So, my apologies on such a delay. We've had horrible weather, and the internet doesn't work when the lines are wet (bit of a problem, that.) I've been busy with work, as my boss is a regular ol' bag o dicks, and we've been gone a lot.. Just been horribly busy and fan fiction unfortunately comes secondary to a lot for me. Any who.. Here's a longer chapter to make up for the lateness. As usual, disclaimers apply (not mine, no profit, never will be or will make any, etc., etc.,) Warnings: some mention of psych-wards, a bit of swearing- John's dad is awful, the normal.

Chapter Five

"Van Gogh Did It Better"

"I can't believe you actually did that, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"You're not the kind of person to do things for someone just because they requested it of you. Was this a friend-of-a-friend type of thing?"

"That's where you're mistaken, Lestrade. I didn't do it for you and certainly not for our connections."

"Personally, I wish you hadn't done it."

"But they caught the man, John. Isn't that enough for you?"

"Personally, yes, but it was a little much, don't you think?"

"Which bit? He did a lot..."

"Well, yes. I mean specifically the whole getting-yourself-admitted-to-a-psych-ward-full-of-killers part."

"All for the sake of science. I assume the yard is practically a bee-hive, buzzing with talk of your no-doubt-impending promotion?"

"Well, of course. Thank you for that, good job, on your part."

"Good job? Hmm." John shook his head, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall that encircled the rugby field. "Good riddance, you mean." Sherlock glared at him, twirling a curl around his pointer finger. After a moment, he released it with a bounce, and dropped his hands to his lap, shrugging. The wind howled by them as the chatter in the field provided as a back-drop to cover their not-so-secret secret conversation.

"Think of it this way, John. You appreciate art. The discovered facts and proceeding capture and arrest of a long-time fugitive from the yard that I discovered- I am the Van Gogh of deduction, and that was my Starry Night." One look at John and the self-proclaimed detective threw his hands into the air with dismissal. "No? I give up."

"Van Gogh did it better."

"How?"

"He didn't get himself admitted to a loony bin for the sake of science!?"

"Wasn't he-" Greg was cut off as Sherlock broke in.

"Don't be daft, John, he couldn't help what reasons he was admitted for."

"Dammit, Sherlock. Never mind. You're the daft one." The friends glared at each other, tension crackling in the air with every blink. Greg glanced back and forth between the two of them and nodded twice to himself.

"Right. I'mma pop off, got to get going anyway. You all have fun."

The tension dissipated and John called good-bye to Greg. The silvery-haired boy waved over his shoulder as he continued on across the field. Sherlock glanced at John. "I am sorry to have bothered you."

"Concerned, Sherlock. I'm your friend. No warning, just what I could gather on my own, and you're stuck in a psych ward for three days with no word or warning. How else am I supposed to feel?"

"Concerned, then. I am sorry to have concerned you." Sherlock bit his lip, and John could practically see the thoughts going through his head. He waited for the next comment. "I wasn't stuck, though. I could've left at any time." There we go. John shook his head, and suddenly couldn't repress the slow grin that lit across his face and turned itself into a deep chuckle, then a loud laugh. Sherlock snickered to himself. Whether it was exhaustion from the last few days or what, John didn't know, but it was alright. It would always be alright, hadn't Sherlock said that? So what if his friend has been in a psych ward for a few days? At least he hadn't needed to, really.

Funny story, that. It wasn't so much funny as it was amazing work on Sherlock and Greg's part. Greg had, with a stroke of luck, been asked to help with a case that involved a Scotsmen who had gone into hiding. The case file was gruesome- interestingly so, but bloody, even for John's taste- and he saw blood more and more often with his interning at the clinic. The man in question had been a serial murderer who removed and replanted facial features of multiple victims and people, making them unidentifiable, often for long periods of time. He had been training to be a surgeon, as Sherlock uncovered, and had spent weeks battling his own death when he changed his own face to resemble nothing like before. He'd then admitted himself to a psych ward as a "Stephen McNew" and had been sitting there, right inside the city he so easily terrorized, until now. It was reasonably understood, then, when John flipped his lid. Sherlock had disappeared the previous Friday, and spent until Sunday evening in the psych ward. Unbeknownst to everyone except Mycroft, of course- (John had made a mental note to spill orange juice in the older brother's lap next time he had breakfast with them.) When Sherlock returned, he had snuck into John's house through the open window, and woken John and Harriet. Then he'd made a call, and ignored John's inquiries. "Why exactly are you disguising your voice, Sherlock. Is that the Yard? What's going on?" They had then made their way across town, and stood across the street from a psych ward. Moments later, a cacophany of blaring lights and sirens came around the corner, and they watched as "Stephen McNew" was arrested. Greg met them after everything had died down, and the story had come out. Now, as they sat in the rugby field, the weekend's events catching up to them, John had to admit it emwas /emalright. Every day, he realized, he learned that he knew less and somehow more about Sherlock, and while it ought to scare him away- it didn't. Maybe it was mutual observance of each other's difficulties and the choice to remain friends, but he was fine with that.

