2016 is a long time away. So the question is, how to survive the hiatus? The solution is simple… writing fanfiction of course! This is a high school AU Johnlock fanfic, written mainly to help me keep my sanity. I'm planning on making it quite long so if your keen then buckle up for a long story! Fair warning though, this is rated M for a reason, so violence, M/M sex, and swearing are all ensured. I also promise flufflyness and cute smut, so don't worry it's not all dark and gloomy! I know high school fanfics aren't uncommon but I am trying to make this fanfic as original as possible. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think. :) xx

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Mark's fist collided once again with Sherlock's cheek, sending a spluttering of blood from his mouth. Sherlock staggered backwards; his head hung between his knees. His hands gripped his kneecaps in an attempt to keep his balance. He blinked his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning and to settle his stomach that was now churning from the bitter taste of his own blood.

"Explain yourself, freak," Mark yelled, grabbing Sherlock by the collar of his shirt.

Sherlock's head lolled back at the abrupt upwards movement and he found himself looking into a pair of brown eyes burning with pure hatred. He couldn't speak through the blood gathering in his mouth. If Mark wanted answers he was going to have to stop hitting him. However, gathering by the look on Mark's face he couldn't quite decide which scenario he found more appealing.

The blood dripping down Sherlock's face from one of the punches he had directed towards Sherlock's nose was irrationally pissing Mark off and he wanted to punch the sly git in the face again. He didn't know why the blood aggravated him; he was the one who had put it there. But there was something about the still somehow smug look Sherlock was giving him that he couldn't stand.

Sherlock tried to keep a straight face as the boy glared him down. He knew showing any signs of amusement would only led to further violence, which Mark looked only too willing to provide. It was pathetic. Sherlock looked Mark over and noticed his frame was remarkably larger than it had been before summer break; he would probably weigh in at around two hundred and fifty pounds now. He was easily double the size of Sherlock and was flagged by two other boys who nearly matched him in stature. He couldn't understand the appeal they found in beating someone who didn't even stand a chance of winning; he would have thought they would have liked some sort of challenge. But the events of the past two years had proved him wrong on that case.

"We won't ask you again, cunt. How the hell did you know about Mark and his new bird?" Carl spat, dragging his bulging form forward to stand beside Mark.

Sherlock crinkled his nose as an overpowering wave of foul body odor hit him. Carl's red beefy face was too close for comfort and his pinprick eyes were narrowed with unrestrained rage.

"Have you been spying on me you fucking perv?" Mark bellowed, shaking Sherlock by the collar of his shirt that was still gripped firmly in his oversized sweaty hands.

Sherlock shook his head softly, lowering his gaze. He should have just kept his mouth shut. He hadn't even thought anything of congratulating Mark on finally getting a girlfriend, until he took a blow to the face. He obviously wasn't supposed to know that, but it had been so obvious he might as well have had a sign.

"Of course not. Why would I waste my time looking into your life?" Sherlock replied bluntly, making no attempt to free himself from Mark's hold on him.

Mark looked like he was going to punch him again and he couldn't stop his shoulders hunching in a desperate attempt to create as much distance between his face and Mark's.

"Well how did you know then?" Sam demanded, crossing his arms as he fell into rank on the other side of Mark.

Sam wasn't as bulky as the other two but Sherlock knew from experience that what he lacked in size he more than made up for in ruthless precision. He didn't fumble with his punches; they were direct, hitting exactly where he knew would cause his victim the most pain. Sherlock had to admit he respected him more than the other two, at least he had a brain.

Mark continued to look pointedly at him, clearly having decided that he wanted answers more than he wanted to beat Sherlock to a pulp at that exact moment.

Sherlock smiled. They were so stupid. "It's painfully obvious. It's written all over you. Your hair, it's been cut, brushed, styled; an effort you wouldn't make for school. You're wearing cologne, far too much by the way, mixed with Dior. Can't be yours. Could be your mothers, but no, there is a hint of lip-gloss on your lips. Too young to be your mothers and you would have wiped that off anyway. Must be a girlfriend, sentimental way of holding onto the last kiss. And of course that's not to mention the faint bruise on your neck-"

"Alright, we get the point," Mark snapped, his mouth forming into a tight line as he scowled at Sherlock.

