Set after "The Blind Banker". Some warnings for violence, non-explicit.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked through the closed door.

"Yes," came the emphatic, exceptionally irritated-sounding voice through the dark wood. Sherlock had locked himself in his room, and hadn't actually emerged in nearly 36 hours. While Sherlock being private was not overly surprising, he was usually 'private' while meandering around the flat with his violin. Being cooped up solely in his room was a completely unprecedented turn of events.

"Sherlock, will you please come out?" John asked eventually. "You've not eaten or drunk anything, you've not even come out for a piss which makes me worry about the state of your room. Your phone is out here, and has been ringing, which means there's probably a new case…"

"I'm not coming out," Sherlock yelled at him, every inch the petulant child.

"You come out, or I'm coming in," John informed him. There was absolute silence from the room within. John sighed; he had had a horrible, sinking feeling about what was happening within the confines of Baker Street, and it didn't make him happy to consider it might be true. John paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "Sherlock… Sherlock, are you using again?"

"No, why would you think that?" returned the muffled voice. Perhaps it was only John's imagination, but he sounded guilty. John had tried so hard to keep Sherlock away from the drugs, but Sherlock had never been good at battling addiction; addiction to danger, to stimulation, to excess, to illicit substances.

"You've locked yourself in your room for nearly two days. You're hiding something. I'm trying to work out what," John called to him. "Sherlock, if it's the drugs…"

"It's not the bloody cocaine!" the voice loudly exclaimed, sounding intensely indignant. "I'm clean, you know I am."

"Then why won't you come out?" John parried, leaning against the doorframe. He was mere inches away from breaking into Sherlock's room, and damn the consequences. The silence stretched out. John sighed again. "Sherlock…?"

"It's not drugs," Sherlock repeated, slowly, as though John was mentally challenged.

"Then-"

"You'll be angry with me," Sherlock told him, not sounding particularly apologetic. It was more like an acceptance of something he knew to be a fact.

"I promise I won't be?" John replied, a little uncertainly – he hadn't needed to tell anybody he 'wouldn't be cross' since dealing with a young kid in the surgery. The child in question had got a pencil lead stuck in his ear and hadn't wanted to explain how, absolutely adamant that either John or his mum would get cross. It made John realise precisely how childish Sherlock Holmes truly was, comparing the two events.

There was movement in the room. John found that incredibly encouraging, given that he had heard almost nothing from Sherlock's room other than his disembodied voice for the last hour of negotiations. He stepped away from the door as he heard Sherlock worrying at the lock, and pulling it open.

John took one look at Sherlock, and rolled his eyes. "You idiot," he said bluntly. "You got the shit kicked out of you, then locked yourself in your room for two days."

"Told you you'd be cross," Sherlock said petulantly, his head hanging slightly, lank hair falling across the mottled purple of a black eye.

"I'm not cross, I just think you're an idiot," John contradicted, sighing heavily for the third time in a matter of minutes. "What the hell happened?"

"I got the shit kicked out of me, as you so eloquently termed it," Sherlock deadpanned, stepping properly out of his room, blinking slightly in the light of the flat.

"How…? No, sorry, stupid question. Who by?" John amended, attempting to question Sherlock in a way that wouldn't be evaded, or met with frank sarcasm.

Sherlock's face was frozen. John watched him carefully, could see that he was not a long way from cracking. "Seb," he said briskly, impersonally. John's eyes quickly raked over his posture, the way he positioned his weight on his left leg, bent very slightly forward with a hand over his abdomen, his other hand held awkwardly, face badly bruised. Sherlock Holmes had been attacked. John was not going to let this rest.

"Seb?" John asked, mildly confused.

"Seb. Sebastian. Sebastian Wilkes, the man from the bank, my old Oxford acquaintance," Sherlock repeated, his infinitesimal irritation ringing through the words. "He was angry with my handling of the case, he got some other old acquaintances to pay me a visit."

"Sorry, I don't understand," John said slowly. Sherlock's intense blue eyes snapped onto him, blazing with anger that wasn't intended for John.

"I brought to light some less savoury business deals of his, humiliated him at a business deal, that business dinner he was at, well, I humiliated him in general, really," Sherlock rattled off. "He never liked somebody being right when he was wrong, he dealt with it how he always did."

"Always did? Sherlock…"

"I knew it would happen," Sherlock continued, ignoring John. Please, Seb. From the moment Seb had been angry with him, he had known, with a sickening sense of inevitability, that Seb would have his little collection of friends that would pay Sherlock a visit.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock had turned around, and in that moment, regretted doing so; the fist had come out of nowhere, cracking straight into his cheekbone. Thankfully his bone was quite resilient, so while it had sent him flying backwards, he already knew he wouldn't need to deal with a broken cheekbone. Not at that stage.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Sherlock had said, staggering slightly. They hadn't been far from Baker Street, he had figured it had to be risky for them to attempt a beating in broad daylight, relatively near main roads.

