(A/N: I'm sorry I left it at a sort of cliff hanger, but I wanted to upload today in an attempt to maintain some measure on consistency. Thank you for reading this far and please review!)

The attacker sighed, staring out of a window with a wistful expression. He had been good, so very good, for almost a week now. One boring, miserable week.

It wasn't as though he was addicted to the thrill. Oh no, he would never sink so low as to become dependent on his crime, it was just that he was getting so bored.

The school wasn't helping. Walking through these halls everyday was a special kind of torture. It was like an alcoholic in a liquor store.

Except not, because he wasn't an addict. He was sure that it was possible for a person to enjoy a drink without becoming an alcoholic.

Perhaps a child in a candy shop is a more accurate description. Yes, that was it. He was a child in a candy shop, capable of restraining himself but continually tempted for that taste. And, oh, there were so many candies to choose from.

Nicole had been especially tasty, and she had been the equivalent of an impulse buy. What a surprisingly delightful treat.

But the attacker would never forget Jenny. Jenny had looked at him with big green eyes and tossed her long brown hair over her shoulder enticingly. Jenny had practically begged him for it, but had been unresponsive when he pursued her the traditional way. He had thought she was being coy, but the harder he pressed, the more frightened she seemed to get.

He had no idea that fear could taste so sweet.

He ought to thank her, really. She had opened his eyes and shown him that he had all the candy he could eat, right there at his fingertips.

"Perhaps you should sit out from now on."

"Nope, don't even think about it, Sherlock. I'm not letting you run around campus with a psychopath on the loose."

"You could have lost your scholarship, John. I never intended to put you at risk in that way."

"Oh really? Bodily harm you're fine with, but when it comes to my education…"

"I'm being serious, John."

"So am I, Sherlock. And guess what? I didn't lose my scholarship. I don't know if it was Professor Garret or whatever Mycroft did, but I got off easy. We're okay."

"And what if you aren't as lucky next time?"

"Your concern is touching Sherlock, but you aren't getting rid of me so easily."

"And what if we never find him? It's been over a week already, and we have nothing. All the teachers were clean. On Monday, Z left the school and didn't come back until the next day. Henderson went to dinner with friends, and not a single person remembered seeing Jenny Monday night. Not a single person noticed anything wrong with Nicole. If this goes unsolved much longer, guess who is going to take the blame?"

"The sociopath and his trusty, occasionally limping sidekick?"

"Precisely."

"I'll take my chances. I want to see this son of a bitch behind bars for a long time."

"You and me both, John."

The neon flyers were beginning to give John a headache. They plastered every available surface is a spectrum of bright pink, bright yellow, bright green, and bright orange.

'No means no!'

'Remember to use a buddy system!'

'Don't accept opened drinks from anyone!'

'Keep your guard up ladies!'

The anti-rape campaign had exploded in full force over the weekend as most of the female student body suddenly decided that they could neon the attacker to death. They were handing out bracelets pledging support for their 'Campus Safety' initiative, which involved psychologically examining every single person attending or affiliated with the school. Girls were being given strobe distress flashlights and high pitched rape whistles along with the warning to use them only when they're needed.

John very seriously asked where his rape whistle was and nearly got smacked in the face.

Sherlock found this slightly entertaining and immensely annoying. Mostly because while the official campaign was running, there was an unofficial campaign with just as much support.

The Let Sherlock Know We Think He Did It Campaign. And Also We Think John Helped.

This pleasant campaign was led by Sally Donovan and opposed by a very small minority of the student body.

This minority included: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Izzy Sinclair, Anthony Blithe, Molly Hooper, and Mrs. Hudson as their faculty representative.

Any other members were choosing to remain incognito for the time being, effectively rendering their support useless.

And John was beginning to find this very annoying.

"When are they going to realize that you have an alibi?" John finally asked Sherlock Tuesday morning. "You were playing the violin the first time, I'm sure the whole hall heard you, and you were looking for Ian the second. Some of these people actually physically saw you in a different place while the second rape was happening."

