Veritas
Content Notes: This fic contains non graphic discussion of sexual abuse.
From time to time in their friendship, John had wondered what Sherlock would be like when he was drunk. The man avoided alcohol fastidiously. He always stuck to water whenever they went out for meals, on a case or not, and although he'd bought John beer once or twice as an appeasement gesture he never touched the stuff himself. He didn't even try to use it in an experiment, which was more than John could say for his tea. John had offered, once or twice, for cordiality's sake, but Sherlock always refused. John had assumed it was something to do with some sort of soberness programme, given Sherlock's past predilection for cocaine, or possibly simply something to do with Sherlock not liking to be in control, so he never pushed it, but he did sometimes wonder. A man like Sherlock so sure of himself, so rigidly in control in some aspects of his life, so chaotic in others - what would he be like with his inhibitions lowered? Did Sherlock even have inhibitions in the first place?
It was rather a surprise therefore, when the night of the New Scotland Yard's Christmas party, John came to the realisation that his friend was well and truly plastered.
John hadn't noticed anything til they got to the taxi. He hadn't seen Sherlock much during the evening - he'd got a little side tracked by the pretty blonde Sergeant from Firearms . When he'd looked around Sherlock had disappeared, which wasn't surprising, it was hardly his scene. John had assumed he'd wandered off to root through evidence cabinets, or hack in to a database or possibly that he'd just gone home. He'd been pleasantly surprised when Sherlock had appeared at his shoulder sometimes after midnight and muttered something about a cab waiting.
"Good night, I thought," John said, stretching and cracking his neck as they left the heated foyer and stepped out into the frosty night air. Sherlock didn't reply, which wasn't exactly unlike him, merely pushed past him to walk to the cab. If John had been paying attention he might have noticed a slight stagger in Sherlock's walk as he passed John, but John wasn't paying attention. He was enjoying the aching cold of the night air which left his mouth in white puffs, the hushed quiet after several hours of thudding music and Anderson's attempt at DJ-ing. He'd had a glass or two of the unexpectedly good beer, just enough to make his blood sing with affection for the world around him. Things were good, weren't they? He'd thought for a while he'd never find his feet in London, but here he was. He had mates in the Yard, had Sherlock, the mad twat, making life interesting. John smiled to himself as he strolled after Sherlock towards the cab.
"Baker Street," he told the cabbie as he settled in next to a slumping Sherlock.
"Right-o,"
The car lurched very slightly as the cabbie turned out of the car park. John leant slightly to one side with the momentum - and Sherlock tipped forward and fell right off his seat.
"Um," John said, biting his lip and looking down at his friend who was now half curled on the taxi floor. "Sherlock?"
"John," Sherlock sounded mildly surprised. " I can see your shoes,"
"Yeah," John said. "I'm not surprised. What are you doing down there?"
Sherlock only frowned and continued to stare at John's shoes.
"Think your friend's a bit worse for wear, mate." The taxi driver said. "If he throws up in here, it'll cost ya."
"He's not going to throw up," John said, leaning down to get a better look at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back at him with an unnerving passivity. What was he playing at?
"Come on," John said, putting a hand under his shoulder to lever him up off the floor. John managed to pull Sherlock back into his seat getting a strong whiff of what smelt like port wine in the process. That answered that question, John thought and realised Sherlock's lips were stained dark.
"How much did you drink?"
"Difficult to remember," Sherlock watched John struggle to buckle Sherlock's seat belt with mild interest. "The bottles were empty at the end."
"How many bottles?"
Sherlock considered. "Three."
"Jesus," John laughed. "You don't do things by half measures, do you?"
Sherlock merely looked at him, blinking slowly. John smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. "Never mind," he said. "We'll get home and put you to bed and things will feel better in the morning."
To his surprise, Sherlock's face seemed to flinch a little at that, head turning sharply to look out of the window.
Sherlock remained quiet and very still through the rest of the journey, staring out of the window. John wasn't sure why that should unnerve him, but it did. Sherlock was often silent for long periods, thinking, but not like this. Even in the depths of deduction, something would be moving, feet tapping or fingers drumming, the muscles in face and shoulders taut with interest, eyes shifting behind closed lids. Signs of internal activity, signs that Sherlock was in there, thinking. Now Sherlock just seemed to be – absent. His hand hung limply at his side, eyes fixed ahead, unmoving. Strings cut, John thought. Alcohol was a depressant and it affected some people more powerfully than others. And Sherlock did seem to have tendencies that way, at times. Perhaps that was why he usually avoided the stuff.
"You all right?" he said. "Not feeling – sick or anything?"
It took Sherlock a long time to move his head to look at John. Again he blinked at him several times before replying.