"We've been asked to teach you manners," one of the men had announced; Sherlock had been a little preoccupied with the throbbing from his face to know exactly what was going on, or who had spoken.

"Yes, beating people who upset you is really demonstrating good manners," Sherlock had quipped. "May I ask who I've rankled this time? No, wait. Your clothing and demeanour, wealthy but not overwhelmingly so, under the employ of somebody well off. Cheque visible in left hand pocket bearing an obvious insignia… and I am already aware that Sebastian was unhappy with me. Which makes all of this rather obvious. How dull."

He hadn't been too surprised at the punch that came remarkably close to breaking a rib, might even have cracked it. The next had knocked all air out of his lungs, the one after that sent him to the floor, he had landed on his wrist; pain had lanced up through it, electric and impossibly painful. Sprained, he had guessed at the time. Which had proven entirely correct.

When they were done, he had turned over, coughing a small amount of blood, probably leaking from his nose and down the back of his throat. Ergh. He always hated the next part, crawling home and hoping nobody saw him.

John, thankfully, hadn't been in. Sherlock had grabbed medical supplies and a two-litre bottle of water from the kitchen, entered his room, locked the door, and deigned not to emerge for two days.

"Sherlock, are you attempting to tell me that…"

"John, were ever beaten up as a child or adolescent?" Sherlock asked bluntly. John was forced to admit that actually, he hadn't. He had always existed at the fringes of various school groupings, not well liked, but not ostracised either. "I didn't really think so."

"You were bullied?" John asked directly, wondering what Sherlock would do when faced with actual questions concerning his past; he never answered these things directly, always skirted around subjects concerning his chequered past. John didn't tend to intrude, but decided to make an exception just for once.

Sherlock brushed past him, hobbling slightly as he made his way towards the living room, sweeping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water which he downed in one, long, almost elegant movement. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. I was bullied. Quite severely, I might add, mostly systematically, over a long period of time." Sherlock said it without a trace of self-pity, anger, upset. He had the tone he tended to adopt when he had grown bored of situation; evidently, being victimised was not interesting enough for Sherlock Holmes.

"And Sebastian?"

"Seb was… he was a friend, I suppose," Sherlock explained slowly, edgily. "I helped him, he helped me. We had a mutual understanding."

"A friend? I thought he had you beaten up, or am I missing something?" John asked, a sharp tone to his voice that Sherlock couldn't quite interpret. Sherlock looked up from long eyelashes, surveying John with slight confusion.

"Yes?" he said, his tone quizzical. "I told you, we had an understanding. I assisted him in certain endeavours, and he ensured I avoided some of the less savoury characters I could have encountered. I indisputably avoided several beatings due to Sebastian's influence."

"Friends don't get each other beaten up," John explained slowly, that damned patronising tone back in his voice. "He took advantage of you. He used you."

Sherlock needed a moment to actually digest that sentence; it seemed to not impact fully, didn't feel quite real. At the same time, it was a confirmation of something he had known for a very long time, not something he wanted to believe, but something he had to face; he didn't know how to work with other people.

He had honestly, genuinely believed Sebastian to be a friend – a part of him had known, had accepted, that he was being taken advantage of. He ignored that voice studiously, told himself to be grateful to the first person in his life who had offered protection from the rest of the world that seemed to intensely dislike or mistrust him.

Sherlock Holmes was nineteen years old. He was tall, imposing, dark-haired, acerbic, unbelievably intelligent, and universally hated. He was aware of all of the above.

He had spent most of secondary school having the shit kicked out of him by people who were threatened, insulted, irritated, or simply needed to find an outlet for their anger. He didn't expect for a second that university would be any better.

He met Sebastian within a couple of weeks. He crossed the quad with a pile of books in his arms, floor-length coat billowing behind him, a completely unbroken presence as he strode towards his next lecture. He was aware of a handful of eyes following him, but he was a master at ignoring such looks. They weren't worth his concentration.

He ducked down side roads, popping up just outside one of the residential halls of Christ Church, where he had been aiming for. It was a quiet area for the most part; a voice coming from a bench behind him made him jump, almost enough to spill the folders and books he was carrying.

"Sherlock, isn't it?"

Sherlock twisted around to focus on the young man leaning against the stone outline of a door; he recognised the man opposite, but had no idea of his name. Nineteen. Well-groomed. Straight, with long-term girlfriend. Right-handed. Arts student. Wait. History, in fact. Friendship group remains among the upper class cliques. A rower and sportsman, will doubtless have associates similarly sporting minded. Has been waiting for me, specifically me. Wants to ask me something.

On the brighter side, there didn't seem to be any sign of a group; Sherlock was more than able to defend himself against one, maybe two assailants. He was nevertheless still wary as he approached the man who had called his name. "You're late for class. Whatever you want from me, it must be important," he said carefully, eyes darting, half-expecting a large group to appear from out of the woodwork.

