"Do you think you are worth anything, boy?" Sherlock's dad demanded to know as he punched the boy in the stomach with a sickening crack. He had been at this for almost an hour now. He would scream and hit; the whole time getting more violent.

Sherlock's previously busted lip was bleeding again along with his nose. The blood trickled down his face making it hard to breathe properly. He was trying to stand as tall as he could, the way his dad told him to stand for these beatings; it took all his remaining strength to focus and not double over and protect his stomach from the pounding. His body shook as he held back the tears and screams that he desperately wanted to let out, but he was too well trained for that.

Anyways; he knew he deserved this. He had failed again. He had been given simple instructions when he was expelled from the last public school willing to take him with in the area. He was not to fight again. When he heard his dad pulled into the drive way he felt like crying. He knew it was obvious that he had gotten into a fight. There was no point hiding, so he stood in the front hall waiting for his dad to see him.

When the door opened it only took Sherlock's dad a few seconds to recognize the new bruises. He instantly started screaming at the boy. Slamming the door shut as he lifted his hand to back hand Sherlock across the face. They didn't move from the front hall since. Sherlock just hoped it would be over soon. He wanted to beg his dad to let him sneak back to his room, his sanctuary. Let him sleep. He was so tired. He couldn't voice his desires thou. He knew better at this point.

Sherlock's legs buckled under him as his dad punched him in the gut knocking the wind out of him. He heard him utter something at him, but his whole head was fuzzy it didn't make sense. Then there was nothing. Sweet nothing. His lips quivered and he gave into his tears. Crying himself to sleep in the entry of the house. He wished John was there to help him up, to bring him up stairs. It was the first time he could remember that he dreamt of something other than a dark hole, something other than falling.

He didn't want to move when he woke up in the morning. Moving meant he was still alive. Moving meant pain. He pulled himself up off the cold tile floor with a groan as every muscle in his body felt like it was tearing in two. It was light outside and it didn't seem like his dad was home. Slowly he began to pull himself up the stairs to the bathroom where he patched himself up and washed away the blood caked to his face. He made his way to his room. Quickly throwing off his uniform and changing into lose fitting pajamas. He didn't leave his room, not when his dad came home in the evening, not when his stomach rolled with hunger.

Monday morning he snuck out of his room at the crack of dawn running straight down the steps and out the front door. He got to school at 6 am, three hours early. Not that he minded. It was quiet this early and no one bugged him when he would sit outside his first period class with his nose buried deep in a book. It was relaxing to sit with the chilly morning breeze blowing over him messing with his dark brown curls. It made coming to school worth being pushed around in the lunch line, called degrading names, and sitting through dull lectures if he could relax and breathe without the fear of his dad busting through his door to teach him a lesson.

He didn't skip lunch. His stomach was rolling with hunger after not eating for nearly three days. As he stood in the lunch line waiting to be served he remembered why he avoided eating at school. The noise of idiotic chatter made his head throb and behind him boys kept making humping actions. No one would put their hands on him during school hours but as he walked past tables he heard names be called out to him and threats to beat him senseless. He kept his head down as he went through the line, watching his feet as he progressed. He went through the periodic table in his mind like a sort of mantra to keep him from saying anything back. He grabbed his tray and downed as much food as he could before he couldn't take the taunting and teasing his classmates directed at him. Then dumped the remainder in the trash and bolted to hide himself away in the library.

The library was his safe haven. There wasn't anyone in there during lunch besides the librarian who was a sweet little elderly woman who never had kids so she treated all the ones she met as her own. It was quiet, peaceful and calm. A place he could curl up to sleep or read.

He rushed through the door nearly knocking Ms. Hudson over. He gave her an apologetic smile that looked more like a grimace as he ran to the back of the room. Furthest from the other student who wanted nothing more than to see him cry. He didn't notice the other boy sitting on the couch beside him for a good 3 minutes. When the boy finally spoke Sherlock yelp and jumped to his feet. "Sherlock? You okay?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded slowly sitting back down on the couch and looking over at John. He didn't know why John would be in a library. He'd never seen him there before and he noticed just about everything.

"I well… You… I know you sit here sometimes and I …" John swallowed hard before continuing to stutter out his explanation, "I wanted to check on you." When he finished his cheeks were a faint red. Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. No one ever cared to check on him for any reason and having John here poking around made his stomach and heart do strange things. On one side he what'd to tell the boy off for digging in his business on the other he wanted to cry and he wasn't quite sure why.

"I am fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock snapped crossing his arms with a glare.

"Well, you looked pretty roughed up and I didn't get to see if they hurt your stomach. I just wanted to check in I guess."

"I am fine."

