A/N: So, um, not quite as late as last time... Hopefully. :) This chapter came out way, way longer than I had intended it to so I split it up into two parts; this is part A, and I'll post part B as soon as I'm done with it. This whole section really kicked my ass. I've never even approached trying to tell a story like this before so I wanted to treat it with the due respect and it really out me through the wringer, but I've finally gotten it where I want it, and not tacky or crude or anything like that (I hope). It shouldn't be too much longer on the second half. It's the flashback, and the continuation of this part's ending, and it gets really, really, phenomenally dark... It wasn't an easy thing for me to write, even harder than it was to write this. On a more cheerful note, I would like to proudly announce that I have 100 reviews on this story now and you people are so awesome I can't even put it into words. 8D And, of course, I would absolutely love to add to that total. Hint hint. Part B should be up tomorrow or the day after and then we can move toward a resolution. With sufficient kicking of the right ass, of course... ^-^

John, wisely, did not say anything, sitting back and letting Sherlock get to that on his own time. The detective, despite finally seeming to cave in, still took his time but the doctor waited patiently, knowing full well that this was his only chance to hear the story and Sherlock's only chance to get it out. Still, after a few minutes he began to wonder if Sherlock had gone back on his word. The detective wandered into the sitting room and John followed him; they took seats facing each other and John tried his best to look calm, although on the inside he was getting nervous just thinking about the upcoming conversation.

Finally Sherlock sighed quietly and broke the tense silence. "It all started when I was seven," he said. John still made no noise or motion, waiting for him to continue. "I was in the kitchen and dropped a glass on the floor so he slammed me up against the refrigerator. I figured it was a one-time thing, but it wasn't. He actually started hitting me a couple of days after that." Sherlock gazed past John out of the window, his voice functioning on automatic, devoid of emotion.

"It didn't take Beck too long to figure out what was going on; she was a better observer than I gave her credit for, I guess. She told me to go to the police. I ignored her."

"Why?" John asked quietly.

"He threatened me, of course- convinced me that no one cared what I had to say and if I tried to tell anyone he'd 'make me regret it'." Sherlock's robotic voice took on a bitter tone as he echoed his father's words from that day. John was starting to feel a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with breathing. "So I kept my mouth shut, just like he ordered me to. For a while afterward it seemed like he was done with it. Almost nothing happened until I was eight." Sherlock stood abruptly and wheeled around, staring out the sitting room window.

"That was the first time he ever got drunk that I know of," he continued emotionlessly. "I'd just figured out that he was having an affair behind my mother's back and when he insulted her I got angry. I told him what I knew and that he was the one causing the problems and… he didn't take it well, you could say. I ended up with a pair of fractured ribs and everyone thought I'd fallen on the stairs."

"Everyone except Beck," John said. It wasn't a question.

"She was there when it happened. I'd been home alone until she came over. We were talking about what to do when he came in and she hid under the bed. After he'd finished she drugged his water so he'd fall asleep and then stayed at my house to take care of me. It only got worse after that. My mother eventually figured out that her husband was sleeping with another woman and they got a divorce, but my mother left instead of my father; Mycroft had already headed off to university by then."

"I was on my own with him after that. After a while I'd gotten so used to him hitting me that I hardly even cared anymore, so when I was twelve he decided to stop giving me food if he thought I'd done something wrong." John kept silent (mostly because he really didn't trust anything that would come out of his mouth at this point) but he realized with a jolt that he had probably just heard the explanation for how Sherlock could go for days without eating on a case; he'd already had plenty of practice.

"I tried to run away once," Sherlock continued. The total lack of emotion in his voice somehow made his story that much more infuriating- it was like the narrator of a movie, not the voice of a man who'd lived through it. "I stayed at Beck's house overnight; I walked there on my own at three in the morning. I hadn't eaten for two days and I was just sick and tired of my father. But I had to go back after school the next day." Sherlock fell silent for a moment and John used that time to settle himself down a little- every muscle in his body was tensed not to get his gun and go after Robert himself. It didn't work too well.

"That was when he started to lock me in the basement. Usually it was only for a night or so, but sometimes it was over a day. And all the time I was out of the house, at school or with Beck, I still didn't say a single thing to anyone about what was going on. I was afraid of my father, and by then I was convinced that no one would listen to me even if I tried to tell them what he was doing to me."

"When I was thirteen Mycroft figured out something was wrong; he was visiting and I'd spilled water on my shirt and pulled it off to change. I forgot I was still bruised. He didn't realize who'd done it, though- I tried to stop him but he insisted on asking my father if he knew what had happened." Sherlock gave a short, harsh laugh. "He didn't realize that the answer to that question was sitting in the room with him. Suffice it to say that once he'd gone I felt the effects. A few new bruises and a day and a half in the basement, along with a nice cut on my arm. My father was gone by the time I realized it was still bleeding, so I walked over to Beck's house. Her father Richard gave me a ride to the hospital."

"He was the next to realize that something was wrong, and after that it didn't take him too long to figure out what was going on, even though I still wouldn't admit to it. He tried to convince me to tell the police but I wouldn't."

"Didn't he go to them, though?" John remembered somebody saying that once. Sherlock nodded robotically.

"He did, several times; they started out thinking he was overreacting and ended up thinking he was unhinged by the time he was done. He must have gone in there a dozen times to try and tell them the truth but they wouldn't listen."

And here I wondered why you had such a problem with the police, John thought to himself. All the pieces, all the things he'd wondered about ever since he met the detective, they were all coming together now. Every last one of them. And it made him want to track down Robert even more. He jolted out of his reverie when Sherlock spoke again.

"I never did figure out who told my father Richard had tried to report him- no one has ever been able to figure out who it was, not even Mycroft; but somebody did. That was the angriest I'd ever seen him get, when he got home that day. He dragged me outside and locked me in the shed overnight. I managed to break out before he came to get me and I wandered into the woods behind our house." He turned abruptly and faced John. "I decided I was going to throw myself in the river. Beck realized something was wrong when I didn't show up for school and came looking for me. She followed my footprints into the woods and swore that she'd jump in the river after me and drag me back out if I went through with it."

John remained motionless, both because he knew it was what the detective needed, and because his chest was so tight he could barely breath. "After that I lived with Beck and her family at their house- until their restationing notice came." Sherlock skipped back in time with a jolt, as though he still wasn't ready to talk about what had happened after that day even now. He spoke for hours, letting things out of his system that no one but Beck had ever known before that day while John continued to sit motionlessly, supporting his friend the best way he could. Even with his utterly detached voice, John knew him well enough to detect the pain lurking underneath, just below the surface, waiting to strike.

Finally Sherlock stopped talking, his story all but done- except for one thing. John didn't want to ask- more than anything he wanted to go take an hour or six to calm himself down- but he knew he had to. He had to know what had happened right up until the end. "What finally convinced you to send your father to prison? What happened after you knew Beck and her family were going back to Texas?" Sherlock wanted nothing more than to ignore him, but he knew he couldn't. He had to finish the story, no matter how hard it got to tell.

So he gathered his courage, faced his friend, and told him the worst part of all.