"Not sick."
"OK. OK, that's good."
John didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing. Once they reached Baker Street he paid the taxi driver and turned to see Sherlock attempting to stand upright on getting out of the car. He lurched forward, almost falling, and John rushed forward to catch hold of him under the arm, pulling up.
"Easy,"
"John," Sherlock said, looking at him. "I'm dizzy."
"Yeah," John said. "Three bottles of port will do that to you. I've got you. Come on." he half dragged Sherlock up the steps to Baker Street and fumbled with his key let them in.
Sherlock shoved John away as they entered the hall. "I can manage."
"OK," John said, a little skeptically and followed close behind Sherlock as the latter stumbled and lurched his way up the staircase. Watching Sherlock move so inelegantly might have been amusing if John wasn't starting to feel worried.
When they finally reached the living room, Sherlock headed straight for John's armchair, collapsing onto it without any of his usual careless grace. John went into the kitchen and poured a large glass of water.
"Drink this,"
Sherlock blinked at him.
"Come on. If you're lucky it'll stop you getting a hangover in the morning."
John expected Sherlock to argue but to his surprise Sherlock merely took the glass and downed the liquid, before returning the glass to John. A docile Sherlock. Well, that definitely wasn't right.
John refilled the glass and brought it back to Sherlock. "Another."
Sherlock took the glass and sipped at it more slowly.
"I never get hangovers," he said.
"You never drink," John pointed out.
"I did. When I was – younger."
"Oh," John considered this. "Was this the same time as the cocaine?"
Sherlock shook his head, and then abruptly stopped, holding a hand up to his head, apparently dizzied by the movement. "No. Before. Didn't like it. Don't like it. Makes me – slow. Stupid."
"Heaven forbid," John said, smiling a little.
"I thought it might be different this time," Sherlock said, and scowled heavily down at the water glass.
"Why did you drink so much?" John ventured after a while.
"Bored," was Sherlock's answer, predictably.
John sighed. "You could have told me if you wanted to go home."
"You wouldn't have wanted to leave. You were having fun." Sherlock pronounced the word fun with a disgusted expression similar to the one most people would have when saying you were having chronic diarrhoea.
"You could have gone home without me."
Sherlock again shook his head, and again looked surprised about how dizzy it had made him. "Wanted to see what would happen if I drank. Experiment."
"An experiment in getting totally plastered and having your friend carry you home?"
"Social interactions," Sherlock said. "Alcohol is a relaxant. A social lubricant. Isn't that the idea? Makes you behave like less of a little freak."
It was John's turn to blink, apparently. Where had that come from?
"You're not a freak," John said. "Who told you that?"
Sherlock didn't reply, merely looked straight ahead. John glanced at Sherlock's hand, on the arm of his chair, no longer limply held, but clenching and unclenching spasmodically.
"Sherlock," John said, dropping to crouch down beside him. "Are you all right?"
"She said I liked it," Sherlock said, "But I didn't."
Some of the water had splashed out of the glass and onto John's knee. All of a sudden Sherlock's hands were shaking.
"Sherlock,"
Sherlock didn't seem to hear John, merely staring into the distance. His lips parted, taking breath in short shallow gasps, muscles tensed.
"Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock's eyes turned to his very slowly, expression frighteningly blank.
"Whatever it was – whatever's upsetting you. It's not happening now."
Sherlock's looked at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders relaxed very slightly.
"I know," he said. "I'm in Baker Street."
"Yeah, you are," John said. "You're in Baker Street, you're with me, and you're safe, OK? Nothing's going to happen to you, nothing you don't want."
John reached forward and eased the glass out of Sherlock's hand, setting it on the floor.
"I didn't say no," Sherlock said.
John paused, suddenly feeling that all the air had gone out of the room. He'd heard this conversation, or one like it, too many times before, from patients. Men and woman who came in with tears and bruises, shame still lurking in their eyes. I didn't say no. I should have stopped it. It was my fault. Please don't tell anybody. I didn't say no.
It wasn't something he'd ever wanted to hear from Sherlock.
He swallowed, made himself look at Sherlock, smile his compassionate professional doctor smile.
"Sometimes," he said, as gently as he could. "Sometimes when you're scared or overwhelmed it's difficult to say what you feel, when you, when you don't want something to happen. That doesn't make it your fault."
Sherlock turned to look at him, lip curled. "Are you lecturing me about sexual consent, Doctor?"
"I don't know," John said, "Do you need me to?"
"No," Sherlock turned his head away.
"Look, you-" John started and then felt strangely unable to go on. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Sherlock said sarcastically.
"No. No, I just meant I'm – I'm here. If you want to talk. Or not. It's fine. Anything's – it's all fine."
