Longer chapter, format might be a little confusing... sorry.
Some touchy subjects in this one... Abuse, suicide, drugs... just be warned going into this.
All mistakes are my own!
Please don't hate me too much for what I put John through...
Enjoy!
Tuesday went by in a flash. He gave Sebastian his letter for James without a second thought on Wednesday. He was surprised to find he eagerly awaited a response. He needed friends. In prison or not.
Really, the rest of the week went quickly. John was keeping up with homework while trying to help Sherlock on the most recent case. Not that Sherlock would let him be a part of it, but John liked to think he was helping anyway. John would make him take a break and have a small nap when he knew there was a lull. No new evidence or victims as far as John knew… that's what was driving Sherlock so crazy.
He wouldn't speak to John, only at him. No conversations or interactions, John felt like he was being ignored… He berated himself for thinking that way, there were people dying and he was sitting around feeling like some depressed teenager. But even still, John was lonely.
When Sherlock left on Friday night, John snuck into Sherlock's room and looked at the pictures hung up. He knew why Sherlock hadn't told him about this one. The bodies were horrid. John felt his eyes linger over the teenager… he looked familiar. John wondered if he'd known him.
He looked at the others. They all looked vaguely familiar, now that he was looking. John walked around a fair amount, saw quite a number of people… but for someone to stick out in his mind, he'd have to see them pretty frequently.
John looked away, going to sit in his chair. He didn't know these people. He was just trying to make himself feel better.
What could connect them? Was it random? There had to be a connection. John stopped midway across the room, and thought for a moment. It was conceded… but all of these people hit home with John… what if… what if he was the connection. No. That wouldn't make sense. Sherlock was the target… but Sherlock had John… maybe? But if John had thought about it, Sherlock had definitely thought about it, documented it, and followed it.
It must be wrong because Sherlock still didn't tell John and John was still left alone. Even so, John couldn't shake the feeling. Now he'd scared himself into seeking company. Mrs. Hudson was with her sister until further notice (Sherlock had estimated a week and a half… which was a bummer. John really missed her.) Sherlock would likely be gone until at least midnight, and he didn't know how to contact Sebastian… Well, John could email him… but that really was going a bit far.
John didn't want to be alone though… the flat seamed ominous with the victims and details hanging on the wall. He had Lestrade's number… and he was off duty today… and his wife was out of town… He was John's best option. Lestrade was nice, funny, and an all around great guy. John would call him. He would talk to Lestrade over the phone until he didn't feel scared. Then Lestrade could stay cozy at home while still keeping John company.
"And he says I'm not smart…"
He dialed the number and curled in on himself on the couch. It rang four times.
"Lestrade." It sounded like he'd been sleeping. Great… now John felt horrible about this. He looked at the clock. It was seven.
"O-Oh, hello, Mr. Greg. It's, uh, it's John. I-I'm sorry, did I wake you…?"
"Yeah, but it's okay, John. I accidentally fell asleep. I'm actually glad you woke me. Anyway, what's up? Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah… I just scared myself."
Lestrade paused. "Where's Sherlock?"
"He went out… he was muttering about ducks or something."
"I'll be there in a minute. Stay on the line?"
"O-oh, y-you don't have to come over… I was just kinda scared. I have an overactive imagination."
"John, has Sherlock told you about the current case?"
"W-well, no… But the victims pictures are hanging up… I… I kinda drew my own conclusions…"
Lestrade sighed. "I guess he couldn't take you with him, but he really shouldn't leave you alone. Mrs. Hudson is still at her sister's, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I'll be over in a few. Did you eat?"
John thought. No, he hadn't, but he wasn't hungry. "Yes."
"Okay. I'll be there in a few. I'll text you when I'm there, don't open the door for anyone else."
"O-okay?"
Lestrade hung up. John felt bad. He shouldn't have called. Now he'd worried Lestrade on his only day off.
Fifteen minutes later, John got a text. He didn't bother to check it, knowing it was Lestrade. He left his phone on the couch where it had been sitting.
He opened the door, walking down the stairs only to find the front door already open.
"This is the first five minutes of a horror movie if I've ever seen one…" But John couldn't just leave the door open… It was cold and drizzling.
"The wind…?"
He heard a creak on the floor below. Then a thud and a crash. John nearly jumped out of his skin. "Okay! Not the wind. Listen… If you're down there, just come out. I have a weapon and I won't hesitate to use it." John wished it were true, but his gun was actually upstairs in his room.
All he wanted to do was run back upstairs and wait for Lestrade… but now he knew someone was inside… He couldn't just let them stay.
Suddenly John felt the calm wash over him. The calm that always came to make these things easier. John walked down the stairs, not slowing.
When he got down, he could see no one. Mrs. Hudson's vase was shattered. She would be so upset when she got back.
John looked all around. There was some blood on the floor and on the table… but not enough for someone big. In fact, it would have to be someone very small… or maybe it was an animal. But it would have to be bleeding a lot…
Then he heard a strangled "Meow" from under the table.
"Hello?"