He was clearly pissed that Sherlock had not only guessed correctly but also had fluently explained himself yet again. He couldn't understand how Sherlock picked up on things like that.

"You sick fag. You should have gotten the hint by now that no one gives a fuck what you have to say," Carl growled, almost knocking Mark over in his attempt to grab hold of Sherlock's neck.

"Why do you even keep showing your ugly face around here, huh?" Mark muttered, pushing Carl away from him as he tightened his grip on Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock couldn't help a small smile forming on his face. He knew they were going to beat him; if they were one thing, it was predictable. He might as well enjoy this moment of having the upper hand. He had out smarted them, which wasn't exactly a hard feat but it still made facing the coming beating slightly more tolerable.

Mark took a sudden step forward, pushing Sherlock ahead of him until his back hit the nearest wall. Sherlock felt a jolt of pain go through his body as his spine collided with the hard wall of the senior boys dormitory corridor. He knew what was coming; a verbal display of cussing at its finest and a beating until he was near senseless.

"Why don't you get your mother to complain? Huh? Don't you cry at home about how terrible all the boys are at Prampton? Surely at least she cares about you… or then again perhaps not," Sam sneered, chuckling at his own witty comment.

Sherlock didn't say anything; it didn't deserve an answer. He couldn't fight back, it was pointless, but be could at least try to maintain his dignity. They knew they weren't going to get any sort of reaction out of him and that seemed to aggravate them even more. He couldn't do anything but willingly fall to the ground when a swift kick was directed to his shaking legs. He curled in on himself when another blow hit him square in the chest. By now he knew well who inflicted every hit; each had their own style of attack. Mark relied on brute force while Sam was more sadistic in where he aimed his assaults. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to separate from his body and create a barrier from the pain. He could hardly hear the repetitive steam of insults from the gang of dimwits. He tried to block out the pain but as hard as he tried he couldn't stop it from taking over his consciousness. He could no longer hear anything but the dull pounding against his own flesh. Their words had lost their meaning and his awareness was slipping. He tried to shut his body down, it wouldn't be long before they bored of this; they always did eventually.

It took him a moment to realize the pain had stopped and he carefully sat up, ignoring the agony the movement caused to tear through his body. He hesitatively looked up and saw that they were still there, looking down on him with a sick sort of pleasure. They were obviously admiring their handiwork so Sherlock tried to appear in as little pain as possible. He didn't want to give them any further enjoyment from the beating he had just taken.

"You know…" Carl sighed with a smile as he crouched down next to Sherlock. "There something exceptionally pathetic about you. You think your smart don't you? But your not, you're just a freak," he continued, titling his head to the side as he leered forward tauntingly at the beaten body in front of him.

Sherlock looked up at him through his dark hair that was strewn across his forehead, unable to keep the hardness out of his glare. He refused to allow himself to retaliate; he didn't need to prolong this. He was so far beyond caring what they said about him that they might as well have been directing their insults to the wall behind him.

Sherlock's ears pricked up at the sound of muffled talking behind the door of the main corridor entrance. Carl immediately gathered himself to his feet, a slightly panicked expression clouding his face for the briefest moment. Mark quickly gestured for the other two boys to follow him as he stomped down the hall towards the door Sherlock had been looking at a second before. Sam and Carl fell into place behind Mark, making a quick escape from the crime scene.

Sherlock let his head fall back down onto the hard carpet floor as he listened to the softening footsteps of his attackers as they left him alone in the cold corridor. He closed his eyes, too exhausted to move. His entire body ached to the point where giving up was becoming an increasingly inviting idea.

