Hello everyone. This is my first purely Sherlock fic, so bear with me if I mess up. I've just recently finished the 3rd series, and to fill the void in my soul until next year, I've decided to take a crack at some fanfiction.

EDIT 5/2 : Credit for cover art goes to creator (whose name I could not find)

Hope you enjoy.

Every time he heard the word "Freak", Sherlock Holmes would flinch.

John didn't notice at first. The first few cases he worked with Sherlock, he had been too preoccupied with the bodies, crime scenes, and Sherlock's deductions to pay much attention to the consulting detectives mannerism. But soon, the oddity of the situations cases put him in became a bit of a norm, and did not completely captivate his focus. He was soon able to take a step back from the chaotic and bizarre circumstances and observe the scene and its players and both a whole and individuals.

Even then, it was a few months before John finally began to notice. In John's defense, Sherlock wasn't the easiest person to read, and was quite adept at covering up his little tics. But one day, while working a triple homicide whose bodies showed absolutely no signs of foul play ("But this is obviously murder, John!" Sherlock had declared), Sherlock's reaction came to light.

"Poking your nose where it doesn't belong again, Freak?" Sgt. Donavon had said as a greeting to Sherlock's turned back.

John, having been about to ask Sherlock a question, was looking directly at Sherlock's face when Donavon's words hit home, and was startled by the abrupt change that came over Sherlock. His whole expression spasmed, a flash of something completely foreign occurring briefly in the mix, before settling into the cold mask he wore around the majority of Scotland Yard. His fingers curled and his hands twitched, as if ready to rise in clenched fists, before relaxing as quickly as they had tensed.

His back being turned to everyone else in the area, Sherlock's sudden glitch, a hiccup in his usual statue-like exterior, was witnessed only by John.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

John's original question about the victims sat ready on his tongue to be spoken, but instead out of his mouth came, "Are you alright?"

Looking nearly genuinely puzzled, Sherlock responded with a typical "Of course I am, John" that lacked most of its usual curtness.

Biting his lower lip, John dropped the topic, and returned to examining the bodies for anything the ME may have missed, while Sherlock returned fire to Donavon in between deductions.

The second time John noticed the flinch, they were taking the Tube home to 221B Baker Street. Risky, as Sherlock had been kicked off the Tube more times than John had even gotten on, but John hadn't had enough money on him to hail a cab, and Sherlock had absolutely none on him (having used it for his homeless network), so the Tube it was.

Sherlock, in the middle of a post-case high, was whispering deductions about the other passengers in the car into John's ear, causing John to laugh when Sherlock made a particularly ridiculous (but completely correct) deduction.

Unfortunately, like most people, Sherlock's voice tended to rise when he got excited or happy. And Sherlock was always excited when someone appreciated his talent in a positive manner. Soon, Sherlock's voice grew loud enough that his deductions could be heard people that were not John. Some looked shocked, others exasperated and indignant, and yet others horrified.

But a few passengers were even angry, and it was one of them that, in a voice that carried across the car, fiercely muttered, "Freak."

The effect was once again instantaneous. The spasm of foreign emotion in Sherlock's features, the brief twitch and rise of Sherlock's hands, and, now that John was close enough to hear it, a hitch in his breath.

But, once again, the reaction only lasted a split second before a wall fell into place between Sherlock and the world. Gone was the child-like excitement of unraveling the puzzles of people to his companion, replaced with the shut-off look he normally only wore around Mycroft.

John frowned. This was the second time Sherlock had acted like this, and it worried him.

"Sherlock?" He whispered, worry weighing heavy in his gut. "It's okay." Whatever it was.

Sherlock said nothing, turning his head to look out the subway windows, and stared at the blurred bricks and graffiti rushing by.

The third time John noticed, he didn't just see, he observed, and finally made the connection. Looking back, it seemed so incredibly, stupidly obvious, and John cursed himself a thousand times over for not seeing it.

They were at St. Barts, in the usual lab provided by Molly, examining an odd-smelling powder found on a corpse that had been discovered on the grounds of Buckingham Palace. Well, Sherlock was examining. John was hovering around and watching, while fiddling absently with some of the blood-analysis equipment.