Sure enough, there was a very small cat, huddled and meowing pathetically, holding its right shoulder and paw close to its body. Blood pooling under it.
"Oh, hey there… You poor thing… come here…" John held his hands out, knowing the cat wouldn't budge. He put his hand on the ground to lean under the table… leaning right on a sharp piece of glass. He stayed focused though, reaching for the cat with his better hand. The flesh on his hand was bleeding heavily, but the cat was what mattered.
However, he didn't want to force the cat for fear of getting the daylights clawed out of him.
To his utter shock, the cat hobbled out, right into John's arms. Much too frail to be healthy and bleeding profusely from its right side. John pulled the cat to his chest, cradling it while appraising it's injuries. It looked like it had been stabbed… which was ridiculous. Who walked around stabbing small cats? The good news was it was only skin and muscle, not organs. Whoever did this wanted to inflict pain, not death. It's right radius was broken. It was a clean break, which made things easier to fix.
John went into doctor mode.
"Don't worry. I'll help you. It's going to be okay." John took the stairs two at a time, getting to the living room as quick as possible. He grabbed two towels, warm water, a clean needle and thread, gloves, bandages, as well as medicine, it was probably -hopefully- be okay to give a cat, that would alleviate some of the pain.
He didn't think to check his phone to see who had actually sent him a text. His money was still on Lestrade, texting to say he'd be late. It didn't matter though. This little kitten was what mattered.
John put gloves on to keep his blood from dribbling onto the cat, then set to work, cleaning the wounds, suturing then bandaging, then splinted the arm.
Finally, there was no more John could do. He'd done everything. The cat looked to be asleep… it still had a pulse it was weak, but getting stronger, so that was a good sign… and it had lost quite a large amount of blood. John reassure himself that it was a good thing the kitten was sleeping. It must have been in a lot of pain.
He looked at his hand, the glove had pooled with blood and was a mess to take off. He couldn't tell his blood from the kitten's.
John sighed. Looking up to see Lestrade leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. John hadn't even heard him come up.
"Oh… H-hello, Mr. Greg…"
"John. I've been standing here for nearly fifteen minutes. What I just witnessed was nothing short of astounding."
"Th-thank you?"
"That being said, you nearly gave me a heart attack. When I got here the front door was open, there was blood all over the floor and the vase was broken. Then I heard your voice up here. Jesus, John. I thought someone got stabbed."
"The poor kitty did get stabbed…" John looked at the kitten's prone form lying on the ground. He wondered if this was how Sebastian felt when he saw John in the alley.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade came over, looking down at the kitten.
"I know a stab wound when I see one." John snapped. Then he winced, hand drifting to his side. He stopped it before Lestrade could see it, though. "S-sorry… th-that was rude…"
Lestrade looked surprised, but nodded. "It's alright. I know living with Sherlock you've seen your fair share of… unpleasantness… I sometimes forget."
John was glad to let it drop.
"So, what will you name it?"
"Sherlock won't let me keep it…"
"Do you want to?"
"More than anything. I don't think it's chance the poor baby walked right to where I was. It even let me pick it up… I've never understood how people could be so connected to an animal. Now I do. But… it doesn't matter, Sherlock will say no."
"He'll have to let you. You saved the poor thing. You should get to keep it."
"B-but-"
"Nope. I'll insist."
"He doesn't like cats… I'm not even sure if this little guy is going to make it."
"I meant to ask you… That was an awful lot of blood downstairs. It can't all be that wee cat's, now, could it?"
"No…" John struggled, trying to word it in a way that wouldn't be confusing for Lestrade. "I think it tried to fight back and got whoever hurt it really good. There was blood under its claws and around its mouth… I'm shocked it even made it here." John held up his hand. "Also, I got a deep cut on my hand from a piece of glass. So I'm sure a bit of it is mine." John had only just remembered that his hand needed care too. He went and got another needle. He thought about it and when he came back, he spoke again. "I-I don't want to get my hopes up… The poor thing lost a lot of blood for its small size. The most we can hope for is it dies as painlessly as possible… we can't even move him. It's too dangerous." John sniffled a little, sewing his hand with precision.
He wasn't crying from pain, he was crying about the cat. He didn't know why. The death of a cat was nothing compared to what he normally saw. It was just a dumb cat.
Lestrade didn't mention the suturing. He looked like he wanted to help, but knew John could handle it better. "Hey, John, it's okay. You did everything you could. And it's not dead yet. There's still hope."
"B-but, he's so small and he's so hurt! He shouldn't have come here. He won't get better! He might just be a little more comfortable while he wastes away!" John suddenly realized why this cat had hurt his heart so much. John could relate to this little kitten. He didn't mean to, but the little cat was in almost the exact same place John had been only a few years prior. John felt warm tears flow down his cheeks. He brushed them away furiously, but Lestrade had already seen them.
Lestrade looked sad, but didn't say anything to acknowledge it. "I'm going to call Sherlock."
"... why?"
"You're upset and I'm making things worse."
