A/N: I'm just going to preemptively say that if you don't want to read this you don't have to. It's the climax of the flashback story, so it's fairly important, but it's also very, very violent and contains a fair bit of bad language as well. That said, it was damn hard to write so if you do read it I'd really appreciate a review. Blatant little plug there...

MAJOR WARNING: As I said, this contains some, ah, creative language and serious violence directed at teenagers, so avoid this if either of those things will trigger you.

Richard looked over the note again. And then he did it again. And then he did it one last time, willing himself to just have read it wrong or had some strange kind of dream. No, not a dream; a nightmare. He couldn't pretend he hadn't known it was coming, but he had hoped to put it off as long as possible. He was being restationed. In one month, they were going back to Texas.

Let no one say that Richard Taylor was not an opinionated man- when he made a decision, he stuck to it come hell or high water, and he was good at making decisions. But right now he just didn't know what to do, and that was not a comfortable position to be in. He leaned back against the car, calming himself down, and then entered the house. Beck's little brother was still at school, his wife was working on something in the kitchen, and Sherlock and Beck were sitting on the living room floor with a knife, a board, and a pair of very determined looks.

"O-kay, whatever you're doing there, stop it now or go on the back porch." As he had expected, they scurried for the back porch. "Just a second-" they stopped and looked at him. "Sherlock, I need to speak to you. Let's go outside." They made their way out to the front yard with Beck looking behind them worriedly.

Sherlock had already seen the envelope in Richard's hand; all he needed now was the final confirmation. Wordlessly, Richard gave him the letter to read for himself. The boy had become good at disguising his emotions- too good for Richard's taste, truth be told- but the worry was visible on his face as he handed the letter back.

"I wish you didn't have to leave," he finally confessed.

"I wish I didn't have to either, but it's what I signed up for when I joined the military and I don't have a choice," he replied quietly.

"Where am I going to go? I don't want to go back to my house."

"Don't you have a brother wanderin' around somewhere in the city? You could go live with him." Sherlock's laugh was a combination of bitter and disdainful.

"He's probably far too busy trying to run the country to care about me," he responded coldly. "Mycroft has always had very high aspirations."

"It's worth a shot to at least try," Richard told him. "He's your brother, Sherlock, and I guarantee you he cares about you; just like Beck does." Sherlock was confused at the comparison.

"But… Beck's not my sister, though."

"Not technically, but you two haven't seen a day without each other for nine years. Just because there's no genetics doesn't mean she ain't your family. Just because there's no genetics doesn't mean I can't count you as my son, either." Now Sherlock was extremely confused.

"You think I'm your son?" Richard shrugged.

"Why not? I've done more raisin' of you than anyone else has; not to add on the fact that you've been living in my house for about a year now. I'd like to think I outstrip your bastard of a father by a fair piece." He was right, of course- he was more of a father to Sherlock than Robert had ever been and, to put it lightly, a far, far better role model. But, despite all that, he had no legal say in what would happen to Sherlock after he was restationed. He couldn't exactly take someone else's kid and skip the country, even if it would have been better than the alternative.

"I have to go back, don't I? Back to my house." Sherlock finally said what they were both thinking. There was nothing else they could do- except for one possible option.

"Go to the cops; you have to. That's only way to get rid of him for good." Sherlock's face darkened and he scowled off into the distance.

"It wouldn't work; you've been trying to go to them for years and they've been ignoring you. Why should they listen to me?"

"Why should they not?" He and Richard had had this conversation before, but this time the older man was determined to come out on top.

"Because the one who has the money makes the rules- and my father's got the money. He's too 'important to the community' to dare messing with." Richard sighed, knowing that he had a long debate ahead of him. He glanced slightly over his shoulder.

"How long have you been standing back there, Rebecca?"

"Since y'all started talking," she answered quietly, walking around the car to join them.

"Then you've heard the lot?" She nodded slightly. She rubbed her face tiredly and turned to Sherlock.

"I agree with dad- you need to go to the cops. If you don't I will and if they don't listen to me then I'll send mom in to tell 'em they're wrong. And if that doesn't work than I'll tell every single person I come across in the town just to get the word around. You need to stop letting him control your life; you've been doing that for too long. Time for you to take back what's your own." The tone of her voice left nobody in doubt that she would carry out every single word of her declaration no matter what.