Molly had come in to check on how they were doing (and that the lab and its pricy equipment were still in one piece). In tow had come her latest boyfriend (thankfully not Moriarty again). John would have thought Molly had learned never to introduce boyfriends to Sherlock, but apparently not, because "Conner Thomas from cardiology" got to meet the worlds only consulting detective that day.

Sherlock, miracle of miracles, managed to be civil until Thomas took his leave. But the minute Molly's new boyfriend was gone, Sherlock advised Molly to break-up immediately and change her number.

"What? Why?" Molly asked in an almost whine. John felt sympathetic for the poor girl. Her romantic relationships never seemed to work out.

"He's cheating on you with several other girls, including his wife, and is extremely perverted. I would bet that he has a record in the system for sexual crimes, most likely under another name. I would advice you to distance yourself from him as much as possible before he tries to force you into something, or even worse."

Silence followed Sherlock's pronouncement, and for a few seconds, John thought Molly would be grateful to Sherlock. It only took him a few seconds more to realize that was certainly not the case, and that Molly in fact was glowering in anger at Sherlock.

"He is a perfectly nice man, Sherlock! We've barely even kissed, he's so shy about physical contact!" Molly insisted.

"An act. A good one, but not a great one." Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.

The nonchalant attitude of Sherlock only seemed to infuriate Molly even more.

"You could be wrong!" She hotly protested.

"My deductions are never wrong."

"You didn't "deduct" Jim right! He wasn't gay, and he was a psychopath."

"He was acting like it, and this isn't about Moriarty, it's about Thomas."

"No, it's about you having to ruin everything, you - you - freak!" Molly spat. The minute she realized what she had said, she clasped her hands over her mouth, looking horrified and disgusted with herself. She opened her mouth to take it back, but it was too late.

Sherlock was shivering where he stood by the microscope. The horrible expression John had only seen twice before had made another appearance, but now it wasn't going away. Sherlock's breath was shaky; it was clear he was trying to control it, but was failing miserably. His hands were clutching the lab counter in a death grip. For the third time, Sherlock seemed to be freaking out -

John's thoughts skidded to a halt. Freaking out. Suddenly, snippets of sound from the other two incidents came rushing from his memory.

"Poking your nose where it doesn't belong again, Freak?"

"Freak."

And just now, Molly had called Sherlock a freak as well . . .

John rounded on Molly.

"Get out." He hissed in a dangerously low voice.

"I didn't mean -" Molly began.

"Get out." John snarled at her.

Molly needed no third warning.

With only the two of them left in the lab, John could concentrate fully on Sherlock. The man was still shaking, his eyes screwed shut and his shoulders squared defensively.

Slowly, gently, John placed his hands on Sherlock's. With no little difficulty, John pried Sherlock's fingers off the counter. They immediately curled into fists that were crossed over his chest, as if warding off a blow. John moved his hands to Sherlock's shoulders, and although the detective shuddered underneath John's touch, he did not protest.

"Sherlock . . . " John said in a gentle tone. "Sherlock, let's sit down, okay?" He spoke softly and slowly, feeling for all the world like he was trying not to spook an animal.

"Come on, Sherlock. Sit down. You're shaking like a leaf." John gradually applied pressure to Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him down to the lab floor. After a good minute, Sherlock finally sank to the ground, not crisscross, but with legs pulled up close to his chest. Another defensive pose, one, John realized, Sherlock adopted often.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, it's alright. Molly's gone. It's just me, John." He gently shook one of Sherlock's shoulders. "Come on, say something, Sherlock."

"John?" The consulting detective breathed, hope and uncertainty mixed equally clear in his voice.

"Yeah Sherlock, it's me. Just me." He tried for soft and comforting, but even he could hear the mix of relief and worry that chocked his voice.

"I -" Sherlock paused, his breath shuddery. "I - apologize, John."

"Apologize?" John repeated in a shocked huff. "Sherlock, you haven't done anything wrong. I'm just worried, that's all. You looked like you were about to go into a panic attack."

