Work Text:
John had never expected to see his father again, not after a childhood spent covered in bruises caused by his fists, not after years of flinching away whenever he moved too sharply, not after finally escaping from all of it and thinking himself free.
But then, years after he last saw him, he finds himself standing in a dingy underground gambling den with Sherlock by his side as they question one of the men who works there.
"Nah, I never spoke to him much," the man is saying. "The boss seemed to already know him when he first arrived. But he spent most of his time with Malcolm Tucker over there."
He gestures over to one of the tables but John is too busy trying to hide the shock of dread that runs through him at that name. It is a false name that his father had used on more than one occasion when he was young. He tries to tell himself that it must be a coincidence, that he wouldn't still be using it all these years later, but then he follows the pointing finger to see a face he had hoped he would never see again.
His blood runs cold and he tries to hide the way he reacts, the way his breathing comes a little quicker and the way his hands start to shake. He doesn't want Sherlock to know about his father, about his past. His eyes are locked on the face that he can never forget, the face that used to hurl hateful words at him as he beat him black and blue. His father doesn't seem to have noticed him yet but he feels frozen in place, that old fear welling up inside him and choking his lungs.
"How about I talk to the boss, you talk to Tucker?" Sherlock asks next to him as John tries to reign in his emotions, tries to push down the panic that suggestion stirs up.
He doesn't want to. He desperately doesn't want to but the alternative is for Sherlock to do it and that will end with him finding out everything.
"Okay," he manages to force out, proud of himself when he manages to keep his voice steady. Something must show on his face though because Sherlock gives him a long look. John tries to give him a reassuring smile and it seems to be enough because Sherlock nods and turns to head towards the back of the room.
John watches him go. He wants to reach out and stop him, ask him to stay, but he forces himself to ignore that urge. He is used to having to restrain himself around Sherlock, even if it is usually for a different reason. He keeps his eyes on him, needing a last few seconds of comfort, until he disappears through a door, leaving John standing in the middle of the gloomy room. Despite the fact that there are people all around him he feels unbearably alone and vulnerable.
He swallows against the fear that threatens to take him over and turns his eyes back to the figure of his father, forces his feet into movement even though what he wants to do more than anything is to turn and run the other way.
He is only a short distance away when his father glances up and meets his eyes. John falters, feet stumbling as he finds himself pinned by the same gaze that has been aimed at him in disgust so many times before.
"Finally come crawling back have you, boy?" his father asks, the word 'boy' said in the same dismissive voice he has always said it with. It makes John feel just as small, just as unimportant, as it has all the other times before.
"No," he says, trying desperately to keep the tremble out of his voice. "I'm looking into the murder of Graham Brownhill. I was told he spent a lot of time with you."
He tries to pretend this is just another person in a case, just someone else to question. He tries to pretend he doesn't remember the fury in his eyes, tries to pretend that he has never worn bruises in the shape of his fists.
"What are you some kind of cop now?" his father sneers and John feels his shoulders hunch defensively without his permission.
"No, I... I'm a doctor." He doesn't know why he is telling him that. He feels thrown by finding himself face to face with the man he has feared his entire life.
His father laughs derisively. "And what's that got to do with asking questions around here?"
John's heart starts to race. Now that his father has asked, he realises it does sound ridiculous.
"I...I work with a detective," he says and most other days he would have introduced both himself and Sherlock as detectives. It is what they do after all. But with his father looking at him like he is nothing, it makes him feel unworthy of sharing the same title as Sherlock.
"Well, ain't that fancy."
John grits his teeth, tries to calm his pounding heart. "Did you know Brownhill or not?"
"I knew him to play cards with. Man couldn't bluff to save his life. I earned a pretty penny off of him. Shame he's dead. Now I'll have to find someone else." It's said callously, uncaringly and John feels sick at the disinterest on his father's face.
"A man is dead," he says but his father just shrugs.
"People die every day," he says. He gives John a considering look and it makes ice flood through his veins. It has never been a good thing to earn his father's attention. That has only ever led to bruises and bloody noses.
"You know," his father says, "now that you're some fancy doctor turned detective, I feel like you really ought to compensate me for keeping a roof over your head all those years."
