"My father died," came Sherlock's answer. John had asked why he had been at Mycrofts estate for a few hours. He did not know what emotion to express as held his breath; waiting for the man to respond. He would surely say something along the lines of, "Oh god, I'm so sorry.", or something similar. John was… kind- because he meant it. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes. He could not ask for a better man but he did not need "sorry" at the moment.

"Ah." John was quiet. He really did not know what to say. Moreover, he did not know how Sherlock felt about his father. He could give the standard, "I'm sorry.", because that was what people usually said in these times, but Sherlock was not "most people". After a few more seconds of deliberation he asked, "Tea?" It was the British cure-all; from the sniffles to heartbreak.

Sherlock's expression twisted into something laughable for a moment before he chuckled lightly, "Yes, I'd love a spot." He could not help but be amused. 'You are such a mystery, John. You do the exact opposite that I expect you to do sometimes,' he thought; choosing to keep his thoughts to himself.

"Coming right up," John called over his shoulder as he set to banging about the kitchen. 'So if Sherlock had the gall to laugh even after his father died, he must be all right... maybe…? Then again, he laughs at things that aren't exactly normal to find humorous...' he mused.

Sherlock did not show the one tear that made a path down his face. It was all he would shed. He remembered few memories with his father very well. "I haven't lost anything... it just feels slightly... foreign." He muttered; thinking of when his father- a similar man in looks to Mycroft- had smiled at him and ruffled his hair while he worked at his drawing desk.

"What are you up to, Sherlock?" The man asked as he ruffled his son's dark hair. He smiled at the boy; who swallowed. Sherlock knew better than anyone what hid behind that smile. His eyes were his father's and he saw the monster in the mirror every time he looked into them.

He felt something tighten in his chest. He also remembered the night his father had left. Sherlock and what remained of his family were happy when he had gone. If only he had stayed away….

"I'm done with you, you filthy whore! Are these children even mine?! I wish you hadn't been able to get pregnant!" He had stormed into the next room where Sherlock was and eyed him. "What the fuck are you looking at?!" he screamed and banged out of the door; leaving his family alone until the next day...

Sherlock mentally forced himself to stop thinking. He did not want to think about what happened that next day or what passed between him and his father multiple times beforehand. He briefly wondered why on Earth he had not deleted that memory yet. Certainly he did not need it and he sure as Hell did not want it. Deleted.

John's attention was on the tea the whole time as he prepared two mugs. "Oh, you didn't really know him then, huh?" he asked upon hearing Sherlock's soft comment while stirring sugar into one mug. Sherlock's; since no one else in the house- not even Mrs. Hudson- liked it that way.

"Mycroft certainly did. Spent years with him, in fact. I chose to stay with my mother to take care of her and Maria." Sherlock instantly wanted to take the words back. 'No need to panic. John won't care… will he?' he internally worried.

"Maria?" John walked into the sitting room and offered Sherlock his tea before plopping onto the other end of the sofa. If Sherlock wanted a hug or a shoulder to cry on it would be easier to do it there. Not that Sherlock would do that, of course. What Sherlock said next shocked him far more than a hug would have.

"Maria was my younger sister," he breathed out. "After my father lost his job with the police force, mother couldn't feed us all on one paycheck. We had to go without many things.… She died sick, hungry and cold... there was nothing we could do..." Sherlock was rigid and tight-lipped as he remembered. Her long hair dark and curly black like his, light blue eyes and a short stature but sharp as a tack like all of the Holmes family.

"A younger sister?" John always imagined Mycroft and Sherlock only had the mysterious woman called "Mummy"- but that was ridiculous. Sherlock's eyes were red rimmed. Had he been crying about a sister John never knew he had? "Hey..." he said softly. Tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to coax him into sitting down after staring out of the window for so long. "It's not your fault, just like you said."

The taller man cleared his throat. "I couldn't save her, John..." He murmured as he felt the pain in his chest grow. Yet he would not break down- at least, not in front of his flat-mate. "My father left us to die in that two-roomed, so-called 'house' while he took Mycroft to greener pastures. My mother whored herself out to put food on the table and my sister died because I couldn't do a damn thing but watch!" The words came tumbling out and John's eyebrows shot upward.

"How old were you when this happened?" John asked quietly and calmly as he watched his flat-mate's chest move in the stirrings of emotions he claimed not to have. It was haunting how it seemed they switched roles like this. John felt his own chest tighten in sympathy. He dared to place his hand on Sherlock's back. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock hated himself more than he had ever hated his brother or father.

"She was seven and I was ten..." he muttered; wishing the pains in his chest strangling him would leave. "I shouldn't bother you with this." He moved out of John's grip. This was unbecoming of anyone, especially to throw on someone out of the blue. Why did his monster of a father have to die today for fuck's sake?! Why did the cake-gorging bastard have to tell him about it?!