"What if they don't believe me?" Sherlock said quietly.

"Then we'll sleep in the gat-dang office 'til they do," Beck replied. "You're going someplace safe once we leave." Sherlock sighed, defenses finally down.

"Okay, I'll try and get them to believe me." Those were the words Beck and her father had been hoping to hear for years now. She smiled gently at him, relieved.

"I'll drive you down there tomorrow," her father intoned. "It'd be best if I didn't join you; most of those fellows know me by now." His reason needed no elaboration. He wasn't to know it (although he did, of course) but his nickname down at the police station was 'the crazy Texan'. He was quite proud of the moniker. "I have to be at the flight line at noon, so you'll have to walk back unless your mother can pick you up."

"I'll walk; need to blow off some steam anyhow," Beck replied. Sherlock nodded his agreement; hopefully he would be at the police station and Beck would walk back on her own, but right about now none of them were trusting in hope too much. There was really nothing more to discuss- at least nothing they were willing to discuss at the moment. They knew there was a long day ahead of them. But none of them could have known just how long and terrible that day was going to be.

No one in the house, with the possible exception of Beck's younger brother (who was too little to understand what was going on), slept very well that night. The morning was just as tense. Richard kissed his wife and son goodbye and then loaded the older kids into the car. They reached the local police station just after eleven thirty. Sherlock and Beck got out and Richard followed, suddenly grasping them both in a tight one-armed hug.

"Be careful," he muttered into their ears. "Be safe." He released them. "I'm gonna call the house at two; try and be back by then, but if you're not I'll call the cop shop just to be sure. I love you both." He turned on his heel and took his place at the driver's seat, pulling off and heading in the direction of the Air Force Base. Sherlock and Beck turned to face each other.

"This is it, then," Beck remarked. She reached over and took Sherlock's hand in her own. Together the two sixteen-year-olds pushed open the door and entered the station.

The conversation was a disaster; Beck had been praying that Sherlock would be wrong and that the police would listen, but as usual he was correct. The moment she opened her mouth the officer they were speaking to recognized her.

"You're the crazy Texan's daughter, aren't you?" She scowled ferociously at him.

"No, I am the crazy Texan's crazy Texan daughter. Get your facts straight. That has nothing to do with why I'm here; you've been ignoring dad, you can ignore me all you want, but you can't ignore him." She gestured at Sherlock, who was gazing off into the distance, lost in his thoughts. The officer remained skeptical.

"If this has been going on for so long, why didn't he come to us sooner?" Beck gaped at him.

"Are you fucking kidding me? We come in here and that load's your first question?" She was going to continue, but Sherlock snapped up out of his reverie.

"Believe it or not, when someone threatens to murder you, it tends to put you off the idea of disobeying them," he responded sharply. Between the officer's attitude and their belligerence, the conversation stalled to a halt and they were told to leave. Beck was fuming.

"Damn it," she shouted as soon as there was an empty street. Sherlock was paler than normal and he turned to face her.

"You know what this means; I've got no choice now. I have to go back."

"Like hell you do!" she retorted, but inside she knew he was right. Their last possibility had been exhausted. She sighed deeply and shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "Let's just head back to the house; we'll figure out something." Unfortunately, the figuring had already been done for them. They were just outside of town and completely alone when Sherlock's spine tingled. Some gut feeling was telling him to be on high guard, and soon he knew why. There was a car approaching them- his father's car.

"Beck," he warned her in a low voice. She barely glanced over her shoulder.

"Shit," she muttered quietly. "Has he seen us?"

"I doubt he hasn't," Sherlock responded. "He's going to take us, you know."

"Yeah, I know; and there ain't a path to get away from him, is there?" It was a rhetorical question. They both knew what was coming. In that moment, Beck made a decision. "If I'm gonna lose a fight, I'm gonna lose it facing my enemy." She stopped where she was in the road and made a one-eighty turn to face the approaching car. Sherlock turned with her, back ramrod straight; he was done being afraid. Like Beck had told him, it was time to take back his own life, and he was starting now, regardless of what came next. Beck reached out surreptitiously and threaded her fingers through Sherlock's as the car came to a stop.

"Well, it looks like I've gotten two for one, haven't I?" his father said. Beck snarled upon hearing Robert's voice.

"Well, ain't it your lucky day, you bastard," she growled back.

