Note: This Chapter contains violence and swearing. Thanks for those who are still reading! I'd really appreciate some reviews if you get time. Thanks and enjoy!

After Chemistry, John had English. Sherlock wasn't in his English class so he sat at the back, away from everyone else. There was a girl a few rows down from him who kept glancing back and smiling shyly. John thought she might be called Millie, or Molly? Something like that; he didn't really pay much attention. He got told off for not finishing his English homework so he had to stay behind for 5 minutes but other than that, the English lesson was uneventful. Lunchtime came and John made his way to the canteen, he slumped into his usual corner seat and looked around warily. He liked sitting in the corner, he could see everything from here and he felt more in control. Amongst the mass of kids milling around and finding seats, John managed to spot some curly black hair marching through crowd. Sherlock pushed past a few smaller kids and took a seat opposite John at the table. John smiled inwardly as Sherlock frowned.

"I hate the canteen. It's so crowded, so full of stupid…"

John smiled.

"It is pretty busy. I don't like it much either."

Sherlock nodded.
"I can tell. Corner seat, indicates anxiety."

John rolled his eyes and spoke under his breath- "Smart arse."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock horror and John giggled. The moment was interrupted by a loud scream coming from the middle of the room. Everybody turned to look as Anderson stood up, flailing his arms and spitting his food everywhere. The canteen erupted into laughter as the boy waved his arms and wretched. John and Sherlock shared a look and couldn't help laughing. Eventually, Anderson stopped and the canteen went quiet, waiting for whatever would happen next. The boy was stood in the middle, looking around with death written in his eyes. They settled on John and Sherlock. The two boys realised and stood up abruptly as Anderson and his mates came storming over. John regretted picking the corner seat as they couldn't escape to anywhere and within a second were cornered by the boys. Anderson wore an expression of disgust, mixed with loathing and murder. John gulped. He was about to say something along the lines of "it wasn't us, I promise" when Sherlock took a step forward and spoke up.

"What do you want Anderson?"

Anderson breathed heavily and spoke with venomous words.

"This little shit thinks it's funny to put a fucking eyeball in my lunch."

Anderson pointed to John.

"I know it was him."

Sherlock frowned.

"Do you have any proof?"

Anderson's eye twitched.

"No… but I know it was him… I can see it on his face…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why do you insist on picking on the new kid Anderson? Is it because he's small and defenceless he makes a worthy opponent for you?"

Anderson's face turned red and in a less threatening situation John might have laughed at Sherlock's attempt to help the situation. Anderson smirked at John.
"You're right. He's a small, defenceless little shit."

John sighed.

"Thanks Sherlock!" He said sarcastically. That had certainly helped take the attention away from him. Anderson now thinks I'm a small defenceless wimp. The bully turned to face Sherlock who was smiling at John.

"Just trying to help!" Sherlock said with absolute sincerity. John shook his head and held back a laugh; Sherlock really thought he had helped! Anderson observed the exchange with ever growing disgust on his face.

"I don't like kids who hang around with freaks. I especially don't like gay ones…"

John's eyes widened.

"Oh we're not… I'm not gay…"

Sherlock looked over at John, puzzled.

"Really?"

"That's not helping Sherlock…"

Anderson smirked.

"Even the freak could see you're gay!"

John began to turn red as the crowd that had gathered began to laugh.

"I'm not… no…I'm not gay…"

John tried to protest to no-one in particular. He looked over at Sherlock with hurt, pleading eyes.

"I'm not…"

Sherlock looked worried. Had he caused this? He wasn't sure but that look on John's face gave him a weird feeling- guilt? Sherlock needed to fix it. He turned to Anderson and spoke without even thinking.

"Of course he's not gay. He just likes to look smart and he didn't draw those love hearts on the backpack, it was a hand-me-down from his sister and he can't help it. If you really have a problem with John then you have a problem with me first."

Sherlock spoke with such conviction that he even shocked himself, no less the people around him, including John. Anderson sniggered.

"I've have a problem with you anyway freak. Anyway, enough chit-chat…"

With that, Anderson swung his fist at Sherlock's face who ducked just in time, causing Anderson to stumble forward. Sherlock pushed the boy into his mate and they both fell into a year 7's lunch.

