugged John himself in the Baskerville case. He'd shown himself to be perfectly willing to break the law when it suited him, and he had been known on more than one occasion to treat people with a rather callous contempt.

He'd also gone to that long-ago rooftop knowing that, even with thirteen possible scenarios in mind, it might all go to shit and he might actually die.

He'd also always denied the needs of his body to the point of asceticism, calling it transport for the only part that really counted: the mind.

A man like that might conceivably snap, but to do what had been done to Molly?

No. Not Sherlock. John simply couldn't believe it of him. And if he was exhibiting the same denial as Molly, then so be it. He looked at her, holding her gaze as he said the three words she most needed to hear right now.

"I believe you."

The only question was, what were they going to do about it?

A/N: I know, John is easily convinced. But he WANTS to be. And there will be proof. Stay tuned for more! Thanks as always for the lovely reviews, and a special thanks to Nocturnias for helping me stay the course when I was about to collide with some very rocky shoals!