"N-no you're not! I-I'm just overreacting… it's just a dumb cat. D-don't bother him… he's working so hard…"
"John. Listen. That is not just a dumb cat. And Sherlock isn't getting anywhere. He just didn't want to upset you while he paced around and yelled at things."
"R-really?" John sniffled again.
Lestrade nodded, pulling out his phone.
It rang only once. Lestrade put it on speaker for John's benefit.
"Tell me you have something." Sherlock sounded like he was half a second from exploding.
"I guess it depends on what you want to call 'something'. I'm sitting here with John, I think you should come back, Sherlock."
"John. Is he okay? Lestrade, talk to me."
"He's shaken up and his hand had a nasty cut but he's taken care of it. Nothing has happened, but I'm not as much of a comforter as I seem. I'll stay with him until you get back. Make it soon."
"I'll be there in five." he hung up.
John had gone back to the kitten's side. "If… if he pulls through… I'm going to name him Leo." John said quietly, stroking the cat so soft, Lestrade would be surprised if John was actually disturbing a single hair at all.
"A fine name. He'll live up to it. He already has." Lestrade felt awkward. He didn't know what to do. John was crying still, petting the small, unmoving, cat, and he couldn't do anything to make it better.
Sherlock was home in no time. He walked in, looking panicked, when he saw John and the cat, he moved over to them. He looked at Lestrade briefly.
"Thank you. You can leave now."
Lestrade got up. "Call me if you need me."
"Thank you Mr. Greg." John didn't look up.
Lestrade nodded, walking out.
"John. Are you alright?"
John nodded, still laying next to the kitten.
"Do you want to explain now, or later?"
"Later…" John moved to lay down on the floor next to the cat, still soothing its fur.
"I already know, I suppose." Sherlock sat on the couch, mindful not to bump John.
"I-I'm sorry Lestrade called you a-and you had t-to come back."
"It's alright. It was cold and dreary out there. I was planning to come back anyway."
John knew he wasn't, but he appreciated him saying so. It made him feel less guilty about it.
"So. This kitten."
"C-can… can I keep him…?"
"If he survives, yes."
John turned onto his back and just looked up at Sherlock through tears. "R-really?"
"John… I'm not very good with words. But just because I'm legally your guardian doesn't mean you're my adoptive son or anything of the sort. You live here and you are my flatmate. You and I are equals in that. You have just as much of a say as I do." Sherlock would never say it, but he also couldn't bring himself to tell the kid no.
John closed his eyes, a few more tears escaping. He just nodded. "I-I'm sorry. I'm trying to stop, I promise."
"It doesn't matter, John. You've done very well tonight. You've prolonged another life. I'm very proud of you and so is Lestrade."
John just looked at the ceiling. After a moment, he spoke. He didn't know if it was to or at Sherlock… but he said it anyway. "I didn't mean to start crying. Leo, that's his name, …he just reminds me of when I first came here. After I-" A sob. John focused and kept his words from breaking. "After you saved me. But… Sherlock, this is different… he's so small…"
"You were too. It's hard to believe, but you were smaller two years ago."
"Very funny." John grinned weakly. "I wasn't bleeding out when you found me…"
"No. But you could have been."
"Yeah… Yeah I could've." John tried to remember back to that night all those years ago. "I can't even remember how I got there."
"If it eases your mind any, I was very high at the time. I can't remember it either."
John chuckled weakly. "No, that doesn't make it better… I'm glad you stopped that."
"I'm glad you didn't proceed either."
"Sometimes I wonder." John shook his head.
"Don't. You'll hurt that small brain of yours." Sherlock said softly. John knew he was trying to get John to think of anything else… but John's brain wouldn't have it.
"If Leo wakes up before me, wake me up… and if I, uh, you know… start tossing and turning… can you wake me up? I don't want to hurt him anymore than he already is."
"I will."
John smiled a little, then drifted off to an unsatisfying sleep.
When John's mother was pregnant with him, John's dad was in the military. When John was born, his dad came back to visit once before going back. John admired how strong and brave his dad was. He would listen intently to his mother's stories about him. Harry seemed like she remembered too. She was nine years old when John was born.
"This one time, he came home and he said to me, 'Harry, you and I are going to get your mother a present.' I was confused, of course. There was no reason for one… but when I asked him why, he said 'I want to show her how much I love her. I don't need a reason.' and then we went and got her the biggest box of chocolate ever and flowers and I got her a candy necklace. She was so happy she cried. Johnny, it was amazing."
John couldn't wait until his dad came back. He sounded like a great person. His mum and big sister always spoke about him with such admiration.
When John and his mother and his sister were on their own, waiting for John's dad, they had little money. John didn't know and he would have told you his mother was rich if you asked because he was happy. His mum made the most out of everything. She would tell him all the time, "It's not where you live, it's how you live." John didn't understand, but his mother just laughed and pinched his cheek. "You will, Johnny. You will. Think about it like this. You'll grow up and eventually move out. You'll find your own home. One that may not be nice… but you'll love it anyway. That's how you know you have a home, not a house."
