It’s as though all the breath’s been sucked out of him. If he actually knew who I was, he’d hate me. The words strike close to home, sharp, and deep, and startling, an echo of something he so often thinks when he wakes up in the morning. Mary is more familiar with John’s inner demons than anyone, except maybe Sherlock, but still he is convinced that someday she’s going to see something of the real him - the dangerous, nothing-left-to-lose, adrenaline-charged, righteous real him - and will realize what a mistake she’s made.

Not for the first time, he wonders if he and Tara have more demons in common than either of them quite realize.

He downs his drink and waves down the bartender for another. “Nah,” he says after a beat. “Nah. Love’s way more messed up than that. Doesn’t matter what he knows. He loves you. He’s crazy about you. You won't get rid of him that easily.” Another beat, and then, casual as he can, “What’s he gotten into?” The attack on Jax had been planned, a retaliation of some kind, you’d have to be stupid not to see that. Why does’t matter that much to John, except that knowing would make it a hell of a lot easier to track down the bastards.