Sherlock, on the other hand, still knew too-little about John, which was rare for Sherlock. Sure, he knew more than anyone knew about the blond-haired boy, but he was constantly being surprised by him. He desperately wanted to meet John's parents, but the other boy''s careful interference in their plans meant that he'd yet to meet either parent. Sherlock wasn't kept out of the loop for long, though, and when it did happen, he almost wish'd that it was one thing he'd stayed ignorant on. Mycroft always was telling him how slow he was.

Word had gotten around with the other students of Sherlock's stay in the psych ward. The repercussions started out in simple things- such as curious glances and whispering in the hallways between classes. Then, Sally Donovan made the first comment. A muttered name, chuckles from the rest of the class. Freak. So it began, and so it ended at the end of the day, when classes were dismissed and everyone went their separate ways. It was a mutual decision between John and Sherlock to call off their usual routine of eating and studying and go straight to their after-study game of chess. Sherlock's house was decided on, and they wearily made their way home. When they arrived, they found that Mycroft was the only one home out of the rest of the family, and he practically kicked John and Sherlock out of the house. He had a friend over- Anthea, she'd introduced herself as- and they were having a conference call.. or something. The entire living area was cluttered with computers, monitors, speakers, multiple laptops, and a couple stacks of paper that slowly got scattered all over the room. Mycroft, with some low mutterings, had Sherlock convinced to leave the house within two minutes of discussion. Inevitably, they ended up at John's. The chess board came out, shoes came off and the school-regulation ties and jackets were thrown to the side as they settled in across from each other at John's desk. The hours passed quickly, neither saying much, moving chess pieces. Then, as fate (or ill-luck, one or the other,) would have it, John's father walked into the house, completely shit-faced and out of it. The first warning they had of his arrival was a crash downstairs and angry swearing. Sherlock glanced over at John, taking in the look on his friend's face.

"Damn... Sherlock, you better leave." John glanced up at his friend and made his way to the window, opening it. "This way's probably best." John motioned to the window, and raised his eyebrows. "Well?" Sherlock, of course, had no intention of leaving. He was saved from having to reply when there was an angry yell, prompting John to dash into the hall and down the stairs. Sherlock, without hesitation, followed immediately.

John's father stood in the kitchen, across from the woman Sherlock had met a few days ago- John's mother. There was broken glass on the floor, glistening in a puddle of alcohol.

"John! Tell your mother that I'm right." The man glared at John, eyebrows raised.

"About what?" John's voice was calm, steady. Sherlock glanced at him, and in the one look decided that John's voice portrayed none of his real emotions. Eyes dilated. Hands steady, no sign of everyday tremor. Lips drawn. Fear, discomfort. There was a hand on Sherlock's elbow, and he turned to see Harriet behind him, peering around his shoulder. The room was struck silent, eerily quiet- the only noise coming from where water was bubbling on the stove.

John's father rolled his eyes, making a wounded sound. "About what? Doesn't ma'er, you've always.. You're on her side." He motioned at his wife, laughing- a deep, guttural laugh, almost wet sounding. Nasally. Gross. "Only 'cause she's a whore."

John's mother sniffled, eyes wide and glassy with unshed fear. At that, John started forward. Sherlock went to grab him, but was pushed out of the way by Harry. She reached for John, pulling his sleeve with enough force Sherlock was prepared to hear it rip. "John- don't."

There was a gasp from their mother when the burly man grabbed Harriet and John, pushing them in opposite directions and forcefully separating them. John shook his head. Harry pleaded for a ceasefire, for the two to stop arguing.

"He's not going to agree, Harry. You've got to win, because you know you're wrong." John's shoulders went rigid and he stood as tall as his short height allowed. "Go ahead. Take a swing." The man narrowed his eyes at John, and the blonde boy sneered. "Why haven't you? Can't decide which one of me to go for, can you?"

That was the last straw for the man, and with a growl of rage, he struck out wildly, shoving John backward and into the counter. Grabbing for a handhold, John's arm hit the pot of boiling water and sent it sloshing as his arm met the red-hot stove top. As his foot slipped in the puddle of glass shards and alcohol and he went down, Sherlock moved across the room, dodging the angry man and a crying mother as he knelt by John's side.

"Dammit... shit." John swore, mouth clenched in pain. Sherlock grabbed him, prepared to help him up, but John steeled himself and pulled himself up on Sherlock's arm.

"Who're you?"

Sherlock wheeled on the man. Harriet stood to the side, holding her mother against her side, the two crying. Sherlock practically hissed as he spoke. "I'm the one who will call the police and have them haul your ass into jail on charges of abuse, two charges of theft, one of assault and battery, for illegal drug usage and a couple other things I won't mention in front of your family." The man glared at Sherlock, but didn't move. Sherlock looked at Harriet and nodded his head toward the hall. She nodded and left with her mother. Sherlock waited until he heard them reach the top of the stairs before he made any other moves. John glanced at him, clutching his arm to his body.

