Summary: Repost from kink-meme. John was abused as a child, and the scars never quite healed.
Warnings: Discussion of child abuse and alcoholism.
Confrontation
Sherlock doesn't beat around the bush.
"Your father used to beat you."
This little pronouncement comes without prelude or explanation halfway through a post-case dinner in a little Chinese place several blocks from Baker Street.
It is almost one o'clock in the morning and the place is nearly empty but for a few employees and a lone man at the bar nursing a bottle of something dark and pungent (John can smell it from where he and Sherlock are sitting on the other side of the room).
Your father used to beat you.
John considers denial and discards that plan almost as quickly as it occurs to him. He has no particular desire to hear that portion of his sordid past paraded about in a row of neat little deductions for the entire world to see.
Sherlock knows. The realization feels strange in his stomach and burns his throat uncomfortably.
John shouldn't mind. It's not as though Sherlock of all people can think any less of him. John is, after all, only an idiot to Sherlock. Granted, he is a handy adoring audience and housekeeper as well, but beyond that he's pretty much useless… unless of course he's killing people, but John doesn't like to think that's all he's good for. Even if it might be true.
And still the thought persists: Sherlock knows.
That's fine, he tells himself firmly.
Honestly, he's surprised it took Sherlock so long to notice. Surely it was obvious to the great consulting detective? The way John stood or spoke or avoided drinking like the plague probably gave him away ages ago.
He wonders briefly how specific Sherlock might get in his deductions, if John asked. Can he tell the frequency with which Harry used to throw herself between her father and her brother? Can he guess at what age she finally succumbed to her own vices and ran away from home, leaving John and their mother at the mercy of a raging drunk? Can Sherlock deduce that Mr. Watson was usually too drunk to handle a belt and most nights had to resort to using his fists and feet to teach his worthless son his place?
He doesn't want to know.
And it's sick that he has to bite his tongue to keep himself from asking.
There are a lot of things he can say to Sherlock's assertion, but John is tired and sore and does not want to deal with this. Not now, not ever. He'd be much happier if he could go back to pretending that the first decade and a half of his life never happened, thank you very much.
"Pass the Lo Mein," he says firmly, intending to stop this discussion before it begins.
Sherlock is actually caught off guard enough by John's non sequitur that his hand is halfway to the dish in question before he realizes what John is doing.
Sherlock frowns slightly. "John…" he begins slowly, his hand hovering guardedly over the Lo Mein, as though he intends to hold it hostage.
"Sherlock, please," John doesn't like the tinge of desperation that creeps into his voice but he likes the idea of talking about this with Sherlock even less.
The consulting detective's expression is impossible to read, but if he were anyone else John might say that the man looked pained.
"John, I…"
"Don't," he interrupts sharply, "Just don't. It's over, Sherlock. It's over and it's done and he's dead. It's fine and I'm fine. So please, please, just pass the Lo Mein."
Sherlock's expression is perfectly blank as he passes over the dish.
They finish eating in silence.
