"Who, who are you really?
And where, where are you going?
I've got nothing left to prove
Cause I've got nothing left to lose
See me bare my teeth for you
Who, who are you?" -Who Are You, Really? by Mikky Ekko
In the end, it was actually his father who tipped the balance between fear and bravery (stupidity).
"You fucking faggot. I should have known, since your sister. Your sister got you thinking this way, didn't she?" He stands, looming over them, eyes glittering a malicious navy as he takes in the sight before him. Sherlock and John, currently entangled in a lovers' embrace on the bed, lips tinted rose from kissing..
John pulls out of Sherlock's grasp, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as he reaches out to his father. "Dad, don't-"
"What did you just call me, boy? You're not my son. I didn't raise a queer."
John flinches back, almost colliding with Sherlock, who automatically reaches out to steady him.. His father raises his hand and John steels himself just before surging forward to shove past his father, tugging Sherlock with him as he clatters down the stairs, his heart racing.
They've almost made it to the front door before John feels Sherlock's hand wrenched from his grasp. Gasping, John turns around and lurches towards the (illegal) firearm in the hall cabinet his father keeps to scare away the various ill-intentioned ilk that show up at their front door. Sherlock is held by his arm in a grasp that will leave bruises and despite his superior height he seems extremely small compared to the man who terrorized John his entire life. Shaking slightly, John loads the gun and aims it at his father's head in one smooth, practiced motion. (His father will never know this, but John practiced loading and unloading the gun while his father was to drunk to pay him any mind.) His intentions are clear. Let go of Sherlock or we'll see what the insides of your head look like plastered to a wall.
John's mouth is set in a grim line, his face is set and the reason is clear. He had been edged along the cliff all of his life, and now he's reaching his tipping point. Before, his arms had been spinning wildly in a desperate attempt to control it. Mr. Watson, however, did not recognize the danger signs and pushed to far, sending John into a freefall.. Now he is faced with the results of his actions, an angry but rational 16 year old, quivering slightly out of tension, eyes the same navy blue as his own and unwavering.
Slowly, the realization that he can do nothing to stop his son dawns on Mr, Watson's face. He lets go of Sherlock's arm and puts his hands up in surrender. Sherlock slowly makes his way over to John and gently touches his shoulder. John didn't even realize he was crying, but when he turns his face to Sherlock like a blind man's seeking the sun, his face has two trails of tears leading down from his dark blue eyes.
Sherlock's movements are gentle when he picks of the phone and dials the police, speaking softly as he describes the current situation (omittiing the fact that John was currently in a position where at any point he could commit patricide.) When the phone call is done, Sherlock rubs John's back in slow, gentle circular motions as he carefully frees the gun from John's tight grasp.. When the gun is out of John's clutch, he motions for John's father to stand up and get into the closet. The brunette wedges a chair under the door handle and sets the gun down on the hallway table. He turns to the smaller boy, who is shaking like a leaf and is probably in shock. Sherlock grabs John's shoulders and leads him to sit down at his kitchen table, kneeling in front of him and grabbing his hands in a sort of plea. John only seems to stare numbly at their intertwined fingers, the pale, tapered fingers and shorter, tanned ones that are tangled in a knot.
Soon after, the police arrive on scene. They open the cupboard when Sherlock points to it and the medics give them cursory checks to make sure there is no damage that needs attending. When they ask John to take off his jumper so they can check his shoulders, he pauses in the obediance he has help so far and glances helplessly at Sherlock's face. He gives him an encouraging nod so John complies, tugging the soft material over his head. He hears hisses of sympathy as they observe his mottled back, and soon after they finish.
A constable with a warm smile and kind countenance asks John a few questions and when he suggests they go to the station, Sherlock suddenly reappears from wherever he was.
"No." His voice is firm, and his arm slings automatically around John's shoulders.
The police constable smiles and opens her mouth to speak but Sherlock cuts her off. "I said he will not go down to the station, so he will not. He has just been attacked by his father. If you find this a problem, call my brother, Mycroft Holmes. I'm sure he could sort this out." John looks up gratefully at the brunette, who only squeezes his shoulders in response.
The call is made and Sherlock takes John to his house. To home.
"Sherlock! Give me back my homework!" John laughes brightly as he sprints after his boyfriend on the damp grass behind the Holmes' house. The genius turns at the call of his name and he smirks before taking off again, long legs eating up the distance.
Eventually, after several collisions with the ground, muddy after the rain the day before, 4 new grass stains on John (and one big one on Sherlock's shirt front from when John finally tackled him to the ground), John has his homework and both boys reenter house to hear the call from Sherlock's mother. "You better not be tracking mud into the house boys!"
Sherlock and John shuck their shoes as they end up in Sherlock's room. They disrobe completely and end up on the monstrous poster that takes up most of the space in the room. (Causing Sherlock to grumble about lost laboratory space consistantly.) Sherlock traces patterns onto John's side, causing him to shiver and burrow further into the taller boy's embrace.
It's been six long months since that dreadful day. Since, Sherlock's parents have been named the guardians of John (thanks to some miracle of Mycroft's) and they are both helping each other. There were still rough patches, like John's night-terrors. But the duo is slowly healing.
Looking up at Sherlock, whose dark curls are outlined by a soft halo of golden light, making him look protective and vulnerable at the same time. In that moment John decides that the light was definitely worth the wait.