
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1069548.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes'_Father, Sherlock_Holmes'
      Mother, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Season/Series_02, Pre-Season/Series_03, Written_before_we_met_the
      parents
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-04 Words: 3353
****** A Past Worth Forgetting ******
by CassanderRoshack
Summary
     John finds out that Sherlock's father died. When he asks if Sherlock
     is alright, he gets a piece of Sherlock's past he never knew about.
     He also discovers that Sherlock is more human than he could have ever
     imagined. A lot of Angst in this one folks.
     Edited by the absolute fantastic person, WrittenFIRES.
Notes
     Hello there! I just wanted to give you folks a good heads up. There
     is a LOT of angst ahead. Hints of future JohnLock. Me hating on
     Mycroft. (Sorry, I had to pick someone.) A human Sherlock with
     emotions that he can't control and a comforting John to help him.
     Also rape and death. (No one you know, promise.) It isn't too
     detailed but it makes you kinda cry. Pretty good ending if I do say
     so myself! READ ON~!
     This is really non-canon and Sherlock is a bit over emotional but not
     a basket-case. Sorry if it offends anyone.
See the end of the work for more notes
"My father died," came Sherlock's answer. John had asked why he had been at
Mycrofts estate for a few hours. He did not know what emotion to express as
held his breath; waiting for the man to respond. He would surely say something
along the lines of, "Oh god, I'm so sorry.", or something similar. John was…
kind- because he meant it. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes. He could not
ask for a better man but he did not need "sorry" at the moment.
 
"Ah." John was quiet. He really did not know what to say. Moreover, he did not
know how Sherlock felt about his father. He could give the standard, "I'm
sorry.", because that was what people usually said in these times, but Sherlock
was not "most people". After a few more seconds of deliberation he asked,
"Tea?" It was the British cure-all; from the sniffles to heartbreak.
Sherlock's expression twisted into something laughable for a moment before he
chuckled lightly, "Yes, I'd love a spot." He could not help but be amused. 'You
are such a mystery, John. You do the exact opposite that I expect you to do
sometimes,' he thought; choosing to keep his thoughts to himself.
"Coming right up," John called over his shoulder as he set to banging about the
kitchen. 'So if Sherlock had the gall to laugh even after his father died, he
must be all right... maybe…? Then again, he laughs at things that aren't
exactly normal to find humorous....' he mused.
 
Sherlock did not show the one tear that made a path down his face. It was all
he would shed. He remembered few memories with his father very well. "I haven't
lost anything... it just feels slightly... foreign." He muttered; thinking of
when his father- a similar man in looks to Mycroft- had smiled at him and
ruffled his hair while he worked at his drawing desk.
 
"What are you up to, Sherlock?" The man asked as he ruffled his son's dark
hair. He smiled at the boy; who swallowed. Sherlock knew better than anyone
what hid behind that smile. His eyes were his father's and he saw the monster
in the mirror every time he looked into them.
 
He felt something tighten in his chest. He also remembered the night his father
had left. Sherlock and what remained of his family were happy when he had gone.
If only he had stayed away….
 
"I'm done with you, you filthy whore! Are these children even mine?! I wish you
hadn't been able to get pregnant!" He had stormed into the next room where
Sherlock was and eyed him. "What the fuck are you looking at?!" he screamed and
banged out of the door; leaving his family alone until the next day....
 
Sherlock mentally forced himself to stop thinking. He did not want to think
about what happened that next day or what passed between him and his father
multiple times beforehand. He briefly wondered why on Earth he had not deleted
that memory yet. Certainly he did not need it and he sure as Hell did not want
it. Deleted. 
John's attention was on the tea the whole time as he prepared two mugs. "Oh,
you didn't really know him then, huh?" he asked upon hearing Sherlock's soft
comment while stirring sugar into one mug. Sherlock's; since no one else in the
house- not even Mrs. Hudson- liked it that way.
"Mycroft certainly did. Spent years with him, in fact. I chose to stay with my
mother to take care of her and Maria." Sherlock instantly wanted to take the
words back. 'No need to panic. John won't care… will he?' he internally
worried.
 