"I can see that." John replied rolling his eyes. So he had noticed the new bruise. Sherlock felt his face relax as he studied John's body. He wasn't like the other students or people at school. Nobody noticed if Sherlock showed up with new bruises on his arms or a busted lip because they all figured someone got the jump on him. It didn't matter to them if the brat got his arse kicked for a rude comment or quip. Sherlock bit his lip and looked away from the other boy.

"Thanks…"

John relaxed against the seat and settled in doing his homework. Sherlock didn't know how to react, if he should get up and leave the boy to work in peace or, just maybe, he wanted Sherlock to stay. He waited to be told to scram that his ugly alien face was making the boy sick. It never came. John never screamed anything at him. Every lunch when Sherlock got to the library John was waiting for him. He started to expect John to be there, even look forward to it. John would listen to him rant about anything, he seemed generally interested in it too, and he'd ask questions and make comments. Sherlock started to wait all day for lunch, then chem and some days John would even walk him home. The bullies always left him alone on those days and they seemed to becoming more and more regular.

Home was still just as bad. John had asked him several times about his reoccurring bruise. Sherlock still would swear he'd got them from a kid after or before school. Tell him they didn't hurt. He could tell John didn't buy it but he never pried and Sherlock was grateful for it.

It was starting to get cold and snow was only weeks away when Sherlock got a letter from Mycroft. He didn't talk to his brother often after he had abandoned him. Their father always intercepted the calls saying Mycroft was a trader and an imbecilic. The brothers had tried to email but those too were cut off and Sherlock leant his lesson the hard way, leaving him in bed for almost a week and his laptop in bits. Now the only form of contact Sherlock ever got from his brother was through coded letters. His dad was too lazy to ever get the mail himself.

The code was simple if you understood it. The salutation was the cipher. It was a random bunch of letters; ie ursace, none of the letters could repeat. Then you'd start the alphabet with your salutation and continue on in order, ursacebdfghijklmnopqtvwxz making sure none of the letter's you had in the cipher were repeated. The first letter in the cipher was a, the next b and so on down the alphabet. Making pdcohmsh, Sherlock.

A decipher looked like this:

z

z

Sherlock had gotten good enough at reading the letters he no longer needed to make a cipher, even in his head. The letter looked to him as if it was written in simple English.

Hyslcwa,

Dear brother. I know I haven't kept in touch and for that I am terribly sorry. I heard you got expelled again. Not pleased, think of mummy. However this is not a letter in which I will scold you, I am sure father does that much too much still. In the upcoming months I have been granted vacation time and there is only one place I am both dying to see and fearful of dying if I do see, excuse my attempt at poetry. I find girls like to be romanced; though all my attempts do seem futile. I am coming home brother dear. Please don't tell father. I won't be coming home to see him. I will pick you up after school and take you to a violin concert. Assuming you still enjoy the awful scratching noise the instruments make. Then find a nice dinner to have some deserts. I do so miss Bently's Dinner coco craze pie.

Best of wishes,

Mycroft.

Sherlock could barely control his excitement. He dropped the bundle of bills and ads as he read the note over and over just to make sure he read it correctly. He hadn't seen his brother since he went to college that was 4 years ago. If My came back he could take Sherlock away. Take Sherlock to London. Keep him safe and protect him. Sherlock folded the letter into a small square and shoved it in his back pocket before gathering the mail and bringing it inside.

John. He had to tell John about the news. He would love Mycroft. They could pick on him about his love of cakes. Maybe Sherlock could convince his brother to take both of them to the concert. He'd never been to a concert. Hearing good violin live would be a lot different than the scratchy playing he use to do when mummy was alive. It was the Sunday. He'd have to wait to tell John.

The rest of the day Sherlock spent hiding away in his room rereading the letter and making a list of all the things he could tell his brother. He would tell him about John, about how he had beat off the bullies, about how good his grades were, the books he was reading. There was a really good one titled Captain Singleton that had him pretending he was a pirate in his day dreams.

He reread the letter at least 100 times by Monday morning. When getting dressed he slipped the letter into the back of his pants and headed out the door. Early as usual he borrowed another book from the library, Treasure Island, and wanted to finish it in the quiet halls of school also he hoped he might catch John early.

Sherlock didn't see John at all. He didn't see him in passing periods, in the lunch line- not very surprising, John packed his own lunch- or in the library. When Chem rolled around Sherlock and he wasn't in class Sherlock was certain he wasn't at School. He figured his friend must have gotten sick; but his heart still felt like it had set up a residency in his stomach as he walked, by himself, home.

