Work Text:
“Your day job is a barista, yes, but there’s something you’re not telling us...”
A young woman sat in a quaint cafe, the location of a (frankly trivial) late-night robbery, and was currently under the scrutiny of the world’s only Consulting Detective. This case was terribly pedestrian, but Sherlock Holmes hadn’t taken up a case in three weeks and was desperate, leaving Detective Inspector Lestrade to take pity on him and offer a crime that even Anderson could solve (eventually). John was grateful, as he was sure if Sherlock’s recent stint of boredom progressed any further, the next gruesome murder committed would be on his own hands.
Sherlock’s eyes lit up in a telltale way. “Ah,” he breathed, “a prostitute. Your pimp hired some minions to pay a visit after you failed to provide him with full compensation...compensation that you didn’t have because you needed it to make rent. You phoned the police for your own protection.”
The woman had begun crying sometime in the middle of Sherlock’s rant, but naturally he paid no mind, and continued to pick apart her life. Sherlock felt entitled - after all, she had called upon Scotland Yard, and he was helping her. The gears in his mind had finally clicked into place after nearly a month of hopeless lethargy, and there was no stopping him.
“Prostitutes! Good God Lestrade, you couldn’t even bother with a decent case for me. Prostitutes are so simple. Daddy issues, yes?” he inquired, but the woman was verging on hysteria. John was rubbing her shoulder, trying to console her as he shot a dark look in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock ignored it, waving away the young women’s tears as if they were a waste of his time. “Of course. You feel that your body is nothing more than a vessel to earn your pay. Why would you feel like this? Because your father molested you as a girl,” Sherlock stated as if this was a perfectly sensible topic to breech upon first introduction.
John’s body went rigid, just for a fraction of a moment, but Sherlock noticed (of course). Clearing his throat, John forced himself to relax, the fingers of his dominant hand clenching and unclenching into a fist by his side. His tongue darted over his lips before he turned to fully face Sherlock. John drew his chin inward before squaring his jaw to look steadily into Sherlock’s pale eyes. He glared in a manner that would have most men cowering in a corner.
That being said, Sherlock was not most men. He assessed John’s stance before affirming what the shorter man was thinking.
“Right,” he mused, offering a curt nod. “Not good.”
Before Sherlock could so much as utter another syllable to the unfortunate woman, John manhandled the Consulting Detective out of the cafe.
“What,” John seethed, backing Sherlock into a brick wall, “in the bloody hell was that?”
Sherlock shifted uncomfortable, resembling a cornered animal ready to bolt or attack. John never usually restrained him in any way, usually exercising more control even during Sherlock’s most terribly thoughtless deductions, but his forearm was currently positioned against the Consulting Detective’s sternum, pinning him nearly painfully against the cool brick of the cafe’s exterior.
John’s level of frustration had reached a new high these past few days. His mad flatmate had taken the dramatic approach in expressing his recent bout of boredom. Sherlock was like a panicked, drowning man, grasping at the only leverage he had access to (which, unfortunately, happened to be a certain ex-army doctor) and dragging him down into the spiraling depths of misery he was prone to. Sherlock would keep John up at all hours of the night, conducting the most destructive experiments he could concoct (exactly how many pieces would John’s favorite mug shatter into when dropped from a second story window? what were the effects of various chemicals on the kettle? how quickly would one of John’s knitted jumpers unravel after being soaked in sausage grease and offered to a passing Rottweiler?). He would play the violin as though he were a five-year-old, and after some time of being exposed to the dreadful screeches, John began comforting himself by imaging various scenarios in which the blasted instrument met its untimely demise. Even when John had ran low on food, he was extremely reluctant to leave Sherlock on his own (he didn’t want any more of his belongings sacrificed in the name of “science”), so he settled on ordering in. In any case, John Watson was exhausted in every possible sense of the word, and if he gave Sherlock a taste of his own medicine, he had no doubt that nobody would blame him.
Sherlock’s eyes flickered to where John’s arm was restraining him, and he moved to push the shorter man away, but John was one step ahead of him. John grasped his flatmate’s arms behind his back, spinning Sherlock forcefully so that he was facing the building. Sherlock struggled valiantly against John’s grip, but the ex-army doctor was stronger than he appeared.
