FIC: Let The Future In. 1/3, J/L & L/OMC. NC17 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Let The Future In
Author: Elf
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,000
Pairings: Lestrade/John, Lestrade OMC
Warning: Violence against children, domestic abuse, dub-con
Summary: How Lestrade's life has shaped him into the man he is today. Title from the quote "Now is time to open the door and let the future in."
Note: Written as backstory to the NannyWatson universe, created by 
emungere . Specifically relates to these posts on the blogs (read comments): Overtime, Overworked and Over here, Dramatic Tadpoles and Dissolutions, Discord and Displeasure.
Disclaimer: NannyJohn was created by emungere , based upon characters from 'Sherlock'. I own nothing.
He didn't remember how it had started. It wasn't anything unusual. He'd been upstairs, in the room he shared with his sister. His Mum and Dad had been in the kitchen.
The shouting had been raging on for ages now. Enough time for him to use the rough wooden blocks to build a farm, and then drive his tractor around it a few times. A lonely cow with no tail watched from one of the 'fields', as Greg drove the tractor into a tower of blocks, bringing it crashing down with a satisfying noise.
A noise that woke baby Nichola.
She began a quiet grizzle, quickly escalating into a noisy cry. He stood, farm forgotten, and reached through the bars of the crib, stroking her chest, trying to make her hush. He would have given her a cuddle, but he couldn't reach over the high wooden sides. Her small face was red and her mouth wide open as she shrieked. He watched for a moment before turning and running out of the room. He headed into the kitchen, but stopped at the doorway.
His Dad was crowding into his Mum, pushing her back against the cupboards. She was shouting, and he raised his hand. Then her eyes locked onto Greg.
"Greggy, come here, come to Mummy," she said, pushing his Dad away from her, reaching down to him.
He obeyed. "Mummy, Nicky's crying again," he said, and he glanced up at his Dad, recognising the anger in his expression and not wanting to go near him. He hated it when his Dad was angry. And he was angry a lot.
"Fucking kid! She can wait," his Dad dragged his Mum up, away from him, by her clothing. Then he slapped her across the cheek, hard.
Greg froze, time froze, nothing moved. Then his Mum seemed to gain strength from the violence, and she shoved his Dad away. Greg moved too, pushing his Dad's thigh as hard as he could, away from them both.
The blow that hit him virtually lifted him off his feet. A wild backhander, and he stumbled, falling, hitting the side of his face hard on one of the cupboard door handles. He cried out, tears welling up, and curled up on the floor, arm over his face.
The shouting continued above him.
When his Mum finally picked him up she was crying, too. Her cheek was red, her hair a mess. She held him tightly and kissed him, then took him into the bathroom and held a cold flannel against his cheekbone. It stung, and he cried again. She did, too, and then knelt in front of him, wiping her tears away.
"If anybody asks you, Greggy, you must say you hit your face in the playground, okay? Say you fell over, and you hit your face. Okay?"
He stared at her. "Daddy…"
"I know. But we mustn't say that. It's important, Greggy. Will you do that for Mummy?"
He didn't answer. "You said we mustn't say a lie," he finally mumbled, confused.
"I know, I know," she hugged him tightly then, stroking his back. "But sometimes…sometimes we just have to. Because if we don't, then people will come and they'll take you and Nicky away. And we won't be able to see each other any more. You won't be able to see Mummy and Daddy; they'll take you away and give you to somebody else. So because of that, because of…I need you to tell this one little lie. Okay? Do you understand?"
He nodded. He definitely didn't want to lose his Mum. He needed her, but more than that, Nicky needed her. For everything. Nicky couldn't do anything at all without Mummy.
"Yes."
She had kissed him, and cut a strip of plaster for the cut on his cheek, then given him a chocolate biscuit for being brave. He didn't know where his Dad had gone, but he was glad that the small house was quiet again.
When Mrs Harris, from next door, had asked about his face he said had fallen over.
No one came to take him or Nicky away.
***
The noise was horrific. You didn't need to understand how it all worked to realise that the dragging, harsh wrench of sound wasn't a good thing.
Nor was the abrupt squeak of chair legs on the kitchen floor that followed. Or the heavy tread in the narrow hallway.
Greg abandoned the record player and leapt from the arm of the sofa, where he'd been balancing to try to play the song he loved. He was halfway across the floor when the door swung open.
He stopped, bare feet skidding slightly on the carpet, and looked up, eyes wide, at Dave.
"What're you doing, you little shit?"
