Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed, a blanket wrapped around him, casts encasing his left arm and bandages everywhere.

"Welcome back to the land of the living" John whispered "You've been out for a while"

"Approximately three days"

"Yes- how did you-?"

"Your stubble. The furry feeling of my teeth"

"Yes Sherlock, three days. You were hit by the murderer. They caught him"

"Good" he winced as he tried to move his arms to a less agonising position

"You were right about everything. Just like always."

"Obviously"

"Why do you think he tried to kill you?"

"He wasn't trying to kill me, just make sure I wasn't around for a few days. He was planning more attacks. That means he knew who I was... A police man?"

"Yeah" John said, astonished at Sherlock and disgusted with the man. "He was a soldier too, before that. That kind of person makes me ashamed to have been one"

"I wouldn't worry about it, John. No one associates that with you lot."

"I know. But all the same"

"Yeah."

"Anyway. I wanted to ask you something, Sherlock."

"What?"

"It's... It's a bit tricky."

"Spit it out."

"When you were out, they had to do a bit of surgery, and I was watching from the observation room, and we saw something... Weird on your back."

Sherlock froze. No. No, he couldn't have seen.

"I-"

"Why does it say... That word? Who cut that into you? What the hell, Sherlock?" He was almost shouting by the end, angry both on his friend's behalf and at him, for not telling him about it.

"It's nothing, honestly. It was a very long time ago"

"I don't care if it happened last century! Who did it?"

"My father"

"Shit. And the lines? Did he hit you with some kind of stick?"

"Riding crop. But it doesn't matter, I swear! Who else saw?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John looked ready to explode "how can you be so calm about this? He carved the word Freak into your back! How can you think that doesn't matter?"

"I already knew it was there, that's why I'm not getting all stressed over it. Who else saw?"

"I don't know. A nurse. The surgeons. Lestrade"

"He already knew" Sherlock explained when John looked puzzled, "when I detoxed, a day or two after Mycroft gave up and left me to it, Lestrade showed up and helped me with the last few days of it. I spent most of the time sitting by the toilet half naked because I had a fever. Of course he's seen my back."

"And he thinks this is okay, same as you?"

"Not at first. He wanted me to report it, to get it into court. But I explained. It doesn't matter. Father isn't exactly going to come hurt me again. The courts have better problems to face than my twenty year old complaint"

"But... but this is horrific!"

"It really wasn't that bad"

"How can you possibly say that? You were... Abused, and you don't think it matters?"

"It was years ago"

"But it's a part of you, Sherlock. You've had to deal with stuff kids should never have to deal with. That must have made an impact on you"

"I expect so"

"I can't deal with this, with you not caring, with you not seeming to realise that what he did was wrong"

"It wasn't wrong" Sherlock said darkly, not looking at his friend. "I deserved it. I was irritating, weird. Everything he did, he did to make me more normal, stronger. I was bad, John, and he tried to fix me"

"No, no, you're wrong! You are not any of those things."

"Oh yeah? He's not exactly the only one who things that about me."

"Maybe not, but they're wrong too!"

"You want me to believe you over at least twenty people who knew me well who've called me a freak. Over my own family? Over myself?"

"Mycroft doesn't think you're a freak."

"Maybe not. But he's always been disappointed in me. All though school, he tried to teach me how to make friends. I didn't learn well. He's got an angry streak in him too, John, especially when he was a teenager."

"Oh God, he didn't hurt you too, did he?"

"Not nearly to the extent father did, but yes, one or two beatings were from him. He's seven years older than me. Father put him in charge when he was away. Besides, it's not like he knew any other way."

"That's as maybe, but it didn't give him the right to hurt you"

"It's all in the past John. I'm over it. He is too. Father has Alzheimer's and doesn't know my name anymore. It's all over. You're the only one making a big deal out of it."

"It deserves to be made a big deal of. You need to talk about it."

"I have talked about it. When I was taking drugs, Mycroft kidnapped me a fair few times and made me talk about everything. It doesn't help. It just drags up old memories."

"But it's good to talk. It helps you to let go."

"Haven't you been listening?" Sherlock almost shouted, a cruel backlash coming into his tone "I am over it. I have let it go. And if you'd stop yammering on about it, we could both move on into a better conversation. So shut it!" His breathing was fast and shallow, making his cracked ribs ache.

"Well" John said quietly, hurt "I think it's pretty obvious that you haven't moved on from it at all. I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock." John got up and walked away, closing the door behind him without another word. Sherlock's breathing was uneven. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd wrecked it. Just like he always did when it came to people. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.