“That was not on, Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth. “You can’t just air someone’s dirty laundry like that in front of London’s finest! Issues like her’s are a big deal, they’re burdens that people have to carry around with them for the rest of their lives!”
Sherlock grunted, a delivered a sharp kick to John’s shin, who hissed but did not relent. “Please,” he scoffed, “it’s not a big deal. That girl was a self-pitying weakling who reveled in being characterized as a victim!”
John swiftly pulled Sherlock back before slamming him headlong into the wall. He released his hold on the taller man, but Sherlock did nothing to flight back. He rested his forehead against the brick, taking deep, ragged breaths, his hands braced against the wall by his head.
“You really are a disgusting prick sometimes, you know,” spat John, marching away. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Sherlock was attempting to staunch the blood flowing freely from his nose, but John couldn’t be bothered to care at the moment.
John was seething as he left the scene, muttering choice phrases (“insufferable fucker”, “insensitive arse”, “bloody machine”) before he realized that he was being trailed by a familiar black car. John entertained the idea of ignoring the vehicle and walking back to the flat without even so much as a backward glance, but Baker Street was a few dozen blocks away, and his leg was beginning to act up. Signing, John opened the door.
He had fully expected to be greeted by “Anthea”, tapping away nonchalantly at her blackberry, but was surprised to see Mycroft Holmes seated in the sleek interior of the car.
“Ah, John,” he simpered, as if they were old friends who had happened to meet by chance, “do join me. I believe that we are long overdue for a chat.”
“Are we?” John mused as he slipped into the car, pointedly not looking at the elder Holmes directly.
“Yes. You’ve nearly just broken my brother’s nose, and while your reaction was not unwarranted, I do feel as though I am overdue to offer you an...explanation of sorts,” Mycroft stated, smoothing the cuffs of his jacket.
John glanced over at Sherlock’s brother. He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable, not to mention a bit guilty, as though the information he was about to offer John was something of a secret. “An explanation?” he asked, not bothering to mask the intrigue in his tone.
Mycroft folding his hands together, tucking them under his chin. “Yes,” he affirmed. “Surely you know Sherlock to be a genius in many aspects, but quite inept when it comes to social cues and anything to do with emotions. I have to divulge to you that this wasn’t always the case. As a young boy, Sherlock was, well, a delight. Extraordinarily bright, fascinated by the world around him, and inordinately...sweet. An open book, heart of his sleeve, worthy of any of those common sayings. He was very free in his emotions, willing to bear his soul to a complete stranger. It was truly endearing, and everyone would say what a wonderful man he would grow up to be,” he explained, pausing to smile fondly at the memories. John listened intently, thinking to himself that this idealized young Sherlock sounded more fictional than most literary characters. He had certainly never seen any evidence that would connect his flatmate to the angelic boy that Mycroft was describing.
“So,” John prompted, clearing his throat, “what led him to become the world’s only Consulting Tosser?”
John had expected a smarmy raised eyebrow at his statement, but instead Mycroft looked regretful. “I left for boarding school when I was thirteen. Sherlock was six, and he was just discovering the effect his keen observations had; his abilities to deduce facts about other’s lives had been, for the most part, met with appraisal. He was encouraged to expand his mind and hone his talent,” Mycroft explained. “Our father was a very busy man, and when he was around, Sherlock naturally thrived on his approval. He idolized the man, and desperately wanted his attention and love.”
Mycroft extracted two glasses and a bottle of brandy from a compartment on the floor of the car. “Father began returning home later and later, and when Mummy finally confronted him, he spun a very believable tale about his work, and she would have been fooled had it not been for Sherlock,” he said calmly, but John could see this was an act. Mycroft’s lips were pursed and his hand was shaking ever so slightly as he handed John a glass. “Sherlock, I was told, flawlessly recited how Father had been out with another woman, and how he’d been seeing her for quite some time. The evidence was overwhelming, and Mummy was upset. She left the house for the night.”
