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December 26 -- 6:30 am With the passing of Christmas, the house felt oddly quite and empty after taking down the Christmas tree and the flashing light that he and Mrs. Hudson had put up despite Sherlock's vehement protest. And yet, he didn't quite mind the calmness and lethargy that seems to be wafting in the air; after all, if one lives with Sherlock, it was bound to become chaotic and dangerous some times soon. With that thought, he rose from the chair placed in front of the comfort of the fireplace to start the first batch of tea."Sherlock, would you like a cup of tea?""BORED!!""You do realize, Sherlock, that you could grace me with a decent answer, yes? How about I put some dubious chemicals in one of you tea, hmm? That'll make it a bit less bored I presume.""John, I have analyzed, tested, and tasted over 230 chemicals. You would not be able to fool me with such trickery as putting, as you call, dubious chemicals in your mild tea. And if you must know, the chemicals on the table are formaldehyde, ammonium, and carboxylic acids, all which leave distinct bitterness on your tongue receptors."With typical Sherlockian behavior, he proceeded to slump back on the couch, facing his back against the fire. Letting out a loud sigh, John went back to his tea making, giving a brief glance towards the chemicals that Sherlock had manipulatively received from Molly. With the steaming pot in hand, he proceeded to pour the first morning cup of tea - a rose tea gifted from the previous posh client that he and Sherlock had assisted. Which, he remembered, has yet to been posted on his blog. Placing Sherlock's cup on the small table next to the couch, he dragged his computer from under the couch - how it had migrated there he had no idea - to start his early blogging session."Your password is elementary, John," Sherlock muffled voice stated."And your behavior and lack of understanding of personal space, is elementary, Sherlock," John responded back in snark."The worst sort of insult is when you repeat the other's words. How disappointing."John, at this point, decided to not indulge in their usual banter and resumed his two fingers typing. He had just finished writing out the introduction to their last case, titled, "The Intent of the Missing Will" when the phone buzzed."Sherlock, your phone.""Obvious. I do always appreciate your need to point out the fine details that everyone would have missed." "Sherlock," came that slightly irritated tone of John. With a over dramatic grumble, Sherlock reached out to read a text from Lestrade."It looks as if the incompetent Yard is stuck on a case yet again. It's no wonder, obviously. With Anderson contaminating all the evidences," Sherlock complained.Without gracing the statement with response, John decided to save his blog to prepare for another morning filled with blood and gore. He wondered if the military had managed to rewire his system in a wrong way; no civilian should treat a dead person as a norm, after all. But, John though with sudden gloom, maybe he was wired wrong from the beginning, with a dear father like his. "Stuck in a day dream, John?" came Sherlock's cold voice penetrating his clouded consciousness. Had he paid any attention, he would have seen the hidden worry that had briefly graced his grey eyes. "Just a though, Sherlock." John responded while proceeding to reach for his slightly tattered scarf. "What's the case about? Must be at least an 5 to get you moving." "The case itself is barely a 3, even the incompetent Yard could tell that the father killed the daughter in a drunken rage. No, what makes this case interesting is just where the father and his supposedly non-existent son went. Of course, the Yard doesn't know about the son, the Yard can only see the missing abuser...John? John!"For there stood John, whose hands, clenched around the scarf that was in process of being wrapped around his neck, shook, from what obviously was not an intermittent tremor. His face had lost the slight flush of pink that he had acquired from sitting so close to the fire, and instead, had gained a pale, almost grey like hue. "John?" came the uncertain voice of Sherlock, whose brain had already made a series of deductions, only to be scratched out as improbable, trying to discern the source of John's distress. But this time, his voice failed to penetrate the fog that surrounded John's consciousness, for John was stuck in the memories of his past that he had locked away...or at least, was locked until the forbidden word - supposedly non-existent son - unleashed the memories from his personal prison.
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He stood in front of the small cupboard that held the precious treasure that Mother had brought home just this evening from his aunt's house. In front of the small, unimpressive door, John stood with his tiny, bruised limbs shaking like the last leaf attached to a branch, swaying helplessly from the wind. Clenched in his 6 year old hand, is a Browning, the one that his father had brought home after one night - probably stolen after the body was disposed.
Such small mind, and yet it was in turmoil from emotions and thoughts raging against his skull. Oh, he knew what he was doing was wrong, wrong in the eyes of the law, but yet...yet he knew, this was right. Tender age of 6 his body may be, the rational in his brain was that of a hardened soldier, weary, tired, and ready to deliver another mercy shot to his comrade to reduce the suffering. Despite the fact that the treasure hidden away behind the closed door still hadn't faced any injury, any betrayal, and any pain, John wasn't ignorant; John wasn't stupid; and John was kind. So he choked down the sob, and opened the door. Inside, bundled up in a blanket that was still untainted, still clean, was a babe just brought home - a newborn baby, a younger brother to both John and Harry.
With a shaking hand, he touched the delicate cheek, whose unmarred face is overlapped with the images of promised bruises, blood, and lesions. Torturing himself with another glance, he leans down to kiss his forehead, muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please...please just understand...I love you...I'm sorry."
