Something about Sherlock

On turning the corner into the narrow side-street he had seen Sherlock disappear into a minute ago, John's heart missed a beat. Sherlock was being mugged by two thick-set thugs, one of them strangling him from behind while the other one kept punching the thin body. John picked up a rubbish bag and walked towards the group. Sherlock was staring at him, eyes bulging from a puffy red face. He clung to his scarf, trying not to pass out.

"And what do you want?" the one who had beaten Sherlock barked at John.

"Let him go," John said, his voice steady.

The assailants laughed and the one on Sherlock nodded at his companion to take on John who threw the rubbish bag at him. He had not seen the kick coming that sent him into the bins. Coughing, John struggled out from the debris and prepared for an unrelenting fight. Sherlock had sunk to the ground, and the other man was fumbling him for keys, phone, and purse. Stupid, John thought, and made a mental note to tell his friend off for walking into situations like these. He then landed a punch on the big man's nose and threw himself on him. A gun skittered from his anorak and John was glad it did. Unarmed, this was much more of a fair battle. Whatever he had done to Sherlock, he'd get in return, John thought. He heard shuffling behind him but was too tied up to pay any attention. He kept pummeling the man who had hurt his friend and only stopped when he heard Sherlock's voice screech in terror.

"Don't!" John turned to see Sherlock wrestling away from the man who had undone his trousers and was pulling them down, "Let me go! I swear, I'll stop you!"

John's eye went to the gun seconds before Sherlock had grabbed it and pointed it at his aggressor, "Get off!"

John saw the man grin and lean in just an inch closer, and Sherlock pulled the trigger. John shouted his name and was over there in an instant but he was too late. The head of the man had exploded. Sherlock's face was covered in blood and gore and he kept staring at the dead man.

"Come away, Sherlock. Get up," John pulled at his friend's arm, but Sherlock shrugged him off and stared, "Don't touch me, John".

"You're in shock. Get up, now. Come on. Give me the gun," the soldier demanded and Sherlock complied. John pocketed the weapon and ignored his friend's pleas not to touch him. He pulled and dragged him out from under the thug and kept his hand on Sherlock's back on their way back to the house.

"We have to phone Lestrade," John said when he had taken Sherlock's coat and forced the young man to sit down on the couch. Sherlock glared.

"He'll sort it out," John added. Sherlock looked shaken, and the doctor thought that he had never seen Sherlock as worked up. Maybe he was hurt.

"You should change," John nodded at the blood-stained clothes, "and shower". Sherlock smirked but rose to obey while John phoned Lestrade.

Inevitable, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock in his room and Lestrade on his way, John heaved a sigh. He did not want to fight with Sherlock. Nor did he want to discuss his sexuality. He just wanted things to go back to normal. Well, mad. Back to barking mad. He went to his own room to get his medical kit, and when he returned, he found Sherlock curled up on the couch wearing his old bluish gown and striped pajama bottoms, his bare feet crossed, arms folded over his stomach. John immediately saw that something was very wrong.

"You're hurt, for God's sake, let me help!" John stared at the lean young man. Sherlock glared up mysteriously and John could not help wondering what that look was supposed to tell him. If he had been one for in-depth analysis he would have opted for hatred. He was quite positive that that was what Sherlock was trying to convey. He just could not figure out who was supposed to be the subject of it.

Finally the detective rolled onto his back and undid the rope of his gown. The silky material slid to the ground and, where his T-shirt had sneaked up, exposed sore flesh.

"Why didn't you say? You may be running an infection!"

"Established as much. Don't think I am though."

"Does it hurt?"

Sherlock sneered and nodded sulkily. Meaning it hurt like hell.

"Good," said John adding, "not necrotic then."

"No."

The doctor settled on the sitting-room table facing his stubborn patient.

"Don't you ever ask for help?"

"What's the point?"

"What's the- getting help!"

"You're helping now," Sherlock showed off, "I didn't ask you to."

Close to angry, John pushed the shirt further up to look at the cuts and bruises that had formed on the other man's pale skin. One particularly deep cut caught the doctor's attention and he rummaged his bag for disinfectant.

"Used it up," Sherlock admitted.

"When?"

"Now and then. Obviously."

"Obviously. You should have told me!"

Sherlock shrugged, wincing in pain at the sudden movement.

