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The first time Greg had invited John out for a pint to watch the game it had been because Sherlock was in a foul mood and even the slightest creak of a door or floorboard was enough to set him off into sensory overload. Over time, however, it had become A Thing: watch the game, have a couple of beers, chat about nice normal non-murdery things like nice normal blokes. Sherlock had joined them once, thinking he would rather enjoy people-watching but much to the surprise of nobody he hadn't done so again; partly because he was now barred (grossly unfair, he'd complained as he was hauled out, he's the one who punched me!) and partly also because he'd deemed it irredeemably dull.
Liverpool were playing Chelsea which meant they weren't terribly invested but enough to watch the big-screen TV overlooking their area of the pub. Enough that they could carry a conversation not related to football... which somehow inevitably wound around to the Holmeses.
"Doesn't it piss you off though? That Sherlock can't even be bothered to remember your name? You've known him for years."
Greg looked confused. "I mean, he knows my name, I don't mind that he never uses it though. I mean, it's understandable really."
"Understandable how?" John sipped his beer with a frown, one that only deepened when Gregs confusion turned to vague horror.
"Fuck, I assumed you knew. Makes sense that he wouldn't say anything... look, it's best if you talk to Sherlock about that. Not really for me to tell, mate. Just trust me, I don't mind and he knows that."
Well, if that didn't give John something to mull over, Gregs next words certainly did:
"I didn't get it at first either, but when I found out about everything that had happened I just let him carry on. To be honest it's become a sort of private joke, it's a bit funny seeing how many 'G' names he can come up with. He called me Guilford once, bloody Guilford! I got him a baby name book once, he came up with all sorts after that."
~*~
To say John's head was swimming by the time he returned to 221B would be an understatement; the baffling hint regarding Sherlock's apparent avoidance of Greg's real name aside, he'd had a pint too many to comisserate the losing of his team and his Uber driver had cancelled which meant he was stuck in the rain for a good five minutes before he checked the app again to see where 'Johannes in a blue Toyota Prius' would be, only to be greeted with 'Mohammad in a black Toyota Prius is two minutes away'. Why was it always a Prius anyway? He'd asked Greg as they debated whether or not to go back inside to dry off or if it would be a waste of time given the driver was so close. In the end they'd agreed that it was something to do with them being more environmentally friendly, or about as far as a car could be anyway. John knew bugger all about cars, he was just glad when Mohammad did indeed get to the pub in the promised two minutes and dropped him off without any hassle.
Now John was left loitering at the door like one of the youths outside McDonald's on a Saturday night, wondering how the hell he was going to talk to Sherlock. To be honest, his curiousity wouldn't have been piqued had he not seen that look on Gregs face earlier that night. He'd always figured it was just Sherlock being... well, Sherlock. The same way he insulted Mycrofts weight or Andersons intelligence.
John closed his eyes and remembered the initial surprise that had morphed into absolute dispair and horror.
What the hell could have made Greg look like that? Over something like a name?
Now. John a was reasonably clever man and he had a natural affinity for medicine and biology and being good with unfairly attractive but socially inept geniuses. He was a skilled surgeon and knew a decent amount of general knowledge that made him good on a pub quiz team; but a deductive genius he was not. True, nobody (save, perhaps, for Mycroft) could be accused of being such when compared to Sherlock Holmes, but John had been around him enough to have picked up a few things. He knew now that Sherlock did know Gregs name but avoided using it, that Greg himself knew why, and that whatever the reason it was Not Good; and thus John considered the evidence before him.
Sherlock knew someone called Greg and now the name holds negative connotations.
A bully? No, he had a few of those -- he has no trouble with Sebastian, right?
A former friend/partner/lover/ect who died - possibly in an awful way. Murdered? Overdosed?
John sighed. He'd be better off just asking, apparently. How did Sherlock do this anyway?
