A/n: Angst ahead... sorry.

Sherlock had been sedated immediately following the events, John gave his statement while Sherlock was out. He told the whole truth, not certain Sherlock would like it - he didn't exactly have much choice, they hadn't had time to cook up a story. Lestrade had sat there, stunned, with Jay sleeping on his lap, he had broken all sorts of rules allowing Jay in to the interview room but she had crawled around merrily, and for the most part silently during John's patchy recount of the story. He'd been sent home on the instruction that once Sherlock had come round and given his own statement, Lestrade would personally deliver the detective back to the flat to ensure he didn't take off.

So John sat in the living room, a half cold cup of tea in his hand as he watched Jay edge around the room, holding on to the table and the sofa. Her legs were getting stronger and more confident by the day and John knew she couldn't be far from her first unaided steps, on her way to becoming a small person as Sherlock called her, rather than a tiny baby. She grabbed John's keys off the table, shoving the fob into her mouth.
"Ah ah!" John scolded, putting his hand out. "Please?" He was rewarded with a slobbery key-chain being slapped into his hand as Jay went off in search of something else to chew - teething was a nightmare. John stared at the spit-soaked picture of Jay's ultrasound, smiling to himself. It had all started so well. His eyes fell upon the ticking clock. He had no idea what was going to happen when Sherlock got home.

He just felt confused, to be honest. He loved Sherlock, he was comfortable enough in admitting that now. Whatever Sherlock had done in his past, it had obviously screwed with his head but John found it impossible to believe that Sherlock was inherently bad or evil or a sociopath. He needed the full story, really. Jay appeared at his knee, a story book in her hand and the corner of it between her newly formed teeth. John smiled at her, picking her up and sitting her on his lap.
"It's nearly your bedtime, Blue Jay." He observed, pointing at the clock. "Story first?" He said, prying the book gently from her grasp. She leaned against him while he read aloud. By the time the story (Little Red Riding Hood officially, but John preferred to tell it as Little Blue Riding Hood, for her sake.) had finished, she was out like a light, her head of dark feather soft hair rising rhythmically with the rise and fall of his chest.

He kissed her head.
"I love you." He told her softly. "And that won't change, whatever happens." He promised her. The infant did not stir, the excitement of the last 24 hours having exhausted her. He'd carry her to bed shortly, for that moment content to just let her sleep in his arms. The door clicked shut downstairs and familiar footsteps made their way up the staircase.

Sherlock looked like hell, pale and worn, in fresh clothing and recently showered. John knew the police would have taken DNA samples from the blood spatter, the clothes would be in evidence bags. John held his finger to his lips.
"Shh." He whispered, nodding to Jay. Sherlock stared at the scene, feeling oddly detached from it all.
"I won't stay long." Sherlock swore, his voice low enough to not disturb her. "I'll pack my things and I'll be gone in a few hours." He reassured. John sighed, the heft of his breath dislodging Jay who murmured slightly before nuzzling deeper into her daddy's chest.
"Is that really what you want?" John asked. Sherlock hesitated, momentarily transfixed by the pair, before nodding.
"It's for the best." He whispered definitively. Slowly, carefully, John got to his feet with their daughter in his arms.

"Put her to bed, I'll stick the kettle on." He said softly. Sherlock took a step back, shaking his head.
"No... no I don't..."
"Sherlock." John insisted. "I don't know why you did what you did, but I do know I trust you with her, please take her to bed." His voice was quiet but firm. Sherlock looked remarkably apprehensive still, but took the little girl into his arms. He carried her through to the bedroom and lay her down in her cot, tucking the blanket in on three sides.

He couldn't count how many times he'd stood by this crib and just stared at her while she slept, how many times he'd been struck by the awe of how small and fragile she was. He took a deep breath, fingers ghosting over her face.
"You won't remember me." He whispered to her. "That's probably a good thing... in the long run." He tilted his head, forgetting his speech for a long moment to watch her tiny chest work with each breath. An odd, sad smile formed on his face. "Daddy will take care of you from now on, small person, he'll keep you safe." He told her, a bittersweet feeling in his chest. He'd let her down, so terribly, he'd let John down.