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When his parents and Harry came running down the hallway, it was to find John crumpled from the recoil of his shot, covered in tears and blood, while the baby remained in the cot, looking for all the world as if he was asleep, if not for the hole that was right above his heart. And from that point on, the baby was forever graced with the name of the "non-existent son" in their memory.
"John!!" With a startled gasp, John turned to look at Sherlock, who by at this point had decided to no longer obscure his obvious concern for the dear doctor. "You looked as if...as if you were quite not good, John" Sherlock commented, in a way that removed idiotic sentiment from his tone, while simultaneously moving down the stairwell to pick up a cab. John, by now, had regained some of his lost composure and had enough semblance to utter, "Nothing," and followed Sherlock down the stairs. If either of them noticed John shoving his hands inside his coat pocket to hide the tremor that still racked his hands, it was commented.
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By the time the duo had reached the crime scene, to everyone but Sherlock, the tension that had surrounded the doctor had all but dissipated, for like their usual day."Lestrade! Please do bring a competent and intelligent people for your forensic team, and not an idiot like Anderson, who I see has yet again seemed to have released his sperms like some untamed animal inside Sergeant Donovan.""No one asked you to comment, Freak!"Rounding on John, she pointed accusingly to Sherlock, spitting, "Still tottering along with the psychopath John? Do you see how unaffected he is when there is a dead body of a child?""He's not a psychopath, Sally," sighed John. "I'm not a trained psychologist but even I can tell that he is on the higher end of the spectrum for high functioning Asperger."At this point, Sherlock had returned from his brief glance at the crime scene - enough time to analyze the whole case together for the genius - and rounded on them, exclaiming, "Oh isn't it brilliant to have such naïve and ignorant mind? Can't you see how there is a son missing from the crime scene? It's quite obvious if you cared to look for the evidence that Anderson has spectacularly failed to categorize.""A son! Are you sure Sherlock? There was no evidence of another child living in this house." Lestrade interrupted."Obvious. Look at the wife. See that necklace she's wearing? It has three charms, all of them letters. Now, no mother would love a husband that abuses her daughter, unless she herself is an abuser, which in this case, she's not. Therefore, you can safely deduce that the two charms are for herself and the daughter. The other, that would be the son."Ever so reluctant to agree to Sherlock's deduction, Anderson chimed in, "Why not another daughter?""Idiot. The three charms are color coordinated. Two red and one blue. All common sense points to the other letter belonging to the first letter of a boy's name," scoffed Sherlock. "Now, the interesting part is that there are only subtle signs - like the fact that the many drawings shoved under the sofa is made by two different children, the old blood stain marks that came from two people, obvious from the height of the spatter, and such reveal that this family has two children.""Right. Sherlock, do you have any idea where the son may be? And Donovan, send a report to the others that we need to look for the missing boy," ordered the anxious inspector. "No clue, as of yet, Lestrade," answered Sherlock, "but I'm sure it is solvable. Now John, what was the cause of the death for the mother and the daughter?"John, who had already examined the two dead bodies while listening to Sherlock's deduction, reported, "they've both been killed at approximately the same time. Based on the state of rigor mortis, I would say about 72 hours. The cause of death for the mother is the stab wound to the upper right abdominal quadrant, which pierced through her stomach. As for the child, asphyxiation from pierced lung, evident from the cracked 2nd left rib and the trail of blood stains around her mouth." "Nothing new to gain from that, as I expected," was the response from Sherlock, who had now moved on to examining the multiple scraps of paper that were covered in scribbles and drawings. "Which ones are the ones drawn by the boy, do you reckon?" asked John as he grabbed and sadly looked over a slightly blood stained paper that held a drawing of what looked to be a dog and a house. "Well, the son, as expected of a child who was hidden from society, didn't seem to have as much playtime as the daughter, so less drawings are present here. Now, the daughter is right handed. But, couple of these are clearly a work of a person who is left-handed, and therefore, these," lining up the boy's papers, "are what I suspect he drew when he was granted those rare free times."Picking up a paper in random, Sally uttered, "Wonder what this drawing is supposed to mean. Kinda creepy and ominous if you ask me, it's all black. Hey freak, disturbing image is right up in you alley isn't it?"But Sherlock was no longer listening to Sally. No, he was watching John who had gone still when Donovan had held the paper up for them to see. Because, if possible, John looked worse than he did at the front door of 221B. In fact, his eyes seemed to only see the sinister drawing that apparently bore more meaning than Sherlock himself had realized."John?" Sherlock asked, as he tentatively reached over to grasp his trembling shoulder. "John, you need to calm down. You are nearly hyperventilating." At this point Lestrade had also joined the spectator surrounding the duo."Hey mate, are you alright?" voiced Lestrade, concerned for the doctor that had always seemed quite calm in the face of, well, anything. "Obviously not, Lestrade," Sherlock replied, annoyed. "John, John!!!"With his eyes still glued to the drawing, John gasped, "The Unvirgins. That's the mark of Unvirgins."