"Honestly, Sherlock," John shook his head surfacing another bottle from his bag, "sometimes you're worse than a 5-year-old." Curious eyes followed the bottle, then narrowed in question.

"Diluted alcohol. Don't you dare use this up now, too." John soaked a white cloth and put it on the wound. The other man gave a reproachful hiss.

"Anything else?"

"Scraped my hand," Sherlock lifted his left hand and showed John the abrasions. John shook his head and muttered something like willhavealookathatlater.

He cleaned Sherlock's wounds thoroughly, rinsed them and applied some cream. Doing so, he had to lower Sherlock's pajama pants a little, but the other man shoved his hand away, "I'm alright".

"Okay, okay," John was getting angry, "Then just tell me: did he force himself on you?"

Sherlock glared.

"He tried, didn't he?" John insisted, "I mean, I saw- that's why you. Shot him."

Sherlock's lips quivered but he still refused to speak.

"He would have raped you. It was self-defense."

"Of course it was," Sherlock spat, "I won't let anyone do that to me again."

Before John could react, the bell rang and he had to leave Sherlock to get the door.

"Where is he?" Lestrade asked and John pointed up the stairs.

"You said he shot someone. What did the other man do?"

"He attacked him. He tried to. Rape him," John admitted and Lestrade sighed deeply. He obviously knew more than he was willing to share. John grabbed his chance to inquire further and asked what was wrong with Sherlock. He knew that the detective and the official went back a long way.

"There's nothing wrong with him. It's the shit he's been through that's made him. Like that," Lestrade said, "He's damaged."

"Not deranged?" John joked. He knew the comments people made about Sherlock.

"No," Lestrade replied, "no, he's – broken."

"In what sense?"

Lestrade hesitated but eventually he led John away from the stairs, "Abuse, John. The worst forms of it. Definitely one of the most violent cases I've come across. And I've seen a few!"

"Hang on. You're saying, Sherlock Holmes was beaten. As a child?"

Lestrade huffed, "Beaten? No. He was battered. Clubbed and belted. You can't imagine the damage, John! He was so young and fragile. He was hiding in the workroom. Curled up under a workbench. He was so thin, so pale and barely conscious. He'd lost so much blood. That bastard would have killed him. But that little chap had the strength to crawl to that room. He wouldn't give himself up, John. He just gave me that accusing stare and asked if he'd got me conclusive evidence."

"So you knew!"

"He'd come to the station before, accusing his. Teacher. He was. Himself. And I didn't believe him, no. So he said he'd get me evidence and then I'd have to believe him. And he did."

"Who did this to him?"

"A Mr. Cecil Moran," Lestrade spat and John gave him a blank look, "His headteacher!"

"Headteacher!" Lestrade nodded, "Look, John, he'll probably kill me for telling you all this, but he's killing me anyway. They all knew, you get that? All the Holmeses. All the other pupils and staff. They were all turning a blind eye. He was alone, and he made this decision. He came here. He asked for help. When we arrested Moran, his mum took an overdose. Couldn't bear the social disgrace, some crap like that. Sherlock adored her. He was devastated, and they blamed him. The fine family just turned their backs and pretended not to care. None of them ever asked for the test results. And none would see him in suicide watch."

"Except you."

Lestrade nodded, "I had to. That kid wanted my help, and I almost messed it up. I had to look after him."

"How old was he?"

"Nine, as far as I know. When it started. The big assault was much later. When he was thirteen."

"You mean you'd known for six years what was going on?"

"Nah. He came to me about a week before it happened. Said Moran was becoming creepy. Said he was used to the beating. It was the gentle touches that freaked him out. And he was right."

"So you're saying-"

Lestrade nodded sadly, "He raped him. You wouldn't imagine anyone do that to a child! He tore that body apart, John. You must have seen victims like that. But this isn't the war! He wanted to destroy him. For a while we thought he'd succeeded."

"But he hadn't," John said, "Sherlock did cope. Putting on this Caring is a Weakness act". "Escaping into drugs and self-harm," Lestrade added, "I'm glad he got over it. Ehm-"

"Oh, no, we're not-" John began but gave up, "never mind".

"Listen," the detective inspector lowered his voice, "You look after him. I'll go and have a look outside". With that, Lestrade left.