"You should hear some of the conspiracy stories," Sherlock remarked with a smile. "They are absolutely impossible. It's very entertaining to think that these idiots take themselves seriously."

"Entertaining is not the word I was thinking," John muttered, packing his school supplies into his backpack. "And did you hear that Sally has a new best friend? Lily Hernandez, current president of the committee for campus security and the second in command for the We Hate Sherlock army."

"Isabell Sinclair's roommate," Sherlock said thoughtfully, playing with the clasps of his violin case. "I don't remember doing anything in particular to offend her. Donovan hates me because I humiliated her last year. But Lily? No, I don't think I've done much wrong on that end."

"Sometimes people just hate others because they can. They don't need a reason."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Sherlock pointed out, looking concerned. "Do you want to talk about it? I'm not the best at this sort of thing, but I will endeavor to listen."

John smothered a smile as he picked up his bag. "Let's just go to class."

"This is just laziness," Sherlock muttered darkly, trying to avoid stepping in the potting soil that perpetually dusted the Science hallway. "Who is using this much soil? And why has no one swept all week? This is inexcusable."

"Calm down, Mr. Fancy Shoes," John sighed. "It's just a little bit of dirt. 'God made dirt and dirt don't hurt,'" he recited in a poor imitation of an American accent.

"Never try to do that again."

"I'm sorry."

"You are not forgiven."

"Hey!" came Molly's ever cheerful voice from the doorway of Z's biology room. "We have a sub today!"

"A sub?" John repeated.

"Yes, John, a sub." Sherlock sighed. "No need to reiterate what has just been established."

"I'm just thinking out loud," John snapped as they slid into their respective desks.

"I hate substitute teachers," Sherlock declared loudly, within the earshot of the aforementioned sub. It was a confused looking young woman who was flipping through a stack of papers, trying to understand the detailed, complicated material she would soon be attempting to teach.

"Try to be nice," John sighed in his friend's direction. "I'm sure you've already deduced where Z has gone."

"Not deduced, read. Professor Garret keeps track of this sort of thing. He keeps a log of teacher absences. Z has a personal matter, a funeral to attend, I believe. He made the arrangements for the substitute a few days ago. And I looked into his credit card activity as well as hacking his computer on Friday. He's bought a plane ticket and booked a hotel. It seems legitimate."

If anyone heard Sherlock's carelessly loud announcement that he had hacked Z's computer, nothing was said. After all, there had been a widely participated in endeavor to ignore Sherlock school wide.

"And she seems more incompetent than usual," Sherlock continued. The sub twitched and bit her lip but didn't say anything.

"Cut it out Sherlock," John warned him. "You aren't in the best position to continue to be an arse to every human being you come across. Remember what we talked about yesterday? This isn't how you make friends."

"I was an arse to you and now we're friends," Sherlock pointed out.

"A single outlier in an otherwise consistent set of data," John stated, trying to sound intelligent. "Don't try to extrapolate from my single point."

"How's your Statistics class going?" Sherlock asked, sounding faintly amused.

"Very well, thank you."

"Good morning class," the substitute teacher interrupted faintly. "It's good to meet you. I'm Miss Carter. I'll be filling in for Mr. Zach today."

"His name is Mr. Zach?" someone John didn't know interrupted. "That's not that difficult."

John decided to explain the comment to the poor substitute. "On the first day he told us Z was easier to say than his real last name."

Miss Carter looked like she could not physically care less. "Fine. Whatever. Just take out your books and read chapter three. Apparently he wants you to get a jumpstart on the next unit in his absence. I'm taking attendance through the seating chart, so you can get started right away."

John complied, but Sherlock, of course, just persisted in messing around on his laptop. Miss Carter gave him the same steadily patient but still annoyed look that most of Sherlock's teachers gave him.

"Could you please get out your textbook Mr.…" she glanced down at the seating chart. "Mr. Holmes. Please get to work."

"I don't want to," Sherlock asserted absently. "I'm busy."

