The first blow hit Sherlock square in the mouth. He felt the sheer force of it before any actual pain, though plenty of that soon followed. He went flying back and crashed into hard, cold metal. A row of lockers, undoubtedly.

"Looks like the freak isn't so tough after all," said a menacing voice, followed by the sound of several people snickering. It echoed eerily in the empty hallway.

Sherlock braced himself against the lockers and cracked open a bleary eye. His vision pulsed along with his throbbing (split?) lip, but he could make out four figures surrounding him in a loose semi-circle. Something warm tickled his chin, and he glanced down. Blood—bright and cherry red—was dripping onto the starched collar of his blue shirt. Mummy would be furious.

"Must we dance this dance every week, Powers?" Sherlock drawled, sounding more confident than he felt. He was outnumbered, outgunned and likely out of luck. It seemed he'd antagonised the larger boy one time too many. Carl Powers had a murderous look on his face, and from the way he kept clenching and unclenching his fist, Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

"You never learn, do you, freak?" Carl lowered his voice to a threatening hiss. His expression was so dark, even his mates were darting nervous glances at him. They all wore the same red and white rugby kit—the colours were stark in contrast with the bland cinderblock walls—but Carl was clearly the leader. Week after week, he did the talking, and Sherlock used that term loosely, and the lion's share of the beating. Sherlock was practically on a first-name basis with how his knuckles felt as they dug into his ribs.

"Just get it over with," Sherlock said in a bored tone. "It's the same thing every time. You corner me after lecture and call me a freak, I make a disparaging remark about your intelligence, you call me a pouf or a fag or a bender, I point out your own shall we say 'alternative' sexual orientation—you're not fooling anyone, by the way—and then you and your minions slap me about. If you'd be so kind as to get on with it, I'm going to be late for sup—"

Carl's fist connected so hard with Sherlock's jaw, he heard something crunch from within his own skull. Sherlock buckled to the ground like a collapsing building. For several dark, sweet seconds, he was too stunned to feel anything. Then agony came rolling over him in waves.

"There's no talking your way out it this time, you fucking poofter," Carl said through gritted teeth. "You've gone too far. I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

"What was it this time?" Sherlock wheezed. "Was it the fact that I caught you staring at me or that I had the audacity to point it out?"

Carl grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up long enough to hiss, "You know damn well what you did, you bastard" before shoving him back down.

A dim voice floated to Sherlock through the haze of pain, like a fragment of a dream. It took him a few seconds to recognise it as his own voice from earlier that day: "You know, Carl, it's okay that your father left. He never loved you anyway."

Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if he'd done something to provoke this attack.

Before he could further examine Carl's motives, the boy slapped him so hard across the face, he felt his skin reverberate. Sherlock tried to cry out, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the air was knocked right out of his lungs by a well-timed kick. He threw himself onto his side and curled up into a protective ball, but there was no escaping the harshness or the frequency of the blows. His vision clouded over, and he tasted the iron tang of blood on his tongue.

He pitched up an arm to protect his face just as one of the boys moved to kick it. A large foot ploughed into sinew and skin; Sherlock heard a sickening crack. Pain lanced up his arm, and he howled. His brain cut to crackling white noise, but he had just enough sense left to realise the boy had broken his wrist. It would be his ribs next if they kept it up. Maybe his skull.

Sherlock tried to draw a breath but could only manage a rattling wheeze. He was on his way to a punctured lung for certain.

All right, he thought, gritting his teeth through the pain, you've had your fun, Carl. You've won. I'm on the ground, and you're above me. Gloat for a bit and then scurry away like always. I need to go to hospital.

Sherlock cried out again and again as the boys showed no signs of slowing their attack. No matter how much Sherlock screamed or squirmed away, they just kept kicking him.

Panic, cold and unrelenting, unfurled in his chest. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he waited for an end to the pain that never came.

They're not going to stop, he realised. That single, horrified thought felt strangely distant even as it echoed in his brain. They're going to kick me until I'm dead.

Sherlock lashed out like a caged beast and heard one of the boys shriek as his foot connected with something solid. He prayed he'd hit a vital organ.

