John Watson's rusted Renault Clio spluttered through the gates of the prestigious Baker Street Academy. The campus was well kept and the school buildings were old but grand; John expected to see Latin phrases and mottos peppered around the campus, but saw no such thing.

He parked the car and slammed the door closed. He checked his reflection in the side mirrors. His shirt didn't look that bad with his blazer; shirts and blazers weren't compulsory, but made him feel like he fit in slightly better. He walked away from the car without locking it; he thought anyone stupid enough to steal it deserved what they got.

All of a sudden, a motorcycle engine roared. The machine blared past him in a split second; the motorcyclist in black skinny jeans and dark denim jacket. 'Leather would be much safer…' he couldn't help thinking. He peered around the corner to find the cyclist performing tricks to a growing audience; Skids, wheelies, and the like. Before his brain could register the following events, he stared slack-jawed as the motorcycle rested on its front wheel and the cyclist turned the engine off. This cyclist then clutched the back of the cycle and pulled themselves into a perfect handstand. To John's horror, the motorcycle tilted and righted itself, though this seemed intentional, the cyclist still in the perfectly straight handstand; the wheel came back to the ground with a thud. The crowd cheered in amazement of this cyclist's skill; John was not so amazed, though. "Idiot," he mumbled under his breath.

The cyclist removed his helmet and shook out his curly locks of brunette hair, showing off to his admiring public. He seemed to have a glow about him becoming of an angel. His fame was so thin; John didn't even know it was possible to have a waist that small.

John opened the boot of his abomination of a car; he removed the scruffy suitcase and looked back at the cyclist to find him being swamped by a crowd of girls dressed in black with piercings and studs; John always called them rocker girls, but he doubted they called themselves as such, though; he had heard the phrase 'rock chicks' thrown about, but would feel stupid saying or even thinking it. Then, he saw the cyclist put his hand up to the girls (like how the policemen in the cartoons he watched when he was younger signalled a car to stop). He strode up to a boy in the crowd who threw one arm around the cyclist's waist, almost possessively. They walked off together. Very nice arse… he noted.

John thought it was best to get to his dorm room now. He ran one hand through his short blonde hair as he did so. He wondered who the mysterious cyclist was.

…

Sherlock sped through the entrance to the university on his Triumph Rocket III motorbike. It was a shining black and very slick; easy to do tricks on. Sherlock knew that denim was not the best in the way of protection against road-rash if he were to fall off, but he was not going to wear the skin of some poor, defenceless animal just to avoid a bit of skin irritation; he thought the leather industry was grotesque.

Sherlock received a lot of attention for his motorbike and his tricks. He sped up, skidding, performing wheelies and every other trick he knew. He still felt the adrenaline when he would stop the engine and perform a perfectly straight handstand as the machine crashed to the ground.

Sherlock summersaulted of the motorbike to a round of applause. He removed his helmet and shook his head from side to side to fix his hair after it had been compressed by the black helmet. His florescent green nose-stud glowed in the sun.

A crowd of girls ran to Sherlock, the most prominent two being Irene Adler and Molly Hooper, who insisted on being called Elspeth because that was a 'better name'.

"Hi Sherlock…" Irene breathed.

Sherlock almost felt like talking to her before seeing his boyfriend in the crowd. He held up a dismissive hand and strode over to his boyfriend.

"Jim Moriarty…" he smiled.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Jim grinned, "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock smiled a wicked smile, "You have no idea!" As he said this he pulled Jim closer to his body.

"Good things come to those who wait, Sherlock," Jim said seductively.

"Oh, I'm so bad; you must punish me, Mr Moriarty," Sherlock sighed, innuendo in his voice.

"I intend to!" A slightly unnerving glint in his eye as he snaked his arm around the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock's breathed hitched. Despite his confident words and looks he gave his boyfriend; he was, in truth, a little scared of him sometimes. He had taken a lot of abuse last year from Jim's love of whips, strangulation and the like; Jim was a definite Sadist, "What's wrong, Sherlock?" Jim pulled a much exaggerated sad face, almost mocking.

"Nothing, Jim," he smiled.

"What was that?!" Jim snapped.

"Nothing, Mr Moriarty, sir!" Sherlock coward a little; dreading the blow that usually accompanied this.

"Good boy, Sherlock. You forgot over the summer, didn't you?" patronising, mocking, pity in his voice.

"Yes, Mr Moriarty." Sherlock didn't even resist the mocking or put up a fight. Between the school year with Jim and the summer with his father, he was weak and broken.

"All my training gone… We can't have that, can we?" Jim was acting extremely sinister.

"No, Mr Moriarty." Sherlock was wide eyed, terrified.

They had walked away from the crowd, no one was around; but Jim checked behind him to make sure. He quickly, firmly, dominantly back-handed Sherlock, making all six feet of the eighteen year old crash to the floor.

"What do you call me?!" he shouted, leaning over Sherlock making him feel crowded.

"Mr Moriarty." He whimpered.

"Good boy. Do you tell anyone about what Mr Moriarty does to you?"

"No."

"What would happen if you told?"

"The flirting is over and the real pain begins."

"If people see the marks, what do you say?"

"I'm a clumsy slut." Sherlock sobbed.

"Come on, Sherlock. You don't cry, remember. Or I hurt you even more." Jim growled.

"Can I go, Mr Moriarty. My brother's probably waiting in my room with my stuff." Sherlock coward.

"Ah, Mycroft. Sure. I'd hate to make him wait for his little brother. Off you pop. We're performing 'Slut Like You' tonight at the club. Be there by eight. You can sing a song if you want. You love to sing."

"Yes, Mr Moriarty. I'll be there." Sherlock almost ran away, but gained composure and walked away.

"Oh, Sherlock. Kiss!"

Sherlock intended to just give Jim a short, chastise kiss on his lips but it turned rough with slight strangulation.

"Thank you, Mr Moriarty. I deserve my punishments." Sherlock knew he didn't deserve this, but who else would love him.

"Off you pop, Sherlock. And don't be late; there are some very steep stone steps in the club and we know how clumsy you get when you're late."

Sherlock picked up on the threat. "Goodbye, Mr Moriarty."

"I feel I need an apology, Sherlock." He called.

"Sorry I'm such a stupid little slut, Mr Moriarty."

"Thank you, good boy."

Sherlock walked to his dorm room; his mind swimming with Jim's threats. He was dreading Jim's reaction to his roommate; the on last year mysteriously broke his back and became paralysed.

He hoped his brother was there; their sparring always seemed to make him feel better after his talks with Mr Moriarty. He was dreading this year.