~*~
In contrast to John's whirring mind, Sherlock barely looked up when he walked in. He was hunched over the dining table fussing about with -
"Sherlock, I told you to put down a tarp when you play with livers at the dining table." John sighed, toeing his shoes off and hanging his coat up before putting the kettle on.
"Dull. And you said 'human body parts', this is bovine."
"'Hygienic' I think is the word you're looking for, regardless of which animal it came from."
Sherlock just snorted and waved his scalpel in the air by way of dismissal before looking up and squinting suspiciously. "You're making tea? You never make tea when you get in from the pub. Make me one too."
John huffed fondly and grabbed another mug and teabag, leaning against the counter and watching Sherlock as he put the liver away and spun side-to-side on the chair. He'd noticed that suspicious look and wondered (not for the first time) if he was just incredibly easy to read or if this was Sherlock being as observant as he was.
"I just felt like a cuppa, it's no big deal Sherlock. You want honey in yours?"
"The heather honey we got last week, and it's not just the tea." Sherlock stood up, suddenly standing very close and eyeing John quietly with that piercing stare that never failed to make John's heart flutter a little. It was as though those stormy (grey? blue? green?) eyes saw right through his physical form and deep within his soul. No man should be this sexy or intimidating while wearing purple flannel pyjamas, bee socks and hair still fluffy from his earlier shower. "What did you and Gunther talk about?"
"His name," John said very quietly, "is Greg. We talked about that, in fact."
Sherlock froze and for a moment John worried he might faint, all the colour draining from his already pale face. The detective seemed to sway a little, eyes unfocused for a moment before he gathered himself and swallowed thickly.
"What did you discuss?" His voice was hoarse and John felt something vile coil in his stomach, something unsettling. Uneasy. Whatever this was, it wasn't just about a name. This was something that had Sherlock looking like a frightened child and John was suddenly terrified. What the hell could get this kind of reaction from a man who chased down murderers with no regard for his own safety?
"I... asked him if he ever got pissed off that you never remembered his name, he said you knew it but that it was understandable that you avoided using it." John tried to sound casual but it was nigh impossible at this point. "I asked him what he meant but he didn't tell me; said it was up to you if you wanted to. I figured maybe you had a shitty ex or a bully called Greg or something. Or that someone you knew with the name died." He hesitated, touching Sherlock's elbow as though to support him and the detectives head seemed to clear slightly as he shook it. His hair ruffled even more, giving him a rather chaotic aura.
"Not an ex or a bully," Sherlocks voice was very small, his brow furrowed as though he wasn't quite sure of what he was saying.
"Lock, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. You know that, right?" John didn't want him feeling obliged. He was curious of course, even more so than before given Sherlocks extreme reaction, but he wasn't about to push it if it would send him into one of his Black Moods.
"He was my violin teacher."
Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. John opened his mouth to speak again but Sherlock beat him to it.
"I don't take sexual assault cases."
What?
Oh.
Oh shit.
Fucking hell.
The kettle screamed.
~*~
Making the tea while Sherlock grabbed a blanket and curled up on the sofa gave John a chance to process everything. In hindsight it was obvious that Sherlock had been hurt, abused in some way: the drugs, bouts of self harm and depression, the reckless behaviour, lack of awareness of boundaries and privacy, avoidance around the topic of sex. Things that could be chalked up to his autism, his genius or both. Statistics rattled around in his head and he shook them away. Sherlock wasn't a statistic but he was a deeply hurt person and John got the impression that he'd never truly talked about this before. Mycroft obviously knew if Greg did, or so John assumed, but did their parents? Where was the bastard who did it? Was it once or a long-term thing? Did Sherlock ever tell or did someone find out some other way?
There had been a case last year wherein Sherlock had been tackled to the ground and had landed badly, dislocating his collarbone and fracturing his arm. John remembered how he'd held his arm awkwardly but finished the case and hadn't said a word until the next morning when John had noticed him taking a handful of different painkillers and demanded he check him over. Only then did he see the damage was far more than 'just hurts a little' as Sherlock had claimed in the cab. He'd needed the joint put back into place and a cast for eight weeks.
