There was a fire in him that seemed to burning at full power, making him want to hit something, break someone, take his anger out on the world. He didn't deserve to be treated like this, his mother didn't deserve to be married to some mean spirited brute who only cared where his next beer was coming from, it was so not fair! Sherlock sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and digging around underneath, bringing out a worn leather violin case and opening it up. Inside was a beautifully polished wooden violin, the strings reflecting the dim lamp light back at Sherlock. The violin was his guilty pleasure; he'd never admit to anyone that he played it, since it was considered a bit of a woman's instrument. His mother had played it for him when he was very young, and he had sort of inherited the longing for the beautiful music. He pulled the instrument out of the case, tuning it a little bit before placing it gently onto his shoulder, drawing the bow against the stings to produce a long, sad sounding note. He breathed in the music, shutting his eyes and letting his soul do the playing, back and forth, string after string, note after note, it was more than music, it was reality. After a good thirty minutes of playing Sherlock felt substantially better, his mood leaking into the music that filed out of the violin, his happiness in the high notes, his anger in the deep notes, his sadness in the slow, drawn out notes that sounded like sadness itself. But the emotions mixed together in a beautiful array of music, simply though a wooden violin. Sherlock's utopia was destroyed though, by the slamming open of the door. His father stood in the doorway, a half empty beer bottle in his hand and a scowl on his face.
"Would you stop that accursed screeching?" he demanded, walking into the room with a growl. Sherlock immediately removed the violin from his shoulder, holding it protectively in his hands so that his father couldn't ruin it.
"Give it here." he insisted.
"I'll put it away." Sherlock insisted.
"I said give it." he insisted, holding out his free hand demandingly.
"Please sit, you won't hear it again." Sherlock begged.
"I said give it to me!" he yelled, making a lunge at the instrument. Sherlock yelped, pushing the violin just out of his father's reach and shielding it with his body.
"HOW DARE YOU!" his father screeched, taking the beer bottle in his hand and smashing it against Sherlock's right temple in an explosion of glass and beer. Sherlock screamed in pain, pushing his father away and running for his life, down the stairs and out the door. He could hear his mother yelling desperately for him to come back, for him to tell her where he was going, but Sherlock didn't stop, he wouldn't stop, not until he was far away from his father and his horrible ways. The only reason he could tell that he was crying was the stinging of the cuts as the tears stung into the wounds, blood dripping down his face but he was too angry and too terrified to stop. He had no idea where he was going, he just knew he was going. Finally, when he reached the town, Sherlock stopped, leaning against a brick wall and clutching a stitch in his side. His feet hurt and his muscles burned, and he had no idea what to do now. He couldn't go back home, not with his tyrannical father paroling the door, ready with another bottle to smack against Sherlock's other temple. He grimaced, pulling a large chunk of glass, covered in blood, from his forehead, feeling more tears run down his face as he realized that his own father had done this to him. The man that was supposed to raise and protect him had become the villain of his very existence. Sherlock got back on his feet, walking through the town as if his legs were guiding him, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of the polished white house. No, he could never bother Victor at this hour, he'd never be welcome, he was just a burden. But what else could he do, who else did he know that would take him in? Sherlock sighed, but walked up the steps through the pillars, covering the side of his face with his hand so that it looked like he wasn't in too much pain. His free hand rang the white metal doorbell, leaving a small spec of blood on the button. The door opened and an old lady, not a day younger than seventy, answered the door.
"May I help you?" she asked politely.
"Yes, um, could I please speak to Victor Trevor?" he asked, his voice cracking and sounding like he was a damaged little boy.
"Sherlock?" asked a familiar voice from behind the door. The lady, who had to be Mrs. Turner, Victor's housekeeper, opened the door wider to reveal an equally polished entrance room, with white marble floors, white walls, and a large crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of two curved staircases, both apparently leading to the same hallway on the top floor. Victor was just on his way up the staircase on the left, still in his army uniform, looking down with concern.