Mycroft paused, his eyes distant. He emptied his drink in one go. “I didn’t return until the holidays, four months later. I had not been told what had happened, and Mummy had returned to the house. Anyone could tell they were headed for divorce, but what bothered me was how distant Sherlock had grown. He didn’t speak, hardly ate, and after a few days upon returning home, I noticed his arms. Sherlock had fallen into the habit of scratching himself. Mummy and I took him for a full medical evaluation. He had refused to undress for the doctor, and had thrown a fit when we had stripped him. As soon as we had, he was sobbing. There were finger-shaped bruises on his biceps and thighs that Sherlock had tried to conceal. Further testing proved that he was...molested on multiple occasions. The officers wouldn’t allow him to leave until he made a statement against our father, who was...taken care of. That was the last time he ever spoke of it,” Mycroft concluded, his knuckles white from the force he was gripping his glass with.
John was acutely aware that it was becoming more difficult to breathe. He wanted to leave this car, to go back to the flat and lie down for a very long time, until his head stopped spinning. He took a very deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, but the dreadful feeling that was threatening to smother him remained.
“Doctor Watson, your hands,” Mycroft noted, pulling John from his stupor.
John glanced down, and pried his fists open to reveal a sluggish flow a blood seeping from half moon-shaped abrasions in his palm.
“M’fine,” he rasped. John was silent for a few moments before finding his voice again. “Why? Why tell me this? Why now?”
Mycroft rotated the glass in his hand. “You’re a patient man, John. You’re also inherently compassionate. You have tolerated Sherlock’s antics without question thus far, even when he has been so blatantly cold toward those who least deserve it. But your patience will only last so long before you begin to believe that Sherlock is as heartless as he acts. Without knowing what shaped the man you know today, you would be like all the others; You, too, would think him to be a psychopath, sociopath, freak, what have you. You would have left.”
John wanted to argue against this, but he know it had been a possibility. After confronting Sherlock at the cafe, he had half a mind to pack his bags and retreat to Harry’s (desperate times call for desperate measures). John had been livid, ready to leave Sherlock behind, abandoning the man he believed to be the coldest bastard the world had ever seen.
But there had been signs, too. For one, Sherlock was a fantastic actor. If the situation called for it, he could produce tears in a blink of an eye, and his sham smiles could make even the most hardened criminal spill his secrets to the Consulting Detective. John had prided himself on being able to differentiate between Sherlock-the-actor and real Sherlock, but somehow this had escaped him - Sherlock wasn’t heartless. He was hurting.
“I won’t leave him,” John muttered, mostly to himself.
Mycroft offered him a sad smile. “I know. And I do believe that this is your stop,” he stated as the car pulled up to 221B Baker St. “And John, do watch over him. I’m afraid I won’t be seeing too much of you for a while. He’ll be angry with me for divulging his past to you. I hope, in time, he’ll see the necessity in it. Lord knows he wouldn’t have told you.”
John nodded briefly, and exited the car. He had a feeling that Sherlock was already back at the flat, as Mycroft’s car had taken the long way home. John hesitated at the door before letting himself in. He climbed the stairs up to the flat, opened the door, and tentitively called out for Sherlock.
There was no reply. He was home, yes - his heavy wool coat was hanging from the back of the door, his scarf draped over a chair, muddy footsteps littering the floor (John silently berated his flatmate for the mess) - and the tap in the toilet was running.
“Sherlock?” John called again, rounding to the toilet, but there was no response. John stopped in the threshold.
Sherlock was standing in front of the mirror, his left hand gripping the tap, the nails of his right hand raking over the now raw skin on his left forearm. His eyes were wide and blank, staring back at his reflection. His nosebleed had thankfully let up, though some dried blood remained on his upper lip, and a fairly deep cut in his chin would need a plaster. Sherlock’s bottom lip appeared to have bite marks, likely from when he was slammed against the wall. John winced and moved toward his friend, reaching for his arm.
“Hey,” he said gently, trying to draw Sherlock back to reality. The taller man reacted immediately, lashing out as soon as John touched him. He wheeled around, pushing the doctor out of the room. John stumbled, and looked up just in time to see Sherlock’s face - wide-eyed and alarmed, with the slightest trace of vulnerability that rendered John speechless. He could finally see the child that Sherlock once was, and it pulled at John’s heart. A moment later, Sherlock’s features turned impassive, the familiar icy mask returned, but that did little to ease the heaviness that now resided in John’s chest.
Sherlock’s gaze swept over John, and his eyes narrowed. John saw him move forward, and he threw himself at the door before it could be slammed in his face.
