A/N: I have no idea of where this came from. There are just things about John's character that make me… wonder. And, the weirdo head that I am, this came out. (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: mentions of child abuse, language, domestic violence… (blinks) Where'd ya go?

DISCLAIMER: Me no own. (pouts) 'Though I did dream of the series once…

Awkay… (gulps) This is a bit nerve wrecking, so let's rock. I really hope that you'll enjoy this!

Where the Home Is

As always it began with the shouting. John Watson, only five-years-old and barely able to understand half of it, squeezed into a tiny ball in the bathroom corner where he was hiding. His arms wrapped tightly around Harry who was already sobbing loudly, shivering like a leaf against him. John didn't bother with tears. They'd never brought him much comfort or help.

"… drunk again, Jonathan?"

The man (John would never call him a father) sneered loudly, bitterly. "Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I have a perfectly good reason to need a drink." The sound of flesh meeting flesh was unmistakable. Despite his age John found himself wondering which one delivered the first blow this time. "A disgusting, two penny whore you are. Just like your bastard daughter is going to be."

Harry whimpered, burying her face into the soft fabric of John's shirt. The little boy opened his mouth but the words of comfort became sealed somewhere into the depths of his aching chest. A searing sensation filled his eyes while they narrowed. The fingers of the hand that wasn't stroking Harry's long hair curled tightly, formed a irony ball. His jaw tightened to such an extend that it hurt like hell.

When he'd be old enough, he swore…!

More punches were thrown, each of them making the siblings listening shudder. A lot of glass was broken. Incomprehensible screams echoed like thunder.

"Leave our children the fuck out of this!" their mother shrieked in a voice that shouldn't have come out of a human being.

Jonathan snorted. "Are you honestly expecting me to believe that they're mine? A pathetic little slut and a miserable faggot? The hell those brats are mine."

How many punches and vicious, venomous snarls were swung after that? How much alcohol consumed amongst all that suffocating bitterness? John lost track, mostly because he didn't want to know. Besides, he was only five. He wouldn't have even been able to count further from ten.

"I hate them, John", Harry whispered in a tear filled, broken voice. "I… I hate them both."

John nodded, swallowing against a lump that'd appeared to his throat. He wasn't sure which one of them was trembling more. "I hate them, too." He knew that much, although the whole concept of 'hate' was a little foreign to him.

Harry grabbed his shirt so tightly that it hurt. "Promise me, John", she whimpered. "Stay… Stay with me, forever and always. Promise me."

John nodded, tightening his hold on her. "Yeah. Of course."

Then came the moment they both dreaded the most. Heavy yet slightly unsteady, painfully loud steps marched towards the bathroom. Ignoring their mother's yells and pleas. The door was ripped open with such force that it was almost pulled from its hinges. The being standing before them had a bloodied nose and a demon's eyes.

John's eyes were wide with indescribable terror while he got up, taking a stand before his sister.

/

Over the years John ended up to a hospital countless of times. Falling from a tree, tripping down stairs, an accident with his bike, a row with a friend… For two drunks his parents were incredibly resourceful when it came to excuses. John also learned to play the game.

When questions rose he learned to lie.

When the doctors became suspicious he learned to read upside down text, not trusting them not to make his family's situation even worse.

When the feelings began to surge out of control he learned to shield it all; rage, fear, grief, disappointment.

When Harry began to drink at the age of thirteen John learned to look away.

But hard as he tried… he couldn't shield his heart.

In the end John broke his promise to Harry, decided to save whatever little there was still left of him. Running away from the ghosts of the past he became a doctor faster than should've been possible. When Barts wasn't far enough his desperate, haunted eyes sought even further.

He'd already survived one war – shouldn't he be able to survive another?

John rushed all the way to the battle field to escape his ghosts, only to be embraced by brand new ones.

/

Sherlock Holmes never revealed to John that saw quite a bit more than he let on when they first met. That he'd seen bits and pieces of the doctor's life the man would probably never, ever be willing to talk about. That he knew.

He saw just why John refused to ask his own family for help when the doctor would've needed them the most.

Saw the hidden guilt in John's eyes whenever Harry was even mentioned.

Saw the anger that'd been building up for so long that it probably wouldn't ever manage to find a way out without destroying John.

Saw the helpless loneliness in John's eyes.

Saw the way John shivered upon being touched.

Sherlock saw all that, almost in an instant. It was easy for someone with a past like his. The full truth didn't upset him like it should've. Instead the heart that he wasn't supposed to have jumped, as though coming to life.

Sherlock didn't believe in faith or higher power. But perhaps he'd make an exception, just this once. Because there just had to be a reason why the two of them – battered, lost souls fast on their way down – had been led together. Perhaps they'd be able to mend each other's cracks, just a little bit. Perhaps he'd finally found someone who'd at least try to understand him.

Well, if nothing else this… association with John would certainly make an interesting experiment.

/

"I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think ? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." (1)

End.

1) From the actual episode 'Study in Pink'.

A/N: Oh, those two…! (sighs) They've got each other. That's far more than enough. (I'm dreading what's going to happen in the series when Sherlock comes back. John won't be happy.)

So… Any thoughts? Good? Bad? To be deleted ASAP? PLEASE, leave a note and let me know! I've even got cyber chocolate muffins to persuade you… (winks)

Thank you so much for reading, you guys!

Take care!