A/N: Well I'm back again! And as you can see, I've become recently infatuated with the BBC. And I see no problem here. But this is my first Sherlock fic, so I hope did well.

Disclaimer: None of this is mine, however I do own a small stuffed hedgehog that I named Martin.

(warnings: sexual and physical abuse, but non explicit.)

Sherlock Knows Everything

Sherlock knows everything. Of course he does. It's like when he looks at you, he sees right into your soul within the first ten seconds. Within two minutes, he knows where you grew up, how your parents treated you, who your best friend was, and if there was a playground in your neighborhood. Five minutes, he knows about how high school went for you. Where you wanted to go to college, and where you actually went to college. What you studied. How many times you changed your major. Give him ten, he knows how shitty your first apartment was, and how messy your first love was. You know, the one you really thought was going to last.

Fifteen, and he knows your deepest darkest secrets that no one else knows.

Except now he does. And there isn't much you can do about it.

And he never asks you anything about it, but there's just something in the back of your mind that lets you know he knows.

But has anyone ever stopped to do the same thing for Sherlock? Sure, it will take them much longer than fifteen minutes. Hell, it may even take fifteen years.

But John wants to know.

xx

He was curled up in the chair, knobby knees to his chest, feet; still in shoes, perched on the edge of it. His hands were tucked under his chin, the tips of his fingertips just barely touching, rubbing the skin of his neck up and down. He was looking off into space and John wanted nothing more than to ask him to tell him about himself. Because, really he knows nothing. He knows that Sherlock Holmes is the "world's only consulting detective", that he likes far too much sugar in his tea, does not eat nearly enough, and enjoys playing a rousing concerto on his violin at three in the morning. But other than the fact that he is impossibly difficult to live with, I know absolutely nothing about the man.

"John."

"Mm?" Shit, John thought. He caught me thinking about him.

"If you have a question, just ask it. Watching you stare at me so imploringly without the courage to state your question is boring."

"Sorry, Sherlock. No, I don't have anything to ask. I was just thinking about making some tea. Would you like some?"

"You're lying. Honestly, John. I've lived with you for two months now; I can tell when you're lying. You look to the left slightly and your little finger on your right hand twitches," he said, looking up at him and poking the underside of his chin with his fingers. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing is bothering me." Sherlock was about to open his mouth again to protest, but John cut him off. "I was just thinking about how much you know about me and how little I know about you."

"I only know so much about you, John, because you are an open book."

"Everyone is an open book to you, Sherlock."

"Yes, but you were one with pages that were practically screaming to be read. Bold font. Italicized. An email marked urgent. Ten missed calls from your mother."

"I am not!"

"Oh no? When you were nine, you left your favorite teddy on the top of the slide in the park. By the time you'd realized you left him, it was raining and when your dad took you back, your teddy was ruined and he made you throw him away."

"How did you-"

"And when you were thirteen, they sent you to sleep away camp and you were adamant against going. But when you got there you had the time of your life. You met a girl and kissed her behind a tree. You went home. She never called you. She broke your heart."

"Sherlock, stop. I was being serious."

"So was I. When you were nineteen, you had your first, and only, relationship with a male."

"Sherlock." John could feel himself lose ten shades of color in his face.

"It didn't go very well at all, did it? He left you with a few black eyes and bruises in places no one else could see."

"I don't want to talk about this." John stood up and made to walk out of the living room.

"John."

"Sherlock, just forget it."

"Are you angry?" John didn't answer. "Curious."

"Curious? What are you curious about, hm? The fact that you're recounting every bad thing that happened as I grew up? Or the fact that you're discussing the sexual assault of someone who is supposed to be your friend, your only friend if I remember correctly, so flippantly?"

Sherlock twitched his head slightly. "Oh."

"Oh? That's it? Oh? Right. I'll be going out then. I'm sure you can manage dinner." John snatched his coat from where it lay sprawled along the back of the couch and was down the stairs before he had his arms in the holes. He had just left Sherlock with his mouth half open, looking confused and like he was going to say something more. But he didn't care; not in the slightest. He was enraged. He didn't know what he needed to do, but he knew he needed to be out of that flat, for the time being anyway. His phone beeped.