"Is it real, your party trick?" the man asked smoothly, mocking him without malice. Nevertheless, Sherlock was socially aware enough to know when he was being mocked, and he disliked it immensely

"You know things about people," the man said, evidently unconcerned by Sherlock's hostility. "You see things nobody else does."

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply. "And?"

The man took a few steps forward, reaching out, tracing the shadow of a bruise by Sherlock's temple with feather-light touches. "It is a useful skill."

"I'm aware," Sherlock said, jerking away slightly. "You have a proposition, so get on with it. I am also running late."

"Yes, because you had to divert through side streets to avoid the growing number of people who dislike you," laughed this strange, grammar-school educated boy. "I can help with that. We could be friends."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock replied, his voice even and flat. It was something well-established in his life. Friends were unnecessary, a drain on resources, and more often than not were a disappointment as far as Sherlock's limited experience went.

"You have enemies though," the young man pointed out, and Sherlock was forced to concede that he was entirely right. "You've had the shit kicked out of you more than once – I could stop it happening, before they really do a number on you."

"Nice phrasing. Eton?"

The young man smiled indulgently. "You looked that up. You already know who I am, don't you?"

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock replied, honestly. He had only guessed Eton given the quirk of speech, which to Sherlock's knowledge had been a turn of phrase used at the prestigious school. Beyond the other information he had already gleaned, he had nothing else, and certainly no name.

"Sebastian Wilkes. Friends call me Seb," he said finally; Sherlock's mind instantly started flicking through names and faces, attaching the name to the face and gathering any other information. Relatively little, as it happened, Wilkes had never really entered beneath Sherlock's radar.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied, with only the vaguest hint of reluctance. "So you're offering me protection, essentially. In exchange for…?"

"Your expertise," Sebastian said with a smile. "Maybe assistance on research projects, things like that. I'd like us to be friends, Sherlock, whether you usually have them or not."

"I need to think," Sherlock replied carefully, picking his words with intentional caution. Sebastian - or Seb, Sherlock supposed – smiled that strange smile again, and nodded.

"Of course. I'll catch you later, Sherlock," Sebastian completed. With easy grace, he twisted around into the darkness of the doorframe and vanished from sight, most enigmatically. Sherlock considered feeling rather irritated. It was usually his place to be enigmatic.

"He protected me," Sherlock reiterated defensively.

"He used you," John retorted, a little louder, more emphatically. Sherlock looked slightly pale, hesitant, almost a little nauseous at the thought. "Sherlock, what would you think if I got someone to beat you up?"

Sherlock went, if it was possible, even paler. "I don't know," he spluttered eventually, close to tears. The idea of John doing that to him, the idea of John hurting him, was so repulsive – but if it was the only way of keeping John in his life, keeping John his friend, he would allow it to happen. He knew that with a horrible sense of certainty.

"Sherlock," John said, pinching the bridge of his nose, breathing hard. He was struggling to keep himself calm. "I would never…" The comparison hit him very suddenly, very unexpectedly, but was thankfully a comparison Sherlock stood a chance of comprehending. "Ok. If somebody was in a relationship with somebody else, and they claim to care about each other, is it acceptable for one to physically or mentally torment the other?"

Sherlock looked momentarily sideswiped. "No. That would be a basic care of domestic abuse," he said carefully, watching John's expression as he continued to breathe hard.

"Ok. You and I are in a relationship. Not… don't look at me like that. I mean a platonic relationship. It would therefore be unacceptable for me to physically or mentally torment you. Correct?"

Sherlock was trembling very slightly. John had never seen him look so… upset. It wasn't an expression that seemed to fit him somehow, like it was breaking some mould that his face usually settled into, cracking Sherlock open.

"Okay. Do you understand?" John tried, keeping his eyes linked with Sherlock's. "It's abuse. Nothing more or less. You don't deserve it, it shouldn't be happening, and I'm not going to let it happen again. I am going to get Sebastian Wilkes back for what he's done for you."

"No, you're not," Sherlock said instantly. "Leave him to it. It won't happen again, I can assure you. This ends now. I don't want you going after him for this though, I made a mistake."

"You did what?" John said, mockingly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"A mistake, alright, I made a mistake," Sherlock repeated primly, eyebrow still raised, daring John to mock him further. John just smirked, giggled a little, and let the subject blissfully drop.

They sat in companionable silence for a long moment. John was the one to break it, which was hardly surprising; John was never somebody who liked silences, or was good at them. Sherlock could sit in silences for years, whiling away time in his mind palace; John got bored, or awkward, or found something burningly urgent to say.

"Sherlock... you know I'd never… I wouldn't ever hurt you. Not on purpose. I just… thought you should know."

Sherlock was silent. John wondered if he'd even heard. He didn't seem to be making any move towards a response, but there was no way Sherlock couldn't have heard. He had no response. John didn't press him.

John got out his laptop. Sherlock continued to stare into the middle distance, pensive, considering things John could barely imagine. The sun was setting when John finally got his reply. A soft, very gentle reply, almost inaudible, a sound he attempted to swallow.

"Thank you."

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