Miss Carter visibly calmed herself. John felt a stab of pity for her. She was very young, barely older than they were and obviously new to the whole teaching gig.

"Do I need to send you to the headmaster-"

"If Z has not written a note about me specifically, then he isn't doing his job." Sherlock looked up at her with deadened silver-blue eyes. He inclined his head towards Z's desk. "Take a look. I'm sure that something is there."

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Zach may not be here, but I still expect you to treat me with the same respect you've always shown him and-"

"Unfortunately, Miss Carter," John interrupted, "this is slightly more respectful than Sherlock usually is." John was flipping pages in his textbook as he spoke. "I don't want to sound rude, but for your own sake, it might be best for you to just check for a note."

"Yeah, or else Sherlock will rape you too," a girl named Rachel asserted quietly.

"I am not a rapist," Sherlock sighed, shutting his laptop. He went to the desk himself and picked up a post it note. "John was referring to my ability to embarrass Miss Carter in front of the class. Of course, it would be incredibly easy for me to tell you all that she's single, owns nine cats, ate four cups of pudding this morning, and is in love with her best friend's brand new husband, but just so long as she reads this note, I might just keep it to myself." Sherlock made a fake look of surprise, like he didn't meant to just list everything he did. "Oops."

Miss Carter looked like she was about to cry. Sherlock calmly handed her the post it note, but she didn't take it. Sherlock sighed and read it himself.

"'Please just ignore Sherlock. He's a prat, but he's also the head of the class by a significant margin. He's cruel when he's irritated. From, Mr. Z.' See? It all works out in the end." Sherlock stuck the note to the wall and went back to his desk, settling himself back in and opening up his computer like nothing happened.

There was a horrible moment of silence before John finally snapped, "Sherlock, what did we just finish talking about?"

"I'm not looking to make friends," Sherlock said in quiet disgust, as though the idea physically repelled him. "I'm looking to find a rapist. If you don't mind, I have a lot of variables to calculate. Please be quiet."

And this,John thought sadly, is my only friend in the world.

...

"Do you do this sort of thing intentionally, or is just part if your personality?"

"What do you think, John?"

"Most of the time I think you're a soulless son of a bitch, but you seem to revel in alternately proving me wrong, then proving me right. I don't think you realize just how bad that was."

Sherlock looked offended. "Just eat your chicken."

Lunch was becoming quite the adventure. Sherlock had taken to sitting with John after a few students had harassed the smaller of the two, and a predatory gleam lit his eye whenever it appeared that someone felt the inclination to cause trouble.

Even now Sherlock shot a glare at any passerby he deemed suspicious.

"I can take care of myself, I hope you realize. I'm shorter than you, but I'm considerably stockier." If anything, Sherlock was making the situation worse. No one had tried to physically confront either of them since the debacle with Trevor and Sam, but the glares only intensified when the two of them were together.

"I know you can," Sherlock said shortly. "That doesn't mean that I like to leave you at their mercy. They are cruel, stupid things, these children. I don't like leave you in their clutches under normal circumstances."

"How sweet," John said, rolling his eyes. "You make me sound like a baby bird."

"Shh, John. I'm thinking."

And so John spent his lunch periods in relative silence, broken only when Sherlock decided to begin talking to no one in particular.

All I wanted, John thought miserably, was a nice, quiet year before university. That's all.

"Heard anything?" the tiny and increasingly familiar voice of Anthony Blithe asked.

He was standing behind John, looking down with his wide blue eyes.

"Hit a bit of a block in the investigation," John regretted to inform him. "That information has been inconsistent, and the lack of witnesses is astonishing."

"If only they had died," Sherlock sighed, as though the girls' survival was an enormous inconvenience. "Then I could at least examine that bodies for evidence, perhaps run some tests."

"Sherlock!" John looked at Anthony quickly, gauging his reaction. The boy, thankfully, did not seem horrified by Sherlock's callousness.

"Well, it would have sped up the investigation," Sherlock snapped, unrepentant.

