The day had started out innocently enough. Sherlock bounced around the flat, tossing this and that into boxes and cabinets, exhilarated by the latest case. John watched from his chair, smiling softly at Sherlock.

"It's nice to have you clean this flat for a change, you know," John said, his smile growing bigger.

"I'm not cleaning, John, I'm rearranging for the next case. Now that this case is over, everything needs to be somewhere else," Sherlock said, waving a pair of his black socks in his hand. He continued to buzz around the flat, complaining about how Anderson had so poorly handled the crime scene and the evidence.

John had grown used to his flatmate and now boyfriend's eccentric nature. He loved him for it, he had never loved anyone as much as he did Sherlock. He loved every fiber of his being, everything he was and was not.

Sherlock flew by him, stopping only to give him a kiss on the cheek. John blushed, he relished any show of affection from Sherlock. He had spent so many days and nights wishing for it, and now here he was, getting the kisses and love that he had only once dreamed of.

"I so enjoy seeing you blush, John," Sherlock said in his deep baritone, flashing his wonderful, smug half-smile. John laughed, tracing his fingers across the back of Sherlock's hand.

He bent over and grabbed John's favorite blue and white tea mug from the table beside him, but the mug slipped from his grasp and crashed onto the floor, the sound echoing throughout the flat. John stood up quickly, startled by the sound. Sherlock was bent over just enough that he matched John's height, and their faces met each other.

That's when John noticed something he never thought he would see from the great and seemingly invincible Sherlock Holmes.

He flinched.

It was a small gesture, but there nonetheless. The smile slowly left his face and his eyes avoided John's as he stooped to pick up the broken pieces of the mug.

"I'm sorry, John, so very sorry," Sherlock said.

No one else would've noticed the slight hitch in his speech, the tense posture Sherlock had. But John did.

John frowned as he crouched down to help Sherlock, "It's alright, love, no harm done. I have plenty of mugs." He was horrified to find he was using the same tone he used with victims of abuse or other terrible crimes.

Sherlock seemed to fold in on himself as John got down to his level. The giant of a man that John had fallen in love with was now trying to make himself as small as possible, as invisible as he could. It tore at John's heart. He reached to pick up a large piece of ceramic and accidentally brushed his sun-tanned hand against Sherlock's, who pulled his hand back so quickly he nearly fell over.

"Sherlock?" John asked worriedly and reached his hand towards Sherlock.

"No, please don't," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. His ocean blue eyes were clenched shut, his hands thrown up in a defensive position in front of his face.

John's heart skipped a beat. Sherlock thought he was going to hit him.

Abuse, abuse, abuse

The word kept spinning around in John's head, making him nauseous. He held his hands up and open, keeping them as non-threatening as possible.

"I won't hurt you, Sherlock," he said, inching closer to Sherlock. He opened his eyes and all John could see was terror.

It made his heart sink even further and the nausea build up inside of him. Sherlock was never terrified, even when facing down the barrel of a gun or the ticking of a bomb. John was not only terribly saddened, but enraged at whoever made his Sherlock, his superhero, cower in front of him like a frightened child.

"Sherlock, it's alright," John tried again. This time he sat back on his heels and waited for Sherlock to move. He had evaluated countless victims of abuse and he knew that they needed to make all of the moves. They needed that control that had been viciously taken from them.

Sherlock glanced at him and back to the shattered mug, back to John, back to the mug. His eyes, shining with unshed tears, bounced back and forth again and again, until they finally settled on John.

"John?" He finally said, blinking rapidly, the tears finally running down his pale, sharp cheeks. He wrapped his arms around himself, his tailored jacket and ironed shirt becoming wrinkled. His breathing became rapid and his cheeks reddened, the realization of what had just happened hitting him completely.

"Yes, love, I'm here," John said, as softly as possible.

Sherlock surprised him by quickly jumping up and running to their room, leaving John bewildered. He stood up, ignoring his dizzy head, and ran to the closed and locked door. He knocked very gently, hoping desperately that Sherlock would let him come and hold him in his arms.

"Sherlock, can I come in?"

Quiet, broken sobs were his only response.