Another pause in the conversation. Sherlock bowed his head so that all John could see was his dark curls. He could still hear Sherlock's breath, though, and listened as Sherlock fought to regain control over it. John didn't try to force him to speak. He just crossed his legs and sat in front of Sherlock, practically on Sherlock's feet, and waited for him to speak again.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and still Sherlock did not speak. John told himself to be patient, that this wouldn't be easy for anyone, and especially not for Sherlock, Mr. High-Functioning-Sociopath. But that didn't make it easier to suppress the urge to wrap Sherlock in a hug, then shake him until he told him what was the matter.

Finally, after eternity and five minutes, Sherlock gazed up at the blond doctor. "John?" His voice, usually so powerful, whether for cutting remarks or explaining a case, was now tiny and unsure. Eyes usually filled with contagious excitement, or stormy with rage or boredom, were now sorrowful and - dare John say it - scared. His skin was now unusually pale, even for Sherlock, who's skin tone usually hovered somewhere around "vampire".

"Yes, Sherlock?" He tried to force his voice to be casual. He failed. "What exactly was that?"

"I -" Sherlock pursed his lips, and closed his eyes again.

"No, no. Don't close your eyes again." John, acting on instinct, grabbed one of Sherlock's hands. His long narrow fingers were still curled up tightly in a fist. John wiggled his fingers inside the balled up hand, and gently pried Sherlock's fingers apart, lacing his own in between them. He squeezed softly, but firmly.

"Sherlock. Come on, look at me."

Reluctantly, Sherlock's eyelids blinked open.

"Good, good." John praised.

"I'm not a five-year-old, John." Sherlock's words lacked their usual bite, though, and John felt a bittersweet smile sprout on his face.

"No, you're not." John agreed.

"Why are you holding my hand?"

Sherlock's question caught John off-guard, mainly because he didn't have a very good answer. "I - I thought it might prevent you from fr- er, having a relapse, and help you actually tell me what happened." John quickly caught himself from saying freaking out.

Sherlock sighed, and rested his chin on his chest once more. John opened his mouth, thinking Sherlock actually was going to relapse, but the hand John was clutching gave a small squeeze, assuring him otherwise.

"You - you were correct. I was having a - a panic attack. That - that word and I don't have a - a very good history." Sherlock finally blurted out, words disjointed and lacking the smooth flow they usually came with.

"I don't think anyone has a good history with that word." John commented.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. A strangled giggle forced its way out of his throat. "Well, mine is very bad."

"Want to talk about it?" John coaxed.

Sherlock grimaced as he looked back up at John. "Not really. But I suppose I will anyway."

Sherlock took a couple of breaths, deep and calming, almost as if he was about to enter his mind palace. But instead, he began to explain.

"My . . . relationship . . . with my father was not - not the best in the world. He was a - a drunk, and when he got - got intoxicated, his mood was very - very dark." Sherlock's voice cracked. He took another breath to collect himself. "I was more - more my mother's son than my father's. Mycroft was my - my father's favorite, mainly because he took an interest in the government, and didn't - didn't flaunt his deductive prowess the way - the way I tend to. I think - I think my father was - was unnerved by my intelligence. He - he never really seemed to - to like me."

Pain was thick in Sherlock's voice, and dread filled John. He wanted to yell "Stop!" because suddenly the answer to this riddle was becoming clearer and clearer. And he didn't want it to. He wanted to push the thought away, deny that something like that could ever have happened to Sherlock, to his best friend. But he couldn't. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his brain didn't seem to be functioning any more.

"When he - he got drunk, my fa-father became violent. I - I was often the - the outlet for those violent tendencies."

John didn't know how it happened, but suddenly, his arms were full of Sherlock. Sherlock had slipped his hand free of John's, and launched himself forward. His arms had been flung over John's shoulders, and now pulled himself into John. Sherlock's face was buried in the soft cotton of John's jumper, and even through the jumper and undershirt, John could feel wetness spreading across his chest. And suddenly, John was very scared. He had never seen such a show of emotion from Sherlock, and it terrified him to see the self-proclaimed sociopath so upset.

