Something about John

For a split second he had wondered if John would come back. He was almost sure he had seen something flicker in the other one's eyes. Just for a split second. Just for that one intimate moment had he thought, hoped, wished, John would come back and save him. Save him by wrapping his arms around his slender body and hold him.

He could not say why. He did not feel attracted to John. As it were he did not feel physically attracted to anyone. Male or female. But there was something about John that made him feel safe. There was something that eased the pain which sometimes became unbearable.

He had tried drugs, of course, given the scientific curiosity in them. He had smoked them, swallowed them, injected himself with all sorts of substances. For a while all had helped. After a while they had all worn off and left him as hollow as before. So he had dropped the habit and married himself to his work. He had denied all emotion and drowned any feeling of compassion welling up. Caring was dangerous. Trusting even more so. Yet John he trust.

From the first time he had lain eyes on the other man he had known that there was something kind about John. Not that kindness was a concept Sherlock Holmes valued in the least. Still in John he found it almost touching. He knew the doctor was a tough guy, had seen much more shit than he had, and still he had retained that cheerful outlook on life that Sherlock had never possessed. John had seen people die where he had only dealt with dead bodies. Clean, stiff, and cold. John had seen life pour out of them and still he was softer than Sherlock had ever been. A wave of jealousy came over the young man and he pouted.

Innocent, John had said. Honest. Uncorrupted. But was he?

Sometimes Sherlock doubted he was like other people. He knew he loved pursuing his own goals. Interference only violated the equation. If he wanted to succeed, he could not allow others near his work. Yet John…

Sherlock remembered the pain all too vividly. He still felt the hard grasp on his wrists, the strain to his shoulders when they had held him down. He remembered the sounds, the cruel rasps of laughter, the panting, the ripping of cloth, the lashing of his belt used as a whip, the smashing of glass, the dull thuds of books toppling over. He saw the scattered pile of school reading. Read Silas Marner. He knew he would hate the novel forever. He remembered the hard impact of the wooden floor, remembered he had never expected wood to be so hard. He remembered the first cuts and bruises. To his face, neck, hands, knees, back. He could smell the blood and fear he had smelled then. He relived the pain, the various forms of it, the exhaustion, the futility of his resistance, the choking, the resignation, the shame when-

He blinked away a tear and tried to think of other things. He knew he only had to focus hard enough and he would be able to forget. For a while.

He remembered being completely blank and remembered how much the realization had hurt. He had been completely blank because he had had nobody to think on. Nobody to hope for. Today there would be John.

Back then he had somehow managed to get through to Lestrade. Nothing elaborate, merely, "Find me in the Work Room! 6 PM. Urgent!" on the phone and Lestrade had helped. He had brought Mycroft, too, who always meddled but who never understood. He had never felt anything for Sherlock. He did what was considered his duty, and he did what he had promised Mother. He looked after Sherlock in his odd enough kind of way. But he had always remained a stranger. John had never been a stranger. Maybe because Sherlock had looked right through him within minutes. Maybe because he liked him.

I'd be lost without my blogger.

Mycroft had walked into the room (his room where the police had taken him against his will) and had taken control. He had told Sherlock to pull himself together and have a shower. He had seen to quick results to his blood tests.

Sherlock knew he ought to be grateful, but he could not forget the way his brother had looked at him then. He could not erase the memory of that reproachful and disgusted snare. What did you get yourself into now? Was that necessary? Are you happy now? He had read the questions in Mycroft's eyes. As if it had been his fault. As if he had invited the other boys. Or Mr. Moran. As if he had enjoyed it.

The mess in his lap, the blood, his greasy hair, his caked lips and face smudged with all sorts of liquids, strange ones as much as his own, Mycroft had taken it all in and said: "Better clean yourself up. You don't want anyone to see you like that," and Sherlock had never felt so embarrassed in his life. He had blushed and struggled to get up. Mycroft had not helped, but wrinkled his nose and gone to open a window. Sherlock had limped into the bath trying to cover his nudity with the rag that had once been his blue shirt. He had felt ashamed of his body having betrayed him by reacting mechanically and involuntarily and he had felt dirty.

He had spent little under an hour in the shower scrubbing himself sore.

When he was done, the room had almost gone back to normal and a paramedic had drawn some blood and handed him a bottle of antibiotics. No one had said anything helpful. Lestrade had taken him to hospital, had him put in Suicide Watch, had apologized and tried to talk him into counseling. Sherlock had said nothing, so they had left him alone.

Today there was John. And there was something about John that made him smile and let him fall asleep eventually.