real life got in the way of writing. sorry about that

this is kind of a filler chapter. exciting stuff and domestic stuff will definitely happen soon.

1/14/2014 - EDIT. I felt like this needed a bit more and I had this really great idea so you might want to reread the last section of this chapter. K thx bye.

"I don't like this, Mycroft." Sherlock snarled as he paced back and forth outside the courtroom. Mrs. Hudson watched from afar, holding John's hand tightly and looking worried. John was pale.

"You don't have to like it, Sherlock." Mycroft sounded bored.

"We both know he's guilty, he should just be thrown in prison or executed or something. John shouldn't have to describe the event again." Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his back so he wouldn't hit something.

"It's just a formality, I'll make sure he's imprisoned. But it needs to look as if I didn't have a hand in it. Don't let him falter or leave. He needs to present a convincing statement. Who knows, brother mine, if this goes well, you won't even need my intervention." Mycroft tapped his foot impatiently.

"Don't call me that." Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson called, "they're about to start the trial. We have to go into the courtroom now."

"I'm coming." Sherlock replied.

"Good luck," said Mycroft. "I'll be waiting here."

"I don't need luck, you said you'd have him imprisoned."

"Just another formality, Sherlock, just another formality." Mycroft said as he sat down on one of the comfy waiting chairs.

Most of the trial was a blur for John. Men and women in silly wigs asked questions that Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and Lestrade answered, and they asked questions that Father answered. A few doctors he recognized from his stay at the hospital were there, too, saying numbers and percentages and rates and big words and things about neglect and Father hitting him too much.

John was pale as snow, trying to keep himself focused on the room around him and not on angry, brooding Father.

When it was his turn to answer things, he began to tremble. Sherlock squeezed his hand before letting John stand at attention.

The questions barely registered in his mind. He told the men and women about how angry Father was and how he would hit Harry and John. He told them about times like when he'd had to clean up the plate. He told them about Harry's murder and sleeping on the streets. He told them about Harry's body in the river and following Sherlock and picking flowers and being kidnapped and almost killed.

The man Father was with questioned John closely after he gave his long speech.

"You didn't see this man kill Harriet, did you?" The scrawny man asked, shuffling a paper or two and adjusting his tie.

John blinked. "I said that." He didn't see the point of all this. Why couldn't they just lock Father away forever and ever without all this?

"You're not a reliable witness, then," the man said, and he obviously meant to continue, but John interrupted, feeling impatient.

His voice shook as he spoke. "I heard him yelling and hitting her and I heard her scream. I saw him carry her away and shove her in a duffel bag. I saw him throw her in a river. I saw her body when the bag washed ashore. I know he killed her. I've said all this already."

"You're a filthy liar!" Father yelled suddenly, jumping up from his seat. "You ungrateful brat!"

John ran. He didn't think about it, it was instinctive.

As policemen forced Father back into his seat and held him there until he calmed, John darted away and headed straight for the doors. He didn't want to be hit. No no no no no.

"John, stop!" Sherlock yelled, and John froze. He could hear the lady on the tallest podium bang her wooden mallet-thing over and over again, calling for order as Father raged and the courtroom buzzed. He wanted to run and never look back, but he didn't. He stopped, just like Sherlock asked.

"John, John, I need you to listen to me."

John turned slightly and saw Sherlock pushing through people to get to him.

"He can't hurt you here. He can't get to you here. Please, we have to finish this, don't run now. You want him to be locked away, right?"

John nodded.

"Then go back to the stand." Sherlock gestured to where John had been standing before.

John swallowed difficultly. It felt like there was a lump in his throat. He was so afraid. But he did as Sherlock asked. He hesitantly walked back as Father calmed down and the room quieted and the lady stopped banging the wooden thing on her podium.

"D-do you have any more questions for me? Can I go now?" John asked.