"You want me to give you money?" John asks, incredulity breaking through his fear.
His father smirks. "The way I see it you owe me. You cost me money for years and I never got any gratitude for it."
"Gratitude?" John exclaims. Did his father expect him to thank him for the beatings, for the years of terror?
His father stands suddenly, forcefully, and John flinches automatically at the action, all that old fear rearing its ugly head. He feels like a child again, cowering away from his father's hand.
"Don't you raise your voice to me, boy," his father snarls, voice angry and threaded through with the threat of violence. It makes John feel sick, his breathing picking up speed as panic starts to form in his chest.
"I..." he tries to stammer but quickly shuts his mouth when his father takes a step forward.
"You know I don't take any backtalk," his father says darkly. "Now how about you fund me for a few rounds of cards?"
"I'm not..." John tries to protest but his father makes a sharp movement with his hand and he flinches, ducking his head and turning his eyes away from him as his words get stuck in his throat.
"Would you rather this detective of yours finds out what you are?" his father hisses and the bottom drops out of John's stomach.
"You can't," he gasps out in horror. He remembers the way his father had looked at him when he had caught John looking at the boy who lived across from them, the hateful look in his eyes. His father had beaten him nearly to death that night. And he had never let him forget how repulsive he found him until the day he ran away.
"Oh, but I can," comes the sneered answer. "I'll make sure he knows your disgusting little secret."
His expression is filled with hate, with revulsion. It makes John feel like the scared little boy that he used to be and he wonders if he had ever really been free from him. He wants to argue, wants to tell him to go to hell, but he has never been brave enough for that. Instead he finds himself thinking that he would do anything to keep his secret. He can't stand the idea of Sherlock finding out, because then it will only be one short leap to come to the realisation that John has been in love with him for years and then...then everything will fall apart.
"How much?" he finds himself asking, hating himself for it. He hates that he is following his father's orders again after all these years, hates that he is still weak enough to give in to him, hates that he still fears him.
"Why don't we start with whatever you have on you?" his father demands harshly. John stands unmoving for a moment and his father sneers.
"You seem reluctant. Perhaps you want me to tell him."
"No!" John bursts out, unable to stop himself, and sees the triumphant look in his father's eyes. He knows he has him.
John looks around quickly and then shoves his hand in his pocket, pulling out all that he has and thrusting it into his father's greedy hands.
"That's all I've got." He feels ashamed of himself, even more so when his father snatches the money away with an eager expression. He watches him count it with bated breath.
"It's not much."
"It's all I've got," he repeats shakily.
"Well it ain't enough. Not for that kind of secret."
Dread rolls through John. How much does his father want? How much will it take to get rid of him?
"You're going to bring me more," his father orders. "If this is all you've got on you then you're going to bring me more."
"I can't-" John tries to argue.
"You will," his father tells him. "If you want me to keep your secret then you will."
"I-" John starts but he is cut off by Sherlock's voice calling to him across the room.
"John!" he calls and John's head jerks around to look at him, eyes finding him unerringly. He has always been able to find Sherlock. His heart thuds with icy fear as he sees him start to walk toward them.
"I have to go," he says quickly, eyes still locked on Sherlock.
"Remember what I said," his father growls and John's gaze shoots back to meet his when his father's hand clamps down on his arm, gripping hard enough to bruise. His mind flashes back to all those times his father's hands have forced bruises onto his skin, all the times he has grabbed him in violence. He finds himself nodding quickly, obeying him with the same ingrained fear that has always possessed him.
His father's hand pulls away and he turns, returning to his table and leaving John standing numbly. He tries to bury his reaction, tries to lock away the fear and the shame and the guilt before Sherlock can see them. He can't let him see.
"John," Sherlock says, arriving beside him. "We have a lead."
John turns to look at him, hoping he has managed to conceal the turmoil within him.
"Really?"
"Yes, I'll explain it on the way," Sherlock says with a nod. He tilts his head, giving John an assessing look. "Are you alright? You seem...troubled."
"I'm fine," John says, forcing a smile. It feels weak but Sherlock seems to accept it because he turns and leads John away.