He had thought returning to school a day before term started would have helped him avoid another encounter with the resident gang of Prampton Elementary. But he had been wrong. It didn't change anything though; if they hadn't been here today it would have only been a matter of time before they had cornered him. He knew tomorrow was going to be even worse, the rest of the school would have arrived, and it appeared as though almost all of them wanted a piece of him for some reason or another.

He knew if he didn't move now he would fall asleep and after the hits he had taken to the head that wasn't the safest idea. Not to mention the potential further abuse he could experience if he was found asleep on the dormitory floor. Hauling himself to his feet, he winced at the pain the movement caused to the bruises he could feel forming on his chest. Regardless of how dimwitted the brutes were, they had still been careful to ensure most of the damage was inflicted upon areas that would be covered by his uniform. He was slightly grateful for it; at least it would draw less attention to him. He didn't think he could handle those familiar blue eyes watching him with concern. He shook his head softly, trying to stop himself from thinking about him. He needed to get himself cleaned up and the hell out of here, not cloud his mind with any further unnecessary pain.

He instead tried to rationalize Mark's actions, he knew physically why they had chosen to beat him in the way they had. Regardless of how little the teachers cared for Sherlock's welfare, him turning up beaten to a pulp on the first day of class wasn't going to go down overly well. But give it a few weeks and he knew they wouldn't even take a second look. It wasn't unknown to him the level of hatred and intolerance the other students and teachers held towards him. He couldn't however find any rational reasoning as to why his comment had triggered the attack; surely it wasn't offensive to him. Knowing Mark he would be bragging about it for the rest of the year, perhaps he had aggravated him by knowing before he'd had the chance to make his grand announcement. He honestly didn't care and pushed the train of thought from his mind.

He placed his hand against the wall to support himself as he limped towards the nearest bathroom of the senior dormitories. Groping along the wall his hand eventually made it from the brittle yellowing wallpaper and onto the metal handle of the bathroom door. Pushing it open he tumbled into the bathroom, almost falling over again as he lost the stability of the wall. He made his way over to the closest basin, gripping onto the sides of the bowl as he spat out the blood gathering in his mouth. Taking a shaky breath he looked up to see how much mutilation had been done to his face. He was a little surprised to see how much damage they had done to his visage. He had assumed they had a little more tact than that, or at least the brains to know they should have waited at least a week or two into the term before doing anything this sever. The school year didn't even officially start until tomorrow, and very few students chose to return to school early so if he were to attend diner tonight his face would stand out blaringly against the small number of students. If Mark was counting on him not joining the other students for dinner tonight then he would be correct in his assumptions, he didn't need to give anyone further reason to abuse him. His mere presence seemed to be enough to set them off these days. This was his third and final year in this hellhole of a school and it was looking as though it was going to play out exactly the same as his previous years had. He would be out of here in less than a year and yet he wasn't in the slightest bit eager for it to end. He knew all to well that once this year was over he would never see him again. He looked away from the mirror; this bruised bloody version of his face was all too familiar to him now and he didn't need any further reminding of how pathetic he was.

He turned around and sank down against the cold tile wall between two of the basins, pulling his knees to his chest. His heart sank. He knew it irrational and beyond illogical, but he couldn't help wishing he had more time left at this goddamn school. But perhaps it was for the best; he was only torturing himself by staying here. It wasn't the pain that bothered him, and he was long past letting anything anyone said bother him. It was John Watson that he couldn't stand. He closed his eyes at the thought of him; he didn't need to think about him now, not in the state he was in. And yet he knew nothing else would make him feel any better. Closing his eyes he rested his head back against the wall, letting his mind wander where it wanted to. He was soon flooded by a memory he had long since stored away in his mind to be played over and over to the point where it almost maddened him. It was a moment he knew he would never forget, a moment John Watson probably didn't even remember. It had taken place over two years ago now, in his first year at Prampton, and it wasn't even an overly significant event. He had just taken a beating from Billy Reyes, a senior at the time, and was in the bathroom, trying stop his nose from bleeding. He could remember clearly the look on John's face when he walked in, a mixture of pity and anger. He had walked towards him, as though he were approaching a wounded animal, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He could almost feel his hand now, strong and yet somehow gentle, as he had shown him a trick for stopping his nose from bleeding. He had apologized to him on behalf of the other boys, and said he was there for him if he needed anything. Still to this day he couldn't understand why his pride had stopped him from taking John up on his offer. He knew it was the smart decision, he couldn't trust himself around John. He didn't know if his body would betray him, if he would blow his cover and push John into hating him like the rest of the school did. He hated his heart for loving John; he didn't need this. But he did, he knew he did. The thought of John was enough to keep his darker thoughts at bay; once John's small presence in his life was gone he didn't know what would be able to stop him from falling back into his old habits.

