As John slowly gained consciousness, his hand raised to touch his forehead. There was dull pain in his head. The events from last night entered John's mind as he looked around; there was dried blood all over the ground and his jumper. John realized it was morning, judging from the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. He couldn't find the effort to even sit up. Luckily he didn't have to work today.

He just lied on the ground for awhile, before he couldn't take the pain anymore and slowly sat up. As he sat up, the room began to spin along with a slight dizzy feeling. John took a couple of deep breaths before standing up, using the couch as support. His knees shook as he walked towards the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, John assessed the wound. It was a mild cut, not even deep so he wouldn't need stitches, slight bruising. His jumper was completely ruined which he was rather distressed about considering it was one of his favorite's. He rinsed the blood off his face before tossing his jumper in the trash. John looked over the wound one more time before heading to the bedroom. He stripped out of his trousers and threw them in the hamper. He grabbed a green button-up and a pair of grey trousers to wear. His head was still throbbing by the time he had finished dressing.

John was about to head to the kitchen before his mobile vibrated on his bedside table. He picked up his mobile, hoping that it wasn't Mary. He was pleasantly surprised to see a text message from Sherlock. I got a new case, could use some help. Breakfast? –SH, Sherlock had texted. John gave a weak smile to his mobile before replying, I'd love to help. Meet you at the diner near the Yard in half an hour? –JW. He didn't remember giving Sherlock his number but that could be because of the lamp hitting him. John looked through his other messages, three texts from Mary, two missed calls from her and a voicemail. He reluctantly clicked his voicemail to listen to the message, John, darling, I'm sorry about last night. I was stressed about work and I took that out on you. I'll make it up to you tonight. I'll even make dinner. Please call me when you get this. I love you. This was so like Mary. She'd get angry then apologize and beg him to forgive and he always forgave her no matter what she did to him. He was just going to ignore her for a bit.

Tea didn't help John at all. He needed to relax and tea usually did the trick. Today, however, nothing could calm his nerves. Part of it was that he was still very much so upset at Mary and part of it was that he was going to meet Sherlock soon. John had no idea why Sherlock made him feel this way, they'd only just met. When John was around Sherlock, he felt happy and Sherlock had sparked a feeling inside him that he just couldn't quite put his finger around.

The diner was relatively small, it had only ten tables. Apart from a few cops on break, Sherlock and John were the only ones in the diner. John had ordered eggs benedict, and a coffee. John had offered to buy Sherlock something but he insisted he only wanted tea. John quietly cut his eggs as Sherlock sipped his tea. Some food in John's stomach helped his nerves. While John ate, he snuck glances at Sherlock.

Sherlock had noticed John's injury instantly. Surface wound, not even a millimeter deep: blunt object. Cut just below the hair line: object was moving at 10 km/h and badly thrown. Bruising in shape of object: the base of a lamp. So his wife, in a fit of rage, had thrown a lamp at him. Traces of dried blood still on his forehead: John hadn't tended to the wound until recently. Sherlock decided he'd ask about his forehead though he knew John would make up an excuse, victims of abuse always defend their abusers.

"John, what happened to your head?" Sherlock nursed his tea, cupping the mug in his hands.

"Well…" John had to think of something, something that Sherlock would believe actually happened. "I slipped… in the shower. I'm so clumsy sometimes. I hit my head against the tile. I'm fine though. My wife, Mary, she cleaned me up." John could tell Sherlock wasn't paying it. He faked a smile and hoped Sherlock would drop the subject.

"I see, well I've deduced that it should be completely healed in two weeks. So John and Mary Watson? When did you two get married?" So her name was Mary, Sherlock thought. His throat felt blocked and his breathing became more rapid. Wait, what was he feeling? Was this what jealousy felt like? Why he was jealous? Sherlock Holmes did not have emotions, especially not jealousy.

"Oh no, she didn't take my last name. She's still Mary Morstan. Umm… we met in college. She was an English major doing her master's degree and I was applying for med school. She was 24 then and I was 25. We got married four years after that so… about 8 years." John knew the exact year that they got married. It was the year everything changed. When Mary and he were dating, she was lovely and kind. Then when they got married, she slowly started to despise him until eventually, she started abusing him. At first, it was nothing; when she got mad she'd grab his arm and yell then things escalated to throwing books and pushing him around. John never fought back, because a gentleman never hits a lady.