"Sherlock . . . " He whispered. He wrapped his own arms around Sherlock's slim frame, pulling the detective closer in an embrace. Now, he could feel Sherlock shaking, though not a sound passed through his lips. Somehow, through awkward shuffling, Sherlock ended up sitting in John's lap as the front of the blond man's jumper grew heavy with moisture. John didn't say a word, just continued to hold on tight to his friend as the raven-haired man cried on him.

John rubbed large circles on Sherlock's back, occasionally letting his hand drift up and card through Sherlock's midnight curls. When he was a kid, his mother would do the same thing when he was upset (usually after a fight with Harry), and now he was hoping the actions would calm Sherlock. As he attempted to sooth the younger man, he noticed he could feel Sherlock's spine and ribs. It was frighteningly easy, in fact. If Sherlock were to take his shirt off, John would have bet he would have been able to count each rib with ease. Silently, John promised to make Sherlock eat more. He was far too skinny.

Minutes ticked by. Sherlock hadn't moved from his place on John's lap, and still hadn't made so much as a sniff. That bothered John a little too, how silent Sherlock was about crying. Then again, this was Sherlock. He would try to be as subtle about emotions as possible. So perhaps it wasn't as odd for him as it would be for others.

"Oh, Sherlock . . . " John sighed.

"He called me that word." John just barely heard Sherlock, his voice muffled by tears and the jumper.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John asked softly.

"My - my father. He called me that word." Sherlock repeated a bit louder, lifting his head slightly to be heard more clearly. His voice was firmer now, not stuttering every other word, but the genius sounded completely exhausted. Sherlock turned red-rimmed eyes up to John, and the look on the younger man's face broke the weathered soldiers heart. Heartache, fear, and sorrow were all competing for expression in Sherlock's eyes. His entire face seemed to sag under the weight of his emotions, and his hair was a messy disarray, with bits of fuzz clinging to random curls. All these things made the detective look completely disheveled, a frightening contrast to his usual impeccable state of being.

"He called me that word every - every time he'd - he'd hit me. Like he was pounding it into me." Sherlock confessed.

John's vision grew fuzzy with rage. Battle lust began pounding through his veins, his blood screaming for the man who had caused this suffering and pain in Sherlock to be absolutely destroyed. It took every ounce of his willpower not to jump up, track down that despicable human being, and shoot him in every single ball joint in his body.

"John?" Sherlock's small voice drew John back to the situation at hand - literally, John thought as his fingers curled around the back of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him back into a hug, resting his head on Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock did the same, burying his face in the crook of John's neck and weaving his hands tighter in the knit of John's jumper.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." John murmured into the detective's ear.

"I can usually take it, now, being called that, but Molly - when Molly said it -" Sherlock said against John's shoulder.

"It really hurt?" John guessed in a low voice.

Sherlock nodded. "It's caused me to fall apart again." He chuckled humorlessly.

"It's okay to be upset, Sherlock." The words sounded fake, even to him.

Sherlock hummed tiredly, and returned to hiding his face in the fabric of John's sweater.

They sat like that for hours. Long after John's legs had fallen asleep, the two still sat in a tight embrace on the floor. Both of them simply did not want to move. The world was in limbo, and as long as they did not move, it would remain so.

Unfortunately, this philosophy was not exactly true. About 3 hours after leaving them, Molly sent a text to John (she was wise enough not to bring the message herself) that she and her boss needed her lab back in exactly 11 minutes, and since the two weren't technically supposed to be there, they should probably make themselves scarce.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Hmm?" Sherlock mumbled. John felt the vibrations of Sherlock's voice against his skin.

"We have to go. I'm sorry."

Sherlock pried himself away from John. "Of course. Just - just give me a minute."

Sherlock washed his face in the lab sinks, and did his best to erase the evidence of his tears. It would not do for anyone - cough, cough, Mycroft - to see him in this state.

The two men exited St. Barts, and immediately caught the first cab for a silent ride back to Baker Street. Sherlock barely even tried to count out the right amount of money before throwing it through the window at the cabbie and rushing inside 221B.