John. –SH

He closed his phone and put it back into his pocket. He wasn't going to answer. No, he wanted to punish Sherlock. Make him worry, if that man could worry. And besides, he did not have anything to say to him right now anyway. He was embarrassed. He was confused, and most of all he was hurt. He understood Sherlock didn't understand emotions, but he should know that something like that is not something that should be talked about like that. So casually. It disgusted him. It gave John a weird feeling in his stomach.

Please come back John. –SH

John put his phone away again. Each text was making him angrier. No one knew about that time in his life. He was terrified to tell anyone, after seeing how his parents reacted to Harry. He didn't want to disappoint them even more. And then he went into the army…and, well, he thought he'd outgrown it. But then, he met Sherlock Holmes; the only other man to incite his feelings in such a way. He felt so much love and so much hatred for him at the same time it almost made him sick. Sherlock made him feel safe, and scared him half to death. He caused a mixed mess of emotions and John couldn't work them out. So for the time being, he chose to ignore them. It wasn't like Sherlock was going to reciprocate. They'd established that early on.

John where did you go? –SH

Hm, so the World's Only Consulting Detective could worry. Good. Serves him right. This was not fair. It was not something he wanted Sherlock to know. He was kidding himself if he thought for a minute he didn't; the way he knew he winced whenever something of that subject nature was involved in a case. But John liked to pretend. He'd done a good job of it, convincing himself that night never happened. He also liked to not be reminded of the fact that that was a lie. But with Sherlock there was no lying, and he should have known this would come up sooner or later. But still, all he wanted was to ask Sherlock about him. He wanted to know about the other man's past. Even to be told something as small as what it was like growing up with Mycroft. He just wanted to show he cared.

What happened? –MH

Jesus Christ, speak of the devil. John closed that message and opened up a new one to Sherlock.

Really, your brother?

A moment of delay, and the small beep sounded again.

I got concerned. Where are you? –SH

John looked up from his phone. He hadn't been paying attention, he'd just been walking, thinking, fuming. He began to feel guilty, had Sherlock walked out like that he would have gotten worried too.

A few blocks over.

…beep.

Please come home. –SH

John, please? –SH

John sighed, a puff of cold condensation escaping his lips in an angry cloud. Was this Sherlock trying to apologize? Would it kill him to just say it? Probably, John thought. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around him. The street was slightly crowded. He didn't want to abruptly turn around and head back the way he came, he hated when people stared at him when Sherlock wasn't around. And tonight he was feeling especially vulnerable. His mind was lost in a swirl of memories, feelings and emotions he had taught himself to forget, led himself to believe did not happen. All of that had been opened up again tonight: a searing knife dragged through a long scarred over wound. Even the cold couldn't take his mind off those weeks, that night. He didn't want to go home just yet. He needed to clear his head first.

Give me ten minutes. I'll be back.

He sent a text quickly to his flat mate. John slid the phone back into his pocket and continued to walk on. He'd get to his favorite little café, order his favorite cup of tea to go and head home. He tried to concentrate on his footfalls on the cold pavement. Right, left. Right, left. Like he was back in Afghanistan, marching in his company. Concentrating on nothing but left, right, left. Concentrating on the sand, and the screams of his fellow soldiers dying in battle. Concentrating on dodging bullets at every turn, concentrating on his feet, on the glare the sun created. Concentrating on nothing but the present, the right now, the only moment he could control. Left, right, left.

Concentrating so hard that John forgot to give ample attention to the breaths that were shakily coming from his lungs. He hardly noticed his chest constricting until he couldn't breathe. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to calm himself down, tried to quell the memories that were beginning to wash over him, threatening to drown.

