"Yeah but-"
"No, you've wasted enough time today. Your Dad will be here to collect you shortly."
John Watson scowled at the Policeman's retreating back. He was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the middle of the Police Station, surrounded by potted plants of various sizes. Offices were joined on by turquoise doors, which kept swinging open and then shut again as people rushed about, despite the high level of activity, it was incredibly boring.
He'd had it with the Police now. They never listened to him. Who would trust a teenager against a 'respectable' adult? The bloke wasn't even John's real Dad, for Christ's sake. He was just some bloke with an enormous beer belly who had merrily waltzed into his life and proceeded to make it a miserable one.
The man rarely dared to touch John, but it didn't stop him from trying. John knew how to hold his own, though. He was also the only one in the household with an actual job, which was often his bargaining tool.
'Touch Harry and I'll get myself fired', or 'Lay a finger on Mum and when I next get paid I'll give it all to a homeless junkie and give none to you' were both common threats. Of course he didn't want to get fired, but if the prospect of it ensured Harry's safety, then he was willing to risk it. Besides, he'd never actually dump his wages on a drug-addict, instead he'd buy them a sandwich. He'd do something useful. Like donating. John was the primary source of income for them, which is why his threats were listened to.
This time however, John had come home after a particularly tiresome shift where he'd had to explain to a dear old lady with dementia that he wasn't her Grandson at least fifty times (he worked in the café at St Bart's Hospital, and therefore had to deal with some of the patients when they decided to wander), to find his Mum sitting at the kitchen table with a dazzling cut lip. That's when he forgot about the TV session he was going to have that evening and stormed off up to the Police Station.
The thing about police stations though was that they're never dull. Ever. Ridiculously boring at some stages, but it would never take long for something to start up. So while this particular Police station (he'd tried various ones in an attempt to make his voice heard) was in no way quiet to begin with, it was made louder by a sudden bout of shouting. John couldn't help but be drawn out of his sulky stupor at the sound of loud voices echoing around the room.
"The Barber! Are you completely incompetent?"
John smirked. Apparently someone wasn't having a good day, either.
"Oh what? So you're saying that Mr Perkins just happened to get shaving cream on his foot?"
John raised an eyebrow at the ground. He'd managed to get himself a bit messy with shaving cream before now. It seemed fairly plausible that someone should get it on their foot.
"The guy had a beard!"
Okay. What was the guy doing with shaving cream if he had a beard? Unless he was planning on shaving it off...
"It's November! It's Movember! That charity thing! It's the 19th! Why would he shave it off before the month is up? The Barber killed him, it's obvious!"
John listened intently. Smirking at his shoes now. The guy was passionate, he'd give him that. Only, shouting never worked for him. Maybe this guy would prevail where he couldn't.
"Someone get him out of here!" Evidently not. Another voice yelled, and John turned his neck just in time to see a tall figure being dragged across the room by a burly policeman. He quickly averted his eyes as the figure was plonked down next to him.
"I'm calling your mother. I think I know her number off by heart now. Stay where you are."
The figure didn't reply, only sank down lower in his chair, sticking out his legs in what John thought was a meagre attempt to trip someone up. He decided that now would be a good time to wipe the smile off of his face and engage in some actual interaction, especially with someone who apparently shared the same views as him of the police at the moment.
"Shouting doesn't work you know, tried it myself." It was a poor attempt, John had to admit. Better than sitting in silence though.
"What would you know?"
John allowed himself another glance at the guy sitting next to him. He was tall; he'd spotted that before. But now he saw that he was incredibly lanky and skinny. He had a thick layer of ebony locks that curled lazily, but swirled with apparent precision on top his head. He looked about 16, with piercing eyes that darted from person to person in the room. He was pulling at a thread dangling from his sleeve while his feet tapped the floor as though they were tap dancing.
"Trust me, I find myself in here a lot."
The guy turned to look at him.
"You don't seem the criminal type." He said, curiously. John chuckled.
"I'm not, but my Dad is. Or close to it, at any rate. Just can't convince this lot-" He gestured at everyone in the room "to believe me."
The guy straightened up and looked at him more tentatively.
"Why won't they believe you?" He was generally interested, and John was shocked. No one had ever listened to him before.
"I dunno. He's got them all convinced that I'm a nutter or something. I generally have no idea." John suddenly looked down, worried that he was talking about himself too much. That was always a problem. He could be incredibly vocal, but the worry that he was annoying people had always been a far greater issue for him. Meaning that most of the time he kept to himself.
He wasn't a nutter though. He was an A-B student in Biology, and was a strong player in his school's rugby team. Not a nutter.
"I'm... Sorry." The guy said. "Having a step-dad who abuses your mother and sister must be tough. He abuses you too, verbal abuse still counts. People often don't though."
John stared, astonished.