"Why didn't she take your last name? Isn't it customary for the woman to take the man's last name?" Sherlock knew little of social protocol or customs but was sure that women always took their husband's last name as part of an ancient custom of ownership over the woman. John's tone when speaking of their marriage: she had started to abuse him after approximately two years. They were happy as newlyweds but that quickly faded. John has been dealing with this for six years. Suddenly, a rage built up inside Sherlock. Mary would pay, in one way or another, for what she did to John. Sherlock didn't understand why he felt so protective of John when they'd only just met but he knew he'd do anything to help John escape from her.

"Usually, yes but Mary works as a publisher and she said it'd be complicate things so we decided that it would be better if she just kept last name." Or because she didn't want anyone to know she was married, John wanted to say. He had never met any of her co-workers, he had never even been to her office; she didn't let him. She would make any excuse possible to stop John from coming to her office.

"Oh what publishing company does she work for?" Sherlock tried to sound interested in the conversation but his mind kept drifting to all the things Mary probably did to John over the years.

"Erm…" Why was he having trouble remembering where she worked? "She works at… Bitter Lemon Press. So what is this new case about?" John desperately wanted to change the subject from Mary and him.

"Right. A politician turned up dead in his hotel room. My brother, Mycroft, gave me the case. We'll have to keep quiet about it though; don't want the press to find out. We can head over to the hotel after this. My brother will fill you in on all the details before we go examine the body."

"Sounds good. I'm almost done." John ate faster, taking big gulps of coffee between bites.

"No need to rush. I'm still nursing my tea." Sherlock gave John a smile.

John paid for the meal before he had finished eating. Sherlock offered to pay his share but John simply said that it was the least he could do after he'd paid for dinner last night. Then they headed to hail a cabbie.

For such a high class hotel, it was unusually dead. Only employees were wandering around. John looked towards Sherlock for any clues but he only smirked. Minor position, my arse, Mycroft, Sherlock thought to himself. He had really outdone himself this time, closing down the whole hotel; that must have required countless phone calls and bribes. Mycroft would definitely be upset that Sherlock had brought John but he would just have to get out it.

They stepped into the lift after Sherlock received a text from Mycroft telling him the crime scene was on the tenth floor. Mycroft eyed Sherlock down as the two approached the room. Sherlock refused to meet his gaze. John awkwardly followed Sherlock.

"My dear brother, I thought we agreed that you wouldn't." Mycroft glanced towards John for a split second. John somehow knew it was about him being there.

"I thought I told you it was none of your business. We are being rude. Mycroft, this is Doctor John Watson. John, this is my brother, Mycroft. He is the British government."

"Pleasure. I hold a minor role in the government."

"Sure when you're not too busy being the secret service or the CIA."

"It's nice to meet you, Mycroft." John interrupted. He feared if he didn't that the two brothers would start a fight.

"So can we get into the crime scene so John and I can examine the body?" Sherlock was getting impatient with Mycroft.

"Once, John understands the importance of being discreet about this, yes." Mycroft leaned against the umbrella he has in his hand.

"I already told him that he can't speak a word of it to anyone." Mycroft gave Sherlock the look. The same look he'd given him as a child; it was the look that Mycroft gave him when he thought Sherlock was being foolish and Sherlock hated it.

"I promise I won't say anything to anyone." John pleaded.

"Not even Mary, John." Mycroft stated. John was confused as to how Mycroft knew his wife's name but assumed he had access to his information if he was the British government.

"I know."

"Then you may proceed. I expect results, Sherlock, soon." Mycroft said as Sherlock and John entered the hotel room.

Four hours, two cab rides and a chase around town later, Sherlock and John had found: the cause of death- poisoning; the real crime scene- politician's office; and the murderer- his assistant. The assistant ran after they questioned him and got half way across town before Sherlock and John caught him. When they did catch him, they managed to get a confession out of him. The assistant had grown tired of his boss' ways and how he would make him lie to his wife when he was having affairs so he decided to rid the world of one arsehole.

