Johh grew up in hell.

And no, it was not an exaggeration.

He was raised by a depressed mom and an abusive alcoholic father. His sister, mother and him were always on edge whenever his poor excuse for a father was around, because you can never tell when he's gonna explode.

But John was born a soldier, and he woud rather sacrifice himself for his family than see his mom and little sister get hurt. That always resulted with him having to hide the bruises from curious looks, and with a suspicious amount of trips to the ER.

Of course, there were a few times he couldn't protect them. Like right now.

"MOM!" John yelled, dropping his schoolbag by the door, and running to the kitchen. His voice was filled with rage as he threw himself at his father who was currently bashing his mom's head against the wall. "Let her go!"

He distracted him enough for Harry to quickly drag his mom away from the furious monster.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His spit flew everywhere, his eyes were glazed and his voice was slurred. He's drunk.

"I said," John straightened himself,"Let her-."

He was interrupted by a fist connecting to his nose. The force of the punch was strong enough to throw him off balance.

"I don't think you're in the position to be demanding anything" His father's breath was hot, and smelled of alcohol. "Now be a good boy and don't yell too loud."

With that a punch followed to his stomach and to his cheek. Not willing to show any fear or panic he spat blood all over his father with a week grin on his face. All the time he had to keep reminding himself he was doing it for his mom ang Harry.

His father became even more furious, if that was possible. John's grip of consciusness was weekeing by then, so he doesn't really remember everything.

All he remembers were red and blue lights, a loud siren, and his sister's sobbing.

Next time he woke up was in a hospital bed, tired and groggy.

The doctors at first seemed hesitant to explain what happened, but soon they told him everything. His mom had life threatening injuries and didn't even make it to the hospital while his father was under arrest for murder and child abuse.

That was the first time he had a panic attack.

When John and Sherlock first slept together, Sherlock discarded the scars as old war wounds. If it was someone else, he would already deduce the origins of them the first time he saw them. But this was John. His John.

When he thinks back to that memory now,he realizes how oblivious he was just because he did not want to believe it. Oh, how he wishes he was as cold and heartless other people think he is. But he's not.

When John and Sherlock started officially dating, Sherlock noticed some details he surprisingly never saw before. Like how even though it seems like John and Harry hate each other, they have a stronger bond than most siblings. Whenever Harry calls him drunk, John always, no matter the circumstances, drops everyting and goes to pick her up. Whenever either of them get hurt, the other makes sure to offer comforting words and touches that only they now the meaning of.

John would never back down from a case that would make even professionals want to throw up their lunch. He was on the receiving end of many punches and hits, yet he never flinched. But, if there's yelling and insulting going on, he would shrink into himself, unnoticeable to those who do not look for it, and subtly back away from the situation.

And, maybe the most alarming one, the fact that he never mentions his parents. Even Sherlock mentiones his family and childhood a few times, yet every time someone mentioned his parents he shut himself off and changed the topic.

To say the least, the blogger intrigued him.

Easy to say, the man on his armchair was not a normal client. He was an older man, probably about 60, his hair was dirty blond, his clothes tidy and bought recently. The buzz cut and his straight back meant military service, the fading mark of a wedding ring on his finger indicates he took it off 5 to 6 years ago, from a divorce or the death of a spouse. He did not look like the kind of a man who would buy a whole outfit all at once, which means something happened to all of his old clothes. The scar on his-

"Ah, you must be the famous Sherlock Holmes!" The man's voice interrupted his deduction. He was looking at him like it was perfectly normal to come in unannounced to their flat while he was out for a grocery run. Which, well, it kind of was. He has to have a chat with Mrs Hudson about acceptable guests.

"And who, if I may ask, are you?" While he talked he put the groceries away and mentally reminded himself about the gun in John's room.

"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet." His eyebrows raised, "I mean, you are pretty popular by your abili-"

A loud crash interrupted him from the doorway. A shaking John was standing there, his bags on the floor beside him. By his reaction, everyone would guess that he knew the man, but only when he spoke did the pieces of the puzzle started connecting. His voice was layered with shock and fear as his mouth formed one word Sherlock thought he would never hear John say. Just one word:

"Dad?"