He was grabbed by the collar and dragged back across the room, hands scrabbling at his school shirt where it bit into his neck.
There was no way out, he knew that, but it didn't stop the reflex response.
"It weren't me." A futile lie, and he knew it.
It earned him no more than a glance as Dave moved the needle back from the vinyl, lifted the shining black disc up to the light and examined the scratch.
Greg couldn't help but watch, the brown and red label mocking him, blocking his view of the expression on Dave's face. 'Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me)' said the sticker in the middle. Greg was pretty certain no one would be smiling for a while.
Dave slammed the record down, onto Greg's head, breaking it in half with a loud snap. He flinched away, from the action more than the pain.
"What have I told you about touching my fucking stuff?" Dave shouted, reaching down, grabbing Greg's shirt, shaking him. "What have I told you?"
"Not to," Greg mumbled. And he had been told, numerous times. But no one seemed to care that Dave had just turned up – moved into his house, messed up his stuff, taken all his Mum's attention. No one cared about that.
"Exactly!" The shaking stopped, but Greg's head was still spinning. "So don't fucking do it! You'll work to pay me back for that." It started as a wide gesture to the broken halves of the record, it ended with a stinging slap that snapped his head around and made his eyes water.
Then Dave knelt down, face close, breath that stank of beer and smoke wafting over Greg.
"And if you tell anyone, it won't just be you gets another slap. It'll be your Mum, too, right?"
He nodded, trying to pull away.
When she asked about the bruise, he told his Mum he'd fallen off the sofa.
She smiled fondly as she called him clumsy. Dave smiled too.
***
It was hot, even in the shade. He sat back, tipping the wicker chair up on two legs. A hand slapped his knee. "Piantala!"
"Sorry, Nonna," he muttered, allowing the chair legs to thud back onto the tiles. The elderly woman gave him a warning look, but didn't say anything.
People began moving, clearing away the plates; he started to help when a dry, wrinkled hand closed around his wrist. "Orio, non," she gave him a look that told him to sit down and stay still.
"I was just going to…"
She shook her head, so he stayed where he was and watched as Nicky helped their Nonno and two Great Aunts troop back indoors with the dirty dishes and left over food.
It was obviously planned.
"Orio," his Nonna said, sounding tired. He didn't mind the nickname, not the way people here said it, deep, rich vowel sounds, the 'r' rolled just slightly. "Stay. We must talk."
A minute later his Nonno returned, sitting heavily in his seat and pouring a little more wine for himself, then some wine and water for Greg.
"Your Father," his Nonno began, staring out across the parched valley, not looking at him. "He is…disappointing, to us."
They spoke good English, only hesitating sometimes for the correct word. He spoke good Italian, good enough to chat with them, but he still appreciated their effort to remember his language.
"They way he leave you, Nichola, your Mother. Is no good, no good. But…" there was an expressive shrug, a downturn of the corners of the old man's mouth under his grey moustache. "Is what life brings. And life brings us you, so we can have no argument."
Finally the watery brown eyes turned to him.
"But is important, molto – very – that you, you are more than this. You are a man, now. For your Mamma, and Nichola, is important you take care, you are the man of the house."
He nodded silently, unable to break eye contact. He didn't feel like a man – he was thirteen – fourteen this month, admittedly, but still…
"You, Orio, you must be more than he is, do not follow him in his ways. Be a good person, a good man. Never run, from your duty, never turn back on your family. Hold yourself proud, yes?"
He nodded again.
"One day, you will find a beautiful girl, and you must remember this – remember what he has done, and be better. Not…not follow his footprints. Love her, in marriage, is commitment, not to be…" the old man waved his hand. "Is serious. Not something to play in. But even then, never turn away from your Mamma, your brother and sister – they will always be needing you."
Greg swallowed, reaching for his drink and swallowing some down.
"And with us, never think because of him you must stay apart from us. We are family too. Be a better man than your Father, Orio. We know you are. No disappoint us."
"I won't," he said, voice small.
When they returned to England, after two weeks in the scorching Italian summer his Mum met them off the bus. She held them both tightly, hugging them to her.
That night, when she came back downstairs from putting Danny to bed she sat down heavily in the sitting room, a drink in her hand.
"Did you have a nice time?" she asked.
"It was fun – and really sunny," Nicky smiled.
Greg just nodded. He felt as if he'd gone on holiday a carefree child, and come back a man, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Greggy?"
"Yeah," he agreed. "Everyone was very nice to us."
Later he helped his Mum up the stairs as she staggered slightly.
He wouldn't disappoint them, ever.
***