John sat in the cab with his head pressed against the cold, hard glass. It had begun to rain, the drops running quickly down the window. He had such a headache, the bloodied mop of curls on the small head burned into his mind for a lifetime. He looked down at his phone, the string of unanswered messages pulled up on the screen. He hesitated over the keyboard, his thumb swinging in circles, before finally typing.
'Sherlock, where are you?- JW'
The signature at the end was hardly necessary at this point, but it was a comforting habit for both of them. So much had changed since they first met, but the way they texted didn't. It was such a small part of their lives, but John had learned that the smallest things mattered to Sherlock. They gave him comfort.
John sighed, his message again remaining unanswered. He was worried beyond belief. Nothing had ever shaken Sherlock Holmes out of the mold that John had built for him. He was larger than life, the most brilliant man in the world. The touches of human suffering that he had seen in Sherlock these last two days frightened John more than any bullet, any bomb, any crazed murderer they had met.
The cab finally pulled up to 221B. John tossed a few bills at the cabbie and ran up the steps to the large front door. He unlocked and pushed the door slowly open before quietly ascending the stairs to his flat. There wasn't any light coming from the bottom of the door, making John's mind race with worry. If Sherlock wasn't home, where was he?
John opened the door to the darkened room and saw Sherlock standing at the window, staring out into the street below.
"Sherlock?" John said, as gently as he could.
"Hello, John," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
The hitch in his voice didn't go unnoticed by John, who struggled to keep himself together. He could sense that their world was cracking, beginning to break into unrecognizable pieces.
"I'm going to turn the light on now," he said, as calmly as he could. When did he decide he had to announce everything he was going to do? John felt like he was defusing a bomb, every move he made could set it off at any time.
"No, John, please," the strangled, deep voice said as it turned toward John.
Please. The word that barely crossed Sherlock's lips made John shudder every time he uttered it. Sherlock Holmes didn't ask, didn't beg.
"I have to see where I'm walking, love," John said, the tension in the air rising with every passing second. The bomb was about to go off.
John flipped the light on and was shocked by the flood of tears running down Sherlock's cheeks. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with red, his nose red from where he had been rubbing it.
They both stood silent for a moment, interjected with the soft sound of Sherlock sniffling. He made no attempt to wipe his face or staunch the flow of tears that kept pouring down. His lips were trembling as he tried desperately to keep from crying out.
"Sherlock, come, sit down on the sofa here," John stepped towards his love, his hands held out in front of him. Sherlock wordlessly nodded, reaching his right hand out to John. He took it, frowning at how cold it was. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock's hair was wet and his body was trembling ever so slightly.
"My God, Sherlock you're freezing, did you walk all the way home in this rain?" John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame. "Sit down and I'll get you some blankets." He managed to maneuver Sherlock onto the cushions, pulling his jacket off and draping it over the bony shoulders.
Whispered words stopped John in his tracks.
"I had to wash him off of me," Sherlock said, his eyes distant, looking into a past that he hadn't faced in so long.
"Who, Sherlock? Who hurt you?" John whispered back, sitting next to Sherlock and taking the freezing hand in his, rubbing his tanned thumb across the pale white skin.
He looked at John then, the pain behind the his eyes making his heart ache until he thought it was breaking in two.
"Can't tell," he said, his voice almost child-like, "he'll kill me, he'll kill me like Hunter."
Hunter. The little boy that had gone to school and played soccer, who had loved dinosaurs and had just started learning cursive. The little boy who came home every day to be beaten. The little boy with broken limbs and a crushed skull. The little boy who no one helped, no one saved.
Sherlock could have easily been Hunter. No one came to save him either. Not until John Watson.
"No, my love, you're safe, you're safe right here with me and I won't let anyone hurt you ever again, I promise you," John said, his hand brushing through swirls of inky curls.
"He'll find me, he always did," Sherlock said, his eyes darting about, his whole body trembling with fear. "He found me no matter where I hid."
"I won't let him find you, we'll hide together, in the farthest place we can find, the darkest hiding spot. I'll stay there with you as long as we need."
Sherlock at last looked at him properly, pools of tears shining in those ocean eyes. He gripped John's hand so tightly that John was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers.
"You promise?"
"I promise with everything I have, Sherlock. No one will hurt you. I will protect you from now on," John said, cupping Sherlock's cheek with his hand, brushing away the multitude of tears.
Sherlock studied him for a moment, his eyes locked onto John's. His breathing was growing rapid, more shallow. The panic in Sherlock was rising, he hadn't told anyone his secret for nearly 25 years. Now he was about to tell everything, to the soldier that would keep him out of harm's way. He licked his lips, his mouth had become exceedingly dry.
"My father," he said in a single breath before falling into John's arms, his anguished scream piercing the air, piercing John's heart.