"Did Tucker tell you anything?" Sherlock asks and John has to try to hide the way his breathing stutters at the mention of his father's alias.
"Nothing useful," he says. "He knew him well enough to play cards with but nothing more."
"Well at least the owner knew more," Sherlock says and John is relieved to let himself listen to the eager sound of his voice as he explains his lead and the theory he is building from it. And if he walks a little closer to him, needing the comfort of his presence, then Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in the thrill of the mystery.
~~~
For the next few weeks John lives in dread.
He hasn't returned to the gambling den, too afraid to see his father and hopeful that if he just stays away then his father will forget about it.
It doesn't stop him from imagining him everywhere. He will see a tall figure across the street and his heart will start to race until he gets a look at his face and realises it isn't him. He will get the feeling that someone is watching him and he will turn sharply, breathing panicked, to find that no one is there. It is just his imagination.
As the days drag on, he slowly begins to relax. When it has been a few weeks he thinks to himself that maybe his father has forgotten. He had always treated John like he was nothing before. Perhaps it has worked in his favour this time.
Of course, as soon as he starts to feel that fear and dread starting to ebb, a letter arrives.
He is having breakfast with Sherlock and he opens the letter unthinkingly, not recognising the writing on the envelope. It is only when he reads the letter inside that his blood runs cold. He makes an excuse and flees the table as quickly as he can without drawing suspicion, shuts himself in his room and reads the letter again.
It's not any better the second time. His father's demands are the same as before; money for his silence. It sends terror flooding through him. His father knows where he lives, where Sherlock lives. The letter makes it clear what he thinks of that, of finding out that John is living with him. The words drip with accusations and revulsion. His father accuses him of lusting after Sherlock and the worst part is that he isn't wrong. John has been pining over him for years and now someone has finally noticed.
His hands shake as they hold the letter, as he tries to figure out what to do. If he pays him will he keep coming back for more? If he doesn't will he go through with his threat? He doesn't really have any doubt that he will. His father is a vindictive man. He knows that if he doesn't give him the money, his father will tell Sherlock everything. And who knows who else he will tell? He had learned at a young age that the world isn't kind to people like him and he is terrified of being found out.
Later that day he finds himself standing outside the rundown building that his father is living in. He finds himself knocking on the door with shaking hands and pressing money into his father's clutches, trembling under the weight of that hateful gaze. He almost runs back home afterwards, eager to get away from there, eager to feel the safety of his own home.
He joins Sherlock by the fireplace, needing his reassuring presence. He feels safer with Sherlock around. It helps push away the fear and the dread. And if he stays up far later than he normally would, conforming to Sherlock's haphazard sleep schedule instead of his own, then nobody has to know the reason except him. Nobody has to know that it is because he needs him in that moment, that he is scared of returning to the darkness of his room, that he is scared that his dreams will be plagued with bruising fists and hateful words.
He stays awake as long as he can. If he pretends he is okay then he can almost believe it.
~~~
The second letter arrives a month after the first and it makes John feel sick to his stomach. The threats are the same. The demands are the same. And he knows then that his father will never give up. He will bleed John dry of everything that he has and then he will ask for more.
He sits alone in his room, trembling and with tears stinging at his eyes. He doesn't know what to do. If he pays him it will only buy him time. Perhaps that is best. Perhaps he should just buy as much time with Sherlock as he can manage. Perhaps that's all he has left to him.
In the end he pays him. He stands outside his door and hands over the money while his father looks at him in disgust. It sends shame crawling over his skin, makes him feel low and unworthy. When he returns to Baker Street he sits by the fire with Sherlock and feels dirty when faced with the beauty of everything that Sherlock is. Perhaps there is some truth in the things his father says.
~~~
When the third letter arrives, John has been expecting it for the past week. He has been on edge and nervous every day, fearful of checking his post. When he sees the now familiar writing on the envelope, he excuses himself and opens it in the privacy of his room.
He feels the cruel words sink into him, lodging like ice in his heart. The demands send anxiety running through him. He doesn't know how long he will be able to pay his father off, how long he will be able to meet his demands. It haunts his every waking hour and torments his every sleeping one. His dreams are twisted, brutal things. He is a child again, defenceless against the violence meted out to him.