John rubbed his eyes in weariness. Such comments had grown exponentially by the end of the weekend. The lack of information was driving Sherlock mad. The more time that passed, the less likely it was for them to catch the man responsible.

"We'll let you know if we find anything," John assured tiny Anthony Blithe. "How is Nicole doing?"

Anthony wilted. "She won't be coming back to school. She says that she's too scared of coming back until someone catches him."

"I understand," John grimaced. "I'd feel the same way in her position."

The attacker was on the hunt. He stood outside the school gates with a small smile on his face, wondering who would next be honored by his attentions.

That's how he saw it. An honor. After all, with all the beautiful young women in the world, he chose her. He wanted her. He understood that they didn't see it the same way, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew that they were scared, that they were in pain, but that's what made it…

Delicious.

The attacker sighed, waiting for some sign, some glimpse of long hair or of a plaid skirt, some signal that it was time for him to act again.

A flash of bright color caught his eye. It was one of those obnoxious flyers the academy do-gooders thought were making a difference. It had gotten out of the school somehow, dropped by a student or dragged out attached to someone's shoe. He picked up the electric pink abomination and prepared to crumple it up in disgust.

He froze, looking at it closer.

Of course.

The attacker thought he was brilliant. He wanted to send these campus vigilantes a message. He wanted them to know just how useless his efforts were.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

Sherlock was fiddling with his chemistry set without really doing anything when John threw the door open, rushed in, slammed the door shut behind him, locked it, and leaned against it heavily, panting as he did so.

Sherlock watched the series of actions numbly, barely giving any thought to it.

"You might want to hide," John finally said. "The We Hate Sherlock Club is out for blood."

"Boring," Sherlock said, going back to staring at his beakers. "What are they going to do to me? If they hurt me I can get them suspended and if they insult me I can tell reveal their darkest secrets. Honestly, why do people think that they can mess with me?"

John's lips twitched, but he didn't give in to his smile. "Well, like you said, people are stupid."

There was a knock on the door that had John jumping straight up into the air. Well, less of a knock and more of a thunderous pounding. Sherlock supposed that it made these insipid morons think they sounded tough and intimidating.

"Yes?" John called out hesitantly.

"We want to speak with Sherlock Holmes!"

"Why do you people think that your reasoning is based in logic!?" Sherlock finally exploded. "I was physically incapable of committing these crimes, so why are you so fixated on me when there is a sociopath using this school as a hunting ground for his own sick fantasies?"

"We know you know something!" Sally Donovan's voice permeated the solid wood of the door with surprising effectiveness.

"I know a lot of things," Sherlock responded, getting up and moving closer to the door. John moved out of the way and Sherlock put his weight of the wood, lowering his voice to a much quieter, and much more dangerous sounding level. "But I not know who hurt Jenny and Nicole. I know that you want to have somebody to blame, but pointing a finger at me with only serve to cloud your judgment. And, in all honesty," here Sherlock opened the door and looked Donovan in the eyes, "I probably could have had them in my bed with a few properly chosen words. I wouldn't need force." Donovan wasn't the only young woman standing in the hallway. Sherlock vaguely recognized Lily Hernandez, but was unable to pin a name to any other face. Not that they mattered. Sherlock fixed the full force of his silver gaze on Donovan.

Donovan flushed, but more in fury than anything else. "You think you're so special, don't you, you perverted narcissist?"

"Narcissist?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow and pretended to contemplate the term. "I suppose you're correct. Excellent diagnosis. Perverted? Incorrect assessment. If I was perverted, I believe I would have taken you up on the proposition you gave me last year."

This time Donovan's flush was pure embarrassment. The other girls looked at each other in confusion. Sherlock lowered his voice and leaned in further.

"If I recall correctly, you told me that you wouldn't tell anyone you caught me shooting cocaine if I became your little boyfriend and slave." Sherlock smiled, fondly recalling the memory, wondering, not for the first time, how bright eyes and high cheekbones managed to turn people into simpering sops of desire and incoherency. "You know what, Sally? I'll say to you right now what I said to you then." He leaned closer until his lips were at her ear. She appeared frozen in place, a blessing considering that Sherlock had expected a slap in the face.

