By the time the gong rang out for dinner, Sherlock had successfully set his bed on fire, lost £9 behind John's ears, thrown his cards all over the floor and kicked his shoe out of the window. John had been close to hysterics the whole afternoon. But he stopped laughing when the gong rang. Sherlock had gone pale.
"Hey, are you alright?" John asked
"I'm fine" the other boy said stiffly. They headed down stairs, and Sherlock led John into a massive dining room, with a rectangular table stretching down it. The table sat twenty-four, but onto four places were set. One at either end and two in the middle, directly opposite each other. Keats, the butler, pulled out the chair at the head of the table for John, and Jack, the first footman, pulled centre right for Sherlock. The boys sat in silence, John taking in the majestic high roof, Sherlock twisting his napkin in his lap. After thirty seconds that seemed like a life time, Sherlock's father came in, sat down at the head and was followed after a few moments by Mycroft.
"Mycroft, you're late"
"Sorry Father"
"Sit" Mycroft sat down opposite his younger brother "So, Sherlock, you have brought home a... friend"
"Yes Father. This is John Watson"
"Good evening, Mr Watson"
"Good evening Mr Holmes" John stammered slightly. He was not used to such formality. He glanced at the Holmes brothers. They seemed to be talking with their eyes. Sherlock kept making minute grimaces, glancing towards John. Mycroft looked angry, but kept his face blank.
"Where did you meet my son?"
"At school. We were fighting, and he beat me. It was interesting"
"Sherlock, you were fighting? With school boys?" the man sounded angry
"Yes Father, I'm sorry Father" he said, without taking his eyes off Mycroft.
"Anyway-" John tried to skirt over the behaviour. He hadn't meant to get his friend in trouble. He was intimidated by the man at the other end of the table.
"Mr Watson, as I'm sure you know, my son is... Well, a little strange" he said it as though he was doing his son a favour by not calling him a freak.
"No, I don't think so" John said brightly. Mycroft and Sherlock whipped up to stare at him. It was a double shock. 1) someone didn't think Sherlock was a freak, 2) someone just contradicted their father.
"What?" the man in question said
"I don't think Sherlock's weird" and there was silence. No one spoke again until after they had finished their pudding. Then Mr Holmes got up and left to have his port. Mycroft and Sherlock stood up.
"Little brother, you need to be careful. He's in a bad mood" Mycroft warned in a quiet voice.
"I always am"
"No, you're not. Just try not to disturb him, okay?"
"Fine. You're dull, Croft. You used to be interesting" Sherlock said, smiling slightly from the corner of his mouth. John followed Sherlock out of the room and up to his bedroom. "So. That was my family. Not quite as... Exciting as yours"
"Your dad seemed... a bit weird" John said hesitantly. Sherlock began to laugh. "What? What's funny?"
"You defied him at dinner! And now you're calling him weird!"
"I didn't-"
"My father hasn't been contradicted on anything since he was seventeen. The one time I tried, he-" Sherlock broke off. It was bad enough having John see his home, another thing entirely for him to know about the visits to John's own father. Visits where their wounds were patched up, their bones set, their cuts given stitches. No, John didn't need to know about that.
"He what?"
"Never mind. John?"
"Yeah?"
"You know I do a lot of experiments?"
"Yeah"
"I've been wondering about something for a while. Actually, since I met you"
"What?"
"I've been wondering... about heart rates during physical encounters" Sherlock said frantically, trying to work out a plausible experiment for what he was asking.
"I- I'm not gay, Sherlock. Harry's the gay one. One family can't have two, it's not right"
"I'm not gay either" Sherlock said quickly "It's just an experiment"
"To be honest, I've been thinking about that too, just a little"
"Really? Well then. Maybe we should..."
"Just once?"
"Just once" Sherlock confirmed
"Okay then" John inched forward, and Sherlock met him in the middle. Their lips brushed together, their breath mingling hot and moist in the tiny gap between them. John pushed ever so slightly forward, and they were kissing. It lasted simply for a few seconds, and then Sherlock pushed harder, and John ground his lips into Sherlock's, and they grabbed each others's hair, John's hand entwining in the other boy's curls, and they exploded with pent up lust, attraction and fear. Without either of them registering the sound, the door opened. They rolled over into the bed, pushing harder against each other.
"What the hell is going on here?" Sherlock's father bellowed. The boys fell promptly off the bed and onto the floor, John landing on top, Sherlock whimpering in fear. "Sherlock, stand up!"
"I- I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean-"
"Shut up" he shouted, coving the small space between himself and his son in a heart beat, pulling back his fist and releasing it like a cannon at the gangly boy's face. Sherlock, caught by surprise, stumbled backwards into the wall. The fist hit again, and this time John yelped in shock and sympathy when the blow hit his friend's chest.
"Stop it!" John cried. The fist landed again and again, on Sherlock's face and stomach, until John was sobbing, Sherlock was propped up against the wall, and his father was beet red. "You have to stop, you're hurting him!"
"Shut up! Leave this house. I never want to see you again" the man roared. John scurried out of the room, terrified for his friend, glancing back to see Sherlock fall to the floor and jerk away from a kick to the stomach. Tears flowing down his cheeks, he ran down the takes and out of the door. He had caused his friend pain. And God knows he'd enjoyed that was up against the wall, being shoved further in with every kick to his bruising stomach. He watched, dazed from the blows to the head, as his father removed his belt. He felt the thick leather smack down across his back and left arm, and he cried out. It came down again and again, all over his body. No inch of flesh was spared. He was nearly crying, the agony, the fear, the shame and the desperation hitting him as hard as the belt. Eventually, his father kicked him in the face again and left, slamming the door. Sherlock lay on the ground, resting his head against the wall, sobbing. He never cried. After what seemed like forever, Mycroft entered. He looked as though he'd been punched a few times too.
"Hey, Lock. You okay?"
"No! No, I'm not okay!" Sherlock choked on the words, bile coming up into his throat, tears spilling down his bruised cheeks.
"What's wrong? What happened" Mycroft sounded concerned, frightened
"Father... It really hurt, Croft. I felt like I was on fire"
"What set him off?" the much older boy knelt down beside his brother and stroked his curly hair. Sherlock shut his eyes.
"He found me kissing John" he blurted out. Mycroft stood up, going pale.
"What? How could you be so stupid?" he shouted "You're a right moron, sometimes! How could you do that?"
"It felt... I felt good" Sherlock admitted. Mycroft grabbed a fist full of the boy's t-shirt and yanked him up a little
"You little freak, Sherlock Homes! You disgust me! You deserve everything Father gave you! You got off light!"
"But... I..."
"But nothing! It's bad enough to kiss girls, boys are off limits! How could you even think of doing that? You're disgusting!"
"But Croft, I-"
"Shut up. You're a freak, just like Father said" Mycroft dropped his brother to the floor and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock cried. He reached under his bed to take a syringe of heroin. He injected the drug into his arm, his eyes rolling into his head with release. And as the world went black, he died a little inside. Because John was never coming back.