"Tell him you're sorry."

John Watson's voice was quiet, but his tone indicated that he would not hesitate to break the boy's arm if he did not apologize.

"I'm… I'm sorry," the boy, Sebastian, whimpered. He was much bigger than John, but he simply could not fight the other boy even if he tried. His friends just stood watching them, scarcely daring to breathe. They were afraid of John too.

"I can't hear you." He twisted Sebastian's arm until he cried out in pain.

"I'm sorry! I said I'm sorry! Please!"

John let go of him with a shove. Sebastian stumbled forward, his face almost hitting the cement. He ran inside the school, his friends following closely behind.

John turned his attention to his bespectacled classmate, who minutes ago had been tormented by Sebastian and his friends. He was still sitting on the ground where he landed when John's fist made its acquaintance with Sebastian's face, forcing him to let go of the poor boy.

He knelt in front of him. "You okay?"

"Fine," he said, without sparing a single glance at John. He stood and brushed at his clothes. John watched as he picked up his books and started to make his way to the school library.

"Sherlock."

The boy stopped in his tracks and glanced at John.

"Don't listen to them. What they're saying…it's not true."

"I never listen to idiots," he said and walked away.

Every day, Sherlock went to his favourite spot in the library. It was near the occult section, and while the occult did not particularly interest him, hardly anyone goes to that particular corner, so he had the table all to himself. Not that anyone would want to share a table with a freak like me, he thought somewhat bitterly. He wanted to be left alone anyway.

He liked being there. He could think about things without anyone intruding. Well, anyone except Molly Hooper. She seemed to follow him everywhere, approaching him when he didn't want company, telling him things he did not care about, but she was the only one who actually talked to him. Plus, she was the president of the science club, and she let him use the science room for his experiments, legal or otherwise. She was nice, so he let her do what she wanted.

Sherlock noticed her approach him and sighed in resignation. No point in trying to shake her off. He opened a book and pretended to be busy.

"Hi Sherlock!" she said, smiling. She was always smiling, practically radiating with happiness that Sherlock sometimes couldn't bear to look at her.

"Molly," Sherlock said, his eyes not even leaving the book. His usual greeting. Other people would have taken the hint and gone away, but not Molly.

"So…Any plans tonight?"

"Yes. Studying." Everyone in the school knew he didn't have to. He had a photographic memory and could recite a whole lesson in the book if he wanted to. Not that he ever wanted to. All that useless information clogging up his brain? Not a chance.

"Do you want to study with me?"

He finally glanced up at her. "I don't need to study with anyone."

"Ah. Yes. I—I know," she faltered, smiling nervously. "Photographic memory and all that, but I was just wondering…Maybe you'd feel lonely studying by yourself, so maybe I could join you and keep you company. You know, have coffee or something. Talk about things."

"I'm fine."

There was disappointment in her eyes, but what was she expecting? "Oh. Okay. I'll see you around then." She got up and left.

Peace and quiet. Finally.

Sherlock walked home alone like he always did.

Come on, John Watson, it's just a girl. You can do it.

Easier said than done. When one had been rejected a lot of times before, one would learn to take things slow.

John wondered what was wrong with him. He was 16 years old, but he hadn't had a girlfriend. He wasn't tall, granted, but he wasn't bad-looking either. In fact, he was rather adorable, if he could say so himself. So why did girls dislike him?

"Hi, Anthea," John said as he approached a dark-haired girl whose only interests seemed to revolve around his mobile phone. She was, as usual, sitting in front of the classroom and texting.

The pretty girl looked up from her phone, a puzzled smile on her face. "Oh. Hi, um..."

"John." They've been classmates since grade school and she still didn't know his name. Not a good sign.

"Hi, John." She turned her attention back to her phone.

All...right. But John wasn't about to back down.

"So, um, I just wanted to ask you if you're free Saturday night?"

"Yeah," Anthea said without even looking up.

"Really?" A shred of hope bloomed in John's heart.

Realization dawned on the girl's face. "Oh. You're asking me out."

Okay, also not a good sign. John nodded.

"Sorry," Anthea said, smiling apologetically. "I can't make it. I, um, I'm busy."

"Huh." He couldn't take it anymore. He just had to ask. "That's not the real reason though, is it?"