Forcing his eyes open he looked down at his white shirt, which was now stained with splattering's of his own blood. He lifted his hand to his nose and pulled it away, his fingers dripping with blood. He almost couldn't bring himself to care, but the thought of hibernating in his room for a few hours of privacy before his room was filled with three other boys was tempting enough to make him force himself up onto his feet. Using the two basins to pull himself up he stood for a few moments, waiting until his legs felt stable enough to walk. Deciding that he was beyond worrying whether he was going to fall over or not, there wasn't much more damage it could do, he walked over to the paper towel dispenser. Pulling off a wad of rough paper he held it up to his nose, wincing slightly at the discomfort it caused. He knew the split in his bottom lip was still bleeding but the paper pressed to his nose should be enough to cover his lip as well. Grabbing another handful of paper towels for later he wandered over to the door, pushing it open slowly with the hand not pressed to his face. He stuck his head out, taking a cautious look around the hall for anyone who might still be lurking around.

Seeing that it was clear he stepped out into the corridor, making his way quickly down the hall and back into his room. Pulling the door of room twenty-one shut tightly behind him he staggered across the room and collapsed down onto the bed at the far end of the room. Kicking off his shoes and wrangling his way out of his blood soaked shirt he wriggled under the covers, pulling them up to his chin while still keeping the blood flow from his nose under control. Lying down in bed he looked up at the ceiling before closing his eyes. It would only be around four in the afternoon but he no longer had any energy left to face the rest of the day, and he would need to be well rested to face tomorrow. He couldn't help but wonder what John was doing right now, probably packing his things for the trip tomorrow. He had worked out enough about John over the years he had been in contact with him, he had lost a parent not long before his first year at Prampton and judging by the fact that he never once mentioned his mother he could only assume it must be her. He knew John wanted to study medicine, and if given the chance could make a fine doctor. He hoped someone would be willing to support him, he certainly would. John would never be able to afford medical school. Everyone knew John was only able to get into Prampton as a favour to his father from Principal Magnusson who was an old friend of his. He knew it was none of his business but thinking about John's future helped him to forget about how bleak his own was looking. He really should have gotten some painkillers for his head but he was too exhausted to move, instead he let his mind wander to bittersweet daydreams of John. He began to imagining a very different life for himself, one that he could spend with John.

. . . .

"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me." Anderson groaned, kicking the nearest thing to him, which happened to be his own suitcase. He looked over once again at the curled up figure he, regrettably, would recognize anywhere. This had to some kind of sick joke; he couldn't believe this was happening to him. He frantically rummaged in his coat pocket for his timetable, pulling out the already tattered piece of paper. His eyes scanned the sheet once again for his room number and the neat black print still stated 'senior boys dormitory, second level, room twenty-one.' He shoved the infuriating piece of paper back into his pocket; it had confirmed his worst nightmare. He was going to have spend the entire year sharing a room with the insufferable Sherlock Holmes.

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Hehe…Anderson ;) Next chapter will pick up from John's POV. I know this chapter is quiet short; I just wanted to see if there was any interest for this type of story before writing too much. Also if anyone would be willing to beta this story I would be immensely grateful! Many thanks for reading, and reviews mean the world to me. :)