"Get in the car," he replied coldly, not bothering with a retort. They had no choice but to obey him. Beck snuck a glance at her watch as she got into the car- it wasn't even noon yet. No one would notice their disappearance for over two hours at the earliest. Both teens kept their hands connected all the way back to Robert's house. They were gestured to get out of the car and he trailed them into the house, leaving them no opportunity to escape or call for help. Hands still linked, they were shepherded into the sitting room and placed in the middle. Neither of them was inclined to break the silence so finally their captor took it upon himself.

"You two have caused me a lot of trouble, you know that?"

"Oh, please do let me apologize," Beck responded with an almost painful level of sarcasm. "Why have you taken us, you son of a bitch?" He swept over to her and grabbed her by the collar, lifting her a couple of inches off the seat.

"If you know what's good for you, you won't speak to me that way anymore," he growled, but Beck was unimpressed.

"I'll speak to you however the hell I want." Suddenly, without warning, he swung back around to face her and backhanded her. She'd known it was coming the moment she opened her mouth, so she was able to control her reaction enough not to cry out or flinch. Still, the force of the blow made her lurch sideways. Sherlock looked furious, enough that he began to stand, but Beck placed a restraining hand on his chest.

"Don't," she told him quietly. "It's me he wants anyway, not you." She turned to face Robert. "I know you came there to get me; let him go. Please." It was a futile request but she had to try.

"Do you really think I would be so stupid that I would just let that boy walk out of here?" Robert scoffed. "I'll get to him later; I'm going to deal with you now."

"What's your plan?" she asked abruptly. "Were you just figuring you could beat the shit out of a couple kids and then mosey on your merry way? I'm starting to wonder if you thought this through." She was rewarded for that comment by another sharp hit. She ignored the pain and tried to reason with him.

"People are gonna notice we're gone eventually; they'll know it was you. Unless of course you were planning to skip town; so if that's the case, then I'll tell you what, I'll cut you a deal." Robert arched his eyebrows and turned to face her. Her heart was racing as she continued. "Don't do anything to Sherlock and I'll go with you."

"No!" Sherlock yelled. "I'm not going to let that happen!" Robert slapped him.

"Shut up, boy," he snarled. "And how should I think that he won't just go straight to the police when we've left?"

"The police are gonna be on their way in under two hours no matter what," she responded. "And I know you ain't gonna let us both out of here unharmed. I'm the one that's been throwing the monkey wrench in all your plans for the last nine years anyways. Leave Sherlock alone and I won't fight you." Beck was holding onto Sherlock's hand so tightly her fingers where going to leave a mark by the time she let go.

"No deal," Robert responded. "Both of you have been far too much trouble for far too long a time." He reached down and seized his son by the shirtfront, pulling him over to the closet in the corner. He forced the boy into it and locked it from the outside. Beck could hear him pounding on the door, trying to get out, but Robert's next words were ringing in her ears. "I'm going to get my revenge before I go. And I'm starting with you."

Her insides were roiling, but Beck rose to meet him. Face your enemy standing tall and straight-backed, her father had always told her, 'cause that's the way we do it in the South; and so she did, refusing to let even a trace of fear flicker through her eyes.

She fought back against every blow, but he was bigger and stronger and had more experience than she did. The first one that slipped through her defenses was a kick to the back of the knee. She winced and lost her balance as it buckled under her from the impact and after that she was fighting a losing battle. Slowly but surely more and more blows made their way through. Finally she realized that she was doing herself more harm than good trying to defend herself from him.

Her defense was finally destroyed for good when she struck up against the wall, snapping her head backwards and disorientating her. Robert grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down against the hard, wooden floor; she yelled with pain as her head struck against it but she forced herself into a standing position. She was not going to go down without one hell of a struggle. There was blood coming from her nose; she could feel it running down her face and she spat some out onto the floor from where it had run into her mouth.

"You don't know when to quit, do you?" Robert sneered. She shrugged.

"Stupidity will take you far in life, but of course you already know that don't you?" He roared and backhanded her, sending her crashing into the coffee table and gasping for breath. He pulled her up by the shirtfront and yanked her over to the closet. He twisted the lock and opened the door, pulling Sherlock out with one hand and forcing Beck in with the other.