He knows Sherlock has started to notice something is wrong. He tries his best to hide his lack of sleep, the nervous fear that sits unrelenting in his chest. But it is hard when his best friend is a renowned detective, capable of seeing people's secrets with an ease that would elude anyone else. Sherlock has started asking him if he is okay. He seems worried and that warms some part of John's heart, helps to chase away a little of the ice that is stuck within him.
And in return he lies to him.
He tells him that he is okay, that he is just a little tired. Sherlock doesn't seem convinced but John sticks to that story, no matter how many times he asks, no matter how much the concern in Sherlock's eyes might make him want to break down and weep, no matter how much it might make him want to confess it all and throw himself on his mercy.
He pays his father that time too. He tries to tell him that he doesn't have much more and flinches when he father clenches a threatening fist and spits a slew of hateful slurs at him. He tries to plead with him but the blow across the cheek that it earns him puts a halt to his protests and he stumbles home, hand pressed over the rapidly forming bruise. When Sherlock asks, he says that he walked into a door. He knows it isn't convincing. He doesn't have the energy to be convincing anymore.
His chest is full of fear and he can barely breath past it as he stares at the bruise in the mirror. He sees the boy that he was looking back, scared and unbearably young, trapped by his father's rage. He sees his own face, bruised by his father's hand countless times over the years, remembers all the times before that he had stared into the mirror just like this with a new bruise spreading across his skin.
His chest is tight and he tries to remember the bravery that has carried him through the years after running away from his father's home, through so many of his cases with Sherlock but he can't find it. There is something about his father that makes him feel helpless and scared, unable to summon that courage.
So instead he lets the dread settle into him and he waits fearfully for the next letter to arrive.
~~~
When the fourth letter arrives John curls on top of the covers on his bed and tries to remember how to breath. He can't afford it. He doesn't have much left and he has no way to raise more, certainly not the amount that is needed. The letter crumples and tears in his clenched fist as he tries to fight the way his eyes burn.
He hurls it away in a fit of anger born of fear, sending it flying across the room to land on the floor. It looks such a small, sad thing to bring such terror.
Eventually he hauls himself upright and makes his way back downstairs, lets himself be drawn into Sherlock's energy over their current case. He follows him out the door to investigate a lead and tries to forget about the threat hanging over his head. He can't afford to pay and that means that soon he will lose everything.
~~~
John is sitting in front of the fire alone when his world is turned upside down. Sherlock is around somewhere. He had muttered that he needed something for the case and had disappeared from the room, leaving John to his thoughts. He tries to keep his mind from turning to the latest letter but he can't manage it. Lately his every waking thought is consumed by the fear of his father's threats. He doesn't even notice Sherlock returning until he is standing right next to him.
"John? What's this?" he asks and John turns to him in confusion before his eyes latch onto the crumpled letter in Sherlock's hands. Horror floods through him.
"Where did you get that?" he gasps out. He snatches for it but Sherlock easily pulls it away from his clumsy attempt.
"I went into your room to borrow a book," he says with a frown. another time John might have told him off for borrowing his things without asking again but now all he can do is stare in terror. "This was on the floor. It wasn't like you to leave a mess so I looked."
"I...It's..." John stammers. He can't find the words. He desperately tries to remember what the letter had said. Had his father made his accusations clear this time or had he only demanded money?
"Is someone blackmailing you?" Sherlock asks. His tone is incredulous, like he can't imagine such a thing happening.
"I..." John tries. He stumbles out of his chair, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. He is almost certain that the letter had only contained demands for money this time, no reiterations of why exactly, but he is still finding it hard to breath. He doesn't know how to explain his way out of this.
"John?" Sherlock sounds worried, very worried. The letter falls from his hand as he reaches for him. "It's okay."
But it's not okay. It may not ever be okay again.
"I can't-" he gasps, breathing rapid and panicked. "I can't-"
"John, it's okay," Sherlock says. His voice is soothing but his eyes are wide with concern. "I'm here, okay? Whatever this is, we can fix it."