"Do you know this boy?" Mrs. Turner asked.
"Yes, yes, he's my friend." Victor assured, walking down the staircase at a quick pace and approaching the doorway. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice dropping to a sweet, concerned tone.
"I, um, my father got mad at me, and I ran away, I didn't know where else to go, I'm so sorry for bothering you at this hour, but..." Sherlock started.
"What happened to your face?" Victor asked. As he got closer Sherlock just realized how terrible of a plan this was. He was going to look like an idiot in front of Victor, someone who couldn't even defend himself from his own dad.
"Nothing, I'm fine, I just, this was a bad idea, I'm sorry for bothering you." Sherlock decided, starting to turn away, but Victor stepped out of the doorway into the darkness, his smooth, warm hands gently removing Sherlock's own hand from over his face.
"Oh my god..." he muttered, staring at Sherlock's forehead with a look of utmost concern.
"I didn't know what else to do." Sherlock admitted, feeling his eyes become hot with tears starting to form.
"It's alright, come in, I'll get the first aid kit. Mrs. Turner, could you please get me some ice and a wet cloth? He's cut up badly." Victor decided, ushering Sherlock into the foyer, not letting go of his hand still. Sherlock felt like a total baby, coming crying to Victor because of some little cuts on his face. In Victor's eyes he was still enlisting, he was supposed to go defend the country, when he couldn't even defend himself.
"Of course." Mrs. Turner agreed, rushing into the doorway in the middle of the room.
"Come on, we'll get you cleaned up, you're alright now, you're safe now." Victor assured.
"I'm so sorry." Sherlock insisted as he was led up the staircase, one of Victor's hands on his shoulder, leading him up the stairs, and the other still clenched protectively over Sherlock's own hand.
"No, there's nothing to be sorry about, I'm glad you came to me." Victor assured. They reached the hallway, which stretched many doors wide, and Victor led him to the farthest one on the right, opening the door and leading Sherlock into what seemed to be his bedroom.
"Here, sit down." Victor insisted, turning on the light and finally letting go of Sherlock. Sherlock didn't really want to sit down; he didn't want to contaminate such a fancy, polished room. There were hardwood floors, mahogany dressers and wardrobes, a fluffy bed with a brown bedspread and golden pillows, and what appeared to be a balcony with golden curtains hanging lightly over the glass doors. But Sherlock sat, very reluctantly, not wanting to spill even a drop of blood on such a beautiful room. Mrs. Turned appeared, not long after, with a stainless steel bucket of ice and several fluffy white washcloths, plus a large plastic first aid kit.
"Here you are." She said with a smile, placing the things on the end table, and looking at Sherlock's face with concern. He felt vaguely like an animal in a zoo, being stared at by everyone, all of their eyes filled with sadness and regret.
"Thank you Mrs. Turner, that will be all." He decided.
"Are you sure you don't need help?" she asked.
"Thank you, but I think I'll be alright. I'll call you if I need anything." Victor insisted.
"Well, alright then, but if I need to call an ambulance I will certainly do so." she assured.
"We'll be fine." Victor assured. "It's only a scratch." Mrs. Turner sighed, looking pretty reluctant to leave, but finally turned her back and left the room. As soon as she was gone Victor shut the door quietly, turning back to where Sherlock sat awkwardly.
"I don't want to be a burden." He insisted as Victor got a wet washcloth and wrung it out in the bucket.
"You did what you had to, there's no shame in it." he assured.
"I just, it was so sudden, and I was scared, and I..." Sherlock started, but Victor shushed him, walking over and gently placing the washcloth on the side of Sherlock's face, making him wince.
"Just tell me what happened." Victor said softly, sounding like a concerned mother.
"Well, my father started drinking earlier tonight; he's sort of got a bad habit. And I was playing my violin up in my bedroom and he came up and demanded that I stop and give him the instrument. And I was scared that he'd break it or something, so I refused, and he tried to grab it, and I pushed him away, and he smacked a beer bottle against my head, and I ran." Sherlock said, all in one breath. For some reason some of the internal pain melted away as he told his story, someone to listen, someone to understand, to care about him.