Had someone ignored his cries for help as a child? Had he stayed stoic and simply not told anyone, hidden the pain and anguish like he did as an adult? John's chest ached at the thought of either option.
He'd seen a photo of Sherlock once; about six years old and playing an angel in his schools nativity complete with a halo in his fluffy curls and lopsided wings. The boy had worn a slight scowl but looked adorable, the smallest in the class which had amused John greatly. Who knew he'd end up so tall? He'd laughed when Mrs Hudson had shown him, why was he scowling like that?
He'd wanted to be a sheep, Mrs Hudson had explained, he liked touching the cotton wool they used on the costumes.
John's eyes stung and he wiped them quickly before taking the tea out to the living room, setting them down on the coffee table and watching Sherlock as he shifted to make room on the sofa. There was only a four year difference between them but Sherlock suddenly seemed very, very young. He was still paler than usual, hands shaking and he seemed to be attempting his casual stoicism and failing miserably. "Want me to play with your hair?" John asked softly, getting no verbal answer but instead Sherlock curled his legs under himself and rested his head on John's chest by way of consent. They'd started doing this during one of Sherlocks Black Moods, curling up together and cuddling quietly while John played with his hair or simply held him close. They didn't talk about it but the understanding was there: mutual comfort, no obligations, whatever is said during these cuddles never left 221B.
"I'm so sorry, 'Lock. I hate that someone hurt you so much." Sherlock's hair was soft and John wrapped a lock of curls around his finger before letting it spring back into place and rubbing his fingertips into his scalp in comforting little circles.
"I was three when I started getting lessons," Sherlock whispered, making John's chest ache even more for him. So young to hurt so much. "I was so excited, I liked watching Mycroft play piano and I had all of these silly, sentimental ideas about putting on little concerts for mummy and father. It was only... it was just t-touching at first. Until I was perhaps five? All I remember is the pain, John. I thought he was stabbing me and I wanted to die. I'd never felt pain like that before." Sherlock's voice cracked and John realised he was trembling. He held him closer, not even thinking before pressing a kiss into his hair.
"You're safe now. You're safe here. Did anyone know?" John chose his words carefully, knowing that something like 'did you tell?' could come across badly, as thought he were judging either option.
"Not at first. I never told anyone, by the time I realised it was wrong... I didn't realise, not until the first time he... Not until the first time it hurt." Sherlock shifted, hiding his face in John's shirt for a moment and the doctor realised he was crying. "When I was seven and Mycroft was fourteen, he came home early from school and caught us. I begged him not to tell anyone. I realise it was stupid but -"
"Sherlock, you were seven and you were manipulated. You were a child." John moved, making Sherlock look him in the face. "You were a child, it wasn't stupid. You were scared and hurt." He took Sherlock's hands - long and pale and thin and so unlike his own - and squeezes gently. "Show yourself some compassion, alright?" C'mere. Can I hold you?"
Once Sherlock was safely tucked against his chest again, this time looking painfully peturbed by John's words (and now wasn't that depressing, John thought), he managed a watery little smile. "Your body is just transport," he quoted. "That's what Mycroft told me. Admittedly he wasn't such a rubbish big brother, he was only fourteen himself so he didn't know what to do either but he did start coming home early on Wednesdays after that. He couldn't stop it and he couldn't tell, but he did try to minimise the effects at least." His snort sounded more like a sob but he wasn't crying any more. "He stole mummys painkillers, he'd cut up her Naproxen into halves for me. Co-codamol when things were... bad. My first stint in rehab he told me he never should have given them to me, that it was his fault I ended up an addict." He shook his head, shifting onto his back with his head resting on John's knees so that he could look up at him. "It wasn't his fault. I mean, mummy never ended up shooting up heroin in her boyfriends flat at sixteen and she's been on all sorts of painkillers for her problem. She hardly even takes them. Besides, it was my own fault I needed them in the first place."