"You were young, Sherlock. No one that young deserves to be burdened with that. To grow up so fast- it just can't be done." John knew what he was talking about. Too well, in fact. He had seen it in the eyes of children in Afghanistan. He had seen it in Harry's eyes since she was older than him by a few years. "It's fine, well- not fine, but... it's over." If anything, John was selfishly happy that Sherlock would confide in him. "I'm here if you need anything."

"There could have been. I'd pickpocketed enough by then. I have no love lost for my father because I know what he did to Maria and I. He's better off dead." He paused; glancing over at John, who was looking at him with a gaze crossed between sympathy and pain. "I know..." Sherlock cleared his throat and patted his knee gently. "Thank you." Another memory suddenly flashed in his head- a much darker one and he tried to force it out.

His father stood over his sister. Sherlock knew what he was doing and took a discarded bottle from the floor- cracking it over his own father's head to get him away from her. His father had hit him; making his face swell as his sister fled. Seconds later, while his sister hid in the closet because their mother had a customer in the back room, his father did what he was going to do to her... to Sherlock. He had screamed; so loudly it hurt. Until his father put a gun to his face and made him swallow one of the bullets by choking it down his throat with his...

Sherlock trembled; for the first time in years, his body shook completely and uncontrollably. More dark memories came: the time he had caught his father with another woman or, by God, what he did to his own mother. He swallowed and tried to think of something else before a certain memory unfolded in his head.

Maria's stricken face consumed him. Her blue eyes pleading as their father raped her while he was tied to the radiator. Sherlock begged to take it instead; he would do it willingly this time. Just leave her alone. "Please, father, please!" The radiator burned through the ratty outfit he was wearing. That was where the scar on his leg was from, after all. He had been gagged after that and forced to watch. Thrown away like a rag doll. Maria died a few days after that. Mycroft did not care a bit because he was off at an academy; having father's other mistress pay for his schooling.

"It's over now. You're here. You're all right," John whispered. It was almost imperceptible, but John felt Sherlock's muscles quiver under his hand. He could not possibly know what was running through his flat-mate's head, but if it was enough to cause Sherlock- of all people- so much pain, the family situation must have been worse than he thought. John's hand went to Sherlock's far shoulder and he tugged gently until they were in a half hug. Not too close, not too far. He was afraid the man might shatter before his eyes.

"He wasn't my father." Sherlock said softly, though his words were filled with anger. "He was a monster that raped his children and beat his wife." The detective turned away from John before patting him on the shoulder. "Pardon me, John. I'm having a rare moment where I have no idea what my emotions are doing." He attempted to breathe in and out slowly.

'Oh, God. Is that what happened to him?' John thought, aghast, but instead voiced,"People change sometimes. Sometimes they become people we don't know." He wished he could hold onto Sherlock more, but if he wanted to let go, he would let him. He would do anything for him right now. "It's... okay, Sherlock. What you're feeling, it's normal. Especially after all of that." Even when they pulled apart, John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed; looking into his eyes. "I won't think less about you, I promise."

Sherlock cleared his throat; trying to get grip on himself. 'Damn, now your flat-mate thinks you a barking lunatic more than ever. For God's sake man, get a grip!' he told himself. Sherlock mentally kicked at the memories until they were locked in a box in the back of his head. Perhaps he would go see Maria's grave sometime. Glancing at his companion before responding, "I know, John... I know." He squeezed John's hand tightly. "Just... stay." He breathed; so quietly John could barely hear it.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but he needed John to be there at the moment. It was not because he was going to go off the deep end- he had already done that. He just needed someone he trusted nearby. It had been almost fifteen years since he uttered her name; let alone thought of the things his father had done. His mother was no pearl either. Mycroft did not care about his past and only did things to make his own life better. The only aid the man had ever given his brother was to send him off to school when he was old enough. Which Sherlock had come to understand was right. It was a less painful way to go about living one's life when one's family was shit. One had to cut off the emotions...

Another memory hit.

Sherlock walked into the room where Maria lay dead. "Maria... Maria? MARIA!" He had screamed for help but his mother was drugged in the bathtub. His brother was gone and his father was passed out in the kitchen from the alcohol he had consumed. He was forced to bury her alone in the backyard at the age of ten. His sister; the one whom he wanted to protect from everything. Even going so far as to give her his meals when food was scarce. Their parents did not realize she was gone until a week later. His father had smacked him around for not looking after her. His mother had shed a tear before whispering happily, "Finally, we'll have one less mouth to feed." As if it was her plan all along.

He broke. Just leaned his head against John's shoulder and let the tears flow. His face did not become red like others nor did he begin sobbing. He cried silently; showing no sign he was in his tone. His tears were almost clear and left pathways that told a thousand tales of pain. "For a genius, you really are an idiot sometimes." John was trying to lighten the mood, but did not have his heart in it. Honesty was the best route to take right now. "I won't leave. Where else would I go?"

