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"Go on, John. Out with it. Your thinking is distracting me."
"You don't know that I'm thinking."
Sherlock cracked an eye, peering down at John from his precarious position atop his chair. "Yes I do. Your breathing changes."
John looked doubtful. "My breathing."
"Yes. The rate increases by nearly thirteen percent." He closed his eyes again. "As does the volume. It's distracting. Say what you want to say."
John laughed, but it wasn't his real one. It didn't match up with any of the genuine laughs Sherlock had collected. "You're one to talk."
"This isn't about me."
"It actually is about you though."
Damn. Sherlock allowed himself to slide off the back of the chair and into the seat with a bounce, looking positively irritated.
"You heard something about me, and you're scared that it is true?"
John responded with his funny little sideways nod. That one is tricky, it can mean so many things.
"I haven't used cocaine in five years and seven months, John. You needn't worry."
John winced a bit but tried to hide it. "We will talk about that another time, but... no. That's not it."
"Something else then, something more... secretive." Sherlock's eyes squinted. "What did Mycroft tell you?"
There were long moments of silence while John sipped his tea and then stared into it, continuing to rub one hand back and forth across the chair arm. Wavering, a sign of anticipation in many species. What was he on about?
"Does the 'Rothsborough Center' mean anything to you?"
Pain. Day after day of pain came howling like an east wind through the halls of his mind. CLOSE THE DOOR. With a great effort the door shut, and there was silence again. "It does."
"He didn't exactly tell me. He... hinted I think. And I... researched." John turned the soles of his feet in toward each other, watching them. "He doesn't say things without a reason. Rather like you." This elicited a deep scowl from Sherlock that he couldn't control.
"Can we talk about it?" John asked, his face soft, eyes searching.
So tender, his John. So concerned for everyone but himself. "It doesn't matter, John. It doesn't affect me."
"Right, of course." John leaned on the arm of his chair, feigning nonchalance. "There's no possible way that abusive therapy could affect you at all." He looked away, toward the fire. "You are the great Sherlock Holmes, after all."
Oh, Doctor Watson, you think you know what's behind the door you're knocking on, but you've no idea. "Would you feel better if I talked about it?" Sherlock asked, head cocked, voice curious.
"It's not about whether I feel better."
"But it bothers you now, not knowing for sure." That wasn't a question, it was a fact. "You always do a brilliant job working yourself into knots with that imagination of yours."
John's face looked heavier. Hurt? Was that the expression? "There's no need to criticise me for being concerned, Sherlock. It's okay to not want to talk about it. You practically deduced the question out of me though."
"Not a criticism. Merely an observation."
The fire was fading somewhat, only faintly cracking and popping and whistling into the drawn-out silence that followed. His mind pursued several exit strategies, none of which ended pleasantly. John fidgeted under Sherlock's gaze, toying with a loose thread on his plaid button-up. How could he expect John to know that this had all been organised and compartmentalised long ago? Were there even words for that?
"If you were to ask me specific questions, you would find me inclined to answer them honestly." Sherlock allowed them to share a look, doing his best to school his expression into an open and agreeable one. What did that look like? Soften, relax, show him you mean this. John looked rather... suspicious? Oh, John, please take a hold of this before I change my mind...
At last John nodded. "Alright. How long were you... subjected to this therapy?"
"From age six to age thirteen."
"Were you told why?"
"Because I was prone to violent outbursts involving myself and others, and I needed to learn to speak and socialise."
"Did you want to speak?"
Oh, that was a tricky one. "I did speak, but I spoke the wrong way and about the wrong things."
John cocked his head. "I didn't realise there was a wrong way." His left hand began to clench.
Ah, hello, Angry John. "Yes, well, I spoke of things that mattered to me: chemistry, biology, music. But anything else I said was a repetition of another's words." His mind so helpfully opened a door to an image of Mummy weeping dramatically into her hands over his most recent reiteration, 'You fecking manky cunt,' acquired from the gardener and performed in a sparkling Irish accent.
"Did you want to socialise?"
Sherlock steepled his hands in front of him. "I don't know." I don't like not knowing.
John nodded, pausing a moment when he noticed his own clenching hand. He didn't flatten it out again. "And when you didn't do what they wanted, which I assume was often, what did they do to you?"
Oh, straight to the heart of it then... John stared off, his eyes seeing his mind's creation of another time. A dark time. Confirm or deny his suspicions? John wants (deserves) the truth but... "The goal of such a therapy is to-"
"I know the goal." John's voice was tight. "What did they do to you? Specifically."
Sherlock breathed a moment, carefully aligning the words in his mind. "There were various forms of punishment," he started, looking down at his shoe. Scuffed on the lateral side; make a note to buff. "Sometimes they took my possessions- or threatened to. Often I was isolated or paddled. More serious infractions required restraint and more... aggressive techniques."