"Maria?" John walked into the sitting room and offered Sherlock his tea before
plopping onto the other end of the sofa. If Sherlock wanted a hug or a shoulder
to cry on it would be easier to do it there. Not that Sherlock would do that,
of course. What Sherlock said next shocked him  far more than a hug would have.
"Maria was my younger sister," he breathed out. "After my father lost his job
with the police force, mother couldn't feed us all on one paycheck. We had to
go without many things.…  She died sick, hungry and cold... there was nothing
we could do..." Sherlock was rigid and tight-lipped as he remembered. Her long
hair dark and curly black like his, light blue eyes and a short stature but
sharp as a tack like all of the Holmes family.
 
"A younger sister?" John always imagined Mycroft and Sherlock only had the
mysterious woman called "Mummy"- but that was ridiculous. Sherlock's eyes were
red rimmed. Had he been crying about a sister John never knew he had? "Hey..."
he said softly. Tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to coax him into sitting down
after staring out of the window for so long. "It's not your fault, just like
you said."
The taller man cleared his throat. "I couldn't save her, John..." He murmured
as he felt the pain in his chest grow. Yet he would not break down- at least,
not in front of his flat-mate. "My father left us to die in that two-roomed,
so-called 'house' while he took Mycroft to greener pastures. My mother whored
herself out to put food on the table and my sister died because I couldn't do a
damn thing but watch!" The words came tumbling out and John's eyebrows shot
upward.
 
"How old were you when this happened?" John asked quietly and calmly as he
watched his flat-mate's chest move in the stirrings of emotions he claimed not
to have. It was haunting how it seemed they switched roles like this. John felt
his own chest tighten in sympathy. He dared to place his hand on Sherlock's
back. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock hated himself more than he had ever hated
his brother or father.
 
"She was seven and I was ten...." he muttered; wishing the pains in his chest
strangling him would leave. "I shouldn't bother you with this." He moved out of
John's grip. This was unbecoming of anyone, especially to throw on someone out
of the blue. Why did his monster of a father have to die today for fuck's
sake?! Why did the cake-gorging bastard have to tell him about it?!
"You were young, Sherlock. No one that young deserves to be burdened with that.
To grow up so fast- it just can't be done." John knew what he was talking
about. Too well, in fact. He had seen it in the eyes of children in
Afghanistan. He had seen it in Harry's eyes since she was older than him by a
few years. "It's fine, well- not fine, but... it's over." If anything, John was
selfishly happy that Sherlock would confide in him. "I'm here if you need
anything."
 
"There could have been. I'd pickpocketed enough by then. I have no love lost
for my father because I know what he did to Maria and I. He's better off dead."
He paused; glancing over at John, who was looking at him with a gaze crossed
between sympathy and pain. "I know..." Sherlock cleared his throat and patted
his knee gently. "Thank you." Another memory suddenly flashed in his head- a
much darker one and he tried to force it out.
 
His father stood over his sister. Sherlock knew what he was doing and took a
discarded bottle from the floor- cracking it over his own father's head to get
him away from her. His father had hit him; making his face swell as his sister
fled. Seconds later, while his sister hid in the closet because their mother
had a customer in the back room, his father did what he was going to do to
her... to Sherlock. He had screamed; so loudly it hurt. Until his father put a
gun to his face and made him swallow one of the bullets by choking it down his
throat with his...
 
Sherlock trembled; for the first time in years, his body shook completely and
uncontrollably. More dark memories came: the time he had caught his father with
another woman or, by God, what he did to his own mother. He swallowed and tried
to think of something else before a certain memory unfolded in his head.
 
Maria's stricken face consumed him. Her blue eyes pleading as their father
raped her while he was tied to the radiator. Sherlock begged to take it
instead; he would do it willingly this time. Just leave her alone. "Please,
father, please!" The radiator burned through the ratty outfit he was wearing.
That was where the scar on his leg was from, after all. He had been gagged
after that and forced to watch. Thrown away like a rag doll. Maria died a few
days after that. Mycroft did not care a bit because he was off at an academy;
having father's other mistress pay for his schooling.
 