"I'm so sorry Sherlock." Victor breathed, taking the washcloth off and sitting down softly next to Sherlock on the bed. He examined the cuts, and suddenly Sherlock found that it was much more difficult to breathe now that he could feel Victor's warmth, so close.
"There's still some glass in there, I can see it." Victor decided.
"Is that a bad thing?" Sherlock asked stupidly.
"It is if you want to be pain free." Victor decided with a small laugh.
"What should we do about it?" Sherlock asked worriedly.
"Well, you don't have to do anything. Me, on the other hand, I'll get it out with tweezers. They're relatively big chunks, easy enough to remove." Victor decided.
"Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" Sherlock muttered.
"Just hold very, very still." Victor decided, turning slightly to get the metal tweezers out of the medical kit. Sherlock nodded, holding onto one of the polished wooden bed posts for stability, and waited.
"Alright, not this is going to sting a little bit." Victor warned, putting a hand on the back of Sherlock's head gently and starting to extract the glass. 'Sting' wasn't a good enough word to describe it. The pain was more of a dragging, cutting sensation, like small blades being slowly dragged through his skin. The tweezers weren't painless either, in fact while they dug around in his face it might have hurt more than the actual injury itself. But soon there was a small plastic dish filled with bloody pieces of glass, and Victor put down the tweezers in success.

"I'd say you're glass free, at least for now." He decided, placing the washcloth on the side of Sherlock's face once more. "Could you hold that there?" he asked. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, their fingers brushing over each other's as they traded places. Sherlock winced as the cold water soaked into his newly opened wounds, but he didn't want Victor to notice, at least not yet. 

"There's nothing to be ashamed of." Victor assured as he put the things back into the medical kit and closed the plastic snaps quietly. Sherlock sighed, pressing the washcloth even harder over his forehead and avoiding Victor's gaze.
"I don't want you to think that my family is all dysfunctional, and that I can't handle myself." Sherlock admitted, feeling his cheeks blush even more than they already had. He's bound to have at least a first degree burn by now. But then again, the night was young.
"I know that you can handle yourself Sherlock, you know you can as well. Not everyone can stand up to Jim and Sebastian, not everyone can practically fight a bartender to keep a bunker door open. You were astoundingly brave tonight, and there was no better place you could've gone than here. I guarantee you, as long as I'm around, no harm will ever come to you." Victor insisted.
"Then please don't leave." Sherlock muttered, trying to force a smile as if it were some sort of joke.
"And as far as your family goes, I envy you. Sure, maybe your father is rough around the edges, but you still have your mother, who loves you immensely. And besides, look around; you can't sink any lower on the family scale than I have. Your family stuck with you, they stayed together, and the moment Britain declared war, my parents packed up and left me." Victor sighed.
"I'm sorry to hear that." Sherlock mumbled.
"No, it's certainly not your fault, I'm sorry I'm whining to you." Victor insisted, his somber, dreamy voice snapping back into a sort of cheerful one, as if he were trying his best to liven the mood.
"You have blood all over your jacket." He observed.
"Oh, yes." Sherlock muttered, straining his eyes to look down at his jacket.
"I'd be happy to wash it for you, before it stains." Victor offered. Sherlock really didn't want to take advantage of Victor's superb hospitality, but he couldn't help but nod. His father might have ruined his face, his violin, and his spirit, but he is not going to be responsible for destroying Sherlock's favorite jacket. Sherlock put down his washcloth, setting it momentarily back in the bucket of now melting ice, and slid off his jacket to the best of his abilities, very aware of the fact that Victor wasn't looking away.
"Thanks." He mumbled as Victor took the jacket from him, folding it neatly in his arms.
"I won't be a moment." he assured, opening the door and disappearing down the hallway.