"But, mummy, I don't ever want to leave you and Harry!" John cried. This was his home! With his mother and his sister.
"I know, sweetie. It always will be. But when you grow up and find a wife, she can't live here too. Because, before long, you'll have kids. I just know they will be the prettiest babies ever. Where will their home be?"
"I… I guess that makes sense… I don't have to leave now, though, do I, mummy?"
"Heavens, no!" She laughed a warm laugh, blue eyes shimmering. "You'll find a home all your own when you're good and ready, Johnny. Now, would you like to help me make dinner?"
"Yes please!"
Harry would play with him and his mum would teach him how to make things. His mum worked every day, except Sunday when they'd go to church, and she was gone from seven in the evening until nine in the morning. Harry would get herself to school John would be alone for three hours. John didn't mind, he would make him mum breakfast, clean a little, then practice reading. He was teaching himself (with a little help from Harry) to surprise his mom. Maybe she would cry with joy again.
John was five when his father was dishonorably discharged from the military. He never told them why, but he heard his mother say something about assaulting some of the underlings… John didn't understand.
John's dad was angry with the world. Angry with himself until he realized he could be angry with his family instead.
John was five and a half when his dad first hit his mom.
He didn't know what had happened, only that his mum was crying and cradling her cheek.
His dad apologized and promised it would never happen again. A week later, John knew his father was not a man of his word.
John stepped in, but it only got his dad even angrier. His mother would beg John not to try to stop him… John didn't listen very well. His dad just hit him harder until he did. It only took three months for John to start backing down.
John's dad made his mum quit her job, refusing to get on himself. They slowly slipped lower and lower into poverty.
It didn't help that his dad drank away what little they had.
When John was five and three fourths, his mum got sick.
He tried to help. Read everything he could about what might be wrong… but he couldn't read as well as he needed to. He still wasn't in school yet. His dad refused to enroll him, saying John was a waste of education. John taught himself to read… but he didn't know the big words. The important ones… But it didn't matter. John knew what was wrong with his mother.
John diagnosed his mother with a broken heart.
John tried to give her extra love… read her stories… when he ran out, he'd make them up. "Once upon a time, there was a scary dragon who guarded a princess. The dragon wasn't mean, he just loved the princess and didn't want her to be hurt. They became best friends.
"They played and sang together all the time. The princess would tell the dragon about when she lived in the kingdom, about her sisters and parents, about the food. She told the dragon her parents said she was going to be rescued when she was older.
"Time went on, the girl and the dragon grew up, and were even better friends. They forgot the princess was supposed to be rescued. When the knight came to rescue the princess, he was scared by the dragon. His sharp teeth and fire breath was nothing like the knight had seen before. They fought and the dragon thought the knight was trying to hurt the princess, so he wouldn't let the knight in.
"The princess saw and shouted for them to stop. The knight said he was there to rescue her. The princess was sad. She didn't want to leave her best friend. And the dragon didn't want his only friend to leave. The knight came up with a solution. The dragon could go with them! The dragon said he'd always wanted to see what the princess had talked about, so he agreed. And even though people were still scared of the dragon, he protected the kingdom and the princess. The dragon and the princess and the knight all lived happily ever after." John's mother would smile and clap a little. She seemed to like them but…
But she didn't get better.
On John's sixth birthday, his mum died. His dad was angry, not sad like he should have been. John yelled at him. His first mistake of many he would make over the next few agonising years. John wasn't allowed to go to his mom's funeral. He was grounded. His dad told everyone John had refused to go. With a huge bruise blossoming on his face, John cried. This wasn't who his mother had talked about. John started thinking maybe the wrong man came home. Maybe his real dad was out there. Harry told him he was stupid.
When John was six and a half, Harry came out. She told their dad she was running away with her girlfriend. John's dad didn't seem to care. Until she was gone. Harry hadn't said goodbye.
John was alone. Forced to learn military discipline. 'Yes, sir' 'no, sir' Stood straight. It, unfortunately, took more time to learn not to talk back. He had endured a lot. "You're the reason they're both gone!" Smack.
Glass bottles thrown at him. "I wish you would have died."
Plates. "I hope you die."
Fists. "You're just a drunk bastard."
Kicks. "If I had anywhere else to be, I'd kill you." Broken rib, that comment got him. Or, John supposed it did. He had diagnosed himself, so it may have only been cracked.
"I'm going to the police." That one got him thrown down the basement stairs and the door locked behind him. He was only allowed up when his dad remembered if John died, he'd have to make his own dinner and get his own beer… It took two days to remember..
Hell, anything the older Watson could do to harm John, he did. John spent all his time in the library. He still couldn't go to school, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone called the police. He waited and waited for that day. No one ever did. John gave up.
When John was seven, his dad got ruthless. One toe out of line and John would get the shit beat out of him. John became better at following orders. He knew exactly how long he could take getting a beer for his father before there were consequences. Knew exactly what to make for dinner without being asked. John quit talking back. If he stayed quiet, his dad didn't hurt him as much. John was well aware.