"It's over now. You're here. You're all right," John whispered. It was almost
imperceptible, but John felt Sherlock's muscles quiver under his hand. He could
not possibly know what was running through his flat-mate's head, but if it was
enough to cause Sherlock- of all people- so much pain, the family situation
must have been worse than he thought. John's hand went to Sherlock's far
shoulder and he tugged gently until they were in a half hug. Not too close, not
too far. He was afraid the man might shatter before his eyes.
 
"He wasn't my father." Sherlock said softly, though his words were filled with
anger. "He was a monster that raped his children and beat his wife." The
detective turned away from John before patting him on the shoulder. "Pardon me,
John. I'm having a rare moment where I have no idea what my emotions are
doing." He attempted to breathe in and out slowly.
 
'Oh, God. Is that what happened to him?' John thought, aghast, but instead
voiced,"People change sometimes. Sometimes they become people we don't know."
He wished he could hold onto Sherlock more, but if he wanted to let go, he
would let him. He would do anything for him right now. "It's... okay, Sherlock.
What you're feeling, it's normal. Especially after all of that." Even when they
pulled apart, John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed; looking into his eyes. "I
won't think less about you, I promise."
 
Sherlock cleared his throat; trying to get grip on himself. 'Damn, now your
flat-mate thinks you a barking lunatic more than ever. For God's sake man, get
a grip!' he told himself. Sherlock mentally kicked at the memories until they
were locked in a box in the back of his head. Perhaps he would go see Maria's
grave sometime. Glancing at his companion before responding, "I know, John... I
know." He squeezed John's hand tightly. "Just... stay." He breathed; so quietly
John could barely hear it.
 
Sherlock hated to admit it, but he needed John to be there at the moment. It
was not because he was going to go off the deep end- he had already done that.
He just needed someone he trusted nearby. It had been almost fifteen years
since he uttered her name; let alone thought of the things his father had done.
His mother was no pearl either. Mycroft did not care about his past and only
did things to make his own life better. The only aid the man had ever given his
brother was to send him off to school when he was old enough. Which Sherlock
had come to understand was right. It was a less painful way to go about living
one's life when one's family was shit. One had to cut off the emotions....
Another memory hit.
 
Sherlock walked into the room where Maria lay dead. "Maria.... Maria? MARIA!"
He had screamed for help but his mother was drugged in the bathtub. His brother
was gone and his father was passed out in the kitchen from the alcohol he had
consumed. He was forced to bury her alone in the backyard at the age of ten.
His sister; the one whom he wanted to protect from everything. Even going so
far as to give her his meals when food was scarce. Their parents did not
realize she was gone until a week later. His father had smacked him around for
not looking after her. His mother had shed a tear before whispering happily,
"Finally, we'll have one less mouth to feed." As if it was her plan all along.
 
He broke. Just leaned his head against John's shoulder and let the tears flow.
His face did not become red like others nor did he begin sobbing. He cried
silently; showing no sign he was in his tone. His tears were almost clear and
left pathways that told a thousand tales of pain. "For a genius, you really are
an idiot sometimes." John was trying to lighten the mood, but did not have his
heart in it. Honesty was the best route to take right now. "I won't leave.
Where else would I go?"
 
Apparently, that might have been the wrong thing to say because Sherlock began
truly weeping. "Christ, Sherlock, I..." He set his rapidly cooling mug down and
turned; putting his arms around Sherlock so they would be comfortable at least.
With Sherlock pillowed between his chin and shoulder, he returned his hand to
rubbing his back. This time making circles he hoped were soothing. He was here
to hold Sherlock through it no matter how long it took. He was quite glad
Sherlock was finally releasing his pain because if he would not do it, John
would have done it for him. Ever since he and Sherlock met, he knew they had
some sort of connection. Why else would he unwaveringly follow a man he barely
knew and kill a man for him the second night into their acquaintance? It was
that connection that made him feel pain whenever Sherlock was hurting. If only
a doctor like himself could heal a heart with a scalpel.
 
Sherlock felt like his world was crashing down and the only thing keeping him
together was John's arms for the time being. He had not let those emotions out
in fifteen years. He had sworn the moment Mycroft physically pushed him onto
the train to school he would never feel that pain again. He had hated and burnt
relationship after relationship trying to free himself of the pain, but now it
was beginning to liberate him. He could feel his thoughts break into his
reality. "I need to go back there.... John... I need you to come with me," he
whispered.
 