"John-" the man raised his hand, as though to shrug.

"No." John shook his head. "You don't speak to me."

Sherlock glanced at John, then at the man. Reaching over, he flipped off the oven and then grabbed John by his jacket and turned, leaving the kitchen. As they made their way upstairs, Sherlock was suddenly aware of his head pounding rapidly in sync with his heart. What had just happened? Was that a usual occurrence in this house? Sherlock didn't ask.

Leading, Sherlock took John down the hall and into the bathroom. John sat down on the edge of the tub, balancing one elbow on his knee and letting his head sink, staring at the floor. Sherlock turned the tap on and looked expectantly at his friend. John, looked down at his rolled sleeves, reached for the buttons and hissed as the skin on his arm stretched. His hands were pushed out of the way as Sherlock unbuttoned the shirt, allowing John to pull it off the rest of the way himself. John immediately put his arm under the flow of water, hissing. Sherlock went to rummage the cabinet for a cream, finding what he was looking for and setting it on the counter, alongside a bottle of pain medication and a long bandage. Sherlock had closed his mind to thinking emotionally at the moment, or he would've been more aware of the implications of what it meant that they had all the supplies on hand for this sort of situation. John sat, head pressed against the sink, arm under the water. Sherlock leaned over him and inspected the skin.

"Second degree burn, bordering from first to third in degrees of severity." The skin was red and swollen around a four-inch, curved white area of skin that was angry and raised. "Most people would recommend getting medical attention at this point. The heat caused a-"

"Sherlock. I know- I am studying to be a doctor, remember?" John smirked at Sherlock, a smile that didn't quite convince Sherlock that he was alright. The dark haired boy nodded, shrugging. They were silent, allowing John's arm to remain under the flow of water. Downstairs, a door slammed shut. Sherlock excused himself and went downstairs, affirming that John's dad had left. Locking the door, Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. For a moment he debated cleaning up the mess or going back up to John, but decided on the latter. The mess could be cleaned up later. Harry would probably do it, anyway. She'd need something to do to feel useful once their mother fell asleep.

When Sherlock reentered the bathroom, he slid down to sit against the wall across from John. "That happen often?"

"Not often. Just happens."

Sherlock glanced at John, gauging his reaction to his question. He seemed unfazed, almost dulled. "Do you always urge him on?" John turned his head to look at Sherlock, eyebrows raised in questioning, though he didn't answer. Sherlock shrugged. "You weren't afraid of him, obviously. Not fearful for yourself, so you don't mind standing up to him and saying something you know will set him off."

"Sorry? Are you saying I instigated that?"

"No, not instigated, just set in motion. Not by any means your fault. This sort of thing is normal, I think. I can't say I've dealt with it on a first hand basis- except just now, of course, my family is far from it- but that is what usually happens. It's all about psychology, John." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, standing to look at John's arm. It had been plenty of time since they put it in the water, and John turned off the tap and patted it dry with a towel. Sherlock handed him the cream, and John took it with slightly more force than necessary. Sherlock unwrapped the bandage, standing by until John needed it.

"If you hadn't said something, it probably wouldn't have happened, though."

"Shut-up, Sherlock. Just... Shut-up. Okay?" John looked to the side, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. His breath came quickly, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sherlock paused for a moment in the middle of wrapping the bandage around the cloth they'd placed over the burn. Something was off. Something he said? Resuming his wrapping, he sighed.

"It wasn't your fault, I'm not saying that completely. Sons are a lot like fathers, although traits can be used differently, and you're not that much different from him. Don't let this bother you, John. I'm fine, you're fine... It's not that big of a deal, in the whole scheme of things. People- I can't understand why-"

"Sherlock!" John stood up, grasping the edge of the sink with his now-bandaged arm. His knuckles were white and the tremor had returned, Sherlock noticed. He waited for John to say something else. The blonde boy's cheeks were red, heat rising to his face and ears. "You don't understand. You can't. I'm sorry, but that's all. You may be the great Sherlock Holmes who can figure out anything about bloody anybody, but you just won't get it. Not everyone has a freak-life like yours were everything is fine all the time. Some of us have lives outside of your small emotional range."

Sherlock's eyes met John's. Sherlock nodded. "I know what you'll say next, so I'll go. Forgive me for offending you." Sherlock, with that, turned and marched downstairs, out the front door, and into his own house. As he hurried inside, slamming the door behind him, there was an irritated yell from Mycroft. Sherlock ignored him and grabbed a glass from the kitchen, filling it with water and running up the stairs. It was only once he got to his room and settled himself into his chair at his desk did he remember that he'd left his bag of school supplies in John's room. Glancing across the room, Sherlock looked out his window. The neighboring window was shut, the blinds let down and closed, curtains pulled shut.

Sherlock, after a moments frustration at leaving his bag- (it did have his current project stashed in the front pocket, which happened to need refrigerating before long) got up, storming to his own window. He threw the window down, glass shuddering as he slammed it closed. Latching the locks, he switched off the bedroom lights and let his own blinds down before crawling into bed.