John knew and he did everything to appease his father. Yet his dad still found things wrong. John stopped talking. There was no point. He didn't have anyone to talk to and everything he said was punishable anyway. His dad said such horrible things, throwing back everything John had said and more.
"You know, before you, your mother, Harry, and I were happy. You fucked all of that up."
"You're the reason your mother is dead. You killed my wife."
"Harry ran away. She couldn't stand what a disgusting urchin her brother was."
"I wish I would have died over there. Then I wouldn't have to be so disappointed by you."
John tried to not let it bother him… but, then again, he couldn't ride a bike, he didn't go to school, he couldn't read… and he couldn't save his mother. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he was pathetic…
John believed him. His dad must be telling the truth… John hated him.
When John was eight, he tried to kill his dad. Nothing spectacular, just a passive aggressive thing. He had taken his medical knowledge and made sure to give his dad a beer right after his medication. Or, put a little rat poison in his dad's food. Botulism, John remembered reading about it… but he didn't know how high of a chance he had of picking up the right can… He stuck to the other ways. To John's utter disappointment, it never worked.
When his dad found out, he took the sharpest kitchen knife and stabbed at the boy. "You ungrateful shit!" His words were slurred.
John knew he was smaller and faster than the drunk, he dogged left, but it still got him good in the side. There was quite a bit of blood. It took nearly two months to heal because whenever he did something wrong, his dad would dig into John's wound and rip out the stitches. John kept having to put them in, it was painful every time, but everytime, he got a little better.
He was fed up, John's dad. His son had tried to kill him. The ungrateful little shit. John's dad got an idea. He wasn't very smart, but he'd heard of someone who could help. They assured him he wouldn't get caught by the police, and that was good enough for him.
He set everything up. It took about two months until everything was in place. But, finally, everything was in order. The next time John did something out of line, He would put it in motion.
He didn't have to wait. He had seen John with text books. John wasn't allowed to leave the house. That was rule number one.
He grounded John. Locked him in his room, and walked to the garage. He picked up a canister of gasoline and started dumping it all around the living room. He figured this way, he could not only be rid of his burden, but he could also have the insurance money on the house.
He smiled and lit a match, throwing it as he left the house. "Good fucking riddance." John's dad was gone. Off to hopefully find a good drink somewhere.
When John was eight and a half, his dad tried to burn him alive.
He was sick of his dad. He grabbed a bad he had packed so long ago. It didn't have much in it… One pair of clothes, some pictures and an old stuffed bear his mum and Harry had gotten him.
John picked the lock on the door and opened it, only to find a blazing fire just beyond. The smoke hadn't phased him, his dad smoked and burned things in the house all the time. John stared at the flames for a moment, wide eyed and scared. Then, he ran. If he didn't get out, he would die. The flames hurt so bad. The smoke burned his lungs. In all of ten seconds, John was out of the house.
He was on fire… but he was out. He watched his home burn to the ground. When John was eight and a half, he escaped. He was finally free! ...But what he found beyond the house was not what he expected… he escaped, only to find a cruel and unforgiving world.
Left and right he was kicked, shoved, bullied. He was hungry and sick. Cold. Hurt. But what hurt the most was that he was all alone. His mum was dead, his sister left him to rot and his dad tried to kill him.
John was alone.
He got a job, selling newspapers… it didn't last. He was 'too dirty'. He looked and looked. No one was willing to hire a worthless nine year old.
John still frequented the library. The librarians there took pity and let him stay as long as they could, but he always had to spend the long cold nights outside.
When John was ten, he tried to enroll himself in school, but they just laughed in his face and told him to go home and stop playing jokes. John was too scared to go to the police… he'd heard terrible stories about foster care… he didn't even know what it was, really, but it didn't sound good.
John went around to the other homeless people. He checked up on them, helping when he could… "You need to stop smoking. If you don't, I think you'll be dead within the next two years. Maybe less."
"Who asked you." The old lady coughed hard, waving John away. John saw her die only a week later. Not from cigarettes… but from suicide. John wished she would have kept smoking.
He tried to stop her. But she didn't even know John was there. He yelled for someone to help… but there was only so much you could do when you were a ten and a half year old kid. No one trusted you. That made sense, but it still hurt John.
When he was ten and a half, he knew his life was over.
When he was eleven, he found himself on the same bridge where the old woman had once stood. It was late. John couldn't see anyone, so it must have been at least two in the morning.
He stepped up onto the ledge, looking up at the stars. He breathed deeply. The cold air stung his lunds, but he was used to it. It didn't matter anyway. In just a moment, nothing would matter. John looked down, expecting to chicken out, but found that even his body wanted to fall.
The water would be cold, no doubt. John only hoped it would be over quickly. He was tired of being cold.
He leaned forward.
Then, a hand was on his wrist, pulling him back.
"Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off of it." A man had his hand curled around John's arm. John tried to yank it away, but the man didn't budge. He was tall, his dark curly hair was limp and his skin looked sick. John realized this man was on drugs.
John still rarely spoke, but he supposed these would be his last words, so it may as well be an argument.
