Sherlock

"Tell me about your past." That's the third time today John's asked me to share. Each time it's accompanied by him sharing something from his past. I shake my head,

"You don't want to hear about it John."

"Yes I do." He's smiling. He must think that it was brilliant to be me as a kid. It really isn't. I grew up in a messed up family. One he probably doesn't want to hear. Why he keeps asking me is lost on me. I study his face, he is genuinely eager. He actually wants to know. I really don't feel in the mood for sympathy. I could just make something up. What's the point of that though, he always knows when I'm lying.

"You are serious about this aren't you?"

He nods, "I'm not going to drop it either. Tell me about what you did when you were sixteen." I sigh. So not worth it. Don't want to share anything right now. Why does John feel the need to go all girl on me? It's not polite in the least. Why can't people just think? John nudges me, as if to coax me into telling a story. I blink hard before saying something I know I'll regret.

"At sixteen, I ran away from home." John looks at me,

"You did?"

"Life was Hell back then." He snorts. He obviously doesn't understand.

"What made it so bad?"

"First of all, Mycroft left." His jaw drops,

"I thought you hated him."

"I do. But it wasn't always like that."

"It wasn't?"

"Obviously."

"Will you tell me that story?" I study his face, he's curious. Of course he is.

"It's not pleasant."

"I don't care."

"I want no pity." He nods. I sit back and think a moment, reminiscing.

"SHIT!" I cry out as I try to regain my footing, almost in vain. I glance over my shoulder before walking as quickly as I dared down the street, careful of the ice. A shout. I turn only to see Mycroft go flying across the ice. I don't have time to react, he comes straight for me, knocking my legs out from under me. I fall with a loud crack on the ice, hitting my nose and feeling a crunch. Warm blood oozes from my nose and down my face, I can taste it on my lips, see it turning orange on the ice. "SHIT MYCROFT! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I shout as I again try to find my footing on the slick, smooth surface. Furiously I wipe at my nose, there is going to be a bruise tomorrow morning, at least it's not broken. Mycroft falls back against the ice, going limp, his eyes are closed, something is wrong, something isn't right. Blood still flowing from my nose I slide over to him, he doesn't wake when I shake him, he's hit his head. Oh God. There's a bruise, blood. Shit. I pull him onto my lap before checking his pulse, faint, but there. Oh God. Oh God. Someone, anyone, help me! "ANYONE? HELP!" I call out, my voice shaking and rebounding against the houses. I lean over him and start to talk to him, even though I know he can't hear me, "Mycroft, oh God. Mycroft, you have to wake up now. You can't just... No you can't just die right here." I can feel his blood soaking through my pant leg, "Mycroft, oh God. Shit. We're going to get you some help, somewhere. Oh God. This is all my fault, if I hadn't pissed you off you wouldn't have been chasing me out of the house. Oh God. What if you can never forgive me? What if you're going to be different forever. Oh God," I raise my head and call out again, "SOMEONE! COME HELP ME HERE!" Tears are falling down my cheeks, mixing with my blood. I wipe my nose again before succumbing to the noisy sobs that I swore no one would ever witness. "Oh God." I moaned, feeling like if he died right now it would be all my fault, I would have killed the only person who cared about me right now. Mummy would never forgive me. I had worked so hard to put any feeling, any form of caring for anyone, away, in a box, out of sight forever. Now when something like this happens they feel the need to come out and make me look and feel like a fool. I wipe my eyes before sticking my hand in my jacket pocket to get my phone I steady my voice before dialing nine-nine-nine. The ambulance arrives ten minutes later and ask for details that I am unwilling to give. I stand up as they take my brother to the hospital and I go into the house. I pack a couple of bags and leave a note to Mycroft telling him where I've gone. Letting him know how sorry I am for getting him hurt and how I don't feel like it's safe anymore for me to be around him. I leave and start to look for somewhere to live when my phone buzzes,

I'm sorry Sherlock.

MH

I sigh, of course, after only a couple hours after I leave he wants me back, typical,

I know.