"Run John!" Sherlock shouted. There was a gap which Sherlock darted between. John followed quickly as they pushed their way through the crowd and out the back door of the canteen. John dared a glance back and saw Anderson and his three friends pursuing them. Sherlock took a right out of the door and ran up the path until they reached the field and the start of the nature trail. John knew where Sherlock was trying to get to- he increased his pace. His heart was hammering on his chest, or was that his footsteps? Was it Anderson's footsteps? He heard the boy cry "kill them!" behind him but he couldn't tell how close they were. John rounded the corner of the field; it was a straight sprint up to the hideout but Anderson would see where they went. They wouldn't make it in time. John's breathing increased from panic but he calmed down when he saw Sherlock. The boy was running past the group of older boys that were there the other day. He gave them a thumbs up and as John passed, he saw the group form a wall behind him. He carried on running as fast as his legs would carry him, faintly hearing Anderson and his mates screaming "move!" to the group of boys. John ducked under the trees and jogged over the bridge, flopping down onto the bench. His chest was rising and falling so fast and his breaths were coming out raspy. Sherlock was stood by the opening of the hideout, holding a stick and a finger to his lips, telling John to keep quiet. John steadied his breathing and listened carefully. He could hear some footsteps; some swear words and confusion as to where they could have gone. Then John heard one very distinct phrase, it was Anderson's voice.

"I'll fucking murder them later…"

Then the footsteps died away and Sherlock relaxed, dropping the stick and going over to sit beside John on the bench, who was still breathing heavily.

"You ok?"

John swallowed and nodded.

"Yeah. You?"

Sherlock nodded and smiled.

"Lucky escape!"

John calmed his breathing.

"For now… You know we can't run away from them forever…"

Sherlock looked down at the floor to avoid looking into John's eyes.

"Uh… I'm sorry John. If I made the situation worse in there…"

John looked up at Sherlock, who was scuffing the floor with his toe. Sherlock was apologising?! John smiled.

"No worries. Thanks for helping us lose them. How come that group of boys helped?"

Sherlock returned his gaze to John's face. Why hadn't John shouted at him? He hadn't got angry and blamed Sherlock… In fact, he was thanking him?! Sherlock studied John's face, which was looking at him expectantly. Sherlock realised he'd been silent for a bit too long and shook his head to get his senses back.

"Um, yeah I know those boys, they buy me cigarettes."

John's eyes widened.

"You smoke?"

Sherlock frowned. John sounded disappointed and he didn't like it. Then Sherlock frowned more, why should he care that John doesn't like it? Sherlock nodded in response and hurriedly spoke.

"But I'm trying to quit."

John's questioning face relaxed and he leant back on the bench. Sherlock wanted the focus off himself, he usually wanted everyone to notice him but being with John Watson changed how he felt about most things. He wasn't sure why. He decided to speak instead of letting his thoughts continue to run along that line.

"So, what did actually happen to your arm then?"

John kept his gaze at the floor and spoke in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"My dad twisted my arm up my back, he tore the shoulder muscle. Again."

Sherlock swallowed.

"Your dad did that? Why?"

Sherlock assumed that John must have done something pretty bad to warrant his dad hurting him like that. Sherlock's father had never once laid a hand on him or his brother, John wiped a tear that was forming in his eye and continued to stare at the dirt.

"I…I uh… bumped into him."

John looked up at Sherlock's face which wore a horrified expression. John spoke hurriedly.

"But I did make him spill his beer… on his shirt… his work shirt and he was in a bad mood anyway because of Harry so I deserved it really…"

Sherlock couldn't help his face looking horrified. John looked back down at the floor and fiddled with a loose thread on his blazer. He wanted to stop Sherlock looking at him like that. Sherlock was going to hate him now, he was going to tell him that he did deserve it, he is a clumsy bugger, why would anyone want to be friends with him when he's so clumsy, small and stupid? John was close to tears when Sherlock did something very out of character. He hugged him. John felt Sherlock's arms wrap around his shoulders gently and the boy's head rest next to his neck. John tensed up in confusion. Only his mum had ever hugged him before. Sherlock stayed there for about a minute, then slowly moved back, looking John directly in the eye.

"Listen to me. Don't you ever think that you deserve it. Never ever, ok?"

Sherlock stared at John with a sincere look. John swallowed back tears and nodded. Then he smiled. He smiled because someone cared. Sherlock Holmes actually cared about him. Sherlock looked around awkwardly, realising that he- impassive Sherlock- was showing an emotion. John giggled and stood up.

"Thanks Sherlock."

Sherlock stood up as well and smiled.

"No problem. So, did you bring the net?"

John removed his bag carefully over his strapped up arm and pulled out the small green net. He was about to hand it to Sherlock but pulled it back and spoke cheekily.