Sherlock was silent for a long time at that, looking away.
"I didn't say no," he repeated again quietly. "Even when I started to hate it. I don't know why. The alcohol – and everything - it was difficult to think."
"How old-" John began, and then stopped. As much as Sherlock wanted to talk right now – as much as he probably needed to talk at some point – John wasn't entirely comfortable with the thought of questioning him when he was drunk. The idea that Sherlock might wake up in the morning and regret what he had told John. On the other hand, how could John walk away from him?
Sherlock was looking at him, curiously and John wondered if he could deduce what John was thinking.
"I was twelve," he said. "When it started."
"Christ," John said. "That's- that's not good, Sherlock."
A look flitted over Sherlock's face, a flash of something like hurt. John could have kicked himself.
"I meant," he said. "It's not good that that happened to you. It wasn't your fault."
"I wanted to get back at Mycroft," Sherlock said. "He was always ignoring me. Treating me like a child. She said I was just as good as he was, just as clever."
"She.."
"Cecilia," Sherlock said. "She was Mycroft's girlfriend. His first, I think."
"Oh," John said. An echo of conversation came back to him. What happened? Nicked all his smurfs? Broke his action man?
"She came home with him, the summer after his first year at Oxford. He was out a lot, working, making connections, and she and I- I liked her, at first. She was pretty and clever. She didn't talk to me like I was a child. She'd sneak wine out from the cellar and we'd drink it together. I wasn't allowed, usually. We'd kiss and – it was strange, but I liked it. And then she wanted… and I didn't know."
Sherlock trailed off.
"Sherlock, I…" John began, and then stopped. Sherlock looked at him curiously.
"I'm sorry," John said lamely.
"She was nice to me at first," Sherlock said. "Even if I didn't really like the sex, I liked being with her. She – she talked to me, told me how handsome I was, how much better than Mycroft. Obvious manipulation. I should have seen it."
"You were a kid."
"When I told her – when I said I didn't want to anymore she said she'd tell him…." Sherlock stopped, biting his lip. His hands had clenched tight again.
"She said she'd tell Mycroft about the relationship?"
Sherlock shook his head "She said she'd tell him that I – that I'd liked it - weird. Like a woman does. That I let her –put things in me. Said I was perverted – everyone would be disgusted if they knew."
John had to work hard on the urge to thump something. "You know that everything she said to you was bullshit, don't you?" he said though his teeth. Sherlock glanced down at him.
"Don't you?"
"I know it was a manipulation," Sherlock said. "Obviously. She enjoyed deceiving Mycroft – the cleverest boy she knew. Enjoyed playing with both of us, drinking in our attention. Classic narcissist."
John forced himself to breathe. "Did Mycroft ever find out?"
Sherlock's mouth quirked a little, bitterly. "Eventually. Can't keep anything from him for long. I thought he'd be angry with me. He wasn't. He was angry with her."
I should bloody well think so, John wanted to say, but didn't.
"He apologised. Said he'd failed me." Sherlock sounded aggrieved.
"Did you want him to be angry with you?"
"He should have been. I knew what I was doing. I was thirteen, not three. I hated him – feeling sorry for me. Pity is detestable."
"Yeah," John said heavily. "It can be."
There was a silence during which both men sat and stared at the floor. Then John picked up the water glass again, and offered it to Sherlock.
"Drink a bit more?"
Sherlock took the water glass and drained it.
"Always the doctor,"
"Always your friend," John said. "I hope you remember that."
Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "The experiment," he said. "The wine. Tonight. I intended – I wanted to find out. If I could make myself tell you."
"Oh," John cast his mind back over the evening. Imagined Sherlock, in the darkened corner of the party, drinking, trying to prepare himself to tell his only friend about the hurt that is still weighing on him.
"Well," John said. "I'm glad you did. That you trusted me, that's, that's – good."
Sherlock only nodded briefly, looking away. "I think I should sleep," he said. "Lestrade might phone tomorrow. Have to have a clean head."
"Of course." John said.
Neither man moved.
"Thank you, John." Sherlock said, very low. John swallowed.
"It's no problem," he said. "Anytime you want to talk to me. It's never any problem."
Sherlock smiled a little. "That won't be necessary."
Abruptly Sherlock moved, standing up and wincing.
"You OK?" John said anxiously.
"Too much water." Sherlock said. "I shall need to go to the bathroom first."
John laughed a little. "OK," he said, and stood up too. "I'll be in the kitchen for a bit." He said. "Just yell if you need anything."
Sherlock nodded curtly. "I think," he said thoughtfully. "I think I'll be fine,"
With a half smile, Sherlock reached out, clasping John's shoulder briefly before walking (more or less evenly) out of the room.