Something else about John

The visit had not helped. When John returned to Baker Street he felt more puzzled than ever. Heaving a sigh he put down his jacket and sat heavily on the sofa. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John glanced around. His flat mate had always been so private and secretive. He had never brought home partners of either sex, so that John was certain that those partners did not exist. But then Sherlock might as well find his distractions elsewhere, seek his pleasures in other places than the common rooms of Baker Street. Still John felt that this was not the case. Sherlock did not do sex. He had said as much when he had told him about the first and last time he had-

John's eye caught a large envelope on the table in front of him and he frowned. It was padded or it contained a lot of paperwork, and it was addressed to him in Sherlock's hand. He picked it up and opened it, wondering why Sherlock had left it on the table. Inside were a scrap of paper wrapped around four Polaroid snaps and a dog-eared manila file. John unfolded the paper and read the bitter note, "I knew you'd go and make inquiries. Surely Mycroft has convinced you of his account of the matter. At least he will have left you in doubt and I value your opinion too highly to blame you for questioning my story as the delusional ravings of a furtive addict. These photographs are genuine. As is the file. They will help you form an impartial opinion. Please do not pass them on". John turned the pictures around in his hand. Then he picked up the file. The cardboard was old, its colour faded. There were discoloured patches, too, where the sun had bleached the material. Early 90s, he guessed. Since when did Sherlock keep old case notes? John flipped the folder open and smiled at the crisp sheet of paper reading, "I don't. But in this case I'd like you to. SH". Okay, Sherlock had him. John took out the sheet and began to read:

Your details (complainant) 08 06 1992

Title: e.g. Mr MR

First name: Sherlock

Surname: Holmes

Date of birth: 6/01/1977

Address: 35 Cavendish Close

Post code: NW8

He gulped. He knew what he was reading. How had Sherlock known? Why did he suddenly want to share his past? John didn't think he knew Cavendish Close. But he knew it was somewhere posh. He read on and Lestrade's words were confirmed. Sherlock had, indeed, made a formal complaint against his teacher. John looked at the medical report and bit his lip furiously when he realized the full cruelty of the boy's injuries:

"Indicators that physical abuse has occurred include injuries or bruises, while behavioral indicators (below) have also been observed in the victim. In this case, there have been sprains and dislocations of both wrists and left ankle (consistent with the pulling of arms and leg(s) and the twisting of the right hand), fractures of index and middle fingers of the right hand, cigarette burns to forearms, shoulders and back (clustered, at various healing stages), burn mark to inguinal region, abrasions on hands and knees, lacerations to the back (consistent with belt lashes, some of them infected), internal injuries evidenced by gastrointestinal pain, obstruction, and anal bleeding, bruising (bilateral bruising to the arms, bilateral bruising of hip bones, injuries healing through "secondary intention," discoloration of skin). Notable behavioral indicators have been an impassive calm of the victim, his self-proclaimed indifference towards his injuries, and refusal of painkillers." That sounded like Sherlock, John thought but shook his head at the reference to his friend as the victim.

A psychological opinion read: "The adolescent victim, emotionally unstable, withdrawn, suffers from borderline personality disorder characterized by anxiety, impulsiveness, attention deficits, depression, sudden mood cycles, and panic attacks. Mr. Holmes avoids physical contact and refuses to undress before doctors or medical personnel. He has a tendency of behaving passive-aggressively or latently threatening, and of verbally abusing people, in which he has displayed a rich and complex language unusual for his age group. Mr. Holmes has great difficulty getting along with others and seems intimidated by close family members. He has a history of running away from home. He gives information about his abuse freely and unashamedly. However, he denies any need for help and refuses therapy. He is negligent and indifferent about his studies, but manages to sustain exceptional performances. He wears clothing to purposely conceal self-inflicted injuries." John smiled. That figured.

"Alarming observations: The victim has developed a severe eating disorder (lost 12 pounds) and has attempted suicide (overdosing on OxyContin, slitting his wrists). Has also developed high-risk behaviours such as substance abuse (cocaine, morphine) and a cutting addiction. Low libido caused by gastrointestinal distress (temporary dysfunction). Victim claims being asexual." And still does, John added in his thoughts.

Next was Sherlock's statement, written in his spidery hand, and about half a page long. He had not wasted his words: "I, Sherlock Holmes, hereby accuse my head teacher, Mr. Cecil Moran, of repeated physical abuse and multiple sexual assault. Over the past six years, Mr. Moran has severely beaten me on numerous occasions. I cannot tell the exact reasons for this maltreatment, but I can reliably say that his actions gave him great pleasure. On the 1st of June, I reported him to the police as he was showing an increased interest in my nether regions, something he had never taken an interest in before. Instead of belting or burning me (cf. my complaint of 10-05-1992), he fondled me gently. Identifying this not quite fatherly gesture as harassment, I decided to defend myself and ask the authorities for help. Unfortunately, I lacked proof for my words, so any investigation was dropped and things returned to normal. Yesterday, 07-06-1992, they came to their unlovely conclusion. After belting me and knocking me unconscious, Mr. Moran stripped me and abused me sexually. The photographs enclosed are evidence of the severe injuries I sustained during the rape. I wish to point out that I did not consent to the act. I am not interested in sex. I have never desired to practice it, and I am not willing to repeat the experience." John made a face. The statement's lack of emotion spoke for itself, he found. He gulped and turned to the polaroids.