John shakes his head. There's nothing to be done. Nothing can fix this.
"It's okay," Sherlock tells him again. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I don't know what's going on but I promise you that."
Sherlock's fingers touch against John's arms, still wrapped tightly around himself.
"It's okay. I need you to breath. Can you do that?"
John isn't sure anymore. He tries to suck in a deep breath but finds that it sticks somewhere in his throat and then he is gasping again.
"John, listen to me," Sherlock says, voice gentle. "Breath with me, okay? In and out."
John's eyes fix on Sherlock, on the way he exaggerates his breaths, drawing long breaths in and then letting them out. He tries to copy him and it takes a few shivering tries before he can manage it. He keeps doing it, breathing along with Sherlock until some of the all consuming panic ebbs and fades. There is still a bone deep terror within him but at least he can breathe around it.
"You're doing great," Sherlock tells him. A gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder, uncertain and light until John leans into the touch, seeking the warmth against the chill of the fear that fills his chest. Then Sherlock's touch gets firmer and he moves closer, carefully pulling John into his arms when John doesn't try to move away.
Instead he falls into it, almost collapsing into Sherlock's arms. He can feel the movement of Sherlock's chest against his, can hear his breathing in his ear, and he matches his own breaths to it, breaths with him and lets the warmth of his embrace soothe him. When he feels like he can keep his broken pieces together he stays there still. He doesn't know if he will ever have this again and he finds himself clinging to it.
"Will you tell me what's going on?" Sherlock asks softly and when John's breathing hitches in response, he strokes a reassuring hand down his back.
"I can't," John whispers.
"You can tell me anything," Sherlock tells him earnestly, his voice low in John's ear. "I promise. Whatever it is, we'll sort it out."
"You don't even know what it is," John chokes out. "How can you promise that when you don't even know why? I could have done anything."
He feels Sherlock shake his head. "No. I know you. I know that whatever this is, it isn't your fault. You could never have done anything worth this. You are a good person, John. You are kind and honourable, and I know that you would never have done anything that goes against that. I am as certain of it as I am that the sun will rise in the morning."
It's said with such belief, such utter confidence that it cracks something deep within John. He feels it down to his bones.
"I'm not what you think I am," he whispers and feels Sherlock's arms tighten around him.
"Yes you are," Sherlock insists. "You're just not what you think you are. I can see that you think so little of yourself and it pains me, it does, that you can't see how wonderful you truly are."
"You wouldn't say that if you knew."
"Then tell me. Tell me so I can prove you wrong and tell you that you are still wonderful."
John squeezes his eyes shut. Sherlock's words are something that he has yearned for but he feels guilty for the way he treasures them when Sherlock has no idea why they are so important to him. He has no idea of the love that burns in John's heart, of the feelings that he has been hiding so desperately for such a long time.
"I can't," he whispers again. "Please don't make me."
He feels more than hears Sherlock sigh. "I'm not going to make you do anything. If you don't want to tell me then I won't force you to. Just...please know that I am prepared to help you in any way that I can. And if you ever feel able to tell me then I will be here."
He feels Sherlock's head turn slightly, feels the line of his nose against the side of his head and the press of something he wants to believe is lips but knows can't be.
"I'm sorry," John murmurs, still taking what comfort he can in the safety of Sherlock's arms. He doesn't know if he is apologising for not telling him the truth, or for breaking down in his arms, or for loving him when the world will hate him for it.
It hardly matters though because Sherlock just holds him a little tighter and says, "you have nothing to be sorry for."
For one beautiful moment, John almost believes him.
~~~
A couple of days pass and John is painfully aware of the worried way Sherlock watches him. he knows he must be burning to know what John is hiding from him but he is grateful that Sherlock doesn't try to push. Instead he finds that Sherlock stays by his side almost constantly, pressing reassuring hands to his arms, his shoulders, his back, whenever he can.
It's a sweet form of torture having these touches when he knows he doesn't deserve them. He feels guilty for the comfort he derives from them when Sherlock is completely ignorant of the way he feels. It's not fair of him to accept them when Sherlock doesn't understand the way he wants him, the way they send tender affection curling through him.