Abstract thought led to lost feeling led to forgotten memories led to John sitting heavily on a bench, staring blankly into traffic, swallowing frequently, trying to squash the memories out. He still remembered it so clearly. John was nineteen, two years younger than the other boy- no, man- who sat across from him, tall and blond and handsome.

John is dressed in his signature blue jeans and a faded jumper. The boy dressed more sophisticated than John, but looks are deceiving. Second date, its going great. He's paying, John's smiling. He'd been a little unsure about a second date, but he chalked it up to the fact that he was a man and John just wasn't used to that yet. They're driving home. He suggests pulling over for a while. John refuses; he has work in the morning. And it is only the second date. He does not want to come off as easy. The man pleads, begs, John still says no. He gets angry, but still John leans in to give him a kiss goodnight as they're parked outside of his house. Instead, he gets a few knuckles to the cheek.

John slowly brings a hand to his cheekbone and looks up, fear and confusion clear in his wide eyes. He opens and closes his mouth a few times around words that won't form. Where had this come from? He'd had no reason to think his date would become physical. The man reaches over and John flinches and shrinks back into the seat, only opening his eyes when he hears the car door being open for him and an angry voice ordering him out of the car.

John does what he is told, scrambling out of the car as fast as he can, leaving his jacket sprawled on the front seat and not caring. He fumbles with his keys and finally gets the door open, closing and locking it tight behind him. He stands, leaning against the door for a moment, breath only coming out of his nose in terrified heaves. Okay, he needs to collect himself. He walks up the stairs; half hoping his parents would call him down to the living room and see his swelling face. They don't. He'll be fine. John is always fine.

He finally reaches his room and he can't hold himself together anymore. Tears begin to fall down his cheeks and he hugs his arms around his torso as silent sobs shake him. He looks in the mirror hanging on the back of his door and gingerly touches the bruise already beginning to form on his face. He hisses, bringing his hand away. He slowly and carefully removes his clothing, putting on his pajamas and laying down in his bed. He lay awake most of the night, trying to put the situation into perspective. Everything will be alright. Hiding it won't be a problem. He can nick some make up. It will be fine. His date probably just had a bad day. And John had just been in the way. He'd made it worse by not doing what he'd wanted. John didn't feel badly. He'd gotten a short phone call in the morning: a semi-heartfelt apology and arrangements for another date. Clearly, this isn't as big of a deal as he is making it out to be. He understood.

He shouldn't have.

Third date, going just as well as the second. John is a little nervous; doesn't really want to be out with this man anymore but is afraid to say no, afraid because no one knows he is dating him, afraid because there is no one to protect him. His hands shake as he picks his fork up to push around the pasta he isn't hungry for. His boyfriend, that word still seems so strange, pays for him again. They get into his car and he turns down the wrong street, taking John the long way home. The hairs on the back of John's neck prickle and he is suddenly very aware of how large his tongue feels inside his mouth.

"Wh-where are we going?" His small voice trembles.

And there is no answer, only the steady thrum of the engine. After a while, he pulls over, turns off the radio. John barely has time to ask what's going on before he is swiftly hit in the jaw again and pushed down into the back seat of the vehicle.

The man is on top of him, sweating, panting. Hands, hands everywhere. John doesn't feel like himself. He has to stop this. What is he supposed to do? There is nothing he can do. He can't scream, there is no one to hear him. He can't run, there is nowhere to go. He has no choice when he undoes his pants and stuffs himself, chokingly, into John's mouth. No choice when he feels hands against the button on his own pants. Pulling, tugging, yanking on him. No choice when the tears started to fall. No choice but to allow this man, this monster, to drive him home. No choice but to sit there, terrified and sore and unable to breathe or think the entire time. And no choice but to walk back into his home like nothing had happened.

John gulped for air, sitting on the bench, hoping he wasn't calling attention to himself. How long had it been? He looked at his phone. Four messages from Sherlock. He'd been sitting on this bench for nearly fifteen minutes, lost in his thoughts. He took a few halting deep breaths, steadying himself because he knew he needed to. And John always did what he needed to do. He collected himself and got up, his favorite café forgotten and fingertips frozen. He needed to get back to 221B, fix himself a cup of tea, put on some warm clothes and get into his bed. Things would be alright then. He would be warm again, and safe again. Maybe he could even convince himself to forget again.