"You'll pay for that, freak!" Carl shouted. His voice was all venom and sulphur. Sherlock opened one eye—his other was swollen shut by now—and saw Carl aiming a vicious kick at his jaw that would surely shatter bone, if not his teeth.

Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to mentally prepare himself, but the only thought in his head was, Please, God, let me live.

"Oi!" an unfamiliar voice shouted from down the hall.

Sherlock cracked open his eye again and saw that Carl had frozen in place, his foot still drawn back. All four bullies had turned their heads towards the voice.

Sherlock tried to identify the new figure, but his vision was swimming from a mixture of pain and trauma. He could see, however, that he was also wearing red and white.

Fuck, he thought viciously, another one come to join in.

To Sherlock's complete and utter shock, Carl lowered his foot.

"Watson," he said stiffly, "what are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing."

The figure drew closer, and Sherlock could identify more features: blond hair, short stature, wide, muscular shoulders. Watson, he thought, wracking his brain. He knew that name, but from where?

"It's none of your concern," Carl snarled. "Just keep walking."

"Oh, I disagree. I think it's very much my concern when I see four of my teammates beating a student half to death."

Ah, Sherlock thought as the final piece of information clicked in his brain. John Watson, then. Captain of the rugby team. Sherlock knew nothing more about the boy, which meant he wasn't a bully or a criminal, but that didn't necessarily mean he was here to help.

"I don't care if you are captain," Carl sneered. "There's four of us and one of you, so you'd best be on your way. Unless you want to join the freak here."

"Brilliant counting there, Powers," Watson said calmly, and Sherlock fought back a snort and then a subsequent wince of pain. Watson had moved close enough now that Sherlock could see him clearly. His golden hair was ruffled, and his cheeks were pink as if from exertion. He had a mesh bag full of rugby balls slung over his shoulder. He must have just come from the pitch. It would certainly explain the sun-kissed tinge to his skin.

"You're right, Powers," Watson said calmly. "I'm outnumbered, as is that student lying down on the ground there. I'm guessing you make a point of only fighting battles you know you can win."

Carl bristled, but Watson held up a hand, and miraculously, the bigger boy quieted. "There is one advantage I have that you don't, however."

"Oh?" Carl shifted his considerable bulk menacingly. "And what's that?"

"I've a sack full of rugby balls."

In a shockingly adroit movement, Watson pulled the bag round, yanked open the drawstring and hurled the contents at Carl and his friends. The boys immediately threw their arms over their heads as balls flew everywhere, bouncing against the floor, ceiling and lockers.

Sherlock, every bit as surprised as the bullies, was momentarily paralysed. Then a strong hand grasped his forearm and hauled him to his feet, bringing him within inches of the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

"Run!" Watson shouted, grabbing Sherlock and dragging him down the hall.

Sherlock couldn't say how he didn't collapse on the spot—he had broken bones and aching ribs, after all —but a mixture of adrenaline and relief sang in his veins, fuelling him. He matched Watson step for step as they flew down the corridor and burst through the swinging doors. The air outside was heavy with the threat of impending rain, and the cold stung Sherlock's nose with every laboured breath. Several grey buildings dotted the grounds like clusters of mushrooms.

"We need to hide," Watson said, slightly out of breath. Sherlock glanced and him and swallowed hard when he realised the other boy was practically glowing with adrenaline. The determination evident in his eyes and stance made Sherlock feel strangely better. The ache in his body was a distance throb as he studied the mystery beside him.

Watson turned his blue eyes on him full force, and Sherlock's mouth went dry. "What's your name?"

"Holmes," he stuttered. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I'm John." He turned his head as loud, angry cursing sounded behind them, muffled partially by the doors. It seemed Carl and crew had recovered from John's surprise attack. "Got your breath back?"

Sherlock nodded, and they took off again. He couldn't say where they were going, but John seemed to have a destination in mind as he weaved past trees and between buildings, completely ignoring the footpaths. Sherlock, who never went anywhere besides the library and the chemistry lab, was lost within minutes.

"In here," John shouted as he ran up to a building and flung open the doors. He dragged Sherlock unceremoniously inside before banging the doors shut behind them. It was dark and quiet inside. Their laboured breathing was nearly deafening in the silence. Sherlock couldn't see the other boy's face, but he could make out the shape of him, and he knew John was staring at him as well.