It helps stave off the fear just a little, but it is always there under his skin. He hasn't paid his father and he doesn't know how long it will be before that has repercussions. He considers telling Sherlock the truth. At least then he would hear it from John. But he can't bear to cut short what time they have together. If he is going to be found out then he will at least have these last few days.
~~~
In the end it is a knock at the door that signals the beginning of the end of it all.
John answers it unthinkingly and isn't prepared for the sight of his father standing on their doorstep. He reels backwards from the dark look on his face and his father uses that opportunity to step forwards into their home and shut the door behind him. John struggles not to panic. He knows Sherlock is home somewhere but he's not sure where and he's not sure if he wants him with him or as far from his father as possible.
"Nice place you have here," his father comments, looking around. "Nice enough that you should be able to pay me."
"I don't..." John stammers nervously. "I don't have enough left."
He finds himself twisting his hands together anxiously, bracing himself for the blow that he fears will come.
"Then perhaps I should talk to your detective friend. Sherlock Holmes isn't it? I've heard a lot about him."
"No, I-"
"John?" Sherlock's voice cuts him off and John startles, twisting around to see Sherlock coming down the last few stairs. "Who is this?"
He frowns, head tilting. "Didn't we meet you before? On the Brownhill case?"
"I'm his father," is the imperious response before John can even get a word out.
Sherlock's frown deepens, like he is trying to figure something out.
"Am I intruding? Do you want me to leave you to talk?" he asks, sounding reluctant, and the idea sends something fearful through John's chest.
A heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder and he tries not to, he really does, but he flinches at the touch, that old inbuilt fear leading him to cringe away from an expected attack as his father grips his shoulder tightly.
"Don't leave!" he gasps out without meaning to and sees Sherlock's eyes narrow in realisation.
"This is him isn't it?" he asks, the implication clear. This is the man who's been blackmailing you.
"Yes," John admits helplessly, feeling pinned under the weight of his father's hand and the intensity of Sherlock's gaze, trapped between the man he fears and the man he loves.
Then Sherlock is moving forwards. His hands find John's arm and he pulls him away from his father's grip. He pushes John behind him and puts himself between them, a shield between John and the father who means him harm.
"I don't know what you think you're doing but it stops now," Sherlock says, voice low and dangerous. John wants to tell him to be careful but he feels a little awed by the protective edge in his words.
His father smirks. "He hasn't told you has he? Well, seeing as how he's refusing to keep to our agreement, I think a little honesty is overdue."
"No," John whispers and then tenses when his father's eyes find him, a vindictive light in them.
"You should have paid me, boy," his father spits and there's that word again, filled with disdain and designed to make John feel small and useless.
"Don't talk to him like that," Sherlock says fiercely in response.
His father laughs. "Will you feel like that when you know what he is? What he does? Will you still protect him then?"
He sneers and John can only watch in horror as he looks Sherlock in the eye, ready to spill his deepest secret.
"He's... oh what's the polite word for it? Ah yes, homosexual." His father looks viciously pleased at having said it and John feels frozen to the spot.
Sherlock however seems to have gone icily calm. "And?" he asks, tone cold.
His father's smirk wavers but then returns stronger than ever. "Aren't you concerned that you've been living with someone like him?"
"Stop now. I'm warning you," Sherlock says, anger bleeding into his voice.
"Aren't you worried about what he might have done? Do you think he has watched you sleep? Do you think he has crept into your room and tried to-"
John never gets to find out what accusation his father might have made, exactly, although he can make a general guess, because Sherlock flings himself forward, fists flying as he lands a solid punch across his father's jaw.
For a moment John stands stunned, shocked at the fury that seems to envelop Sherlock. He has never seen him like this, provoked to violence by a few words. But then his father is retaliating and they are brawling violently in the hallway.
Perhaps it's the sight of Sherlock as the target of his father's brutality. Perhaps it's the fact that his father has brought this violence into their home. Perhaps it is that he has spent so many years being afraid that it breaks something in him. Whatever it is, John finally finds that courage within him, the bravery that he has faced the world with, that inspired him to flee his father's clutches, that has burned within him through the following years.