There was something white pinned to the front door and as he approached he could make out Mycroft's cursive scribbles. His hand flew to his back pocket and he felt nothing. He mentally cursed himself and he felt his stomach and heart feel like they just got torn from his chest. Taking steady breaths to calm himself he finished walking slowly up to the door. There was his letter, with a cipher written on to the bottom right hand corner in heavy strokes. His father's heavy strokes. Sherlock's throat felt like it was closing in on itself and he had half a thought to run. Run far away. Not to open the door and see his dads angry face.

He shoved those thoughts far away and pushed open the heavy door to see his dad sitting in one of the chairs in front of a fire that was always on in the fall and winter. He could see a half empty bottle of scotch and a shot glass wrapped in either one of his father's hands.

"Are you going to be a traitor too?" The man asked with his face still turned from Sherlock's. Sherlock wanted to scream no, beg for forgiveness, make up a lie that the letter was old and that My never showed. He hung his head and walked in front of his father's chair making no noise. Trying to prove he was a good son. A good boy. "Going to leave me here all by myself?" The man set down the scotch and glass with a small clink and stood. He slapped Sherlock across the face nearly sending him into the lit fire.

"No! I am- I won't ever I am good! I have been so good!" Sherlock cried from the floor pulling himself back to his knees, using his big blue eyes to plead with his father.

"Your stupid Brother left. You going to follow him?" Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "How come I don't believe you?" He gripped a hand around Sherlock's curls and dragged him across the living room floor towards the bathroom. Sherlock cried as he felt his hair start to be pulled out again. Sherlock remembered the last time he had been caught talking to Mycroft. All the pain. The computer being smashed against his head repeatedly. He couldn't take that again.

His father yanked him by his curls all the way to the bathroom, leaning Sherlock against the white toilet. "You are so full of bullshit!" The man screamed before shoving Sherlock's face into the basin of water. He held him there until Sherlock was shaking and kicking fighting for breath. His mouth was gasping for air in the toilet as he panicked. He felt the water trickle down the back of his throat and up his nose. He shook with all his might afraid his dad would actually do it.

His father ripped his head back letting the boy gag and cough up water, gasping for fresh air and each breath forcing more water out. Then he slammed the boy's head into the water again, pushing Sherlock's face into the bottom of the bowl. Sherlock was screaming into the water. Tears falling out but being swept away. His lungs were burning, his throat was burning, his nose was burning. His head was spinning with a head ache and soon his mind just blanked. He felt like he was floating slightly. Drifting away from his body. All of a sudden he was ripped back to pain. It filled every space of his body as he realized he was throwing up on the tile, a shivering, sniveling mess on the floor.

"Get out." Was all Sherlock needed to hear to pulling his shaking limbs under him and run awkwardly out the door. He ran down the street ignoring his sopping wet clothes or the sick that covered his body. He didn't know where he was running until he stopped outside a familiar blue front door. He tore off his shirt that was covered in sick and threw it in the garden then zipped up his hoody again. He didn't see the moving van or hear the muffled shouts from inside. He knocked frantically trying his best not to cry.

John answered the door peeping his head out from behind the cracked door. "Sherlock I can't hang out now. I just leave please." He didn't even look Sherlock before he slammed the door shut in the young boy's face leaving him in the cold with nowhere to go.

John wasn't a friend. Sherlock had been so stupid to think any different. He started to ball harder, forgetting his dignity, forgetting people could see him. He wondered down the streets and alleys, getting closer to the heart of the city. He wished his father had just killed him. That brief moment when he felt like he was flying had been so nice. No pain. He almost forgot what it felt like for his body not to ache. He only noticed how far he had walked when he heard a scratchy voice from behind him.

"You look like you got somethings you wants to forget, am I right kid?"

Sherlock sniffled and turned around using the backs of his hands to wipe away the tears and snot going down his face. He nodded to a scruffy looking middle aged man who was missing a tooth and looked like he crawled his way out of an olive oil factory.

"I've been there kid. What would you give to forget?"

It seemed like a strange question to Sherlock. He didn't care though. If this man wanted to kill him and throw his body somewhere in a river or ditch more power to him. The boy shrugged and looked away, doing his best to make himself look small.

"If you follow me I can make you forget. Make you fly." The man said turning and opening the door to a rundown apartment building and winking at the kid. Sherlock glanced up and down the street praying halfheartedly that someone would see him and stop him from following. That someone would care about a strange kid about to wonder into a dingy apartment building with a creepy man who reeked of alcohol and cat piss. But not a soul came walking down the alley way to stop him. It was like the universe was saying it didn't care, so he followed.

A/N

Sorry for cliff hanger I felt bad for the uber long wait but this chapter has been hell. Microsoft word keeps eating my file and I got 6,000 words in and poof guess what you didn't really need to write this anyway. I hope you guys enjoy and the next part is even worse so I am sorry... Love Birdie