"Run, Sherlock!" she screamed the moment Robert's hand had let go of him. He bolted, heading for the front door, but Robert had locked it behind him after he entered. By the time Sherlock had gotten it unlocked, Robert had already forced Beck into the closet and caught up with him.

"Oh, no, you don't," he growled. Sherlock struck first, punching his father clean in the face and pulling away from him. He darted back to the closet, trying to let Beck out before his father caught up to him; he'd gotten the key halfway turned in the lock before he was forced to run again. He dodged around Robert and took the stairs two at a time. He attempted to lock himself in the bathroom but was unsuccessful- Robert forced open the door and pulled him out onto the landing.

"I'll finish off your friend and then take care of you," he snarled. Sherlock pulled away as hard as he could; father and son jerked backwards toward the stairs. Sherlock pulled again and they both stumbled backwards off the top step. Robert managed to catch himself on the banister but Sherlock wasn't so lucky, curling himself into a ball as he tumbled to the bottom. He was conscious when he landed, but it didn't last long- he sprawled limply at the bottom and slipped into blackness…

Beck wasn't a screamer; she never had been. But she was screaming in the closet, pounding against the rough wooden door until her hands were raw. She heard Sherlock yell as he toppled to the bottom of the stairs, and she pounded even harder. She knew he'd gotten the key almost out before he'd had to run again; she kicked at the lock, trying to dislodge it. Hell, she would've settled for breaking it all the way off the door if that was what it took to get out.

She could hear the key rattling as it slipped closer and closer to falling out. She turned herself sideways, using her left shoulder as a battering ram to force it open. Something finally cracked in the door, but simultaneously she felt like something cracked in her shoulder as well. She toppled forward as the closet door flew open, catching herself on her good hand.

For some reason when she landed she automatically glanced at her watch; they'd been there for nearly a half an hour. For the first time since they'd gotten there, she was discouraged. It was almost an hour and a half before her dad would realize the kids were missing. She had to face up to the possibility that she and Sherlock could very well be dead by that time. The thought of not only her but Sherlock dying at sixteen was hard to process, if not impossible.

She was exhausted. There was no other way to describe it. She couldn't go on any longer, but she knew she had to. She had to keep fighting right down to the very end, unless they got some sort of miracle within that time. And a miracle seemed to be a long way off…

You wouldn't think that anyone could find the undercarriage of a C-130 to be a boring thing, but Richard Taylor had been working on them for a long time, to say the least; you could have blindfolded him and duct taped his hands together and he could still find and repair the problem in twenty minutes or less. So yes, he did find the undercarriage of a C-130 to be a boring thing, but there was more to it than that. He was worried, deeply worried, and he could hardly wait for two o' clock to come. Finally, once he'd repaired the issue (in less than twenty minutes) he stood up, wiped the grease off his hands, and went over to the phone. He couldn't wait any longer.

The first place he dialed was his home, but a quick check with his wife confirmed that they hadn't arrived back yet. Next he rang the police station. "Hi, my name's Richard Taylor; my daughter's there trying to make a statement. I'd like to speak to her please."

"Just a moment sir, I'll check with the Inspector," answered the secretary on the other end of the line. She returned a few moments later. "The Inspector's told me they left."

"When?" Richard was starting to get concerned, a bad feeling kicking up in his gut.

"Almost half an hour ago," she responded. "Apparently she and her friend were very upset." Richard slammed the phone down without answering or saying good-bye. Now he was really concerned. It was no more than a fifteen or twenty minute walk back to the house from the police station. They should have been there already- but they weren't. And that was a very bad thing.

He knew where they'd gone, or rather, where they'd been taken. There was only one place it could possibly have been. He was going to find them; and then he was going to kick that bastard's ass like he should have years ago.

"Randy!" he hollered across the hangar. "I've gotta go off base; emergency. Cover for me."

"What's wrong, boss?" the man called back.

"No time to explain. My children are in danger." He was already running, so focused he didn't even realize he'd said 'children' instead of 'child'. He shot through the door and pounded to his car, barely taking time to throw on his seat belt before driving away. It was no more than a ten minute drive to Sherlock's house, but he almost managed to cut a quarter off of it. He barely paused to turn his car off before he shot toward the house; the front door was hanging an inch or two open and he shoved through it.