"It is mine and I don't want it anymore."
"Then give it to me."
John stared at this drugged out man. "That is one of the creepiest things anyone has ever said to me. And trust me, I've heard some creepy stuff."
To his confusion, the man smiled. "I get that a lot."
John huffed, trying to shake the man. "No one is going to care. Let go."
"I'll care."
John sighed, exasperated. "Listen. You don't even know me. You can't care."
"You want to be a doctor. You care about all of those people you look at."
"Ah, now I know you've been following me. Let. Go." John just wanted to feel the wind whipping around his face for the few seconds before he hit.
"I have not. I deduced it."
"I don't care. Even if I don't jump, I'll find a way. I have nothing. Nowhere to go."
"I am currently looking for a flatmate. If you're interested."
"Ah, yes. I want to abandon sweet nothingness for living with a drug addict. Go away. And, fair warning, you need to stop. The way you're heading, you're going to kill yourself in an even more painful way than I am." John tried to turn, to wrench his hand free.
"See, you care."
"Well. I'm also emotionally unstable."
"I'm a high-functioning sociopath."
"Lovely. I did have plans I'd like to get back to."
"I play the violin in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
"Listen, I don't even have money. I couldn't pay my part even if I wanted to. Which I don't."
"I'll hire you as my assistant."
That piqued John's interest. Not because the man would hire him, but that he'd honestly want an eleven year old as an assistant. "What do you do?"
"I solve murders. I need a good doctor to help analyze the bodies at crime scenes."
"So, you're a private detective?"
"Consulting Detective."
John thought. He hadn't heard of that one. He blamed it on his lack of schooling.
"I made it up. I'm the only one in the world."
"Oh. Yeah. That's believable."
"So, what do you say?"
"You could be a serial killer for all I know."
"And you could be a suicidal eleven year old… Wait. Bad example."
John looked at this man. Really looked. He should be feeling a million things… He should hate that this man, who he'd never met, was joking about suicide… angry that the man wouldn't leave him alone… ashamed that he'd been caught in the act… but the only one he can act on is to laugh. That had been funny. Here he was, about to jump off a bridge and he was laughing.
"Well, I suppose I'm already dead to myself anyways. How much worse could it get?"
John hopped off the ledge, standing right in front of the man who had talked him down.
"John Watson." John stuck out his hand. The man took it.
"Sherlock Holmes."
And John smiled his first real smile in years.
"Let's go home, John."
"Lead the way." And right then, John knew that he would follow this man to hell and back without being asked.
The months after that had been hard. John ate even less than Sherlock did. When people would come by, John would hide. John didn't sleep. When he did, it was for less than an hour at a time.
He was very relaxed when Sherlock was around, but Sherlock knew the young kid freaked out when there was too much noise outside, or a knock on the door, or a poorly timed explosion… Sherlock had to resort to playing the violin when John got like that. Like a Pavlov sort of effect, John associated the violin with safety… with Sherlock. Sherlock had a playlist of all John's favorites on stand-by at all times.
Sherlock quit the drugs.
It was hard enough to take care of John sober. John stimulated his mind, gave him something to think about and solve when he didn't have a case. The kid was a walking contradiction.
He had no schooling, but he knew more than most kids his age. He constantly mother-henned Sherlock into eating, not taking more than a bite himself. John would start hyperventilating over dropping glass, but being held at gunpoint he was fine.
Sherlock marveled at the kid. He could be sweet, charming, shy and at the same time, if you caught him in the right mood, he'd shoot and kill a man to save a stranger's life.
Slowly, John got better…
Sherlock caught him up on all the things he missed in school. They had lessons everyday. John was an exceptional student. He learned fast and always asked the best questions.
"That doesn't make sense. If my equation is balanced, why did you mark it wrong?"
"You didn't mark the phases."
"I did too!"
"Not correctly."
"Well, how do I tell?"
"Listen when I talk, perhaps?"
"Ha. Ha. Seriously. Does liquid lithium nitrate react different than solid lithium nitrate?"
"It depends on what you mix with it. If you were to throw it into water, yes. It would."
"But how?"
"Oh, John. That's my favorite question." He started talking and John took extensive notes. Many days were spent on science, more were spent on logical reasoning and reading people. To Sherlock's joy, John was already exceptional at it. The people part, anyway… Situations were still hard at times.
"John. I think it's time you met our landlady. She is the best. I think you'll like her." it took two months for John to get used to the flat and call it home… it took another month before he met Mrs. Hudson
Sherlock escorted John down, staying close the whole time.
Sherlock knocked, John hid slightly behind him. The door opened, when the old lady realized it was one of her tennents, she opened it wider. "Sherlock! It feels like it's been ages! How've you been? Would you like to come in? Oh, I was starting to worry about you, dear. Oh, you've brought a friend!"
Sherlock moved to walk in, John grabbed his coat sleeve.
"H-hello… I-I'm- My name is John Watson. It- it's very lovely to meet you."
"Oh, enough formalities. Have a biscuit?" He immediately adored her.
