The Broken Boys (JohnLock AU)

The Truth

A/N Hey My Lovelies!!!! Here is another chapter!!!! So....sorry about the last chapter...this one isn't terrible...but there will be more angst to come next chapter...enjoy<3

When Sherlock finally woke up, he was strapped to the bed in Mycroft's basement. Gavin was sleeping in the chair next to his head and a private nurse was changing the IV bags attached to his arm. This happened the last time, Mycroft locked him in the basement and put him in a medically induced coma until his body was done going through withdrawals.

"Oh, good, you're awake. I'll inform Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade." The nurse sounded nice, better than the last one at least. Sherlock nodded and tried to push himself into a sitting position, but cried out when a sharp pain lanced from his arse and up his spine. Geoffrey jolted awake, nearly falling out of his chair as he struggled to figure out what was going on. His eyes met Sherlock's and he sprung to his feet, stepping to the bed and helping the boy sit up.

"How're you feeling?" He asked, clearly uncomfortable.

"Like I was beaten, raped, and forced into a coma." Sherlock snapped, tugging at the restraints that kept his wrists tied down. "Are these necessary?"

"You still planning on killing yourself?"

"That's none of your concern-"

"Then yes, they're necessary." Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged at the restraints again. "Sherlock-"

"Don't. Just, don't. Please leave." Sherlock knew he sounded needy and pathetic, but he didn't care anymore. He just wanted to die. George sighed and nodded, stepping towards the door, but hesitating as he pulled it open.

"You should know, Victor Trevor was found dead in his flat. Ate his gun."

John sat in the dark, unmoving despite the hurricane in his mind.

'N-No! Victor please!'

'Take it like the whore you are.'

Sherlock's pleas and screams rolled through his mind, coupled with the pleas and screams from his own throat from the nights the men he was supposed to trust forced themselves on him.

A key turned in the lock and John reached for the lamp nearest him. It would look cheesy, but it worked the first time.

A figure stumbled into the flat, tossing keys onto the table and grumbling about bills.

John turned the lamp on and the man spun, fear and anger in his eyes.

"Hello Mr. Trevor. Remember me?"

When Mycroft found John, the boy was sitting on the roof on the hospital, feet dangling off the edge holding a burning cigarette in his fingers.

"Never would have thought of you as a smoker, Mr. Watson." John laughed and flicked the cigarette away.

"I'm not. Just like holding them." Mycroft sat next to the boy, watching the sun go down over the town. From their spot on the hospital, he could see the crime scene that Victor Trevor's home had become. "So, how's Sherlock?"

"I just got a call from Gregory. He's awake, and as abrasive as ever." John huffed a soft laugh and kept watching the sun lower in the sky.

"My dad used to beat and rape me and my sister. I kept most of his rage aimed at me, but she got more than a few hits. Mom would watch, tell me I deserved everything he did to me. Everyone knew, no one stopped him." John shrugged and sniffled, wiping his nose. "When he died, no one bothered to question it." Understanding flooded Mycroft and he turned to the boy, reading the tension in his shorter frame.

"Are you alright John?"

"You heard about Victor Trevor? Terrible thing that. Didn't even have the balls to face what he did to Sherlock." John scrubbed his face with his hand and sighed heavily. "Think anyone will miss him?"

"John-"

"Why didn't you do anything? You knew about what he was doing to Sherlock and you did nothing."

"Victor Trevor's father is the chief of police. All complaints made against his son are swept under the rug, no questions asked. He had Sherlock under his control completely. When I found out what was happening, I forced Sherlock to get clean, but he just went right back to the man." Mycroft fought the tears that threatened to fall and avoided John's gaze. "I love my brother, but after years of being bullied and abused by other kids, I'm afraid Sherlock doesn't know what it is to really be loved." The pair shared a look that spoke a thousand words. Mycroft knew what John had done, and John knew that he had figured it out.

"You going to turn me in?" John didn't face him, but Mycroft could see the change in the boy's posture. He was done. He wouldn't fight if Mycroft hauled him down to New Scotland Yard and had him charged. He reached into his coat and pulled out a business card. He handed it to John and stood, brushing off his coat and keeping his eyes on the sunset.

"Call me if you ever need anything. My address is on the card, feel free to come by and visit Sherlock if you want." He turned and left, his position on the matter clear and weighing heavy in the air.

"Please, don't do this. You- you won't-"

"Won't what? Won't get away with it? Funny you say that, because I know for a fact that I will. See, this isn't exactly my first time." John leaned back in the chair in front of the terrified man, a dead grin on his face. "But, I am enjoying the irony of you on your knees, begging for mercy. Just like Sherlock."

"Please don't-"

"Put the gun in your mouth, Mr. Trevor."

"I-I swear, I won't touch Sherlock again-"

"You shouldn't have touched him in the first place!" John snapped, making the man flinch. "I'm not going to tell you again. Put the gun, in your mouth." The man followed the instruction and sobbed around the barrel. "I shouldn't let you off this easy, I should bend you over the kitchen table and do to you what you did to Sherlock. Do you have any idea how painful it is to have someone fucking you with no prep or lube?" Victor shook his head, still sobbing pitifully. "I should show you, but that would leave DNA evidence, and I really don't want that."

John leaned forward and pointed his own gun at the sobbing man, his eyes steel and his pulse steady.

"Pull the trigger, Mr. Trevor."