They only had a few more. His statements were cross examined and he repeated information for them once or twice, but finally they let him go back to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled John onto his lap and held him close to stop his shaking. John tried to focus on happy things, like biscuits and Harry smiling.

Sherlock himself was pissed. Not only was he not allowed to snark at these blithering fools and make deductions about where their loyalties lay, he was forced to restrain himself from getting up, finding a gun, and shooting John's father at point blank range. This man had done so many awful things to John and Harriet and had ruined John's happiness. Sherlock wanted him to pay.

But, for John's sake, and John's sake only, he kept his mouth pressed closed in a thin, angry line and settled for glaring daggers at the man who had refused to plead guilty.

John's father was found guilty of manslaughter (the lawyer said that the man had lost control of himself and hadn't intended to kill Harriet) and child abuse. He was sentenced to life in prison (Sherlock felt that Mycroft might've had a hand in things so his sentence would be longer) and John slept easier that night after Sherlock explained (repeatedly) that he'd never see his father again and his father wouldn't be able to harm him.

Gaining custody of John was a bit more difficult. Child protection services and the like inspected 221B thoroughly and background checks were done on Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft most certainly had a hand in that one, because if it had been known that Sherlock had been a drug addict and Mrs. Hudson had been an "exotic dancer" in her youth, used marijuana (those were not herbal soothers,) and helped her husband run a cartel (she claimed she was just a secretary but Sherlock knew better), John would have never been allowed to stay.

But they let him stay. Sherlock signed adoption papers and everything.

He even stole one of Mycroft's various credit cards in order to take John shopping for toys and books and clothes.

"We can't have you walking around in the exact same clothes every single day." Sherlock tsked disapprovingly with a wrinkled nose. "It's terribly unsanitary."

"Can't we go tomorrow?" John pleaded, his voice nearly at a whine.

"You like new things, and this will be good for you. Your coloring book will be here for you when we get back. Besides, we're not just going for clothes. You need toys and coloring books and a few study books so we can have you caught up for school and my favorite beaker exploded yesterday so I need a new one." Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat and tied his scarf around his neck.

"Okay," John said. He didn't look too happy but he put his crayons down from his abysmal drawing (honestly, Sherlock would never understand why John thought that that was good quality artwork) and grabbed his jacket. He looked at Sherlock, and then down at his own jacket.

"You don't like the length of yours," Sherlock inferred, and John merely frowned.

The duo hit plenty of stores. The clothing places were last.

"I want this one, Sherlock," John whispered, tugging at Sherlock's sleeve with one hand and clutching the fabric of a small, navy coat with the other. The coat was similar to Sherlock's. It was long, dark blue, had pockets, was made of similar but cheaper material, and had a nice collar.

Sherlock was surprised for a fraction of a second before reasoning told him why John wanted it. John wanted to be like the person he respected most, and Sherlock happened to be that person. Sherlock suddenly felt rather important.

"Alright, fine." His eyes ran over a few coats and then over John, matching sizes and proportions. It took him one second to find the right one. "How does the material feel?" He asked.

"Good," John replied after brushing his fingertips over the inside of the coat for a moment.

They grabbed a few more clothes, paid for everything, and prepared to head home with numerous bags and an empty stomach (John was the only one hungry.) Just after they stepped out into the cold, Sherlock got John's coat out, carefully ripped the tags off, and helped him put it on.

John stared at himself in the faint reflection of the store window. "It's not on right," he complained, and Sherlock stared incredulously. Obviously it was some small child issue, because the size and fit of the coat was perfect.

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asked.

"The coat collars aren't turned up." John said with a frown as his itty bitty hands turned up his coat collars. "I want to look cool, like you."

If humans were physically capable of glowing, Sherlock would've glowed the brightest out of anyone in that moment. Instead, he merely took John's hand in his left and a bunch of bags in his right.

"We're going home. I've got cases to ponder and a brother to mail a credit card to."

Sherlock really hoped that things would be alright from now on. The future was looking good.