A Hidden Past

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the characters, except for one OC

Freak. The word pierced his skin, shooting daggers though his mind and chest, leaving him paralyzed. He's accustomed to sadness. He's used to feeling worthless. Mostly because he is, in fact, worthless, and has been told so all his life.
He slams his eyes shut for a second, before quickly opening them again. It happens fast, but not fast enough to be mistaken as a blink. But no one notices.
"Good to see you too, Donovan." She rolls her eyes. Donovan hated him. Why, he's wondered. All he had ever done was make deductions and solve crimes that she couldn't. Nobody likes a showoff. As his brother used to say, to which Sherlock responded, No, they just don't like me. Mycroft just rolls his eyes. That's all people do to him. Roll their eyes.
Sherlock walked behind the annoyed woman. He wished more than ever that his flatmate and good friend, John Watson, was with him. But sadly, John was stuck in a bit of traffic. Sherlock longed for John to get here, but he knew it wouldn't be soon. But whatever. What's feeling alone for a couple more minutes going to do to him? He was led to Detective Inspector Lestrade's office, when he stopped in his tracks. Through the glass doors he could see who Lestrade called him in to observe, and he didn't like it. Not one bit. It brought back memories. Horrible memories that he chosen to forget, but now came back and are more vivid than ever. He knew that if the person was a culprit, then he'd be in the interrogation room, not in Lestrade's office, sitting there waiting while the police stand outside the door, but without guarding it.
"Ah, Sherlock, I'm glad you're here." Lestrade said to him, without much emotion.
"Lestrad, why is there a child in your office?" Sherlock said in a tone that showed that he knew the answer, but wanted it to be said anyway.
"His name is Samuel Lannister. Earlier this morning, his mother was murdered. His neighbour heard screaming and a loud crash, and called the police. Samuel was found at the crime scene as his father tried to escape. Anderson is interrogating his father as we speak." Sherlock stood motionless. He didn't blink, and couldn't breath. As a consulting detective, he was called in for strange murders. He was only called in when the police were stumped, which is always, but it was just when they were willing to admit loss. However, child abuse-domestic violence, that's not what he signed up for. If he wanted to deal with that, he'd join the force for real, and not just be there for consultation. Yet here he is, staring the child down, ignoring Lestrade speak. He was in a daze. The past sneaking up on him. The files he deleted from his brain hard drive are being rebooted.
"Lestrade." Sherlock finally said, cutting Lestrad off mid-sentence. "I would like to speak with the boy alone."
"I'm not sure if that's such a good idea. This boy is going through trama; his mother was just killed and-"
"Lestrade," Sherlock looked at him, with begging eyes. "please." Lestrade had never heard Sherlock say 'please' before. Then reluctantly, Lestrade sighed, "Fine. You can have five minutes with him. But if you step half a toe out of line..." Lestrade let the threat hang.
"What?!" Donovan shrieked, as Sherlock calmly went to open the door. "You're going to let freak talk to a traumatized child? Are you insane!?"
Freak, there was that word again.
Sherlock pulled the door open, and the boy flinched, and turned to see who walked in. After looking at Sherlock, who didn't make a move to walk forward yet, he calmed down, and slumped in his seat.
Sherlock slowly walked towards him, as he did so, he was taking in the boy, Samuel's, appearance. He couldn't be older than fifteen or sixteen. He had shaggy dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and his skin was overly pale, like he never been outside before. It must be from the stress. Sherlock thought. Samuel-Sam wore a too big grey sweatshirt, and loose jeans. His shoes were old, and were the model from six years ago. Sherlock recognised the look in his eyes. Fear. Pure fear. There was dread, disbelief, and denial mix into his features. Sherlock didn't need to have his deduction skills to notice that. He had a slight tremor in his right hand, Sam probably didn't even notice it. He was out of focus. Most likely trying to wake himself up from this nightmare that he's living, and will re-live in his dreams for years to come.