With a start, he noticed that John had never let go of his arm. Sherlock cleared his throat and made to move away, but John's fingers flexed around his bicep.

"If we're lucky," he panted, "they won't think to look here."

"Where are we? A classroom? I imagine none of them have ever been in one of those."

John chuckled, and Sherlock flushed at the rich sound.

"Why did you help me?" he blurted before he could think better of it.

John shot him a sideways look. "I couldn't just leave you there."

Sherlock shrugged. "All the other students are content to stand by and watch when Carl and his ilk have a go at me. They think I deserve it."

"No one deserves that, Sherlock. I don't care how much of a smart arse you are."

Sherlock felt a flare of embarrassment. "I suppose that means you've heard of me, then."

"Course I have." John shoved his hands into his pockets and stared down at his shoes. "Everyone's heard of the great Sherlock Holmes, eccentric genius and all-around insufferable git."

Sherlock's lip twitched into a half-smile. "I can't say I've heard much about you."

"Yeah, well, I try to keep a low profile, though I suppose I've gone and blown that now."

John glanced at him, and something in Sherlock's face must have given him away, because John hastily amended, "And it was completely worth it. I never liked Powers or his lot. Besides, I'm their captain. I can force them to do extra laps if they bother me."

Sherlock laughed and then bit back a groan as the sudden movement stretched his tender ribs.

"Come on," John said as he pushed off from the wall he was leaning against. "We should keep moving." He finally let go of Sherlock's arm, and he felt the loss like another kick to the ribs.

Sherlock started to follow him down what appeared to be a dark hallway, but a moment later he stopped short. He cocked his head to the side and listened. When John opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock violently shook his head, ignoring the burst of colour that blossomed in front of his eyes, reminding him again of how badly he was hurt.

From just outside the building he could hear faint voices saying, "…plit up and find them, they can't have gone far…" Cold dread trickled down Sherlock's spine.

"Shit," Sherlock breathed. He glanced at John and could tell from the serious look on the other boy's face that he could hear it too. Carl and his friends weren't far behind.

Their moment of peace was over.

John made a "follow me" motion, and Sherlock dutifully obliged. They crept down the hallway, treading as silently as possible even though they both knew it was unlikely anyone would hear their footsteps. They made it to a set of doors halfway down the hall, and John gently swung one open, revealing a staircase leading up. He stepped through and then waved Sherlock after him.

Just as Sherlock went to follow, John let go of the door.

Sherlock reached a hand out to catch it without thinking, and he realised his mistake a fraction of a second too late.

The heavy wooden door barely grazed Sherlock's broken wrist, but it was more than enough.

Sherlock screamed.

White hot branding irons seared into the bone itself. His vision flashed white, red, white, black as his brain struggled to process the sheer agony of it. He was vaguely aware of something, someone, jerking him forward, but all he could think about was how ridiculous it was that anything could hurt like this.

Time slowed to a crawl, and his blood deafeningly buzzed in his ears. When Sherlock was finally able to suck in a breath and steady himself, he was kneeling inexplicably on the cold tile floor. John was shaking his shoulders, and someone nearby was shouting, but Sherlock for the life of him couldn't make sense of any of it.

He looked up and met John's gaze. The boy's mouth was forming words frantically; Sherlock was mesmerised by the shape of it, even as he failed to understand a single word. John's eyes were desperate, pleading with Sherlock, begging him to… what?

In a flash, Sherlock understood. John's voice and the shouting behind them distinguished themselves in Sherlock's brain, and he realised his scream had let Carl know precisely where they were.

"Sherlock," John cried frantically, "we have to go now."

Sherlock miraculously jumped to his feet, too alight with his own fight-or-flight instinct to concern himself with pain. John's look of relief was like the sun peeking out from behind darkened clouds, and together they charged up the stairs.

Sherlock knew it was a stupid move. He had no penchant for horror films, but he knew quite well that running up the stairs instead of down the hall never went well for anyone. But he could hear their pursuers just behind them, and John was running beside him with a look on his face like he would outrace the dawn if that was what he needed to do, and suddenly Sherlock didn't care at all what happened so long as this strange, daft boy was by his side.