He had thought it lost to him when he first set eyes on his father after all these years, had thought that he had somehow snuffed it out. But now it flares within him, just as bright as ever before, and he surges forward, shoving his father away from Sherlock and swinging his own fist when his father tries to go for him again.
The crack of it is loud and he feels a little stunned at it. He has never struck his father in return and he sees that same shock in his father's face as he staggers backwards. John steps between them, uses an arm to keep Sherlock behind him when he tries to get around him, snarling with anger. He catches a glimpse of him, of the blood running from his nose and the fierce expression on his face. It shakes something inside him at the thought that Sherlock has heard his secret and still feels so strongly about protecting him.
"I won't let you hurt him," John tells his father when he sees that answering violence in his eyes, and for the first time his voice is steady as he talks to him. He clenches his hands into fists and sets his shoulders. He will take whatever his father throws at him and he will protect Sherlock. He won't let his father raise a hand to either of them again without a fight.
He sees something in his father's expression falter, the cruel smirk fading from his face to be replaced by something a little fearful, fearful of him. In that moment he looks like a bitter, unhappy man who is angry at the world for his own shortcomings. He looks small and unimportant when John has Sherlock next to him, Sherlock who burns brightly like the sun and is at that moment glaring at his father with barely contained protective rage.
It makes John feel tall, like he is worth that protectiveness and he finds that he no longer feels like that scared little boy. He looks at his father and sees a pitiful man that he is now capable of defending himself against, a man who can only take out his fury on a defenceless young child who should have been under his protection.
"Get out," John tells him, voice hard and unyielding. He doesn't know what his father will do, if he will tell anyone else, but he won't stand for him defiling their home for a moment longer.
His father stares at him a little wide eyed and then Sherlock leans around John's shoulder, nose bloodied but with a victorious look on his face.
"And if you ever come back," Sherlock hisses, "if you ever come near John again, I will make sure that everyone in London knows that you've been cheating at cards. I don't think your friends will be too happy about being swindled. There's a nasty crowd in that place. I wonder what they'd do..."
John sees his father's eyes go wide, sees the fear in them.
"You wouldn't," he says roughly, trying for the strength he had had up until now but it falls flat.
"Try me," Sherlock spits, all fierce anger, and John thinks he might love him now more than ever.
He draws himself up and looks his father in the eye, realising for the first time that he is now a little taller than him.
"Get out," he tells him again, voice like steel, and he is gratified when his father does just that, turning and wrenching the door open to flee from the building.
For a moment after the door slams shut, everything is quiet and John feels a little stunned by it all.
Then Sherlock presses a hand to his shoulder and says, "you were brilliant," in a soft, proud voice. It makes something glow in John's chest at the praise.
"So were you," he says, turning to see the way Sherlock shrugs and wipes at the blood trailing from his nose.
"It was nothing," Sherlock says. "You're the one who stood up to him."
"Only after you tried to punch his face in," John says in awe and Sherlock snorts with laughter and then winces and presses a hand to his nose.
"Are you alright?" John asks in concern.
"It's fine," Sherlock says with a smile and a casual wave of his hand. "I've had far worse. And it was worth it."
Some of that protectiveness is back in his voice and it makes something lurch in John's chest.
"Are you okay with it?" he asks tentatively. "With what he said?"
"Of course," Sherlock says instantly. He reaches out to touch a reassuring hand to John's arm, his expression earnest. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. I told you that you couldn't have done anything wrong and now I'm proven right. You are wonderful and this doesn't change that."
"You really think that?" John can't help asking in disbelief.
"Yes," Sherlock agrees emphatically. He ducks his head and rubs an awkward hand at the back of his neck before meeting John's eyes again. "Besides it would be hypocritical of me to have a problem with it when I am also attracted to men."
John almost chokes at the words.
"What?" he gasps out, astounded, and Sherlock gives him a faint smile.
"You heard me," he says with a lilt of amusement but he still says it again. "I am also attracted to men."
John stares at him in shock and Sherlock's expression goes a little nervous.
