Sherlock sat sideways in his armchair, curled up like a cat. He felt empty, and heavy, and angry at everything. There was a terrible sinking feeling in his chest and he felt dizzy and lightheaded. Already he was suffering from his indulgences last night. He told himself it was worth it. For a brief time, he left the world behind him, his limbs felt like air, he felt like he was floating on a cloud. But then harsh reality came back to smack him in the face and he was remembering why he had taken the drugs in the first place. So many memories he had tried to delete, and failed miserably. Why was it he could delete the entire solar system and not his father's horrible sadistic face?

He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. A familiar memory rose unbidden from the depths of his mind like a monster advancing from the black abyss of the ocean. This was how it always happened. The memories snuck upon him, gradually becoming clearer and clearer until the terror forced him to do something else- play the violin for hours, the notes shrill and frantic, attempting to drive away his demons, his thin, calloused fingers throbbing- or immerse himself in his experiments, a nice explosion always did the trick. Or drugs. Usually when he felt like this he could ring up Lestrade, work on a few cold cases if there was nothing at the moment. But that had been ruined too, just like so much of his childhood. Because of his scars. Why did it always have to come back to that? He had promised himself years ago he would not let it define him. And yet it has. The words echoed around his mind, bouncing harshly inside his skull, 'no friends', 'waste of space', 'useless'. 'Freak'. But what always made Sherlock hate himself was the fact that he couldn't seem to disagree. He had no friends. No proper job, just a 'silly little hobby' as his father had always called it. He was different from other people. A freak.

He hadn't had a sexual encounter in years because he was ashamed of his body. He'd only ever had two anyway. The first in his last year of secondary school. One glimpse at his back and the disgust was evident on the girl's face. She didn't speak to him afterwards, just got dressed and left. The second in university. This one didn't see the damage until after the deed had been done, when they lay spooning in bed. She had cried. Again with the pity. That was worse than the first time. Sherlock had decided to give up sex. His father had mostly ruined that for him anyway, never mind the scars. He wasn't sure even Mycroft knew about that aspect of the abuse.

Despite his best efforts, he found himself thinking back to one particular incident. He was eleven. He remembered how he lay in bed, listening to the noise fade as the last of his father's drunken friends left for the night. It was about two A.M. He turned over quietly, ready to pretend to be asleep, praying his father wouldn't bother him. But then came the heavy, plodding footsteps on the stairs, made unsteady and clumsy by excessive alcohol. Thump, thump, thump. It was a terrifying countdown for Sherlock. Then the door burst open, banging against the wall twice.

"Well!" father rumbled "I suppose you're very happy with yourself." He was slurring, and swaying on the spot. Sherlock trembled in his bed, pretending to be asleep, praying he would just leave. "Are you listening to me, boy?" He was slurring his words. "That was a very important man you just insulted! Are you trying to ruin all of my business?" Sherlock rolled over to face his father.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-"

"My arse!" roared father. "Of course you meant to, you little shit! You ruin everything, I would have been far better off had you never been born!" He leaned in close to Sherlock, his voice low and deadly. "You're just a waste of space, never going to amount to anything, I should have dumped you at an orphanage while I had the chance."

He grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his pyjamas and shook him. "Stupid nancy-boy, just sit there all day with your books. Who wants a pansy for a son, eh boy?! Couldn't even make it in primary school. You're a failure, you hear me boy? A freak!" He was screaming in Sherlock's face now, spittle flying from his mouth. Sherlock tried to lean away from his rancid alcohol-breath.

Father whipped the covers off Sherlock and yanked him by the leg. He went flying off the bed and thumped his head on the ground, sprawling out in a heap. Father gave a well aimed kick to the ribs, and Sherlock curled his small, skinny frame into a ball, trying in vain to protect himself from the blows. He whimpered softly, too used this treatment to even attempt begging. He knew it wouldn't work, he just had to let the storm pass and hope he was able to walk in the morning. "Oh no you don't! Stand up and take it like a man!" Father pulled Sherlock's arms from where they were cradling his aching ribs and hauled him up to his feet. Sherlock was shaking, and unconsciously backed up until he hit the bed frame with the backs of his legs. Father strode forward, and slapped Sherlock harshly across the face, one, two, three times, leaving bright red hand prints on his cheeks. "See? Coward! You're useless! Can't even defend yourself!" Sherlock flinched. Father reached back a fist and punched Sherlock square in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. The small boy tried to scramble away, but father caught his ankle and dragged him back across the floor until he was close enough to pull up by his brown curls. Sherlock yelped, and father let go of his hair, dropping him back to the ground. Sherlock landed awkwardly on his wrist, and a sharp crack echoed through the room. He howled. "Right, that's it!" Father undid his belt. Sherlock shrank back, tears now pouring down his face. When his father took off his belt that meant it was going to be one of two things. Either he would be beaten with the sharp buckled end of the leather strap, or something much, much worse.

Sherlock shook his head suddenly and stood up from his couch at 221B Baker street. Taking deep breaths, he reached for his violin and felt himself begin to calm as he stroked the strings with his fingertips, ran the horsehair bow over them, causing the instrument to vibrate wonderfully. He twisted the tuning pegs until he was satisfied, took a deep breath and put the bow to the string. There was a light knock at the door. Sherlock put the instrument down, grumbling to himself, and walked over to the door. He contemplated not answering it at all. Upon opening, he discovered the annoyance at his door was in fact, an umbrella toting, bespoke suited, irritating government official with a terrible weakness for cake.

"Piss off, Mycroft!"