They ran up flight after flight of stairs until Sherlock was dizzy and his lungs felt like he was breathing battery acid. When he thought for certain he was going to crumple to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, they reached a landing with a single door. John flung it open and shoved Sherlock through, nearly throwing the boy to his knees. Sherlock heard a loud bang of metal on metal; John had shut the door behind them.

Sherlock bent over, his good hand grasping at his knee for balance, and just breathed, sucking in lungful after lungful of air, all the air he could force in out and of himself, enough air to feed trees for thousands of years after his death.

The sound of soft laughter eventually roused him from the cocktail of pain-adrenaline-fear-excitement flooding his brain, and he glanced up.

They were on the roof of whatever building this was; cold air buffeted them from all sides. The sky was overcast and made the green grass below look like a grey carpet. There were old boxes stacked against an air con unit and a few broken desks but naught else. John had moved some spare crates against the door and was leaning against them, but there was no way they'd be able to keep four fit rugby players out—or in this case, in—for long.

Sherlock stood up and watched John warily as the boy continued to chuckle to himself. He was shaking slightly. Sherlock hesitated, uncertain if he should interrupt him or not. It was his fault they were trapped here, after all, and John appeared to be experiencing a mild hysterical episode.

"Er," Sherlock began when John showed no signs of quieting, "I'm sorry to have got you into this mess. I didn't mean for—"

"Oh, shut it," John said, finally looking towards him. "You're not sorry in the least. You enjoyed that just as much as I did."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "John, I don't believe you understand the gravity of the situation we're in. Carl is—"

"Oh, I understand." John rose to his feet and brushed himself off. As if on cue, the door to the roof banged on its hinges like something had just thrown itself against it. The crates John had stacked together shuddered beneath the blow. "Four very angry teenagers are going to burst through that door at any moment, and when they do, you and I are going to get the beating of our lives." He shot Sherlock a sympathetic look. "Well, more of a beating, in your case. Dunno about you, but I fully intend not to be here when they get through."

John began walking towards the edge of the roof. Disturbingly, he was still smiling at Sherlock as if they were not, In fact, in a life-or-death situation.

Sherlock had to wonder if the boy had gone mad.

"But we're on a roof," he said stupidly, not knowing how else to express his sentiment.

"Yes, we are." John reached the concrete edge and hopped lightly onto it. "Look, do you trust me?" John held out his hand. His dark eyes were fixed on Sherlock and deadly serious.

Sherlock hesitated. "Of course I don't trust you. We've only just met. I'd have to be an idiot to-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, lowering his voice to a quiet plea that did strange things to Sherlock's stomach, "you can trust me."

Sherlock heard more shouts and another body being thrown against the door behind them. He needed to make a decision now. He hesitated for one more fraction of a second before he grabbed John's hand and let the stockier boy drag him up onto the edge of the roof. The bottoms of his feet tingled and itched as he tried not to think about the long way down.

When he finally managed to force himself to look, he realised why the building they'd run into had been even more unfamiliar than the others. They were on the roof of the gym. He'd skipped Physical Education every single day of his secondary school career. The outdoor pool stared up at them from the two-story drop. He could faintly smell chlorine on the air if he concentrated. The water was serene and glass-smooth, a perfect foil to his stuttering heart and heavy breathing.

"We can do this, Sherlock," John said comfortingly. The shouts of the bullies chasing them were growing steadily louder. Soon they would burst through the door to the roof, and John and Sherlock would be caught.

Unless they acted now.

"I won't let you fall," John said. Sherlock almost couldn't bear to look him in the eye, his gaze was so intense. His heart pounded sporadically in his chest, racing even as it seemed like it could stop at any moment. "I'll be right there with you, Sherlock. I won't let you get hurt."

John stripped off his rugby jacket. "Here, let me see your broken wrist." John folded Sherlock's arm against his chest, gently wrapped his wrist with the body of the jacket and then used the sleeves to tie a sling about his shoulder. "The impact is going to hurt, there's no avoiding that, but this should help absorb the blow."