"You better appreciate the trouble I went through to get this... I nearly lost my arm!"

Sherlock smiled, glad that John was starting to make a joke of what happened. He didn't want to watch his friend's guilt tear him apart. John was anti-social enough as it is. Sherlock took the net off John and crouched beside the pond.

"Have you ever caught newts before?"

John shook his head,

"I've never even seen a newt before!"

"Well, watch and learn my friend."

The boys stayed at the hideout, catching newts and having a laugh until the end of lunch. A bad feeling settled in both their stomachs as they knew they had to go back into school, back into lessons and back to where Anderson would find them. The boys walked back down the nature trail in silence, nervous of what was to come. Sherlock looked over at John, who was biting his lip. Sherlock extended his hand and John took it. The boys walked the rest of the way hand in hand; that one small gesture comforted them both and as they reached the door and parted separate ways, it gave them comfort and told them they were not alone.

John's last lesson of the day was French, which he found extremely dull and difficult, especially since he didn't share that lesson with Sherlock and couldn't copy his answers. John shouldered his backpack and walked out of the classroom and out to the school gates. He stood by the wall, searching the crowd for the curly black hair but couldn't see any. He waited for 5 minutes, looking carefully but not once did he catch a glimpse of Sherlock. John sighed and gave up, Sherlock probably gets a lift from his parents, he's probably already gone. John pushed himself off the wall and began to trudge home. The twenty minute walk wasn't that bad, it was fairly straight forward but it was November, and it was beginning to get dark. John walked along the road with his head down, thinking about Sherlock and how much more fun the walk would have been with him. John thought about Harry and his dad and what to expect when he got in. He thought about tomorrow and what lessons he had with Sherlock. John was pulled put of his train of thought when he heard voices behind him. His head came up but he continued to walk forward, listening intently to the voices. No-one else was on the road and only the odd car rushed past every minute or so. He could hear that they were boys. He quickened his pace and dared a glance over his shoulder. That was his mistake. Turning around, John saw what he feared most. Anderson was walking quickly towards him with three of his mates in tow. John stumbled backwards, ready to run when Anderson called out to him.

"Hey, Johnny boy! Don't run, I just want to talk!"

John stopped where he was. I should run, I should've ran. It was too late now. Anderson was in front of him and his mates had made a tight circle around him.

"Where's your freaky buddy?"

Anderson stood in front of John, smirking. His mates laughed and stood still around John. They were all at least a head taller than him and wore hard, threatening faces. John swallowed.

"He… he's gone home."

John tried to sound normal, but instead his voice quivered and Anderson laughed.

"Awh is little Johnny a little bit scared?"

John stared at Anderson directly in the eye, in an attempt to hide his fear. His heart was beating out through his chest and his left arm was shaking. Anderson nodded to one of his mates, who grabbed John's good arm and pulled him to the side of the road and down a small alley. The alley was blocked off at the end by a large wall and there was a rubbish bin on the left; the boy dragged John further in, grabbed his backpack and chucked it to the side and then pushed him against the wall. The light coming from the street faded as Anderson and his three mates blocked the entrance. John pressed up against the wall, willing for it just to swallow him up. The wall was hard and cold against his back. He wished he wasn't here alone. He wished he had Sherlock here with him. He felt braver with Sherlock around. He also wished his right arm wasn't injured, at least then he could have put up a fair fight. All sorts of scenarios flicked through John's head as Anderson approached. I could just let it happen, ride it out. Or I could try and fight back, it won't work. God I wish Sherlock was here. John saw Anderson crack his knuckles and the bully stopped in front of him.

"It's a shame the freak isn't here. Would've been two birds with one stone. Time to teach the little shit a lesson…"

John decided in that moment he couldn't just let it happen. This kid would never stop tormenting him, he'd go for Sherlock too and a weird feeling erupted in John. He wasn't going to let anything happen to Sherlock, he couldn't. He had to fight back.