"How..?"
"Please." The guy said, rolling his eyes and continuing pulling at the thread. John felt like he'd insulted him somehow.
He was about to speak again, but was cut off by a the policeman striding back over towards them.
"Mr Brooke, your mother is here for you. Please make this the last time we see you here."
'Mr Brooke' stood up, straightening his jeans and hoody in the process.
"See you around." He said to John, so casually it was like they'd bumped into each other at a cafe. He turned towards the policeman and strode off in the other direction towards his mother, who was scowling as her son drew closer. She opened her mouth and John saw her jaw moving, but couldn't quite make out what was being said.
John went back to looking at his shoes, smirking at them. Suddenly, the imminent argument with his step-dad seemed very, very, small.
The car journey was a tense one. Made only tenser by his absolute resoluteness not to cower at the man. From the moment he'd sat down, he had locked his eyes onto the road and was refusing to look away, which was very difficult seeing as how he was sitting in the back. He didn't even flinch as they powered over a particularly nasty speed bump.
"What were you doing at the police station?"
He shut his eyes to allow himself to roll them. He couldn't roll his eyes in front of him. If that ever happened, if he ever showed the slightest sign of being disobedient... Life wouldn't be running as smoothly as it could have been.
"Working." He replied shortly. The man sitting next to him laughed.
"Working? What on Earth for?"
They passed over a bridge that led to a simplistic housing estate. The buildings were all the same, yet it didn't seem unpleasant. A somewhat nice neighbourhood, in fact. He couldn't help but compare it to where he was going. There was such a contrast. Little old ladies dithered around clutching watering cans, cooing at babies in prams who were pushed along by their mothers down the pavement. Children rode their bikes happily up and down the street without a care in the world. It was like an alternative universe to the one he was living in.
Yet, beneath the bridge is where the troll dwells. That's where he'd been found. Drugged up and asleep in a puddle. Or so he'd been told. In actual fact he hadn't the slightest idea of how he'd wound up there. He questioned everything, because he couldn't remember a thing. It made him detest himself.
All he remembered was waking up, with an incredibly sore head. He remembered this angel, coaxing him off the drugs and providing him with food (not that he ate much of it), shelter, and warmth. He'd been told that he'd been in a bad way. He certainly had the wounds to prove it. His shoulder supported a spectacular scar from where he'd had a little accident with a bullet. Apparently, this certain injury had occurred on the eve of him being picked up. He had no recollection of a gun, or even the pain. This had all happened five years ago, when he was eleven.
From that point onwards, he'd been in his care.
"What's wrong, hun?" The man next to him asked, his voice soft and delicate, matching the hand that had now came to rest on his knee. The urge to flinch or to smack the hand away was overwhelming. He resisted the temptation.
"... Why don't I remember anything?" He asked, gently coaxing the soft hand away from his leg.
"What do you mean?"
He clenched his eyes shut again, and the hand that was now in the space between them curled up into a ball.
"I don't remember anything. Anything at all. Surely I must remember something?" He opened his eyes again and turned to look at the man sitting next to him. The smile was warm, but the eyes were cold. They were like black-holes, ready to suck a person in and never let them out again. They sent shivers along his spine.
"We've talked about this." With each syllable the voice changed. The calm and relaxing one was quickly replaced with one of anger. One that he usually associated with hateful things. Hurtful things. "And we're not talking about it again. Do you understand me? Sherlock? If I've heard that you've breathed a word to the police about any of this... About me. There's only so many times I can deal with you, you know. I could very easily put you back were I found you, do you understand? And I don't want to do that. You don't want to go back. You'd be wasted, in all sense of the word. Now, answer my original question. Why were you at the police station?"
Sherlock breathed.
"They'd arrested Mr Brist for the murder of Mr Perkins, but they'd got it wrong. They always do. It was Mr Yates who had actually killed him."
There was no point in lying. None at all. The man could read his lies like a book. The overall atmosphere in the car suddenly became relaxed, for everyone except Sherlock, that is.
"Aw baby. You're always such a thoughtful little lamb. Trying to bring justice, you're like a little super hero."
Sherlock flinched as the hug came swooping down on him like an eagle. It wasn't a warm embrace. The cold skin made contact with his own, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if giving him a warning. Sherlock prayed to an unknown entity for the constricting hug to be over, and whoever he was praying to must have listened, because a moment later he felt himself relaxing as the talons drew away.
"Promise me you'll never run off again, alright? I can't have you dashing about all over London. It's a dangerous world out there, Sherlock. You don't know the half of it. Why would you? You're so dainty, so fragile to the real world. Leave the big-boy stuff to us in the future, okay?"
Sherlock nodded. There was no point in bickering. But something was clawing at the back of his mind, scratching at some new found information. He tucked it away for the time being, promising to analyse it properly when he got back.
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