Disclaimer: I only play with the toys. I don't own them.
"John -"
Sherlock had rarely been at a loss for words. In fact, there had only been two times in his life that such an occurrence had happened, once at the hands of Moriarty at the pool and the other in an incident involving Mycroft that he would never speak of.
There was a ripple across the other man's back as he tensed. After a few endless seconds, John cleared his throat and turned around, quickly grabbing the shirt off his bed and putting it on.
"What are you doing in here, Sherlock? Haven't we talked about privacy? At least pretend and knock. What was so important you had to barge in on me changing?"
The attempt at normalcy was painful in its transparency. The muscles on John's face seemed to forgotten how to work, and his movements were stiff as he walked past Sherlock to the kitchen.
"I was, uh, hungry. Was going to come ask you to get takeaway."
"The usual then?" John busied himself with making tea, carefully avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
"Is that why you're so careful, then? To always cover up."
John stopped and put his hands on the counter as if to brace himself.
"Come off it. You already know." His voice was quiet, tentative, angry. He faced Sherlock now, his face impassive. It seemed that when secrets were at stake, John had an annoyingly superb poker face. "What do you know?"
Sherlock thought back to the sight in John's room. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. .John was bound to have more than the gunshot scar after having been through war and the adventures chasing a case led them on. But he had never thought about how or how many. They crossed his back, some extending to the back of his arms. Thin, white lines. Thicker, pink, and jagged lines. Some hardly visible save for those looking.
"There are two sets. The newer ones, the thicker ones, and the older ones. Possibly from your childhood judging on their smoothness and coloration. The newer ones are probably from your military time. You've been in the military for at least a decade and those scars are only between four and six years. Any further back and they wouldn't have the pink tinge that they still retain. They were made with something uniform. Probably all at the same time. They're too precise to be anything other than deliberate, suggesting a capture and torture."
But it hadn't worked. He had been used to pain by then.
" Not for long, though. There are too few. Made by a right-handed man. The other ones are from before your military time, spanning years by the variety of thicknesses, color, and the raising still left on a few of the scars. The causes varied from an object being thrown-"
A broken beer bottled. "No good sonnova bitch!"
"-to possibly use of a knife-"
All he could smell was sweat and beer. "'M 'ere, boy. I need to teach you a lesson for that lip of yours."
"-or a belt."
Almost every damn day. When he wasn't too drunk to get up. Sometimes, when he was sober it was worse. He knew what it was doing. He could aim.
John shook off the memories and glanced back up at Sherlock. "See? You don't need me to answer anything." He went back to busying his tea.
"Your father?"
"Yes."
"What about Harry? Or your mother?"
John sighed, but resigned himself to answering, simply because it would be easier than dealing with a curious Sherlock.
"Harry moved in with her girlfriend at the time when she was fifteen. I was eleven. I don't blame her now. I stayed, probably longer than I should have, but I couldn't let his attention fall to Mum. I didn't want to give up on her like Harry had."
John's voice fell away at that last sentence, eyes far off, probably remembering. Sherlock, although wanting to say something, had no idea what to do in this situation and simply waited it out.
"Didn't realize until later that my mother was a lost cause. She allowed it even though we gave her a way out. We tried to make things work for a time, but they still couldn't stand Harry's 'life choices.' One dinner Da hit her over it. First time in years. That was the last time I talked to them."
John looked back at Sherlock, face blank and impassive. And yet, the detective could sense a myriad of emotions simmering underneath the façade John put up to quell them. The tremor in the doctor's left hand was showing. He had never heard such a tone from John before. His voice was deadened, as if he tried to not feel anything.
"Anything else you wish to ask me about?" The other man was certainly not pleased, but Sherlock was in alien territory.
"These questions. That's why you took pains to make sure I didn't see." It wasn't a question, per se.
"I don't show anyone."
"Then why let me ask the questions? Or better yet, why answer?"
"Because you're a prick. You would've kept digging regardless. At least this way it's partially on my terms."
"You've never told anyone." Again, not a question.
"No."
"What do your girlfriends say?"
"The relationships have never gotten to that point. They've seen, but never ask."
"Would you have told me?"
John snorted. "You know, you're an arrogant dick. You're rude. You either don't understand social convention or don't care to. You do everything your way, because your way is right. No other way. You hardly care about your life. All you want is stimulation. Either through drugs or cases. You don't care. But for some damnable reason, you're the closest thing I have to a best friend, and I'd even venture to say the same goes for you. I can't possibly fathom why, but I'd take a bullet for you. Or a bomb, as I've already proven. I'd trust you with my life. So yes, I had figured you'd find out eventually. Either by accident or purpose. Quite frankly, though, I was surprised you hadn't picked up on it sooner."
I trust you with my life. It would be with that statement in his mind that Sherlock would jump off St. Bart's not six months later.
For now, Sherlock simply smirked at the man across from him (your friend) as he felt some of the tension from melting away before asking, "Takeaway, then?"
John smirked back, thankful that he had finally dropped the subject. "Yeah, what do you want?"