SH

Come home?

MH

Sorry brother.

I can't.

SH

What are you going to do?

MH

I'll think of something.

SH

I never want to see his face again.

Okay. I think I know how I want to tell this story. He leans forward,

"Have you decided?" I nod. "Begin."

"When I was younger I used to live with my brother. Granted, I never actually liked him, tolerated him maybe, but we never really got on well. Anyway, I lived with him until I could get my life back in order. One day I managed to piss him off pretty badly. It was icy out, the pavement was cased in it. Mycroft was chasing me around the house, trying to get back at me for resetting all his clocks. I ran out the front door and nearly slid into the road. Anyone would. Mycroft was no exception. Except he knocked me down as he shot out of the house, hit his head pretty bad. I think he might have died."

"And you don't like him because of that?"

"When I was sixteen Mycroft went to University. Left me at home with mum and dad."

"Well that doesn't sound too bad." I raise an eyebrow. Obviously he wants to know more. Might as well, since I'm already sharing.

"Mum and dad fought all the time. Sometimes I thought that was why Mycroft left. Maybe it was. Father was abusive. Until the day he died there wasn't a time I didn't come out of the house without a new bruise. Mother didn't understand, and I didn't want to tell her, it would only worry her. So I put up with the beatings, the fighting, the backhanding until I ran away. I couldn't handle a dysfunctional family any more. I went to Uni after that. That's how I met Sebastian." John is quiet, he hasn't moved since I spilled the beans on my dad. Obviously he's feeling pity, even though he promised. "Mycroft payed my way through college, not that I was too happy about it, but I was grateful enough until the headmaster was stupid enough to kick me out." John still hasn't said anything. I hope I'm not upsetting him too much. "He thought I set the lab on fire, which I didn't, I'll have you know. Worst Christmas I ever had was the one where Mycroft forced me to get clean. If I didn't manage, he was going to throw me into the streets. I wouldn't put it past him to do that."

The Hospital

Sherlock Age: 17

Father is ill. He's dying I think. Not that I mind too much, but still. I don't think anyone is too happy when their parents die. Mum has been at his bedside for hours, holding his hand. After all the horrible things he's said to her, she still loves him. I still haven't shown her the bruises, I don't think she'd listen if I told her anyway. No. She loves him too much. His eyelids flutter and he mumbles quietly. Mum leans closer, trying to listen.

"Sherlock, he wants you." I want to run and hide. I can't do this. Not right now. I go to stand by his bedside, even though I do it grudgingly.

"Sherlock?" my father whispers, in a broken, hurt, guilty tone.

"Yes father." He smiles a little,

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"I'm dying."

"I know."

"Even though I was awful to you, I still love you."

"No you don't." I've heard enough. I turn and start to leave, but he grasps my arm, it's so frail, so fragile, so breakable. Not like my father at all. I turn to look at him,

"I do love you. Even if you don't want to admit it." He's wanting me to tell mother. He wants to come clean. He knows he only has hours left. Oh God. Maybe I did misjudge him. Is it possible? He pulls on the buttons of my shirt, "Rosanna, I want you to see what I did to your son. I want to die with a clean conscience." He pulls my shirt open and turns me to face her. Several scars, small ones albeit, litter my chest and ribs. There are still some bruises that haven't healed. I hadn't seen my father in months. And I still have bruises. She gasps in horror. She doesn't want to believe it.

"Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't need to know." I button my shirt up and grab my coat. Time to leave before I make things worse.

"Sherlock?" I look up,

"Hm?"

"You've gone all quiet. Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

"The fault is mine, I gave in didn't I? I could have said no."

"I pressured you."

"Yes, and I let you."

"I'm sorry about your father."

"It's no problem."

"I know. But it hurts you doesn't it?"

"Not so much. The man was a bastard. Deserved to die if you ask me."

"That's harsh Sherlock."

"That's life John. Can we move on to happier subjects?" He smiles, he's made me uncomfortable and he knows it.

"Sure Sherlock. Whatever you want."