"In fact," he says, "I was rather hoping that this might mean you feel the same way about me as I do about you."
John can hardly believe what he is hearing because it sounds like... It sounds like Sherlock might... Is it possible he returns John's feelings? Is it possible that the thing John has yearned for might actually be possible?
"Of course I know that you might not," Sherlock says quickly, words spilling nervously from his lips. "Just because you are attracted to men doesn't mean that you are attracted to me in particular. And even if you are attracted to me that doesn't necessarily mean that you feel-"
"I am," John blurts out and he feels his cheeks flush when Sherlock stops his rambling. "Attracted to you that is. I am attracted to you."
Sherlock grins, bright and breathtakingly beautiful. "You are?"
"Yes," John says helplessly. "I am. Sherlock, I am and I..."
He reaches for that bravery, that courage that had allowed him to finally stand up to his father. Sherlock had been nervous and rambling about feelings, and it sends joyous hope through him.
"Sherlock, I love you," he tells him and is relieved when Sherlock's smile glows all the brighter.
Sherlock presses in close to him, hands sliding onto his shoulders as he looks at him with happiness and affection.
"I love you too," he says and John feels like his heart might burst out of his chest with the sheer joy that runs through him. He can't quite believe it but Sherlock is warm and solid against him and looking at him with such a stunning smile that he can't resist leaning in to kiss it.
Sherlock kisses him back eagerly, muffling a low sound into his mouth as he slides his arms around John's neck and pulls him in. It sends heat rushing through John's veins and he kisses him firmly, hands finding Sherlock's hips and holding him close. It's perfect, as everything is with Sherlock, and John wants to sink into it and never stop. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a quiet groan when he feels Sherlock's tongue against his. His body is singing with it, with the joy that Sherlock actually wants him like this, that he loves him in return.
He presses forwards, feels his nose slide against Sherlock's and then Sherlock is wincing and pulling back with a hiss, touching a hand to his bloodied nose.
"I'm sorry," John says in a rush but Sherlock shakes his head with a grin.
"I'm not," he says. "It was worth it."
He leans in to kiss John again and John huffs out a laugh against his lips. He lets him steal a kiss and then another before he murmurs "I could have a look at that."
Sherlock kisses him again, a slow slide of lips that almost makes John forget what he was offering but then he pulls back.
"I suppose you are a doctor," Sherlock says and John takes a moment to regain his scattered wits before his focuses his attention on his nose. He touches his fingers to his cheeks, turning his face this way and that to get a proper look. Sherlock's skin is already starting to bruise.
"It's not broken," John tells him. "But you might have some impressive bruising before long."
"It was worth it," Sherlock reiterates before pressing a gentle kiss to John's mouth. "You know I've never seen anything quite so brilliant as the way you stood up to him. I know you don't talk about your father, about your past, but I know it wasn't good. For you to stand up to him like that is nothing short of incredibly brave."
John ducks his head with a shyly pleased smile. He's not sure yet exactly how he feels about it all and he might still feel the return of that old fear. But in this moment he is proud of what he has achieved and Sherlock's praise just makes it all the sweeter.
"And I've never seen anything quite so brilliant as you going for him like that," he tells Sherlock. He thinks he will remember that protective look, the way Sherlock had placed himself like a shield between them before flinging himself forward in rage, for a long time.
"Yes, we're both quite brilliant," Sherlock says with a smug grin that has John letting out a sharp laugh. Then he is leaning in again to kiss John eagerly.
"Your nose," John tries to protest, attempting to gentle the kiss.
"Mm, kissing you is more important," Sherlock mumbles into his mouth, kissing him and kissing him until John feels breathless with it.
"You're ridiculous," he tells him and feels Sherlock's mouth curve into a smile against his.
"Yes, but I'm yours," he says and John's heart thuds in his chest. He kisses Sherlock carefully, cradling his face in his hands and making sure not to press against his nose.
"I'm yours too," he whispers between kisses. "I love you."
Sherlock hums a noise of contentment into his mouth. "I love you too."
It's perfect. It's everything.
John stands in the arms of the man he loves, the man who would fling himself into danger to protect John's honour, and he thinks that he has never been happier.