A/N: You know, there are very few times I don't like living in America. But one of them is when the new season of Sherlock started yesterday and I'm not going to be able to watch it until May. Just, stew here and listen to everyone in Britain talk about how awesome it inevitably is. But on the upside I got to watch a twelve hour marathon PBS aired of Doctor Who from David Tennant up until the end of Matt Smith's first series. So that made it somewhat better. But I still want Sherlock. Which I should point out by the way, I don't own. Or I'd be watching it, damn it.

Also, just a warning: there's nothing graphic, but the second half of this (all the parts in italics) gets fairly dark. I felt like an awful person just writing it, so avoid that if it's some kind of trigger.

John only had a couple of seconds to wonder about Beck's statement; shortly thereafter, Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street, bringing with him a flash drive with copies of every file on Thomas Howard's computer. His backed-up file had been hidden well, and that meant they got to search through every document on his computer. John groaned, looking far less than enthusiastic.

"It's like fate has a pathological aversion to making things easy for us." Beck snorted.

"Y'all need some help there?" she asked, half-jokingly. "Seriously, though, I can come back later. You guys are busy. Just thought I'd drop by and see how you were." Beck realized that as much as she wanted to see her old friend, her presence was not needed at that juncture and so she bade them farewell, making her way back to the Underground station. The phone in the phone booth rang when she passed, but she ignored it. She ignored the second and third ones, too, but the fourth made her think there was a bit of a trend going on. And she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew exactly who was busy screwing with her. She rolled her eyes, stepped into the booth, and snatched up the receiver.

"So is this like a one-sided game of phone tag?"

"Very funny."

"Well I know, that's why I picked it. Seriously, dude, you don't have to reinvent the wheel; I got one of these things already, you can even call it."

"I am well aware of that, Rebecca, just as I am sure you are well aware of what I wish to speak with you about."

"Yeah, yeah; do you know for a minute there I was actually thinking I could avoid that."

"Hm, I take it you're still not fond of me." Beck snorted.

"Nah, I never minded you." She sounded resigned. "Where do you want me to meet you?" There was no getting out of it. She really hadn't ever disliked Mycroft, but then they'd never really gotten along. She'd always received the distinct impression that he could have easily done without her. Not that she'd cared, of course.

"There is a small café next to a clothing shop on Sixth Street. Be there in half an hour." He hung up abruptly. Beck rolled her eyes and thought to herself, commanding as ever, you are. How fast did that man think she could walk? Sixth Street was nearly a mile away. She rolled her eyes again.

The café was a shorter walk then she had originally anticipated, but it still took her just over twenty minutes to make it there. She had been wondering why he would want to meet her in public, but one quick look at the nearly deserted café made it obvious that it wasn't really that much of a risk. The only people present were her, Mycroft, and a dark haired woman that Beck had never seen before. She took the seat across from them silently, waiting for Mycroft to start the conversation. In response, he slid a file across the table at her. She opened it, barely bothering to look at what was inside of it before she closed it and broke the silence.

"I had a feeling this was what you wanted to talk about." Mycroft looked grave, but his composure didn't slip an inch when he responded.

"He's being released in five days." Beck's eyes widened slightly and she leaned back against the chair, letting out her breath in a huff. God, had it really been twelve years? She'd known it had been coming up, but still… Her eyes narrowed as the anger returned.

"Well, that was excellent timing on my part, wasn't it? Who knows, maybe the ass kicking will stick this time."

"You have to control yourself-" Beck cut him off at the pass.

"I damn well do not have to control myself. I controlled myself last time and look how that turned out; I'll make a mistake once but I won't make it twice. If he comes anywhere near him-" It was Mycroft's turn to interrupt.

"Oh believe me, I can ensure that does not happen. However, the last thing that we need is for you to get in trouble with the law." Beck looked mutinous, but reluctantly agreed.

"Alright, I'll restrain myself. But I'm not making any promises. Is there anything else, or can I go now? I have to get all the way out to the dig site before dark falls." It was a hollow question. She had no intention of staying any longer. Beck swept out of the café, shaking her head. This was going to end badly, she could tell.

John arched his back and rubbed his neck, muttering rude words to himself. He and Sherlock were taking shifts going through Thomas Howard's computer files, and despite a solid four hours of work, they had yet to find anything even remotely suspicious or unusual among the endless strings of business papers and presentation drafts. John had been going at it for the last two hours and by now it was almost time for him to pass the torch off to Sherlock. He looked around for the lanky detective but couldn't find him within eyesight.

Sherlock was in the kitchen checking on an ongoing experiment he had constructed on the ever-cluttered kitchen table when he bumped into a beaker, which fell off the table and shattered on the kitchen floor. Sherlock swore loudly, bringing John from the living room to the kitchen in concern.

"You alright? Did you hurt yourself?" Sherlock shook his head, staring at the mess, while his mind drifted off unbidden.

Sherlock was only seven the first time it happened. It was just a month before he met Beck. His mother and brother had gone into town and he had been sitting in the kitchen, just messing around like any other seven year old, when his glass of orange juice had tipped and spilled all over the floor. He scowled and hopped out of the chair to get a towel when his father had come into the room.

"What did you do?"

"Sorry, it just tipped over, I'll clean it up." In his haste to get a rag his elbow hit the fallen glass, which rolled onto the floor and smashed. Sherlock winced at the noise and looked apologetically at his father. "Sorry," he said again. His father glared at him.

"Don't apologize, clean it the hell up," he growled. Sherlock looked at his father and blinked. He rarely heard his dad swear, and certainly not at his children or with that tone of voice. He wasn't entirely sure what to do, a rarity for him even at seven, so he simply stopped and did nothing. It was a bad move.

"Didn't you hear me?" His father strode forward and seized him by the shirt front, pulling him bodily over to the sink while Sherlock's smaller form struggled to keep pace. "Clean it up!" He practically threw the boy down on the ground and stood there while he got rid of the mess. Sherlock barely dared to glance at his father while he worked; he had never acted like that before, and Sherlock couldn't figure out what was causing his unusual behavior. Since neither his mother nor brother was home at that time, it must be him, but Sherlock couldn't for the world think of what he'd done.

Sherlock finished cleaning and put the rag in the sink, moving cautiously past his father. He decided to try and make it up, thinking maybe his father was just in a bad mood. "I'm sorry I dropped the glass," he said once more. His father again grabbed him by the shirt and slammed the small boy up against the refrigerator.

"Stop fucking apologizing!" he yelled. Sherlock flinched and clamped his mouth shut, more afraid then he'd ever been in his life. His father seized him hard by the wrist and dragged him out of the kitchen to the hallway. Sherlock tripped when he let go and fell to the ground and his father bent over him. "Now, you will not say a word of this to anyone, do you understand me?" Sherlock could only nod, still too frightened to open his mouth. "Good." His father strode off down the hallway to his study, leaving Sherlock lying on the ground, staring after him.

A/N: Aaaaand, I felt like a douche just writing that... You're welcome. :( Please feel free to leave comments or suggestions. For real. Do it.