"You won't remember me." He repeated, bending down to kiss her forehead. "But I won't forget you." He swore, rising to a standing position and rubbing his eyes on the edge of his sleeve.
"She'll be heartbroken, you know." John announced from the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand. Sherlock didn't blame him for spying, he wouldn't trust himself alone with her either.
"She'll forget, soon enough." Sherlock said, leaving the room and turning out the light, following John into the living room. The doctor sat on the sofa and indicated Sherlock join him, handing him his mug.

"Where will you go?" John asked curiously.
"I'm not sure... away. Out of London definitely, I'll have to come back for the court case but then maybe out of England." He sighed, sitting back and sipping at his drink, staring at the ceiling. John nodded, a court case was inevitable, two people were dead and while no court in the world would convict Sherlock under the circumstances, they would still need to try him.
"Right..." John murmured. For a long while they sat in an uncomfortable silence, which John despised. He and Sherlock had never been uncomfortable around each other.

"This feels like a break up." John muttered eventually.
"We were never together." Sherlock hummed.
"We were always together, prat." John's sad smile was heartbreaking as Sherlock weighed the words up carefully.
"Yes, I suppose you're right." He agreed softly. "Were I a romantic sort this is probably where I'd give the whole 'in another time maybe we could have made it' speech, but the fact is this was doomed long before we met." He dead-panned seriously.
"If you say so..." John said, disagreeing with the notion.
"Wishful thinking won't change the outcome, John." Ironically, Sherlock sounded as though he wished it would.
"Guess not..." John sighed, draining the last of his coffee.

"You can leave... and I won't try to stop you, if you're sure." John stared into his mug, now completely empty, he absently counted the tea stained rings in the bottom. "But if you're walking out on me and our daughter... I'd like to know why." Sherlock placed his own mug on the coffee table and immediately regretted it, he needed something to do with his hands to distract himself. He picked up a biro instead and began dismantling it.
"Do we really need to have this conversation?" He asked cautiously, fixating his gaze on the pen and not on John.
"No... but if you don't tell me, Mycroft will." John said, pursing his lips.
"He won't... he can't. He doesn't know the whole story, nobody does." John's tongue flicked out, trying to process that information.
"But... it went to court didn't it?" He asked, confused.

Sherlock sighed in resignation, he'd never told the whole thing through and he feared that John would hate him after it, but perhaps that was better, in the long term, maybe it would make his leaving easier.
"I suppose I should start at the beginning then..." He slumped down in his seat, ankles crossed under the coffee table. "When I was eight years old, my father died of a heart attack. Just... dropped dead." His voice was cold and detached. He remembered his father well, but there was no sense getting himself upset over that part of the story. "My mother went a little... peculiar after that." He said tactfully, avoiding the labels he'd heard later.

"Mycroft knew how to handle her, she'd get depressed, wouldn't talk for days at a time. Some days she seemed her usual self but when she got herself into a state she was convinced my father was still alive. It was a big secret, there were certain stigmas attached to mental illness, I suppose there still are. She was manageable for the most part." He explained.

"Mycroft is eight and a half years older than me and one day about six months after my father died he got a letter saying he'd been accepted into a college in France, a year earlier than expected - he was seventeen." Sherlock hummed and stood up, pacing a little as he spoke. He had a restless mind, he couldn't stand sitting idle whilst explaining all this. "It was a golden opportunity apparently, the prodigal son... he promised to come back on term breaks and holidays and he left. He got up and left me with my mother." There was an element of spite in Sherlock's tone, resentment for the older brother who had escaped.
"That must have been pretty scary..." John opted, trying to picture an eight year old Sherlock effectively fending for himself.
"She wasn't in any fit state to look after a child, she was very unwell and I was... difficult at best. I managed for a while, did the shopping at the local corner store, took myself off to school but eventually Mummy's health deteriorated. On the days she was convinced my father was alive she began to get angry if I explained to her that he'd died a year earlier... occasionally she'd lash out."

Sherlock paused in his frantic pacing as he remembered the first time his mother had struck him. He remembered the hurt he'd felt, how apologetic she'd been after, how distressed she'd been at the realisation she had hit her child.
"I wrote to Mycroft but... I didn't want to be the reason he came home, I didn't want to be the one who ruined his chances so... I told him everything was fine. I wrote such nonsense I was sure he knew I was lying but he never called me up on it. If mummy left bruises I covered them with her make up or took a day or two off of school. She wasn't a bad woman she was just... she was confused." He said, attempting to justify her behaviour in even his own mind.

