Sherlock felt horribly uncomfortable, sitting on a blue plastic chair in the bright waiting room of a mental health clinic just outside of London. He had tucked his feet underneath his thighs so he was perched on the chair, his back ramrod straight.

"Sherlock Holmes?" A woman with short brown hair and grey eyes peered around the door. He stood up, assessing her. She was going though a messy divorce, involving at least three children and a ginger cat. She was shy, but eager to help. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Just what he needed, an eager beaver. "Hi, I'm Dr. Annie Stewart. You can call me Annie"

"Okay" Sherlock murmured. They walked in silence down a hospital corridor. It was not well lit, and Annie turned on a light on the way.

"We don't usually use these rooms, but your brother said we had to fit you in somewhere." She said brightly.

"Great." He growled. They stopped at room nine, and Annie unlocked it. It was a children's assessment room, full of puppets, dolls houses and brightly coloured toy cars. Sherlock slumped down on a blue bean bag, looking like an overly large spider with his long legs.

"So, Sherlock, why are you here today?"

"My best friend said he'd never come back if I didn't come."

"Why does he think you need to see someone?"

"Because he found out my father abused me."

"Have you ever spoken about this to a professional?"

"No. I spent a year in a mental health institution when I was fifteen, but I didn't say a word to anyone. They gave up and sent me home."

"Oh. Tell me about your father, Sherlock."

"He was an investment banker. Rich, powerful, clever. Good taste in literature, bad taste in music. Never wanted children. Wife died when his youngest was five. Alcohol issues. Anger management issues. Took it out on his sons."

"You seem very detached from that. Are you the youngest?"

"Yes."

"So your mother died when you were five?"

"Yes."

"That must have been hard for you and your brother."

"It was harder for Mycroft. He was twelve. I think father had already started picking on him. He locked himself in his room for two weeks and didn't come out to eat or anything."

"And your father?"

"He drank. A lot. He was angry. Especially at me. It was my fault, you see. I killed her."

"Oh. I'm sure you didn't-"

"I was singing, in the car. She joined in, and father got cross and yelled at us to stop, but we carried on. So he reached around to hit me, and swerved the car into a concrete wall. She died the next day."

"That wasn't your fault. He shouldn't have taken his eyes off the road, and he shouldn't have tried to hit you."

"If I'd stopped when he told me to, she would still be alive. You can't say anything to change that."

"Sherlock, I think you're being harsh on yourself. You were very young, and if he told you that often enough, it will have made an impact. But you have to try to tell yourself that it wasn't your fault. Start off by thinking about what others in the car were doing wrong, not just you."

"I want to change the subject now." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Okay. What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't know."

"Can you tell me about your brother?"

"Okay. Mycroft Holmes is the British government. He runs everything. You just don't see him. He was Mummy's favourite. He's seven years older than me. I don't think he wanted a brother. But he quite likes me, I think. Father left him in charge a lot when he went away on business. He used to get angry with me when I didn't do as he said. He'd hurt me sometimes. I don't know why I'm telling you all of this."

"Because you want your friend back. And you want to feel better."

"What about the rest? Aren't you going to psychoanalyse that lot?"

"Yes, give me a minute. You said that Mycroft hurt you like your father did. How bad did each one get. Start with your brother."

"When father left him in charge, he would get really obsessive about everything. About keeping the house tidy, and sticking to the routine."

"Perhaps he was worried about the physical consequences that would come down on him if he failed to keep everything as your father wanted it?"

"Maybe. I didn't want to stay the way we were when he was at home. I wanted freedom. But Mycroft didn't want me to have it. I was a difficult kid, you have to understand that. He didn't mean to be like father."

"I understand"

'If I did something wrong, he'd get really angry, and sometimes he'd hit me. One time, when father was away for a month during the summer holiday when I was seven, he locked me in the cupboard during the days so I wouldn't break anything, and locked my door at night so I wouldn't steal any food."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"He never really hurt me though. And it was a long time ago. We get along fine now. Well... Pretty much anyway."