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and then smiled. "Together, then?" He reached for John's hand again; John let him take it, twining their fingers.

John returned his smile, and his eyes lit up like fireworks. "Together."

Without another word, the boys braced themselves and leapt, aiming for the calm, blue water below.

A stunning variety of emotions flitted through Sherlock's head: fear, exhilaration, panic, loads more fear, and then an odd sense of joy at the sensation of falling freely. He understood, of course, that the drop only lasted a few seconds, but to him it seemed like hours. He turned his head to look at John, and to his surprise, the blond boy was looking right back at him, smiling like the sun.

A short eternity later, they hit the surface of the water, and Sherlock's world went dark.

…

It wasn't until that evening, when Sherlock was sat sideways on a gurney and arguing with several agitated paramedics, that the absurdity of what had happened that day began to occur to him. He was dripping wet and freezing, as one was wont to be after jumping into a swimming pool from two stories up, and a skittish medic was attempting to set his broken wrist whilst Sherlock shouted abuse at him for no reason other than he could.

John, who was also dripping wet, was attempting to give an account of what had happened to a harried-looking police officer, but he kept bursting into fits of giggles over what Sherlock was saying.

The police officer—a bloke by the name of Lestrange or Lester or something equally forgettable—was only barely tolerating their shenanigans on account of them having been brutally assaulted and looked like he might pop a blood vessel at any moment. He took down John's halting statement whilst shooting evil looks at both Sherlock and Carl Powers, who was sat in the back of his police car with a sour look on his face.

"So, it was the janitor," John said, "who heard the splash and happened to look out the window. He didn't realise what had happened at first, but then—"

"—oh, for God's sakes, do they teach you nothing in medical school? Is it all diagrams and snogging CPR dummies? You wrap the gauze to the left, the left—"

"I'm so sorry officer, I swear I'm not laughing at you. So, the janitor heard Powers and his mates shouting and realised something was wrong. He came out to see what all the fuss was, and that's when he saw—"

"—will you stop bloody hovering about me? I don't see why I need to go to hospital at all. You're depriving me of a perfectly sound opportunity to study the bone growth—"

"Ah, yes, please excuse me, I really don't mean to giggle. Anyway, the janitor spotted us floating in the pool and called you lot, I mean, er, the police, and then with Sherlock's injuries and Powers' mates ratting him out—erm, that is, their testimonial—it was all rather simple—"

"If you do not get away from me this very second, I shall set fire to the oxygen tanks in the back!"

Sherlock's final threat, shouted at full volume, was enough to finally chase the paramedics away and earn him a murderous glare from the police officer.

"For the sake of my mental health," the officer said, "I hope this is the last time I run into you, Sherlock Holmes." And with that, he released the boys to the paramedics, got in his car and drove away, red and blue lights flashing.

Sherlock cradled his now-secured wrist to his body and attempted to look everywhere but at John. He may have just survived a fall with him, but it's not as though that actually meant anything.

Did it?

Sherlock startled when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He looked up and saw John had moved over to the gurney, standing so that he wasn't quite between Sherlock's knees, but he was close.

Sherlock fought against the heat that wanted to rush into his face and instinctively looked down.

"So," he said quietly, "I suppose I owe you a thank you for saving me. I imagine you'll be heading home now that I'm safely with the paramedics."

"Don't be daft," John insisted. "I'm riding in the ambulance with you."

Sherlock's head shot up, and he stared incredulously at John. "Why?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, you think I'd just leave you, after all that? I'll be shocked if you can get rid of me after today." He seemed to move fractionally closer, though Sherlock told himself he was imagining it. "That was the most fun I've had in ages."

Sherlock stared at him for a long, quiet moment before saying, "You have a disturbingly twisted idea of fun."

"And you," John replied, "are just plain twisted. Though, I rather like you that way."

Before Sherlock could react, John pressed a quick but potent kiss to his lips. Sherlock knew it was impossible—downright maudlin, if he was honest—but he would have sworn in that moment that he could taste danger on John's lips.

"Right then," John said, pulling back and smiling cheekily, "tell me about these experiments of yours. Bone growth, was it?"

Sherlock blinked at him once before smiling devilishly. "All right, but do try to keep up."

…