Apparently, that might have been the wrong thing to say because Sherlock began truly weeping. "Christ, Sherlock, I..." He set his rapidly cooling mug down and turned; putting his arms around Sherlock so they would be comfortable at least. With Sherlock pillowed between his chin and shoulder, he returned his hand to rubbing his back. This time making circles he hoped were soothing. He was here to hold Sherlock through it no matter how long it took. He was quite glad Sherlock was finally releasing his pain because if he would not do it, John would have done it for him. Ever since he and Sherlock met, he knew they had some sort of connection. Why else would he unwaveringly follow a man he barely knew and kill a man for him the second night into their acquaintance? It was that connection that made him feel pain whenever Sherlock was hurting. If only a doctor like himself could heal a heart with a scalpel.

Sherlock felt like his world was crashing down and the only thing keeping him together was John's arms for the time being. He had not let those emotions out in fifteen years. He had sworn the moment Mycroft physically pushed him onto the train to school he would never feel that pain again. He had hated and burnt relationship after relationship trying to free himself of the pain, but now it was beginning to liberate him. He could feel his thoughts break into his reality. "I need to go back there... John... I need you to come with me," he whispered.

"Of course I'll go with you, Sherlock." No one else would if he did not! Definitely not bloody Mycroft Holmes. He never really liked the man and now he understood why Sherlock hated him so much.

"You don't have to, but if it helps..." Sherlock needed the closure. He needed to see the end to all of it so he could move on. Getting up from the couch and grabbing his jacket, Sherlock stopped momentarily to clean his face off with a tissue. "Let's get this over with." He walked down the stairs; knowing the way well. Less than three miles southeast was his old home in the worst side of town. He wanted to end this. He needed to end this.

John was glad the tears helped. It was difficult to walk with excess baggage, as some would say. He had never even known Sherlock had such a past. Struggling into his own coat, he followed the other blindly and faithfully. He only hoped if he ever saw Mycroft it would not be alone. He would be far too tempted to punch the eldest Holmes in the face. Probably even in the solar plexus and kidney a few times for not doing a damn thing about what had happened.

Sherlock practically jogged the three miles until they stopped at a little building near the port. There were still tears in his eyes as he walked in. Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the living room, then the kitchen and bathroom. He looked around as he swallowed; the house was abandoned now, of course. Fifteen years later, it still looked like a shithole. He walked through it; shoes making small dust clouds. There were holes in the wall he knew came from his father's fists. He saw the closet Maria had hid in was untouched. The windows were still boarded up and the only light came from a hole in the ceiling.

He remembered watching the stars and asking Mycroft what they were when he was younger. "No one has been here in fifteen years..." He whispered before going into the back room. There were four rusty mattresses there that had only been used by rats and dirt for almost a decade and a half. Like it was some kind of echo from the past, there was a tiny toy on the ground. It was dirty to the point you could not see its true color anymore. Sherlock picked it up from the ground and realized it was the stuffed cat Maria used to own.

It used to be blue, he recalled. Sherlock walked through a hole in the wall where a door used to be. Continued a few more steps into a junkyard of wood and beer bottles. In a particularly clean area where wild flowers grew he stopped. He leaned down where a rock sat unmoved for years as well. Placing the toy next to it as he sighed. "There is a gas station down the street. I need to get a few cans." Then he turned to John, "Thank you..." It was spoken so softly and filled with such meaning whereas the other times seemed to be half-hearted.

"No need to thank me. I'll do whatever you need, Sherlock." John assured before turning on the spot and heading to the gas station. He had an idea of what the man was planning, but he would make certain his friend went undisturbed none the less.

A short time later, John and Sherlock stood outside the house. They had emptied the entire batch of six gas cans on the deteriorating wood. From inside his pocket, Sherlock withdrew a pack of unused cigarettes and a lighter. John did not comment when Sherlock took one out of the packet and offered him another. The doctor hated the habit of smoking but he let Sherlock light his up anyway. The taller of the two tossed the rest of the pack into the house through a crack in the door. In one swift motion, he lit the lighter and threw it into the house.

In less than fifteen minutes, the once home of the Holmes family was up in flames. "Is it over?" John asked quietly from beside the man. Sherlock had stopped being emotional the moment he cleaned his sister's grave of the weeds that had grown there.

"No, John. It will never be over. But a chapter is finished." He answered and put out the cigarette. John followed him as they walked away together. "The fire department will be coming soon. They fear a fire in London like a dog does a vet," he added, turning the corner.

John reached out and slowed him by the arm. "Sherlock…" He began softly, trailing off into silence before taking a deep breath, "You don't need to keep things from me. I will be there for you. No matter what happens, I will be there." He stated resolutely as the man looked down at him.

"What would I be without my blogger." Sherlock half-joked before swallowing hard. Allowing himself to nod; perhaps with a bit of pride. "I don't think I could have done that without your help."

John shook his head. "But you did do it. On another note, can we go hit Mycroft now?" he asked pleadingly. Sherlock laughed.

"Yes, lets."