"Inevitably the day came when she hit me too hard... she ripped an electric cord off of the lamp and whipped me with it." He winced at the recollection of searing pain across his back and John remembered the thin white line down Sherlock's back, the scar a visible reminder. "She didn't mean it and she was so sorry. I told her it was fine... tried to bandage it up myself but she'd never made me bleed before and my first aid knowledge was at that point amateur at best." He blew out an exasperated sigh, frustrated with his nine year old self. He stopped for a long time, and even though John knew what happened next in the story he still had to ask.
"And then... you were taken into care?"
"The wound came open when I was at school, bled through my shirt. The teachers insisted on a home visit... my mother was out of her mind by then, kept telling them her husband would be home shortly and he wouldn't hear these accusations against her because she loved Mycroft very much and would never hurt him. When they pointed out it was me they were asking about... she had no idea who I was." John breathed heavily, knowing that his mother forgetting him must have been more painful than any wound Sherlock had received in her care.

John fought the urge to stand up and hug Sherlock, because it was obvious the story would only become more tragic. He felt pity for the man, the boy who had tried to care for an obviously disturbed mother.
"They took me into emergency foster care and put her into a care home. I was placed with an elderly couple for a few weeks, and then moved to a larger foster family... they said I was withdrawn, that I needed to interact with other children to repair the damage my mother had inflicted." He laughed bitterly as John stood to make another cup of coffee, feeling he had to do something.

"Mycroft had been informed but until he was eighteen he couldn't take legal custody of me so he stayed in France and wrote to me often. I was with three other children, an older boy - Jackson, he was fifteen and a juvenile delinquent, drugs, petty theft, the usual. Daisy, who was seven, and had been recently orphaned, her elder sister was in rehab and she had nobody else to care for her." His tone faltered ever so slightly at the mention of her name. "Not forgetting Raheema, she was three at the time, she had downs syndrome... she was nice, I liked her." He mused thoughtfully.

"The parents were okay I suppose, a bit... chirpy. They wanted us all to get along and pretend we were siblings, they treated us like we were in a holiday camp, like they didn't realise they were caring for..." He paused, trying to find the right word. "Troubled children." He decided upon, taking the cup John handed him without pausing in his explanation.

"Raheema was innocent, pure, didn't speak a word but she knew, she knew everything that was going on... Jackson didn't want to associate with us 'babies', so that left me and Daisy." He sipped from his cup and flinched as though he hadn't anticipated it being hot. "I hated her." He said honestly, pure loathing in his voice. "She was a bully, she was cruel, she told lies to try get me into trouble... she made my life an absolute hell." He shook his head. "My saving grace was that Mycroft was turning eighteen... that he'd come home and get me away from this stupid little girl..."

Sherlock froze still as a statue.
"He didn't come for me... he turned eighteen and... he wanted to finish that term, leave me there another six months so he could get his certificate and come home ready for university." Sherlock still hadn't moved, facing away from John. "His education was more important than me... said it was for both of our benefits, that he'd be much more likely to get into a university close by, so we wouldn't have to move, if he could just finish his course. I wrote to him... I begged him to come home but..." The detective sighed and let his shoulder slump.
"Oh, Sherlock..."John frowned, feeling the resentment radiating off of Sherlock - he'd felt abandoned.
"Stop that." Sherlock snapped. "Don't... don't feel sorry for me. Believe me, I'm not the victim in this story." His tone was sharp and angry.

"One day, after Mycroft had written me off... Daisy picked a fight with me, I caught her pinching Raheema, flicking her, so I told her off. I liked Raheema." He repeated, remembering the look on the face of the sweet little girl as her 'sister' flicked her on the nose."Daisytold me that... that at least her parents were both dead, that I was only in the foster home because nobody wanted me... I was a freak and she wasn't surprised that they'd abandoned me... I made the mistake of crying, I should never have let her know how much she could hurt me, she found my biggest insecurity and she picked at it and picked at it for weeks until one day I just... snapped." He clicked his fingers. John bit his lip. He didn't know what to say, it was pretty awful but he could see it happening in his mind's eye. Sherlock had been through so much so young, was it any wonder he was messed up?
"So... you killed her." John whispered, knowing the answer.
"She... had this stupid little rag doll that she carried around with her everywhere. The same type Moriarty acquired... Her mother had given her it before her parents died... she loved that wretched little thing, it was the only sentimental thing they'd left her. One day she'd been tormenting me, the usual stuff, I was unlovable, unwanted, I should just throw myself off a roof and be done with it."