John sniffed, drawing Sherlock's attention, and his mouth worked silently for a moment before he spoke. "They shocked you."
Sherlock blinked away, inclining his head in a slow nod. "They did."
John drew in a deep breath, his expression changing too quickly for Sherlock to analyze before he said, "That... is so heinous."
What sort of reply was John expecting? Was he to agree or disagree? Should he be offering some kind of comfort? Placation? "It was a long time ago, John."
His flatmate let out a pathetic huff of a laugh, dropping his chin. "You make it sound so simple." A hand rubbed at his eyes and forehead.
Oh, John, you'll never know the half of it, and I haven't the skills to explain it to you. "Are you tired?"
John looked up, and the lines on his face seemed deeper somehow. "A bit, yeah." Sherlock felt his gaze. Was this what other people felt like when he looked at them? Utterly bare? "Do you like yourself?" John asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Do you like what they made you into?"
"I made me, John."
John smiled sadly. Yes definitely sad this time: he had an excellent catalogue of Sad John expressions and the match was perfect, right down to the wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. "You know what?" John said, rising. "I almost believe you." He gathered their empty cups and padded quietly into the kitchen.
----------
John has been in the toilet for three minutes longer than normal, Sherlock's mind supplied, interrupting his review and categorisation of John's previous expressions and comments. Sherlock was laid out on the duvet, eyes closed, still fully clothed. Earlier in the evening, he had thought he might sleep tonight, but that now seemed... unlikely. In one fluid motion he sat up and stood, then made his way from the bedroom into the hall. "John?" he asked quietly through the bathroom door.
"Let me guess, I've been in here a whole minute longer than usual?" came the muffled reply.
"Three actually. Going on four."
For a moment there was no response, but then the door opened. He has washed his face, that is a morning routine not an evening one. "I'm fine, see?" John held out his arms, as if presenting himself for inspection. Sherlock's gaze wandered over him, checking him over, noting the water splashes on both his t-shirt and grey pants. Just as he was starting to analyze the curious damp areas at the hem of John's t-shirt, the man pushed past him and into the bedroom. "Jesus, Sherlock, what sort of trouble could I have possibly gotten myself into in the toilet?" He pulled back the white duvet and was just about to slide inside when he paused. "Actually, don't answer that."
Sherlock returned to the bedroom and removed his shoes, setting them carefully aside. He was more than aware of John's eyes upon him, and whatever feeling that stirred in him was rather thrilling. The wine, silk shirt was next, and whether John knew it or not, his eyes were following Sherlock's hands slowly down his body as the buttons came open. That look certainly needs analysis.... It wasn't that Sherlock was opposed to more- his body made that perfectly clear though his mind was delayed in sorting it out. He had, after all, started this. The situation just hadn't arose, that he had noticed. Such a large blind spot. Review the evidence later. Trousers were next, and John did attempt to look away then, his eyes not quite sure where to go.
Eventually Sherlock laid out on the bed again, his mind slotting easily back into its previous work. Smiles were easiest- and, oh, did he love John's smiles- but there hadn't been many tonight. More glances, sighs, face rubs, stares. Those could be tricky, but he did his best with the evidence provided, categorising each as neatly as he could.
It had taken him fourteen minutes to complete the task, and he sat up to slide under the duvet. John was propped in a half sitting position against the headboard, eyes closed, fists knotted in the duvet. So tense.
“John?” He said slowly, turning toward his friend. “Is everything… alright?”
John’s eyes shot open, startled. He had obviously been lost in some other time. But what time? Not the war, no, those memories only came in his sleep now. Had he let his imagination wander, providing dramatic details to Sherlock's childhood? No, he wasn’t angry. Angry John had very specific characteristics, like Happy John and Sad John. No, not angry exactly, but-
Scared? Oh.
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s voice was careful, bordering on tender, and he hadn’t even told it to do that. “I shouldn’t have told you those things. I should have known it would make you remember.”
“Remember what?” John’s voice was strained. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. That… is not a good expression. “Remember. What.” John repeated, even harder this time.
“Your own history with physical abuse.” John continued staring. “And verbal, too, I believe,” Sherlock added, almost thoughtfully.
John exhaled shakily through his nose. “How do you know that?”
John’s voice: you can’t just go around deducing people’s lives and then telling the world about them Sherlock. It’s not right. It hurts people.
Backtrack. Now. "I don't want to say."
"Tell me. How. You know."
Sherlock pressed his lips together, then said: “You have an unusual amount of rugby injuries in your medical history, John, it’s obvious.”