"What was the worst injury he caused?"

"Only a broken finger. I set it myself, and it's perfect."

"He didn't take you to hospital?"

"We only ever went if there was a serious danger of one of us dying."

"How many times did you go?"

"I don't know. Seventeen?"

"Seventeen? Before you turned sixteen?"

"Yes."

"And you only went if you might die?"

"Yes. Most times it was severe blood loss, once or twice nasty concussions. Once when father drowned me in the bath, and once when... when he cut me. But I don't want to talk about that. Not yet."

"Okay. That's fine. You've told me about your brother. I'm assuming that your father was worse?"

"Yes. Much worse. On the physical side, he was worst just after Mummy died when I was five, and after Mycroft left for university when I was eleven. At those points, I had to go to hospital a lot of times. I have scars. He liked to use food against me. When I was a kid, he'd lock me in the cupboard for days and not give me any food, and then he'd force feed me everything in the house, until I was sick. Sometimes he made me eat that too. A lot of days in my adolescence I wasn't given any food. I looked half starved when I was fourteen. I was."

"Who, out of you and your brother, would you say had it worst from your father?"

"I don't know. I guess it was pretty equal. He got it before I was born and until Mummy died mainly, so until he was eleven. Then he went to boarding school, and I was stuck there on my own. So I had it really rough between the ages of five and sixteen."

"What happened when you were sixteen?"

"I left."

"What did you do when you left? Did you stay with Mycroft?"

"No!" Sherlock smirked "he was off on top secret missions interrogating terrorists and getting deliberately captured as a POW because he spoke their language. I lived rough."

"How long were you homeless for?"

"Until I was twenty one and I joined the police as a consulting detective."

"So you lived on the streets for five years. This may be an inappropriate question, but did you get involved in drugs?"

"Yes. But that was before I ran away."

"What drugs? Sometimes a patient's drug of choice tells us a lot about them."

"Cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, mainly. Heroin was my favourite. Took the edge off everything." Sherlock rubbed his track marked arm subconsciously. Annie took note.

"And how did you stop?"

"When I met Lestrade, the police guy, he said I couldn't work with them unless I was clean. I wanted the puzzle more than the drugs. So I stopped."

"Just like that? Someone who has been on drugs for five years would need to detox. That can be a horrible experience."

"Mycroft was there for a while. He was disappointed that I hadn't made something of myself. He gave up after a few days. Lestrade took over. He was better. He didn't judge me."

"You've done excellently, Sherlock, but I'm afraid that's the end of our hour. I'd really like to see you next week, if you're free?"

"I-I think so. Tuesday at three?"

"Yes. Okay, I'll see you then. Bye."

"Good bye" Sherlock said, leaving the room. He made his way back outside quickly, a suddenly overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia coming over him. He leaned against a wall, running his uninjured hand through his thick curly hair. He'd just spilled his guts to a total stranger. Why had he done that? Moron. He felt the sting of nervous sweat under his arm. Father had always threatened bad things... Painful things... If he told. But he was grown up now. Father was old. 'He doesn't even know who you are anymore' Sherlock reminded himself. And he'd dropped Mycroft in it too. What if he got into trouble? He'd not meant to get his brother in trouble. Sherlock got out his phone and dialled speed dial one. Mycroft.

"Hello?"

"Croft, I saw the shrink."

"And what did she say?"

"She thinks I should come again."

"How much did you tell her?"

"The bones of everything."

"Even... even about me?" The usually strong, commanding voice sounded childlike, pitiful, almost scared. Ashamed.

"Yes. I'm sorry"

"No, baby brother. I'm sorry. You tell her anything you want, Lock. I don't mind. As long as it makes you feel better." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock's hand twisted tighter around the phone.

"I... Would you ring John for me?" He said quietly. "Please?"

"I already did. He's on the train back to London. He should be back around the same time as you, if you get in the car that's about to pull over behind you." At that word, a black Volvo slid into the driveway of the mental health clinic. Sherlock smiled slightly. Slick. "I'll see you soon, little brother."