John clenched his fists, he knew how this story ended, but he could feel everything Sherlock was describing as though it were happening to him right then and there in front of him, a slow motion movie of the destruction of Sherlock Holmes, and John was powerless to stop it because it had already happened.
"She only ever let the thing out of her sight at bath time... we weren't allowed scissors or anything sharp but I knew Jackson was sneaking cigarettes into his room so... I took her doll when she was in the bath, I took Jackson's matches from his bedroom and I went down to the garden shed where I knew the fosters kept the fuel for the ride along mower. I poured a little of the fuel onto the doll... but Daisy must have finished her bath early that day. She came in and found me just as I was about to light the match..."

Sherlock shook his head, sending his curls flying.
"I wanted her to see... I wanted her to see it burn. I wanted her to hurt like she'd hurt me and I just... I lit the match and she screamed and pounced on me... we fought, the match fell to the floor and the tub of fuel just... it went up." He clenched his fists and his eyes tightly shut. "The fire got out of control. I dragged Daisy out of the shed but she fought against me. She just kept screaming that she wanted her dolly." John cocked his head, because the story hadn't gone the way he'd expected... so far this wasn't murder.

"My shirt caught fire as we got out the door, and I just sort of threw Daisy clear of the flames, onto the grass... I stopped dropped and rolled, that's what I'd been taught. My skin was burned... I remember I could smell it cooking..." His hand instinctively fell to the other scar John had seen, the burn on his hip, skin bubbled an angry red.
"Sherlock..." John said cautiously.
"I looked around and she was gone..." Sherlock said, sounding numb now. "The stupid girl had gone back inside for her doll, it was all she'd had left of her parents and she loved it so much she went back in for it. I heard her scream but the fire was too wild, I could hear the sirens - someone had already called the fire brigade. I couldn't do anything... I just sat there... I watched her burn to death." John felt tears in his eyes as he clapped his hand to his mouth.

"It was December, so I was a month shy of my tenth birthday - the legal age of criminal responsibility." Sherlock said coldly. "The lawyers said I wasn't old enough to understand what I'd done... But I was. I knew exactly what I'd done... I wanted to pay for it. I wanted to be punished, to be sent to prison, to be locked up. So when they asked me what had happened... all I said was 'I wanted to hurt her'." Sherlock sighed. "The case went to court but I never stood trial, they wouldn't let me because I was too young. Mycroft came home then... tried to plead my case but the psychiatrists had all heard me say it. 'I hated her, I wanted to hurt her, I killed her.'"
"Oh god, Sherlockthat was an accident!" John cried, in shock. Sherlock shook his head.
"No... I started the fire on purpose, I set out to hurt her and I hurt her..."
"You set out to burn a toy!" John argued, shocked. Sherlock seemed to genuinely believe his own words.
"It doesn't matter! I knew how much she loved that stupid thing. I wanted her to hurt. She was a stupid little girl who is dead because I hated her for being a stupid little girl... kids call each other names they say cruel things... she didn't deserve to die because of me." The detective said, near hysterics.

"Sherlock... Sherlock listen to me." John stood, forcing the taller man to face him by gripping Sherlock's shoulders. "You say she was a stupid little kid and yeah, you're right, but Sherlock, you seem to be forgetting - so were you." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, apparently confused. "You were nine years old, Sherlock, you made a mistake and somebody died and that's awful but... Sherlock kids make mistakes! You had no idea that would happen... you couldn't have known." He took hold of Sherlock's shoulders.
"The courts agreed, I was a sociopath. They put me in a children's psychiatric ward until I was eighteen. Because I was under age the records were sealed and I was granted anonymity - I got away with murder." Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard John's defence.
"It was an accident!"
"It doesn't matter!" Sherlock roared loudly. A cry erupted from the bedroom and Sherlock winced - his ranting had woken Jay.