John flinched as the first punch hit his cheek; he stumbled to the side and blinked furiously to stop the swaying. John turned and swung his left arm around in the general direction of Anderson. He connected with something because he heard the boy shout, but then was quickly disabled by one of Anderson's mates; a kick to the back of his left leg had him on his knees and he doubled over as the boot drove into his stomach. His right arm had fallen out of the sling and the muscle was beginning to burn. John looked up in time to see Anderson, with a bloody nose, raise his fist and bring it down onto John's head. His left temple throbbed as he stood up fast, driving his own fist into Anderson's stomach, the boy bent over but with a cry like an animal he quickly charged his body into John's so he was pressed up against the wall. Two of the others were next to him, grabbing at John's arms and pulling them up behind his back. John screamed and his muscle burned as he tried to struggle out of their grip. Anderson was up again and punched John square on the nose, his head flopped to the side and he gasped for air as Anderson's fists drove into his stomach more than once. John's body slumped; the boys released their grip on his arms and John fell to the floor, feeling a boot connect to his ribs with a sickening crack. He curled up and lifted his hands over his face. There seemed to be blood everywhere, he could taste metallic in his mouth, feel it dripping from his nose and down his head. His insides felt like liquid as multiple boots that felt like iron pummelled down onto his legs, body, stomach and head. John screwed up his face and felt something dripping out of his eyes. Tears? Blood? The boots weren't stopping, the fists kept coming. Every time he tried to take a breath another hit landed and released all the air inside of him. He was trying to cough but there was no air to do it. He needed air; he needed the iron weight to be lifted off his chest. And then suddenly, it stopped. Silence. A wave of nausea consumed John's body and then a chest wracking bought of coughing. He rolled over onto his knees with his forehead on the floor. John's whole body rocked violently with every cough and red liquid saturated the pavement as it dripped out of his mouth. The coughing slowed down and his breaths were raspy. His whole body moaned as he was lifted off the floor to stand. His weight was supported by two of the boys, his arms were grabbed and his hair was pulled back so his chin lifted from his chest. His legs were useless and gave him no support. Through bleary eyes, John could see Anderson's bloodied face smirking at him. Over the ringing in his ears, John heard Anderson speak.

"Enough of a lesson for you Johnny boy? That's not half of what we can do if you decide to cross us again. Stay away from the freak or…"

Anderson stopped mid sentence when John spat into his face. How dare he call Sherlock a freak? How dare he even involve Sherlock? This was his fight. The bully wiped blood and spit from his eyes and grinned a sinister grin.

"Not sure he's learnt his lesson lads…"

John forced a smile and spoke hoarsely.

"I've learnt that you're a bastard."

Anderson sniggered menacingly and punched John in the stomach, causing his ribs to throb in pain. His whole body was throbbing and burning. John coughed up blood and looked back up at Anderson. The bully was talking to one of the boys holding John.

"Michael, did you bring the rope?"

John felt his left arm be passed over to the other boy as Michael moved next to Anderson, holding the rope.

"Tie his arms."

John struggled as Michael pulled the rope tightly around his wrists, cutting into them. Anderson paced the width of the alley.

"Are you scared of the dark Johnny? Shame if you are. I've heard dustbins can be pitch black if the lid is closed."

John pulled his arms to get them free but the rope was digging in and the boy's grip was sure to be leaving bruising. Anderson smirked and nodded to the boy, who started leading John towards the dustbin. The other boy's lifted the lid as John twisted and pulled to get free. It was hurting his body to twist but he had to get free, he hated the dark and he hated small spaces. He really hated small spaces. Two of the boys grabbed John's arms and started to lift him up, his legs came up off the floor and he swung them forwards, hitting one of the boys in the stomach. They released their grip and John fell to the floor. He picked himself up and managed to kick the other boy in the shin before he felt a fist smash against his head and he was lying on the floor once more. His head was spinning and the ringing noise was so loud. The whole world was moving, fading between black and red. He could hear voices, they were raised. He felt himself be lifted and dropped, pointy objects dug uncomfortably into his back and a loud bang brought darkness. The voices were muffled now but he heard a commotion. There was some shouting and a few bump noises and groans. Were they fighting each other? John's head still spun, he heard different voices now, threatening. He heard Anderson say "let's go" and then heard fast footsteps fade away. The darkness was lifted and he felt soft hands lifting him once more. It felt like a dream, a surreal dream. The hands brought him out and gently laid him on the ground, untying the rope on his wrists carefully. John's eyes drooped and he wondered whether Anderson had changed his mind. But those didn't feel like Anderson's hands. They were far too soft and gentle. He felt his legs and arms be lifted and his head dropped against the person's chest. He could feel their heartbeat and he could feel the sticky blood on his head sticking to their shirt. His head spun some more and he felt himself slipping away from the noises of the street, the cars, the heartbeat and the world. He let his eyes close slowly and let it bring a fresh wave of comforting darkness, until it let him drift into a soft and calm sleep.