John immediately followed, eternally grateful Mrs. Hudson had not been there to meet Sherlock at the door. Sherlock would surely not even attempt to be civil, not now.

By the time John actually crossed the threshold of their flat, Sherlock had already disappeared into his room, with the door pointedly shut. Sighing wearily, John opened up the cupboards in the kitchen, and began to make tea.

A few hours later, Sherlock emerged. John had kept the kettle boiling, and wordlessly poured him a cup. Sherlock nodded his thanks, and curled up in his usual chair, flipping on the telly so he could yell at the actors.

They didn't talk about it. The day after, John had tried to coax Sherlock into opening up a bit more. Stuff like this didn't go away; it festered inside of you until it boiled over in a hot mess. John would know. But Sherlock had steadfastly refused. He had filled his "emotions" quota for the next decade, John thought. For the time being, he would let him get away with that. It was a raw subject, one that no one would be comfortable talking about. One day, though, Sherlock would need to open up, need someone to help him. And John fully intended to be that someone.

"Back again, Freak?" The cutting words of Sgt. Donavon were causal as they were flung at the dark-haired man who had just arrived at the historic theatre.

Sherlock flinched, even after all these years still expecting a punch to the head, or a kick to the stomach.

John's face instantly darkened, a thunderstorm raging in his eyes. He picked up the pace, his stride growing longer with determination.

"John," Sherlock said softly, trying to call him back to his side. Not this time, though. Never again.

Sally noticed the anger in John' rock-hard gaze. Unfortunately, she misjudged who it was for.

"Have another fight with the freak?" She asked curiously. Many times in the past, she had questioned why someone like him hung around with Sherlock.

Another flinch from Sherlock.

"Actually, Donavon, I have a bone to pick with you." Despite the growing-ever-smaller distance between them, John' pace did not falter or slow. Though shorter than Sally, Captain John Watson was still an intimidating figure when he wanted to be, and Sally took a step back.

"Me? What did the freak blame me for this time?"

Flinch.

"Nothing." John finally stopped, with barely a foot between them. "It's something that you have solely instigated."

"Really?" Donavon challenged.

"Really."

"Then enlighten me."

"I never want to hear you call Sherlock that word ever again." John said firmly.

"What, freak?"

Flinch.

"Yes, that one."

"But he is a freak." Flinch. "And you've heard his spiel. He doesn't care; he doesn't have feelings."

"This may astound you, Donavon, but Sherlock is a human being, just like you and me. He may be quirky, but that's because he's smarter and better at your own job than you are." Before Sally could protest that insult, John overrode her, pouring every ounce of his rank as a Captain into his steely voice. "Sherlock Holmes is a person, and if you cannot grow up and treat him with the respect that he deserves as a human and fellow crime-solver, then I personally promise that I will have you fired on abuse of your position and arrested for verbal harassment. You will never call Sherlock that word in his presence ever again. Are we clear?"

Sally gapped at the military man in indignant fury. She opened her mouth to argue back, but John cut her off.

"Are. We. Clear?" He growled.

Sally fumed under his glare, but eventually muttered a clipped "Fine," before turning on her heel to seek the comfort of Anderson.

John grinned darkly. While not exactly good, it had been extremely satisfying to tell Sally Donovan off.

Sherlock approached him from behind. "You didn't have to do that." He said softly.

"No one has the right to talk to you like that, Sherlock." His grin vanished. "No one. All I did was tell Donovan that."

"Well, um," Sherlock coughed. "That, um, that was good." Which John knew was Sherlock's way of saying thank you.

"You're welcome. Now, where's Lestrade?" John asked lightly as they walked underneath the crime scene tape.

"No doubt inside trying to keep Anderson from mucking up all the evidence before I arrive." Sherlock answered drily.

John laughed, and together they entered the building, ready to start another adventure.

Ugh, crappy and sappy cliché ending line, but I literally could not come up with a better way to end it.

I completely respect the Mr. Holmes in His Last Vow, but I really wanted to do this.

Review, fav, and check me out for my Harry Potter/Sherlock crossover if you liked this.

Thank you,

Blue