Sherlock slowly dragged a chair and placed it next to Sam. He spoke in a soft voice. "Hello, Sam." Sam didn't acknowledge him, he didn't make a sound or move. Sherlock recalls Lestrade telling him that Sam hasn't talked to anyone, or something like that. He wasn't really paying attention. "I know what you're thinking, you know." Sam raised his eyes to Sherlock. "You're scared of what you just witnessed. You never thought something like that couldn't happen to you. You're angry that everyone is trying to speak to you, yet they have no idea what it's like. How can they? They've never been abused. They've never been hurt like this. You think no one understands you. You don't think it's fair that you have to deal with this, and there are tons of people who claime to understand what you're going through, but in reality have no idea. Is that correct?" Sam nodded his head slowly. "But I can tell you one thing. I understand." Sam was taken aback.
"Wait, you were...hurt?"
"Yes. When I was a boy."
In the hall outisde the office, Lestrade and Donovan were shocked at this discovery. Sherlock Holmes, the man with no feelings or remorse, the man who get's off on murder and crime, was abused as a child. Neither of them could believe.
"What happened?" Sam asked in a small voice. Sherlock hesitated. He looked behind him. John still wasn't there. Now Sherlock was actually thankful. He didn't want John to hear this. Of course he didn't even want to tell the story and remind himself, but he wanted to held the boy. Sherlock took a deep breath, and wanted to smoke more then ever, and began.
"I was never meant to be born. I was a drunken mistake. My parents never wanted two children. One was enough. But the deed was done. There was no rewinding." Sherlock laughed humorlessly, "Over time, my mom opened up, she began to love me, but my dad...he remained bitter. He kept on hating me." Sherlock swallowed, a lump was formed in his throat. "He would shout abuse at me. He'd call me dirty, and mistake, and freak." Sherlock didn't hear Donovan gasp behind the door. "But when I was eleven, verbal abuse just wasn't enough. My mother took my brother out, so it was just my father and I at home. He had been drinking, nad barged into my room and..."Sherlock started breathing heavily. Sam reached over and took his hand, trying to calm the consulting detective down from the panic attack he was having. Sherlock slammed his eye lids shut and worked on controlling his breathing. H squeazed Sam's hand. When he was calm again, he decided to finish the story. "He came into my room, and started beating me. H-he brought a knife with him and, well, you can probably guess the rest. He left my to die in my room, and when my mother got home she paniced, but my father was gone. None of us had heard from him since." Sam looked at Sherlock, and then spoke.
"My dad was angry at my mom, so he started hitting her. She begged him to stop, but he didn't. I heard her from my room, and went out to see what was going on. When I saw him hit her, I ran ovr to try to stop him, even though I knew I couldn't. I just had to try. He punched me over and knocked me out, and when I woke up, my mom was dead, and there were cops at my house arresting my father."
"I'm sorry this had to happen to you." Sherlock said sincerely.
"Yeah you too." Sam said, giving Sherlock a hug. Sherlock hesitated, before wrapping his arms around the boy. Lestrade opened the door, and walked in. Donovan walked in behind him, and so did John. Who got there as Sherlock started telling his story. Not noticing John there, Sherlock looked to where Lestrade and Donovan were standing and said, "You didn't know that about me, did you?" Donovan looked at him and opened her mouth, but Sherlock cut her off. "Don't say anything, Donovan." John cleared his throat behind Sherlock, making him tense.
"Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't need to turn, he just said,
"John. How much did you hear?"
"All of it." Sherlock nodded.
"Right. Of course you did." Sherlock stood, he said goodbye to Sam, and Sam gave him another hug before returning his farewell.
"Goodbye Lestrade." He said before walking out the door, and leaving the police station, John hurring behind him.
"Sherlock, wait!" John said catching up with Sherlock.
"I'm famished, you up for dinner?"
"Sherlock-"
"Angelo's is only half a mile away, we can easily walk there." Sherlock headed down the siewalk, leaving John on the steps of the staion. John just looked at Sherlock in pity, and shook his head. He didn't expect Sherlock to acknowledge what he had just admitted, but it still bothered John. Behind this tough persona, there was a broken man who has more feelins then most, but doesn't know what to do with them. It hurt John to see how damaged he was. John feared for his friend. He was worried that one day, it'd become too much to handle, and Sherlock could end up hurting himself; but John knew that there was nothing he could do to make Sherlock open up. So John went with his friend, and let him know that he was there for him, and prayed that Sherlock would be okay.
When Sherlock jumped off of St Bartholomew's rooftop, John blamed himself more then anything for not helping Sherlock, even though he knew he needed help. John hated himself for letting his best friend down.