Sherlock woke up on the floor on his bedroom, disorientated and disproportionately angry for so early in the morning. He slowly probed at his memories of the night before. He remembered Mycroft yelling at him. Mycroft was always yelling though, constantly annoyed at his seventeen year old brother. Sherlock moved his left arm and realised hat it hurt. He tried other movements, head, legs, fingers, back, and found that almost every inch of his body ached. Prodding his memory banks, he noted the heroin he'd done the night before, and felt the remnants of the drugs clouding his mind. It was so frustrating, to be lying on the floor and to have no idea how he got there. Sherlock was used to being able to work things out so quickly that not knowing was foreign to him. How did normal people manage? Sherlock put his hand up to his face and felt a bruise on his cheek. It had a familiar size and shape, the fist belonged to Bert Holmes. Sherlock decided to skip over his beating in his search for memories. It wasn't important. His hand continued to explore his body. His long fingers probed into his bruised rib, a cut on his forehead, a twisted ankle and a fractured big toe. No matter, no lasting damage. Sherlock continued to press his mind. Mycroft had yelled. What about? Drugs? No, they'd had that conversation too many times for him to lose his composure. Drinking? Again, too many times. Perhaps a better question: what had he done to earn his beating? Most likely possibility would be an experiment gone wrong, which might also excuse his reeling brain. But as he looked around he didn't see any signs of burnt carpet or blue smoke. So not an experiment. Or... he remembered the boy. John Watson. The blonde boy who had been him his bedroom. Who had kissed him. Yes. That would warrant Mycroft's anger and Father's beating. It all rushed back to him, the elation at the soft, passionate kiss, the wonder of the other boy's flesh pressed tightly against his own. The fear as his bedroom door slammed open. The pain as the fists landed over and over onto his body, as John yelled at his father to stop. The humiliation as John ran away when Sherlock stopped fighting back. The disgusting feeling of shame and pain as his father took off his belt. And afterwards, as Mycroft had come into his room and knelt beside him as he bled. As he told him everything. And as Mycroft looked at him with such disgust, such anger. And as he shouted, echoing their Father's words- you're a freak. Sherlock rolled over and vomited onto his bedroom carpet, the pain, sadness, fear and shame bearing down on him hard. No one would ever kiss him like that again. No one except his John.