Anthea put down her phone and faced John. "You're right. It's not."

"Why then?"

"I think you're a great guy, not so bad-looking either, but all the students you've been beating up-you even hit a teacher once, didn't you?-it's just... I don't want to-"

"Yes, all right. I get it," John said and walked away.

So that's why.

And she knew him after all.

"I'm home!"

John's eyes strayed to the beer bottles in the living room and he wondered if he could really call this house that. A home.

His parents died a couple of years ago, and he and his sister were left to look out for each other. Not that he minded, for he loved Harry deeply, but on the first anniversary of their parents' death, Harry came home drunk and has stayed that way ever since. At first, he tried to stop her, but as time went by, drunken sways and slurred speech became a part of her, and he just let it go.

He went to his bedroom and put his things down. He thought about being rejected by Anthea. A virgin at 16, he wondered if he was destined to a life of loneliness, with only his left hand to keep him company. Speaking of which...

No. This is not the time to pleasure himself. He needed to rise early tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow he'll find his soulmate. If not, his left hand would have to do.

"You've got some guts showing up in here, nerdboy."

Sherlock looked up at the three burly boys blocking his path and sighed in frustration. Sebastian again. He was in a hurry to get home and did not need this kind of inconvenience.

"Of course I'd show up in here. This is my way home. Are you really born an idiot?"

Bad move. Sebastian's face twitched and he knew what would come next. He braced himself for the impact of Sebastian's fist on his face. None came. In fact, Sebastian was now smiling. For some reason, that was even scarier.

"You think you're the brightest star in the universe, don't you? You think you're Mr. Perfect and everyone should just bow down at your feet. You think you have the right to insult everyone just because you're a bloody genius. Well, let's just see about that." Sebastian turned to his friend, Eddie, and nodded. Eddie handed him a small metallic object, which he put in his hand. Brass knuckles.

Not good. Sherlock knew what that thing was capable of. He didn't waste a second. He dropped the books he was carrying and ran as fast as he could. Sebastian and the others went after him.

Sherlock was a good runner, but the three boys were better. Soon, they caught up with him. Sebastian reached out and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair. Sherlock cried out in pain as he was yanked back.

"Not only are you an arrogant weirdo, you're also a coward," said Sebastian. He turned to his friends with a grin. "What shall we do with him?"

"Empty his brain of all that rubbish he likes to talk about," answered Eddie.

"Skin him alive," answered the other boy, Brian.

Sebastian and Eddie both looked at him incredulously. "Brian, please." Sebastian shook his head and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who had been trying to break free of Sebastian's grasp.

Damn, I should have agreed to Mycroft's offer of teaching me self-defense. Maybe next time. If I get out of here alive.

"Now, Sherlock. You're going to pay for siccing Watson on me."

"I did not-"

"Shut up! We're going to play, Sherlock, and you won't like it. But I would."

The first blow came and Sherlock fell to the ground, the pain making him tremble. And then another. And another. And another. Even through the agony, he started to calculate how long it would take for him to pass out. He wondered if the injuries they were inflicting on him would be permanent. He wondered if he would die. Another blow came and there was darkness at last.

What was that annoying sound?

John reached up and turned off his alarm clock, fighting the urge to hurl it across the room. He did not get a good night's sleep. His left hand was throbbing and it kept waking him. He cursed Sebastian and his hard skull.

He yawned and scratched his arse. Well, it's another morn-

"Hey!"

What was that? He sat up. No one was in his room except himself. "Who said that?"

"Me, you moron."

"Wha- Who?" He frantically looked around. No one was there. Really. Or was he going crazy? Maybe it was just a dream. Yes, a dream. He would go back to sleep and he'd wake up again, this time for real, and he'd laugh at himself for thinking that this could be anything but a dream. Yes, he'd do that.

"John, I'm down here. Look at your left hand."

His mind told him not to listen to that voice, but his curiosity made him look. He instantly regretted it.

"Next time, John, please refrain from using my face to scratch your arse. It's...uncomfortable."

John's eyes widened, he was sure his mouth was hanging open, but he did not bother closing it.

Holy shit. My hand is talking. Wait, no, it's not my hand that's talking. It's my...classmate. And he's in my fucking hand.

"John?"

John screamed.