His first sight was of Sherlock, still lying unconscious at the base of the stairs. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" he said quietly. Apart from a nasty cut (and probable concussion) to the back of the head, he seemed otherwise unharmed. He stood up straight, rage coursing through him.

"Robert, you bastard! Where are you? Come on out and fight me like a man, why don't you, coward?" he roared as loudly as he could. The house was still and silent- and that only made him feel worse about the situation than he did already. "So that's it, then?" he shouted to the empty hallway. "You're just gonna beat up your child and then hide from somebody your own damn size?"

Suddenly there was a muffled thump from the hallway leading off to the right, and then the sound of a girl- his heart nearly stopped when he realized it was his daughter- screaming "We're in here, dad!" He ran toward the sound of her voice, pulling out his ever-present knife and flipping it open, and was met with a sight that nearly killed him right there.

"Let her go," he growled. "Let her go or I'll finish you off in your own damn house." Robert was standing against the back wall at the end of the hallway, Beck in front of him- and he had a knife to her throat.

"Now, I wonder if you really have the guts to go through with that," Robert taunted him.

"What, you mean like you have the guts to beat my child and throw your son down the stairs? Is that what you call guts?" Richard snarled back. "'Cause if that's what you think than I'm in short supply- but I am absolutely willing to kill you if you try to kill my child."

"Oh, but I don't think he knows just how stupid that would be, dad," Beck told her father lightly, joining the conversation. Then, she addressed Robert. "You do realize that if you kill either me or Sherlock, somebody somewhere on the Air Force Base is gonna make sure you end up at room temperature before you got a chance to get to trial." The statement was nothing but a cover; she had a plan- and a knife- of her own, and now she was going to put it into action. Before either man could react, she flipped open her pocket knife and held it up against Robert's wrist, moving lightning-fast.

"You try and kill me now and you'll try and kill yourself too, asshole. Got you in a pickle, haven't I?" Her voice was both gloating and deadly serious. At the other end of the hall, her father gave a grim smile.

"Sucks when you try to kill somebody and they fight back, doesn't it?" he asked sarcastically, still coursing with fury. "Now how about you put your knife down and lose honestly?" He'd finally goaded Robert into taking him up on that offer. With an incoherent yell, he shoved Beck sideways, leaving a small but painless cut near her collarbone, dropped his knife, and charged the Texan.

The two men collided like a pile of bricks; Robert was a very experienced fighter, and slightly larger than Richard, but Richard was fighting off of pure anger, and besides, you didn't get through Basic without picking up some things that stuck with you. It almost wasn't even a contest; Robert landed one hit to the side of Richard's head (leaving him with a shallow but bleeding cut) and then Richard landed a punch solidly on Robert's nose, followed by a quick head butt, and then scythed his feet out from under him, sending the other man crashing to the ground. Robert groaned as the air swept out of him like a punctured balloon, but Richard wasn't finished.

He pulled Robert up bodily by the front of his shirt and gave the other man the strongest shove he could put out, sending him reeling backwards and colliding hard with the wall, where he finally went down for the count. Richard bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Beck had finally picked herself up and stumbled to the end of the hallway. Sherlock was finally, slowly, beginning to stir from his fall down the stairs, groaning slightly.

Richard stood up straight and pulled his daughter into a hug, resting his chin on the top of her head and rubbing her back. "It's okay," he murmured as she started crying into his chest. He heard sirens wailing their way up to the house. "About damn time," he muttered to himself. Beck pulled away from him and ran over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, wake up. Please wake up," she whispered to him as he shifted slightly. The paramedics hurried in, closely followed by the police, and they carefully rolled Sherlock over and lifted him onto a stretcher. Beck felt strangely numb as she watched them leave and she jerked wildly as one of the paramedics rested a hand on her arm.

"It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you," the man assured her quickly, lifting his hands in the air. "I need to take you to the hospital, that's all. Can you get onto a stretcher for me?" Reluctantly, slowly, she complied and was wheeled out to the ambulance.

"Where's my dad?" she asked quietly, looking around for Richard.

"I'm right here," he answered, hopping up into the ambulance beside her and taking her hand. The paramedic shut the doors and they were off, close behind Sherlock's ambulance, heading to the hospital. Beck began to relax infinitesimally as they drew closer.

The fight was over; it was really over. She repeated that thought in her head on a loop until she finally succumbed to the sedative one of the paramedics had administered and fell into sleep.