"Of course I'll go with you, Sherlock." No one else would if he did not!
Definitely not bloody Mycroft Holmes. He never really liked the man and now he
understood why Sherlock hated him so much.
"You don't have to, but if it helps...." Sherlock needed the closure. He needed
to see the end to all of it so he could move on. Getting up from the couch and
grabbing his jacket, Sherlock stopped momentarily to clean his face off with a
tissue. "Let's get this over with." He walked down the stairs; knowing the way
well. Less than three miles southeast was his old home in the worst side of
town. He wanted to end this. He needed to end this.
 
John was glad the tears helped. It was difficult to walk with excess baggage,
as some would say. He had never even known Sherlock had such a past. Struggling
into his own coat, he followed the other blindly and faithfully. He only hoped
if he ever saw Mycroft it would not be alone. He would be far too tempted to
punch the eldest Holmes in the face. Probably even in the solar plexus and
kidney a few times for not doing a damn thing about what had happened.
 
Sherlock practically jogged the three miles until they stopped at a little
building near the port. There were still tears in his eyes as he walked in.
Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the living room, then the
kitchen and bathroom. He looked around as he swallowed; the house was abandoned
now, of course. Fifteen years later, it still looked like a shithole. He walked
through it; shoes making small dust clouds. There were holes in the wall he
knew came from his father's fists. He saw the closet Maria had hid in was
untouched. The windows were still boarded up and the only light came from a
hole in the ceiling.
 
He remembered watching the stars and asking Mycroft what they were when he was
younger. "No one has been here in fifteen years..." He whispered before going
into the back room. There were four rusty mattresses there that had only been
used by rats and dirt for almost a decade and a half. Like it was some kind of
echo from the past, there was a tiny toy on the ground. It was dirty to the
point you could not see its true color anymore. Sherlock picked it up from the
ground and realized it was the stuffed cat Maria used to own.
 
It used to be blue, he recalled. Sherlock walked through a hole in the wall
where a door used to be. Continued a few more steps into a junkyard of wood and
beer bottles. In a particularly clean area where wild flowers grew he stopped.
He leaned down where a rock sat unmoved for years as well. Placing the toy next
to it as he sighed. "There is a gas station down the street. I need to get a
few cans." Then he turned to John, "Thank you...." It was spoken so softly and
filled with such meaning whereas the other times seemed to be half-hearted.
 
"No need to thank me. I'll do whatever you need, Sherlock." John assured before
turning on the spot and heading to the gas station. He had an idea of what the
man was planning, but he would make certain his friend went undisturbed none
the less.
 
A short time later, John and Sherlock stood outside the house. They had emptied
the entire batch of six gas cans on the deteriorating wood. From inside his
pocket, Sherlock withdrew a pack of unused cigarettes and a lighter. John did
not comment when Sherlock took one out of the packet and offered him another.
The doctor hated the habit of smoking but he let Sherlock light his up anyway.
The taller of the two tossed the rest of the pack into the house through a
crack in the door. In one swift motion, he lit the lighter and threw it into
the house.
 
In less than fifteen minutes, the once home of the Holmes family was up in
flames. "Is it over?" John asked quietly from beside the man. Sherlock had
stopped being emotional the moment he cleaned his sister's grave of the weeds
that had grown there.
 
"No, John. It will never be over. But a chapter is finished." He answered and
put out the cigarette. John followed him as they walked away together. "The
fire department will be coming soon. They fear a fire in London like a dog does
a vet," he added, turning the corner.
 
John reached out and slowed him by the arm. "Sherlock…" He began softly,
trailing off into silence before taking a deep breath, "You don't need to keep
things from me. I will be there for you. No matter what happens, I will be
there." He stated resolutely as the man looked down at him.
 
"What would I be without my blogger." Sherlock half-joked before swallowing
hard. Allowing himself to nod; perhaps with a bit of pride. "I don't think I
could have done that without your help."
John shook his head. "But you did do it. On another note, can we go hit Mycroft
now?" he asked pleadingly. Sherlock laughed.
 
"Yes, lets."
End Notes
     SOoooo, do you hate me now? I tried to make them close enough to what
     they act in the show. I'm going to get murder threats aren't I...
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