The top one showed a blurred dorm scene involving three people and leaving no doubt as to what they were doing. One bulky boy was holding down a lanky pale person with curly dark hair, face-down, on a bed while a thickset man was lashing out at the naked back of the victim. John could make out red marks on the white skin. The second photograph showed the same group, this time with the adult penetrating the victim boy. John wrinkled his nose and shook his head in disbelief. This was sick, he thought and flapped on. Photo number 3 was the boy's swollen and tear-stained face, the man still towering behind him. Someone had written crude wordplay on the wide margin: "Shh-WHORE-Lock Holmes," the M in his second name crossed out again. John's heart missed a beat as he painfully realized what he was looking at, or rather who. The face, so much less mature and yet so strikingly angelic, was an undeniable fact. The boy looked as if in desperate pain, his innocent lack of understanding mixed with hopeless fear. John gulped and dreaded the last picture of the terrible rape series. Nevertheless he looked at a very young Sherlock Holmes, vulnerable and exhausted, beaten, bruised, face stained and smudged with tears, sweat and other fluids that probably weren't his own, rimmed eyes closed, lips swollen, caked and slightly parted, nose running, hair stuck to his forehead. John gulped away tears and slid the photographs back into the envelope.

"That's how Mycroft saw me," a familiar voice said and John looked up to see the well-known face wearing the same expression as it had all those years ago.

"I guess I was imagining things rather vividly," Sherlock continued sarcastically.

"I…I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Sherlock held up a hand and then reached out for the envelope, "I know. I'm not taking offense at your will to learn the truth. That was a sensible thing to do. I just wanted someone to believe me."

"Who were they?"

"Mr. Moran. Geography. Julian Barnes, Spencer Johns. I guess that's my excuse for missing out on the solar system," Sherlock sat himself down on his old leather seats armrest, "Mr. M was rather occupied teaching me more worldly things." John's face fell and he stared at his friend who smiled wickedly, "Sherlock Holmes, teacher's whore. Pleased to meet you, doctor. I don't do friends, but I take it up the arse."

"Stop that," John whispered, "Why didn't you go to the police earlier?"

"Come on. KS3 aged 9 – who would have believed the intellectual freak?"

"Nine?"

"When it started," Sherlock's voice was a mere whisper.

"You had to bear this. For six years?"

Sherlock gulped and nodded. He had been too scared. And too ashamed. John saw. He had known that Mycroft's version was heartless and cruel. He scolded himself for listening to the pompous bastard.

"Besides, Mycroft found it rather difficult to take steps after I was expelled," the detective smiled.

"Expelled?"

"For taking substances from the chemistry lab," Sherlock grinned.

"You didn't-" John was stopped by the aloof look on his friend's face, "I had to. Self-preservation. Had to dull my brain, keep me from thinking." John shook his head, "Your brother mentioned drugs."

"Drugs, pills, call it what you like," tears welled up in the detective's eyes and they gave John a sharp pang, "You were. A child!" Sherlock nodded, "Grew up fast though, I think."

"Have you ever-"

"No."

"What about a love-life?"

"Love wouldn't necessarily involve sex."

"Do you-"

"No."

"You don't do anything? Not even to yourself?"

"Problem?" Suspicious.

"No," John said and neither spoke for a while. Sherlock stared out of the window. This hadn't gone well at all. Of course, he avoided sex. He hated his body and he did not wish to see other people out of their clothes either. He felt no physical need to relax in a gentleman's way. And he had no desire to get laid. Yet he had enjoyed holding John's hand what seemed ages ago. He smiled to himself, still proud of having done it. In public, too. He had felt John respond to his touch. It had been right. And then things had gone all wrong. Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it, but John had turned him down. And later, he had taken his hand. He didn't understand. And then the alley. Why couldn't Sherlock think of the man he killed? Why didn't John speak about him? Why did it have to be Sherlock's past? What good did it do?

"Sherlock?" John called him out of his reverie, "Let's go out".

"Where?"

"Never mind. Coming?"

Sherlock shrugged, surprised, but told his flatmate to give him a second to put on some clothes.

They took a cab to the Eye and Sherlock watched in amazement when John asked to have a cabin to themselves, explaining something to the operator in a low voice.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Just as you wished. Next one's yours," the young man looked over at Sherlock and ushered them through. John chuckled and pulled at Sherlock's arm.

Still chuckling and grinning like mad, the two men admired the view while the wheel turned slowly.

"Beautiful," John sighed.

"What is?" Sherlock's eyes wandered over the City.

"You are," John replied without thinking, and Sherlock frowned, turning towards John, inquiringly.

"London. Is. I mean."

"That's not what you just said," Sherlock insisted.

"No, well, ahem," John blushed and turned away, quietly chuckling and shaking his head.

"Did you mean that?"

John still chuckled quietly, "Mean what?"

"What you just said. About-"

"London. Being beautiful? Oh, yes. Crazy place, dangerous, full of secrets," John explained.

"John."

"Quite cool. On the outside. You've got to warm to-"

"John!"

"I know. I had better shut up," John broke off but Sherlock cut in, "No. Tell me-"

"I can't," John said, but turned to face the young man. And then he thought, to hell with it, and grabbed Sherlock's collar to pull him closer and draw him into an intimate kiss. Sherlock responded, accepting what was offered, allowing John to push him against the glass frame of the cabin, still pressing his mouth to his. Sherlock felt like falling, too much blood in his stomach pulling him down. He put a hand on John's shoulder, panting for breath: "John. Stop." Weak hands tried to push John off, when Sherlock's knees gave in and he briefly fainted. John caught the collapsing man and held him, slowly helping him to the floor, supporting him as he sat and stared.

"Didn't know I had that effect on people," John mumbled when Sherlock had come to and apologized sheepishly.

"Low blood sugar. Not your fault."

"You want that cereal bar I offered you earlier?" Wow. Things had gone back to. Mad. Barking mad. Sherlock refused, and John told him he had to eat.