“No. That’s not how you know.” John looked down, noticing his fists still knotted in the duvet. “That’s part of how you know, but it’s not the main reason. You’re an awful liar.”
“I’m an extraordinary liar,” Sherlock defended, just a moment before he realised that was not quite the point. “Just… not to you.” This was an incredibly delicate little game they were playing. It's not a game, Sherlock, John's voice said. People's lives aren't a game. He spun around in his own mind, circling the situation, looking at it from every angle. The list of evidence presented itself to him, without prompting, and he sighed. “Very well.” John stared at the far wall, mouth tense as Sherlock began. “You have an inordinate amount of scars on your body. Only one reflects the pattern of a gunshot wound. The others, while varying in severity, were more likely healed at home, with no less than three requiring a trip to A&E. Now, it would be possible that, given your affinity for danger- and in some cases, violence- these were acquired while abroad, perhaps in brawls or even matches between fellow soldiers. You would be the kind to do that, John, but no. Those kinds of scars are the kind one might have a silly little story about while out drinking. You voluntarily brought up your gunshot wound, but you never- ever- speak of the others. You dream of them sometimes too, not like the dreams of the war, not the kind you like. You clutch them in your sleep, cradle yourself. Your therapist thinks you’re somewhat emotionally repressed, and you try to hide anything unpleasant that you feel, though you’re rather ineffective at it. You tend to shout and hit or kick objects out of anger. If you find yourself handling someone, even a suspect, roughly you feel somewhat ill about it later even though you sometimes don’t want to. In fact, you still haven’t forgiven yourself for shouting at me the night I was stabbed because you felt like an abuser yourself. And god forbid you actually hit a person out of anger. Now, the identity of the actual abuser is fairly obvious if we take a look at how you interact with your family- which is to say, hardly at all. You don’t even like to speak of them if you can avoid it. Addiction vulnerability is a complex trait- one you’ve channeled into seeking out dangerous situations, as opposed to blatant alcoholism like your sister. Given your father’s untimely death, it seems likely he was also an addict, most likely alcohol. Your mother wouldn't have stayed if it was a harder substance. The reason you don’t speak of your father isn’t because of the alcohol- you speak of your sister when prompted with relative ease. You will speak of your mother, though you feel and act awkwardly around her because of your shared history. This, of course, leads me to your medical record, listing an unusual amount of injuries, usually attributed to rugby, but otherwise unspecified as simple ‘accidents’ during the years before you were old enough to play.” Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “And so, all evidence points to a childhood filled with not only physical but verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of your father.”
Silence. That... did not feel as good as it usually did.
Carefully, he ventured a look at John, but his face was unreadable. And so they both sat, silent, breathing.
“Brilliant, as always,” John remarked at last, sounding weary. He swallowed. “I- I think I’d like to have a sleep now.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, standing quickly to close the door and turn off the lights. John didn't move though, just continued staring at the ceiling.
John had asked him how he knew. He had told him not to lie. Then why- WHY was his discomfort so obvious even Sherlock could feel it in the air?
The problem turned over and around in his mind. He poked at it, pulled at threads, felt its texture and its weight. Emotion was so… messy. How did anyone navigate it without feeling like they were drowning?
“John,” he said in a soft voice, surprising himself. “You are not like him. You are strong and brave, that’s how you protect yourself. But you are the most kind, gentle, caring person I’ve ever known.” He waited silently for a rebuttal, but one never came. In the darkness, Sherlock turned, unsure if John had even heard him.
The realisation that John was crying hit him like a punch to the chest. Whatever brief confidence he had shown in this matter was suddenly gone at the sight of John pinching the bridge of his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks, chest heaving silently. Why would he be silent? Why, in the face of such deep sadness, did he try to hide? The word floated across Sherlock’s mind, ghostly: shame.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no…
Sherlock turned fully and slid his arms under John’s back, pulling him close to his chest. John seemed to collapse in on him, wet face buried hard against the base of his neck, sobbing properly now, fists full of Sherlock’s t-shirt.
A brief panic rose in Sherlock’s chest. What in the hell should he do? His mind raced through his list of comforting gestures: smiling, hugging, offering tea, offering biscuits, skin contact-
He latched on to that one- he was already hugging, and John would surely spill his tea in this position- and slid his hand under John’s t-shirt along his back, the skin hot against the palm of his hand. Fingers working in slow circles, he leaned back against the headboard, John’s hair tickling against his chin. The other hand slid up to John's neck, smoothed a thumb over the soft skin behind his ear. Tears soaked his shirt now, but the sobs continued in earnest. Oh, John. Without any conscious effort, Sherlock pressed his face against the greying hair, breathing in the scent of John’s shampoo- For Men- then pressed a small kiss just above his temple. “It’s alright.”