His plans were shattered as he opened the door to the foyer. Mrs. Hudson scurried over to him and reached up to put both her hands on his shoulders. He wished she wouldn't, but he tried to take comfort in the old woman's touch.

"Thank goodness you're back! He's been pacing around up there all night, kept coming up and down those stairs to see if you were back yet or if you'd told me where you were going. Heavens, is everything alright? Don't be too angry with him, every couple has their rows. You aren't the first, and you certainly won't be the last. Don't tell him I told you, but he seems sorry. He was so upset I had to make him some tea to finally calm him down." She whispered that last part. John mumbled a thank you and told her not to worry about them, they'd sort it out.

He continued to walk up the stairs, listening for a sign of Sherlock. He heard a scale of notes from his flat mate's violin and proceeded. The notes stopped abruptly as John stepped on the one squeaky stair and instead of music he now heard scrambling around, and what sounded like cups clinking together. John took a deep breath and opened the door to see Sherlock standing there, ready with a cup of tea in hand, as if John hadn't just heard him playing his violin. As if he had not just heard his flat mate fussing with the tea things, like he had been standing right there with a cup of tea in hand waiting for him to return. He passed the tea off to John and, without looking him in the eye mumbled. "My father used to hit me."

"Excuse me?" John gasped, almost dropping his tea cup.

This time, Sherlock looked up when he said it, pronouncing each syllable clearly. "My father used to hit me."

Sherlock just looked at him, his hands clasped together behind his back. John stared back, gaping, clutching the tea cup much tighter than he needed to. What was this about? "Sherlock, why-"

"Did you not say you wished to know more about my past before you left?" His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, almost restrained.

"Well, yes, but I don't want you to feel obligated."

"I don't. This is something I want you to know. "

"All right, well. Thank you for telling me." The words fell out of John's mouth awkwardly. He'd just thanked his flat mate for divulging information that would be traumatizing even to the best of people. Sherlock nodded curtly and let John enter the flat. He removed his coat as Sherlock sat on his corner of the couch, poking the underside of his chin with his pointed fingers in a rhythm that was much quicker than usual.

"Ask me what you're thinking, John. And I'll try my best to not be irrational as I was earlier. I can't make any promises, though."

John swallowed. His hands were still shaking a bit. He took a small sip of tea. Cold. And too sweet. Sherlock hadn't made this. He almost smiled. Then, he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him, waiting the question he knew was coming.

"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock. How old were you when he…" John trailed off. He didn't know what he should say.

"The first time he ever hit me, I was four. But, both Mycroft and I did get into a decent amount of trouble as I'm sure you can imagine. We each earned our fair share of spankings and slaps on the wrists." Sherlock, half-smirking, fell silent for a moment, weighing his next words. He'd never spoken this aloud. John just watched. "But it got worse once Mycroft left."

A sunny day in late August. Sherlock is nine, Mycroft is quickly approaching eighteen, quickly approaching university, quickly slipping away. Sherlock is trying to convince his brother to stay, convince him he has to stay here with him. Somewhere back in his mind, he knows that is not a logical request, but Sherlock simply cannot imagine being without Mycroft.

It's not that he is particularly fond of his brother; he isn't. It's just that Mycroft is a sense of protection for Sherlock, a safety blanket. When Mycroft doesn't come home right after school, when he hangs out with friends at night, when he is out for the whole weekend, Sherlock's life is hell. Pure and unadulterated hell.

He tries to be good, really he does. He doesn't know what he's doing wrong. He doesn't want to make his father so angry, and every single day he tries harder to make him pleased, to make his father as proud of him as he is of Mycroft. And each day, he is shot down harder than the day before.

"Mycroft, please stay."

"Sherly, you know I can't."