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"You recognize the drawing," said Sherlock, as he simultaneously examined both John and the crude image of what appeared to be a circle of black lilies pierced with a short hunting knife decorated with intricate designs of skulls. "YOU recognize it John?" Sally exclaimed in disbelief, "I mean, I expected the Freak to know what that drawing is supposed to mean but, seriously you?" "Donovan, enough!" yelled Lestrade as he carefully stepped closer to John, who by at this point looked like he would pass out. In fact, he was afraid that he would lose consciousness with how blue his feature had become and how his whole body was trembling. He knew that John was an army doctor, and therefore if John was this affected, whatever this was, it was awful to have shaken such brave figure. "John," Lestrade carefully and quietly asked, "what does that symbol mean? And how do you recognize them?" At this question, John's trembling increased, looking not unlike a person having a seizure, or Parkinson's disease. Yet his eyes, shadowed by some unknown grief and terror, had a spark of determination and anger. And it was the latter emotion that allowed John to force his shaking fingers to coordinate enough to pull his beige jumper and tug his jeans lower to show the patch of skin that displayed the exact replica of what the little boy had drawn."Ha!" said Anderson in triumph, "I knew that you were a loony to hang around the freak. This is a clear proof! No gentle doctor would have that tattooed on his body.""Yes Anderson," Sherlock stepped in with a glare, "no gentle doctor, like John, would have willingly tattooed his skin with such gruesome image. No, unsurprisingly, your idiocy failed to realize the clear difference between a tattoo and a burned branding. What this is," continued Sherlock while thrusting his finger towards John's now jumper covered engraving, "is a forced branding on a person. Now, considering that John never came home traumatized while living with me (unless counting the Pool incident, or the Sarah incident), this was before I met John. Let me remind your incompetent brain, Anderson, that before meeting me, John was in military. So, the chance that someone managed to capture a strong, adrenaline junkie soldier during his very few leaves is low. And with the knowledge that this drawing is done by a young child, John getting this branding during his years of service is also just as unlikely. That leaves the only possible time frame as his childhood. Now, do tell me, Anderson. Do you think that a child would willingly go through the quite painful process of getting his skin burned so that he can have a disturbing picture on his skin?" Sherlock exclaimed, in anger. "Well, for all you know," responded Anderson snidely, "John could have been a freak like you.""Oh shut up!" Sherlock yelled, "Enough! I know you hate me Anderson, but there is no reason that should allow you to, quite frankly, bully John who clearly does not have ANY good memory from being reminded of whatever nightmare that is on his skin." Turning on Lestrade, who was openly gaping at John in both surprise and a burst of uncertainty over John's possible, horrifying past, Sherlock ordered, "Remove him, Greg. Or I'll swear I'll do the honor myself."However, before Lestrade gained his wits, John in his uncharacteristic wariness and quietness, replied, "It's fine, Sherlock. I appreciate you gesture, but it's fine.""FINE? John, I may not know all those tedious social customs that you are so determined to drill in me, but even I recognize that what Anderson said is more than a bit not good!""Sherlock's right, John," interrupted Lestrade, for once standing up for the duo, "What Anderson did was a violation of what a good officer should do." Glaring at Anderson, "Get out and return to the station. Expect to hear from me later and an assignment for the desk job, without pay."Stomping and causing much chaos as he could, Anderson replied snidely, "Don't know what you want with those two freaks anyway," and left while loudly exclaiming to everyone on site about the unfairness and corruptness of the police force. "Well then, John," Sherlock turned, his countenance becoming soft in a way that he has only allowed John to see, "so what is this Unvirgins?"Too exhausted to care about proper crime scene procedure, John dragged the dinner table's chair and sat, his elbows on the table and his face partially concealed in his hands. "Deduce it, Sherlock. The name is no where close to being unique." Self-deprecatingly, he added, "my father was never known for being smart, after all.""Your...father...," came the stunned voice of Sherlock. Of course he knew that they have never gotten along; the few times John mentioned his father, he had never displayed his characteristic caring and loving undertone in his voice. And yet, Sherlock didn't quite expect this turn of event, for despite knowing that the apples often fell far from the tree, he was properly surprised that John had turned out this well - not too much of an idiot, a crack shot with morals, an understanding and appreciation for his genius intellect, and most importantly (not that he would ever say so) his best friend and maybe more. "Yes, my dear father somehow had enough brain to start and run a proper criminal gang," sighed John. "They were composed of men, none younger than mid-30s. They...they were closeted men. I mean, not that I blame them of course...the time period at that time being quite, um, homophobic. And, and, anyway, err, they did as their name implied, you know. They...they...would capture young boys wondering in the street alone...or...or bring their own son to, to..." and here John's voice died out, the room so quiet that Sherlock thought he could hear what surely must be both John's and his heartbeat that drummed the tune of despair. "They raped you. Your father and his gang, they raped you," rang the unusually quite deduction of Sherlock.