John nodded. "Y-yes please."
Sherlock filled Mrs. Hudson in on what had happened. "John is my flatmate. I hope that won't be a problem? I do apologise about not telling you earlier, but I wanted him not to be rushed into meeting a lot of new-"
"Sherlock, shush. You're rambling. I don't care that this young man stays here, so long as you have seperate bedrooms, I have no problems." John didn't understand, but he could see Sherlock turn a little pink in the ears. He wondered if anyone else would ever have noticed.
The first time he met Lestrade was a bit more… eventful. It was six months into John's stay. Sherlock had just gone to take a shower. He heard the front door open and then someone on the steps. It was too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson though… John panicked a little and tried to find something. He settled on s heavy textbook he'd been reading from.
"Sherlock! There's been-"
John lobbed the book at the tall man. He was shorter than Sherlock, but not by much.
The water cut off from the shower as John was grabbing another book to throw.
"John."
John backed up, not taking his eyes off the man. When he felt Sherlock touch his shoulder, he sighed with relief. "John, this is D. I. Lestrade. He works for Scotland Yard." John's breathing picked up again. Sherlock squeezed the small shoulder. "No, he's not here to take you away."
"Sherlock. You have some explaining to do. But that can wait. There's been a murder. I've been texting you for hours."
"I was teaching John about quantum mechanics. He's very good."
"You haven't answered my texts with more than one or two words in ages! You refused to come to any crime scenes. This was the last straw. Do you know how much was bet on you having finally ODed? It was a lot." The man, Lestrade, was angry. John was getting fidgety. He didn't like this man. He was scary. But he held his ground, protecting Sherlock as much as he was able.
"I've quit."
"Sure. Just like last time?"
"No. I haven't touched any of it in months."
"Like I'd believe that."
John wouldn't let this man talk to Sherlock like that! "H-he wouldn't lie!"
Lestrade looked shocked. "He speaks."
John didn't know what to say to that.
Lestrade sighed. "We can talk later. This murder is… well we don't know what to make of it, really."
"Do you ever? Let me put on some clothes. Get ready John."
John nodded. It hadn't even crossed his mind he might not go.
"Sherlock, you can't bring a child to a crime scene."
"John is a doctor. I need him to assist me."
"He's no more than, what, eleven?"
"Eleven and a half." Sherlock and John said in unison.
"Just what we needed. A carbon copy."
Sherlock ignored him. John was grateful Sherlock waited until John was in his room before leaving the living room. John would have been alone with Lestrade if not.
They got to the scene. Lestrade went to check on everything and told the two to stay put for a moment.
John took a deep breath and grabbed Sherlock's hand. He knew the detective would pull away, but, to John's shock, he held on just as tight.
The other officers saw Sherlock and John and everyone gawked. John assumed it was at Sherlock, who kept deducing for John, but then he heard people start to talk.
Whispers like 'He'll be dead in a week'
'I bet he kidnapped that kid.'
'Look , they're holding hands.'
'They probably do unspeakable things at night.'
John looked up at Sherlock. He could see the Consulting Detective's face was stoney… John could also see a bit of shame.
John and Sherlock had been learning morse code to use when John didn't want to talk. John appreciated it and Sherlock was glad to know John could always ask things. He tapped into the back of Sherlock's hand. W-h-a-t w-r-o-n-g? John didn't waste letters. There wasn't a point. His question was clear.
Sherlock looked down, eyebrow raised slightly.
"The thing's they're saying. Don't they bother you? I shouldn't have brought you here… It was stupid on my part. It's not a particularly good idea for you to be exposed to this type of thing…"
John gave him a pointed look.
"You know what I mean. It may trigger a panic attack. I'd rather these idiots didn't see you like that."
John looked slightly offended.
"You know what I mean. They are assholes. They will not hesitate to poke and jab at you because you're close to me… I'm sorry. You never have to come with me again."
C-r-a-z-y
"I am not. High-Functioning Sociopath, remember?"
S-u-r-e
"Don't sass me. I'll make you wait out here."
John raised his eyebrows in slight fear. He didn't want to be left by himself, let alone with all these scary people.
"That's what I thought."
P-r-i-k
"You spelled that wrong."
R-e-d-o?
"Okay."
S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k
Sherlock's lip twitched up in a smile. "Spelling is not your strength today. Now you've misspelled 'brilliant'"
John grinned widely.
Greg came back over. "Now you two have telepathy? We really need to talk later."
They went in. It was a boring murder. Sherlock solved it within the first five minutes of seeing the body. But he asked John for his opinion.
John got a small notebook, taking in the details. When he believed himself done, he gave the notepad to Sherlock.
"John."
John looked down, ready for Sherlock to say he was disappointed… but it never came.
"I'm going to say this once and once only. I'm impressed."
John's head shot up, so did Lestrade's and the stupid guy named Anderson.
"This is all correct. The part about the dog is a bit off, but the rest is phenomenal."
John beamed. He decided he liked crime scenes.
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Your murderer is the person who has green ink on their left hand. I would start with the sister's boyfriend."