“Sherlock,” he grunted through gritted teeth, “Let. Me. In.” John’s whole weight was pushing against the door, and on the other side, Sherlock’s arms were shaking with the effort to keep him back.
There was a double meaning to the words John had uttered, and Sherlock appeared to have realized this. He was relenting hesitantly, and gradually the door eased open, and John slipped in. Sherlock was panting heavily, his eyes downcast.
John paused, taking everything in. Sherlock stood before him, shoulders hunched slightly, a far cry from the proud, haughty man that walked the streets of London. His usually crisp white shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Angry red scratch marks were bright against his ivory skin, and for the first time, John could make out the long, pale scars that had never quite faded. It was curious how he could look so young, yet so weathered at the same time. John’s mind reeled back to the moment outside the cafe, when Sherlock had implored, “it’s not a big deal, that girl was a self-pitying weakling who reveled in being characterized as a victim! ” and he should have known that statement was off.
“Right,” John began slowly. “Sit,” he commanded, inclining his chin toward the closed lid of the toilet. Sherlock silently obeyed, carefully perching himself on the porcelain. He wrung his hands and his eyes followed John as the doctor shuffled to the medicine cabinet. John returned, and took Sherlock’s arms in his hands. This skin wasn’t broken, and John nodded before moving to cup Sherlock’s face between his hands. He hesitated before making contact. Sherlock didn’t flinch as he had whenever anyone had previously touched him, but rather leaned into the touch. Sherlock’s skin was soft and warm under John’s hands, and his pale eyes were searching John in a manner that would have been unnerving to anyone else, but John found that he didn’t mind. There wasn’t hostility in his scrutiny, but rather a wide-eyed curiosity that allowed John to view the child hidden behind the mask.
John soaked a square of gauze in antiseptic and brought it to the cut on Sherlock’s chin. “This may sting a bit,” he mused. Sherlock flinched slightly as John gently dabbed his wound, and John gave him a sympathetic smile as he fixed a plaster over his chin. John dampened a cloth and turned back to Sherlock’s face, mopping up the dried patch of blood under his nose. After binning the soiled cloth, John carefully examined Sherlock’s split lip. He leaned in close enough to feel the ragged, warm breath ghost over his face. John prodded his flatmate’s lip with gentle fingers and tutted.
“That’ll swell, but it’ll go down in a few days. How’s your nose feel?” John questioned, trying to ebb away the guilt (he didn’t regret what he did - Sherlock Holmes needed a friendly slapping around once in a while, if not just to keep his ego in check).
Sherlock made a noncommittal sound, eyes still on his doctor.
“I’ll get you some paracetamol, then, shall I? And you need a lie-down,” John stated, pulling Sherlock up. The taller man leaned slightly toward John, and John brushed his hand over Sherlock’s back soothingly. He deposited Sherlock on the couch, fetching a glass of watch and some tablets before returning. Sherlock sat stiffly, obediently swallowing down his medication. He watched as John puttered around the kitchen, routinely making a mug of tea for himself. Sherlock didn’t relax until John had returned to the couch, armed with his tea and a newspaper. He sighed, easing into the cushions as Sherlock laid down, arranged his long limbs. John watched the struggle, his eyes crinkling with amusement. He chuckled in good-nature before setting his mug and paper down. John pulled Sherlock’s legs onto his lap, allowing for a more comfortable position. Settling back, he forgot about his original intent to drink his evening tea and catch up on the news, and leaned his head back, his eyes slipping closed.
After some time, Sherlock spoke, his voice slurred with the sleep that was threatening to overtake him. “Mycroft’s a git.”
John laughed softly, rubbing slow circles over Sherlock’s exposed ankles. “That he is.”
On the other end of the couch, Sherlock sighed contently.
John cracked an eye open, smiling fondly at his mad flatmate. For someone who took up so much space, he looked remarkably small curled up on the couch. Errant curls fell over his closed eyes, his breathing steady and even with sleep. His mouth was curled into a ghost of a smile, and John noted that once again, he resembled the child Mycroft had described. But this time, that child look utterly at peace.
Eyes fluttering closed once again, John noted that what he felt was not pity. Sherlock would resent him if that were the case. No, the feelings that John felt toward his flatmate were something completely different, something more genuine and rare.