A six year old John puttered into the sitting room looking for his powerhouse of a sister. She promised to read to him. The telly was blaring some rerun western that his dad liked to watch. Where all the movies blurred into one endless stream of sepia toned men in Stetson hats with guns and shot glasses. Though his dad's armchair was empty, the permanent indent of the cushion sagging like a sad sloppy smile.

John's eyes fell on the bottle on his father's end table. It was the color of his westerns, the golden brown liquid pooling thick on the side of the glass. John had always been curious about the off limits drink. The ones that sat in the fridge next to the milk and the ones hidden in the cabinet with the bread. He imagined they tasted like honey. They looked like honey. But maybe not as sweet. Like honey cider. Honey for thickness. Dad's drink was as mysterious as those cartoon drinks all solidly colored and flat, which you were sure would taste better than anything real.

He was never told why it was off limits. But he assumed Dad just wanted it for himself. John had a few toys Harry wasn't allowed to play with and John wasn't allowed to touch anything in Harry's room. But Dad had so many bottles. It seemed silly not to share. John quickly looked around himself, making a complete circle to see if anyone had entered. He carefully picked up the cool glass and put it to his lips. One more peek over the rim for possible witnesses then he tipped the glass to take a large gulp.

It was terrible. The liquid burned down his throat making his eyes water and he chocked. It sputtered down his chin, drenching the front of his pajamas and smelled strong and thick to his already abused senses. And it still burned as he sputtered, the glass sliding out of his shocked fingers to shatter on the unforgiving wood.

Hands were there in a heartbeat grabbing him painfully by the upper arms and lifting him off the ground. A growling voice was pelting his eardrums but he couldn't hear what was being said passed the taste in his mouth and the tears in his eyes. Then someone was shaking him, loosening the tears to fall down his cheeks, bringing his father's bloodshot eyes into focus.

". . . DAMN IT, JOHN!" was all he caught before the hands tightened on his arms and he squeaked, earning himself another painful shake his neck whipping back to keep up with his body.

"Dad, it was an accident!" Harry's strong voice came from the door and John wanted nothing more than to run to her.

"Get back to bed." His voice was frighteningly calm now and John shivered.

"Let me take John with me." Harry reasoned. "So he doesn't get into any more trouble."

"He won't be causing any more trouble. I'll see to that." John looked into his father's eyes now. They were distant, far away. Like all the complexity of him disappeared into strange harsh emotions. John decided the drink wasn't a good thing. It did very scary, bad things.

"Please Dad! Let me put him to bed. We have school in the morning." He looked tired now, as if he didn't want to think through the implications of school. His hands loosened guiltily on John's arms until he let him go completely, dropping him with a hard thud. Glass cut into John's feet and the liquid soaked his bottom but he ignored it running to Harry and leaving a red smudged trail behind him.

He clung to her waist burying his face into the fabric of her shirt and felt her arms wrapped solidly around his back.

"Jesus Christ." His voice was back to his normal monotone as if nothing had just happened between the glass falling and now. "Clean this up before you go to bed." John could feel Harry nod as she dragged him out of the room and into her bedroom. They stood there quietly, Harry's hand petting John's liquor drenched shoulder as they listened to their father walking to grab another bottle from the kitchen, crunching through the glass and turning the volume up on his station.

John woke up exhausted. His eyes burned and he gritted his teeth in annoyance. He reached an arm out for Sherlock already knowing the man wasn't there. Sherlock had a habit of wrapping himself around John when they slept. Those limbs were sadly absent now. Too bad, it would have been a very welcome thing to wake up to this morning. He sighed, dragging his feet over the side of the bed and dropping them on the cold floor. They twinged with recounted memory and John pressed them further into the iced wood with a vengeance. He wondered absently how he ended up in bed but dismissed the thought. Sherlock knew John would follow him anywhere. The fact that he was able to coax him to bed asleep didn't surprise him in the slightest. His mouth twitched as he considered the possibility of Sherlock having carried him there. The image was amusing and he wouldn't put it past Sherlock's surprising chivalrousness.

The man in thought appeared in the door in the flesh. Holding two steaming mugs of John's favorite tea. It filled the previously empty, cold of the room with a bit of warmth and John found himself smiling up at his bed headed detective. Sherlock pressed the mug into John's hand and a kiss on the bruise on John's cheek sending a tingled shock up his face, before sliding onto the bed next to him. His long leg automatically twisting around John's own. Sometimes the doctor wondered how Sherlock went so long without a companion the man was absolutely dependant on intimacy. Though he was glad to be the only one to receive such attentions.

"You had a dream." Sherlock stated as the mug came up to his lips. John didn't bother to ask how he knew, though he thought he had covered it well enough.

"Yeah." Sherlock nodded, running his thumb lazily over the rim of the mug.

"What happened to your face?" He asked again. John sighed.

"What you can't deduce that one?" John tried to smother the bite in his voice. Shuddering when he heard his father's voice in his own. Sherlock's eyes were boring into him curiously.

"I have trouble staying impartial when it comes to you." Was Sherlock's matter of fact explanation. "And you know how I am about guessing."

John smiled, a sliver of pride creeping into his chest and he relaxed into Sherlock admittance speaking before he realized what he was saying. "Harry hit me with a vodka bottle." He found himself chuckling sadly. It did seem quite ridiculous. Sherlock was looking at him strangely. His eyebrow raised in question. "I made her mad." His chuckling died at Sherlock's continued frown. He realized suddenly what the Watsons must look like to Sherlock. All angry outbursts and violent absurd injuries. Screaming, sad, irrational people. John bristled at the thought, his cheeks flushing in shame before pushing himself off the side of the bed. Immediately missing Sherlock's warm presence at his side, the leg companionably by his own. His phone was ringing in his trouser pocket on the floor, a glorious distraction. His heart panged at the realization that Sherlock had taken off his jeans to make him more comfortable. He grabbed his phone from his pocket ignoring Sherlock's eyes burning into his flesh and totted down the stairs to answer it.