Mycroft sent a police car to retrieve the murderer and called Sherlock to let him know they'd done a splendid job and he'd arranged dinner at an exclusive restaurant his treat. John decided to go even though he knew he had to be home soon; he hadn't told Mary he had the day off, she'd expect him to be home in a few hours. Though he didn't really care about Mary at the moment, Sherlock was doing a good job of distracting him. Sherlock might not know what he was doing to John but he was helping him in a way John had never imagined possible. John was actually happy and Sherlock actually made him laugh. John was being reminded of emotions he'd forgotten about long ago.

Dinner was marvelous. The food was spectacular and delicious. There were no uncomfortable silences; Sherlock and John talked the whole way through. John told Sherlock about his times in the military and Sherlock told John about how he invented the job of consulting detective. At times, Sherlock thought John was… flirting with him; not that he really knew what flirting looked like, he'd only ever read about it. Sherlock tried to deduce John's feelings but didn't know where to start, he was so inexperienced with feelings and such; he made a note to do more research. John made Sherlock feel, something no one had succeeded in doing in his whole life.

The evening was cut short, by John and Sherlock didn't have to ask to know why: Mary. John apologized and assured Sherlock that he'd text him tomorrow. He said he'd make it up to him another time. Sherlock told John that he didn't mind but a part of him wanted to stop John from going home to her; maybe then he'd be safe, maybe if he was with Sherlock, he'd feel safe.

John walked through the front door, expecting Mary to be waiting to yell at him. So he was surprised to see her nowhere in sight. He checked the kitchen and it was empty, though a faint smell of baked chicken lingered. He pulled off his jacket and placed it on the chair in the living room. He crept to the bedroom, assuming Mary had fallen asleep. When he pushed the door open and stepped through the doorframe, John was shocked.

There, on the bed, lied Mary. She was wearing skimpy lingerie he hadn't seen before, it was red and black; though most would say she looked sexy, John was still disgusted. John couldn't believe she was trying this again; this was what she's do after they got in a huge fight: she'd try to seduce him and assume that would fix everything. She repulsed him; he shuddered at the thought of even kissing her. There was no way this was going to happen. John didn't want Mary anywhere near him.

"Hello handsome." Mary said in a seductive tone.

"Mary…" John began.

"Shh… John. Come here." Mary crawled across the bed and pulled John towards her. Once he was close, she pulled him on top of her, wrapping her legs around him. John tried to pull away from her, gently. Mary kissed his neck while placing one hand on his shoulder and one on the back of his neck.

"Mary, no." John took her hands off of him but that only caused her to start tugging off his trousers.

"John, baby, it's okay. I'm going to make everything better." She whispered as she unzipped his trousers, letting her hand wander in.

"No Mary. Stop. Not today. Not any night for that matter." John untwined himself from Mary. She grabbed him again, more aggressively. Instead of pulling him on top of her again, she pushed him down on the bed and climbed onto him. John tried to be gentle while attempting to get her off of him; he didn't want to hurt her. She clearly wasn't listening to him, too distracted with her hands down his trousers.

"Mary, I said no. I'm not going to have sex with you. Sod off." John had a stern tone. Finally, Mary stopped. She looked up at him in anger.

"I'm trying to be romantic. I'm trying to make this marriage work."

"Shagging isn't going to help anything. I'm still upset with you. You threw a lamp at me." John finally was able to pull himself away from Mary. He immediately climbed off the bed.

"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry, okay? I'm just really stressed out, I thought this would help." Mary started to pout.

"Just because you say sorry doesn't mean I'm going to forgive you instantly. If you didn't notice, there's a massive gouge on my forehead. I can't deal with this right now. I'm leaving." John headed for the door but Mary jumped off the bed and grabbed his arm.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I know you're not going to forgive me right away and you shouldn't; I shouldn't have done what I did. Please, don't leave. I love you, more than anything else in the whole world. Please stay." Mary pulled him into a hug but his arms stayed at his side. She kissed his neck again. "I love you so much. I could never bear to lose you. Just tell me you'll stay. I need you, John."

"Fine." John hated himself, more than he had ever hated himself before. He was the cliché abuse victim and Mary knew it. She could do whatever she wanted to him and he'd always forgive her; in the end, he'd always come running back to her like he was the one that needed her. Why did he go back to her? He didn't need her; he could easily survive on his own. He went back to her time after time because he had been made to believe that no one else would love him; that Mary was the best he was ever going to get. That was the truth of his world: no one could love a worthless man like him.