"It doesn't matter? Sherlock, look at you!" John's voice was raised but it wasn't in anger. "Look how upset you are because you made a baby cry. You are NOT a sociopath, Sherlock!" John stressed. Sherlock shook his head wildly, curls flying. "You've been carrying that around for twenty odd years, that guilt, that self-loathing. Sherlock... you fucked up. You made a mistake but you are not a killer."
"I intended..." Sherlock started, louder than even the pitiful wailing from the next room.
"You're telling me that if a nine year old child... Jay. In nine years time if Jay came to you and Greg with that exact same story - would you tell her she was a cold blooded murderer? Or would you wrap your arms around her and tell her that it wasn't her fault? Would you tell her she deserved to spend nine years in a psychiatric ward, or praise her for trying to drag Daisy from the flames?" Sherlock looked as though he'd been punched in the gut, his breathing ragged and shocked - he'd never dream of saying anything like that to Jay.

"Sherlock... it's not my place to forgive you, I can't give you that relief because you need to forgive yourself, but I don't blame you - nobody who knew the truth would. It wasn't your fault." It was as if someone had flicked an invisible hearing aid and Sherlock heard it for the very first time. It wasn't his fault. He fell to his knees, staring at the carpet - John was convinced he was crying. He placed his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it rhythmically.
"Go..." Sherlock croaked almost inaudibly over the ruckus their daughter was making. "Go see to her." John knew his shuddering partner needed some privacy, so he nodded. He bent and placed a gentle kiss in Sherlock's curls before vanishing into the bedroom.

Sherlock tried to organise his thoughts, to make sense of it, but was unable to. A swirling jumble of John's words cutting into a belief he'd held for over twenty years. It was too much, overload. He could hear John singing in the next room to quieten the irritable baby. How was he supposed to raise Jay with accurate morals when he couldn't even differentiate between an accident and murder? He clenched his fists in the carpet. It was a catch 22 and guilty or innocent, either way he wasn't fit to be a parent. And then there was John, whose soft singing voice was carrying into the room (more Katy Perry, which brought an odd smile to the corner of Sherlock's lips) - how was it fair on John to have to take care of her and Sherlock at the same time. In this condition, Sherlock knew he was volatile, a liability. Jay's whinging stopped, a few more snuffles and Sherlock's mind was made up. The minute John returned, Sherlock spoke up.

"I'm still leaving."
"You don't need to..." John said, shaking his head.
"Yes, I do." Sherlock said simply, climbing to his feet and avoiding John's eye. "It's all... muddled. I can't make sense of any of it here. I need to be on my own for a while, get out of London, sort my head out." He spoke softly. "I'll go pack, I'll be careful not to wake her."

For nearly an hour John sat silently in the living room, staring at the ceiling whilst Sherlock gathered his things. He couldn't lie, couldn't say he understood but he could appreciate that Sherlock needed space, time to come to terms with two decades of guilt. It didn't lessen the blow of seeing Sherlock emerge with a suitcase - one of the same ones they'd brought with them to Whitby on their first - and possibly only, family holiday.
"This is goodbye then..." Sherlock said awkwardly, crossing one armover his chest and rubbing his opposite shoulder.
"Will you be back?"
"I don't know..." Sherlock said honestly. "I'd like to think so but I don't know how long it will take. I might be gone a few days but it could be years." He sounded broken, John supposed they both were. He nodded and followed the detective to the door.

"Well... we'll both be here when you get back." John promised, looking him in the eye as they stood there in the doorway. Sherlock shook his head.
"Don't. Don't wait around. If you should... if you were to meet someone else you have my blessing." He said boldly.
"Who am I going to meet that's as brilliant as you?" John laughed, shaking his own head sadly. Sherlock smiled softly.
"Quite right. Thank you, John Watson." Sherlock dipped his head, pressing his mouth to John's in a deliberate, well intended, goodbye kiss. John let his arms raise to around Sherlock's neck whilst Sherlock's hands cupped John's face. It was breathtakingly intimate, heartbreakingly final and when Sherlock pulled away John chased his lips back upwards to prolong it just a little longer. Sherlock broke the kiss but not the embrace, keeping their foreheads together just a few more moments.

"Look after her, John." He muttered, and with that he turned on his heel and walked away. John watched him until his silhouette had vanished from the corridor, before closing the door and sitting on the sofa - alone. It took him three whole minutes before he buried his head in his hands and let the reality of it all sink in.

A/n: I'm sorry this chapter was supposed to be the fix it chapter but there was a hell of a lot of back story to get through and argh, my babies. The next chapter will be fluff and rainbows and baby giggles I promise, just please stick with it until then.

Reviews mean the world to me, really they do.