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"Open the door you miserable piece of shit!" His father's voice roared through the door of his locked bedroom door. His sister, Harry, stood behind him, trembling with fear. She always ran to John when her dad was like this. They could hear their mother sobbing in the other room, she was too weak to fight her husband's wrath.
"Let." POUND. "Me." POUND. "In." POUND. The door rattled under the strength of the drunken man's fist.
"God help me, I'll break this fucking door down!" John was starting to worry he would be able to. Still, he couldn't let his dad get to Harry. She couldn't take it like he could. He had to protect her, no matter what.
"Go hide in the closet Harry." John whispered, ushering his sister into his closet and closing the door. "Don't come out."
John walked back to his door, tuning out his father's shouts until they were nothing more than white noise to the background of his beating heart. As long as he could hear that, the steady thud of his heart beating away in his chest, then everything would be okay. He was alive.
He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the fear that was bubbling just under the surface of his courage. He raised a shaking hand to the handle, twisted, and opened the door to face his father.
John gripped the door frame to steady himself as he tried to shake off the flashback. PTSD didn't just haunt him with the war. He looked over at the boy on the bed, willing himself to stay in the present. Blue eyes were staring at him. John wondered what he must look like to this boy.
"Hi mate." John said with a smile. "My name's John." The boy scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side.
"Yeah, I'm that John. The one from the note you brought with you." The boy nodded his understanding. "Do you remember who gave you that note?" The boy shook his head quickly, then winced as the movement jarred his injuries. He whimpered softly at the pain in his head.
"Shh." John soothed. "Easy there." He wanted to reach out and lay a reassuring hand on this boy's shoulder, but he knew from experience that that would be anything but reassuring. Raising your hand to an abused child only incited fear and anxiety. Especially with a boy as ill at ease as this one. He fidgeted slightly in the bed, and his eyes kept flicking to the door. He seemed nervous, like he was just waiting for someone to appear.
"Your dad's not going to show up here." John said. The boys eyes widened in response. He didn't look convinced.
"If he does, I'll make sure he never crosses that threshold." The boy looked at John dubiously.
"You don't think I can take him?" John asked playfully. "I'm a soldier." He told him, pulling his dog tags out of his shirt and showing them to the child. "And I'm stronger than I look." That elicited a small smile from the young boy and John felt something tighten in his chest.
"You know, sometimes I wish my dad would show up at my doorstep. Just so I could give him a taste of his own medicine." The boy looked at him with confusion. "I want him to feel every bruise he ever left on me and my sister. Every broken wrist, every fractured rib, all of it." John paused to make sure the boy understood what he was saying, his eyes were wide.
"It took me a long time to finally get away from him. I waited until I was old enough to join the military, because I was always too afraid to tell anyone what he was doing to me. You're very brave for coming to the police."
"He made me come." A small voice spoke for the first time. The boy looked surprised that he had spoken, and quickly clamped his mouth shut.
"Who made you?" John asked softly. The boy refused to answer.
"Your dad?" That got him a reluctant nod. John furrowed his brow in confusion. Why would an abusive father send his child to Scotland Yard riddled with injuries he had inflicted? The message was clearly from Moriarty, perhaps he paid the father to send his son in.
"How about we play a game?" John asked. The boy looked at him with wary interest. "I'm going to try and guess your name, and if I get it right you have to tell me." The boy smiled smugly and nodded.
"What? You don't think I can get it?" He shook his head. "Alright then. Challenge accepted."
"Peter?" No.
"Mike?" No.
"Paul?" Nope.
"Joe? Brian? Patrick? Steven?" Negative.
"It must be a strange name then, if you're so sure I'm not going to get it." The boy just smirked at John.
"Emmanuel?" No.
"Jebediah?" The boy shook his head and scrunched up his nose. "You don't like that one?" John teased
"Okay, okay. How about…. Alejandro?" Another smile and shake of his head.
"Morpheus? Rasputin? Atticus?" A giggle escaped the boys lips and John smiled warmly at him.
"Not even close huh?" The boy shook his head, still smiling.
"Carlton? Anderson? Gregory? Mycroft? John? Henry? James? Wesley? Harry? Hamish? Hudson?" The boy froze, then nodded his head enthusiastically.
"Which one? Wesley?" No. "Harry? Hudson?" Still no. "Hamish?" The boy nodded again and smiled.
"Looks like I won." John smiled back. "Hello Hamish." The boy stretched out a hand, John took it and shook gently.
"That's my middle name you know; Hamish. John Hamish Watson." The boy looked dubious.
"You don't believe me?" John took his ID from his pocket and handed it over. "See? John Hamish Watson. ID's don't lie little man." The boy scoffed.
"What?"
"I'm not little." Hamish said with a pout. John smiled, warmth filling his chest.
"How old are you then?" John asked.
"Nine." Hamish held his chin up in an effort to look older. "But I'm mature for my age."
"I reckon you're right about that." John conceded. "No little kids here then."
"You hungry Hamish? I'm craving some chocolate from the vending machine, I can get you some. I know the food here's rubbish." Hamish nodded happily. "I'll be right back." John promised.
When he returned from the vending machine, Hamish was fast asleep in his bed. Poor kid was probably exhausted. John quietly set a chocolate bar on his nightstand and moved to leave. He'd come back to talk after Hamish got some much needed rest. He turned to look at the sleeping boy just before he left, sighing at the sight before him. No child should have to go through what this boy is going through. John knew this would stay with Hamish the rest of his life, haunt him, even when he was an adult and he thought he had gotten past it. John wished more than anything that he could erase this from this boy's life. Get rid of all the pain and suffering and replace it with love and affection. He wanted to go back and fill his life with the things that a child should have; family, friends, skinned knees, trees to climb, bikes to ride too fast, and trouble to get into. He just hoped it wasn't too late for Hamish. He could still have those things, if he was lucky. John sighed and headed back to Sherlock's room, his mind full of what he learned about Hamish, and all the things he still had to find out.