"Take me with you then! I won't take up much room. I'll be quiet. I'll-"

"You and I both know you being quiet is entirely out of the question."

"Mycroft…don't go."

"Sherlock, I wish you could come. But you know I have to go. I'm going to miss you too. I'll be back to visit. I'll bring you presents from college. I promise."

"You don't understand. Mycroft-"

But a car pulls up and Mycroft's friends are beckoning him to leave his gangly little brother and get into the car. He listens, waving goodbye to his little brother. Sherlock just stands there, defeated. Now he is going to have to face this all alone. Now there will be no escape, no protection. Little Sherlock sighs and thinks about sitting in the lawn with the book he'd brought out with him.

"Sherlock! Come inside!"

Sherlock freezes and picks himself up from the ground.

"You hear me, freak?" his grip tightens around the spine of his book until he knuckles are white.

"I'm coming, father."

"It'll do you well to answer me the first time, freak. You're not above me. No matter what you like to think."

Sherlock is already through the front door. He goes to place his book on the table next to it before closing it.

"Close the door, you stupid boy. You weren't raised in a bloody barn."

He knows his father is drunk; it really is not a hard thing to notice. He can smell the whiskey from where he is standing.

"What were you doing outside Sherlock?"

"Talking to Mycroft, father." He keeps his tone even and flat, knowing better than to upset his father.

"He isn't going to stay here for you. He doesn't care for you. He can't wait to get away from your annoyance. He's told me that, you know. And once he is gone, there will be no one to stop our fun."

Sherlock stays silent, trying to stop the angry energy thrumming through his fingertips. "But maybe if you were half the man he was, you'd be able to stop it for yourself. Maybe if you spent some time without your nose in a bloody book. It's no wonder you have no friends, you really are a freak."

Sherlock still doesn't say a word, partly because he knows he shouldn't and partly because he doesn't trust his voice right now.

"You know, maybe if you were better Mycroft would have stayed. Maybe he wouldn't be leaving in a few weeks. Maybe you wouldn't be alone." Sherlock bit his lip. Hard.

"Get me a glass of water from the kitchen."

"Yes, sir." Sherlock measures his words carefully, trying desperately to not place one toe out of line The last thing he wants is to make his father angry. He walks to the kitchen and turns on the tap. Trying to steady his hands that are already shaking, he pulls a glass out of the cupboard and fills it. Slowly, he walks out of the kitchen, careful to not spill a drop of it. Concentrating so hard on the glass in his hand, he doesn't see the fraying edge of the carpet. It snags on his toe, and he falls forward, the glass falling and spilling its contents across the carpet and Sherlock's face.

"What have you done? Look at the mess you made!" His father bellows.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll clean it."

"You're damn right you're going to clean it." Before Sherlock knows it, his father is behind him as he is trying to get up. A hand slaps swiftly across his face and Sherlock is taken aback. He stops and attempts to catch his breath, but his father brings his knee up into Sherlock's stomach, leaving him sprawling on the ground again.

This goes on until Sherlock can't remember what hit him where, or where his mother is, or when Mycroft is going to come home and save him, or how long he is going to be able to survive living like this. He has no choice but to survive like this. He has no choice but to keep his mouth shut and take the beatings. Nowhere to turn, no one to tell. No choice but to read only in secret. No say when friends withdrew from him. No choice when he had to change his wardrobe to accommodate the marred parts of him that now needed to be hidden from view. No choice but to try to be good and hope it was good enough for his father.

And it hardly ever was.

"Sherlock?" John queried quietly. Sherlock was standing in front of him with his eyes screwed shut. His hands were held stiffly in front of himself, wrists locked and fingers open, trembling terribly. "It's alright. You don't have to tell me anymore."

Slowly, John reached out a hand a ghosted it against Sherlock's shoulder. He crumbled. "I had to hide so many bruises." He whispered as they fell to the couch, John deftly setting down his cold tea on the coffee table on the way.

"I know. Me too."

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