John and Sherlock left.
An hour later, Lestrade sent Sherlock a text saying he was coming over for dinner and that he'd bring it.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow to John, John nodded.
When Lestrade came in, John helped him carry the food.
They all sat down… then Lestrade launched into questions.
"Why are you here?"
"I-I live here…?"
"No, I mean, of all the places an eleven and a half year old could be, why here?"
John looked to Sherlock for help.
"He's my assistant."
Lestrade didn't push anymore. When Sherlock got up and said he had to use the bathroom, John knew he didn't because Sherlock tapped out that Lestrade wanted to ask John questions without Sherlock in the room. John said it was okay for him to leave… but not far.
As soon as Sherlock closed the bathroom door, Lestrade turned back to John.
"Be honest with me here. Does Sherlock treat you well?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
"He doesn't… you know, touch you, does he?"
John was confused. Sherlock didn't hit him like his dad had. Was that what Lestrade was talking about? "I don't think I understand…"
Lestrade's face slackened. "Good. That's good."
"What did you mean?"
"You'll know when you're older."
"That's a dumb answer."
"I suppose it is, but it's not my place to explain that to you."
"I'll just ask Sherlock when you leave."
Lestrade laughed. Sherlock came back right then.
"Okay, John and I have to get back to our lessons. Good night, Gorge."
Lestrade sighed very loud and looked at John. "My name is Greg. I don't know why he insists on forgetting. You'll remember though, won't you?"
John nodded. Greg wasn't so bad after all.
John asked Sherlock about what Greg had said. Sherlock sighed. When John was eleven and a half… he got the talk. Sherlock wasn't nearly as mortified as John was… but, slowly, John began to find it fascinating. Sherlock had to plan a part two. John's questions were valid and they may as well come from someone the boy knows… Sherlock refused to acknowledge how much he wished John had been normal and found it too awkward to talk about… but Sherlock couldn't help but admire the boy's curiosity.
Within a year, John was stable enough to ask to go to school. He was talkative, he slept, though it was plagued by nightmares, he ate, still little, but at least more than Sherlock did in a day, he even stopped using morse code when he was scared, though, Sherlock made sure they stayed caught up with it… just in case.
John really wanted this and Sherlock… well Sherlock couldn't deny him anything, not when John had worked up all of his courage to ask and come so far. And Sherlock and John had worked very hard to get John caught up. Sherlock wanted to see if John really was ready. He was. He made the top of all his classes with little to no trouble… even so, Sherlock kept the idea of maybe taking John out.
John was an outcast. Sherlock hated it. John was the nicest boy ever, yet people poked, pushed and made fun of him because he happened to live with Sherlock. Sherlock was outraged, but John assured him he was happy. He'd heard it all before, the pushing was nothing, either.
It made Sherlock want to track down whoever John's dad had been and kill him. That human scum didn't deserve to breath the same air as anyone, let alone John. Shortly after, Sherlock started to teach John the basics of all of the fighting he'd learned over his life. John was very good at this as well. It made Sherlock feel better about sending John to school by himself. Even if he did get calls from time to time. John refused to push back, but Sherlock was content to know he could if he needed to.
John had no records. He was never in the school system. His birth certificate had gone up in the house fire and the only legal document that he was alive had somehow been pulled from the system. Mycroft had put John into the system with Sherlock as his legal guardian.
John had truly gotten to start over. Sherlock would do anything for the kid, and he knew the sentiment was returned.
John woke up a little while later. It was dark, but he could see light from the windows. John sat up slowly, not making a sound. When he was in an upright position, he glanced down at the cat. His breathing had evened out. John checked the pulse. It was stronger than it had been. John didn't let himself dwell on it. The kitten was getting better. That's all that mattered.
He didn't see Sherlock, but he could hear rustling around in his room, so John assumed he was awake. John slowly got off the ground, rolling his shoulder, a night on the floor was probably not the best thing for him right now… but the stairs seemed daunting.
He decided to check on Sherlock.
He didn't knock, Sherlock hated that. Something about arbitrary personal bubbles not applying when you lived together.
"Sherlock…?" John whispered.
Sherlock was laying in his bed, a rare occurrence, and was tossing and turning. He was mumbling to himself… John made out his name and again with the ducks… John realized it was rude to listen in. He nodded to himself, got the blanket and pulled it over Sherlock. Then he walked back into the living room. The couch would do for the night.
He looked down at the kitten once more. It looked fine. John thought about everything both he and the cat had been through… they were both fine…
And, John, small on the couch, looked up and smiled.
John listened to the cat's even breaths and Sherlock talking in his sleep in the other room.
Baker Street wasn't quiet… but John would hate it if it were.
"I found home, mum. You'd be happy." John slept a relatively peaceful sleep.
When John was thirteen… Things were great. Better yet, they were good.
Well? Good, Bad, Alright? Lemme know... I think this is my favorite chapter so far.
Next one may not be up for a little while... But I'll try.
Hope this was nice!
xoxo
~Miss Taken