John frowned. He'd noticed it before, when Sherlock had called himself stupid but he hadn't realised just how far the self-blame went. Unfortunately he'd come across a couple of rape victims in his time as a GP, some kids who'd been victims of other kinds of abuse, and sadly sexual assault in the military services wasn't unheard of; he'd seen the immediate psychological affects to some degree and knew from seminars and safeguarding classes that it wasn't rare for victims to blame themselves for their abuse. Sherlock had always seemed so strong, or rather strong in that vulnerable yet somehow untouchable way he had about him.
"It was that bastards fault, your teacher. Not yours. No, let me." Sherlock had opened his mouth to argue. "Listen, I know you know logically that you did nothing wrong, but knowing feeling? Knowing and believing? I've never been hurt like that so I'm not going to say I understand, but I do know that our brains can tell us some absolute bullshit when we've gone through trauma - especially as young as you did. I don't know how long that asshole did those things to you, but those were formative years and of course you absorbed some of what he said but I will tell you every day if you need me to: it was not your fault. None of it was your fault. You weren't stupid, you didn't deserve it, you did nothing wrong and nothing you ever could have done would ever have justified what he did."
Sherlock's eyes were glossy again and he looked a bit dazed as he processed everything John had said. "Nobody... Nobody ever told me that before," he admitted quietly. "Not like that. Mycroft... he... his approach was more practical than emotional and I was high when I told Giovanni. He told me it wasn't my fault of course, but I didn't want to talk about it and he honoured that. Nobody else knew until now." He reached up, tugging at his curls as though to regulate himself, blinking back the fresh wave of tears and refusing to let them fall. "It stopped when I was twelve." He took a shuddering breath and John let him talk, rubbing circles over his sternum. "I got better than him, I told mummy I didn't need lessons any more. I was determined to be as excellent at the violin as possible to spite him, it's why I still play." He closed his eyes. "I wrote a piece for him, you know. It's named after him. I wrote it in hospital after an overdose when I was fifteen, I played it for him the last time I ever saw him." A strange expression flickered across Sherlock's face, one that John couldn't quite read. "He died six months later."
"How did you feel about it?" John asked, covering the hand Sherlock was using to harshly pull on his hair, redirecting the stim with practised ease and massaging the tender spot.
"Angry at first," Sherlock admitted. "Angry that he got to just... not live with what he'd done. Angry that now I would never get justice, even though I never fought for it. Then I was relieved that he couldn't do it to anyone else, that he couldn't come back for me. I wasn't his type any more," he grimaced a little and John felt disgust coiling in his belly and bile in his throat at the implication. Sherlock continued bravely on: "I don't know how long he'd have kept doing it to me, but I doubt I'd have kept his interest for much longer anyway. He found a new way to humiliate me when I began... hitting puberty, but I never managed to deduce if he had other... others." He avoided saying the word victims, John noticed.
"Do you want to talk about either of those parts?" He asked, recieving a shake of riotous curls in response and watching as Sherlock paled. "Hey, it's okay love. You don't have to. You never have to, you hear me? I will listen to you for as long as you want to talk, whenever you want or need to, but you never have to. I care, but it's not... I'm not morbidly curious or whatever, you know? I just know you've been holding onto this for a long time and I want you to know I'm here for you, no expectations or judgement."
Sherlock looked a bit dazed but nodded, relief flooding his face and the tension that had kept his spine and shoulders stiff relaxed a tad. "What on earth did I do to deserve you, John Watson?"
John laughed softly, "I've asked myself what I did to deserve you, you know. I remember you telling me I keep you right, but you do the same for me. This friendship isn't as one-sided as people think. Remember when you played your violin whenever I had nightmares? Or when you took a beating for me? When you got a seperate freezer for body parts when you realised why I didn't like seeing human ones? Sherlock, you're a good man, you know that?"
Finally, Sherlock allowed himself to cry.