He let each word fall like heavy raindrops striking dry ground.

"You. Repel. Me."

He leaned away and gave the girls an empty smile, what John had taken to calling his 'mask.' Donovan was on the verge of tears, and Lily looked homicidal, but Sherlock could not bring himself to care. He was more aware of John standing behind the door, disapproval radiating from every pore on his body.

"Have a nice day," Sherlock said, slamming the door shut.

"You are the actually the worst person to have ever existed," John spat, looking furious. "How could you humiliate her that way?"

"She started it," Sherlock said, admittedly a bit petulantly. He collapsed on John's bed, its proximity making it ideal for him to just fall back and stare at the ceiling without actually having to do any of that pesky 'walking' business.

"And did I hear you say you shot up cocaine?" John demanded, pushing Sherlock off the bed. Sherlock slid to the floor without protest, catching himself before his head smacked against the ground.

"Yep," Sherlock said, unashamed. "I've had some issues with it in the past."

John rubbed his face. He was looking particularly distraught, although Sherlock was unable to guess why. After all, he hadn't used in months. Mycroft had done nothing but insist that Sherlock get himself clean.

After a long while, John finally spoke. "I guess...I don't know. I mean, I sort of guessed that drugs were involved. I just never thought… I mean, I didn't realize that…" John exhaled and attempted to pull himself together. "I don't know, you just didn't exactly strike me as a junkie."

"I wasn't your common street corner user," Sherlock huffed. "And I was never a junkie. I used because I wanted to, not because I was physically dependent. I didn't smoke anything I got my hands on, and I didn't inject anything that promised a high."

Sherlock stood up and rolled his left sleeve back, showing John the barely visible scar from the first time he used it and completely screwed it up, stabbing the needle in multiple times and pushing it through the entire vein, leaving the inside of his elbow a bleeding, bruising mess.

The scar was a tiny prick of white a shade lighter than the rest of his skin. Invisible unless held under light and pointed out.

"Class A narcotics only," Sherlock explained robotically. "The highest quality, the purest that I could get. Cocaine. A seven percent solution, always injected, always in my left arm. I didn't overdose, I didn't overuse, just what I needed when I needed it. I was addicted, true, but my body didn't fall apart in its absence. I craved it, I didn't depend on it, understand the difference?"

"I guess," John said, but the expression of disgust didn't leave his face.

Sherlock pulled his sleeve back in place, smoothing out any wrinkles as he controlled the expression on his face. He knew that John would never understand. He knew that there would be rejection. Anything less was wishful thinking.

He had resigned himself to John giving him the cold shoulder, which was why he was shocked to his core when he suddenly felt himself being pulled into the tightest hug Sherlock could ever remember receiving.

"Don't you dare do that to yourself again, do you hear me?" John's voice was shaking, but firm. "The next time you feel the urge, come get me and I'll...I'll…"

Sherlock pulled away and regarded John with confusion. "You'll do what?"

"I don't know," John said helplessly. "I'll commit a triple homicide just to give you something to do."

Sherlock smiled slowly, deciding not to fight the expression.

"But seriously," John said, his expression turning from sad to furious as he smacked Sherlock in the arm.

"Ow!" Sherlock protested, moving back.

"I swear to God, Sherlock. If I find drugs, if I find any paraphernalia, if I find out that you didn't give Jenny all the coke back, I will not forgive you. You need to promise me that you won't do this shit again."

"Language," Sherlock rebuked him, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. "Fine. Whatever. I promise. You're only the ninth person I've made that promise to."

"Yeah, well, with me you better keep it. I swear to God Sherlock, I will not tolerate living with an addict."

Sherlock swallowed his irritation and went back to his chemistry set. He picked up a test tube and stared at its contents, unable to remember if it contained energy drink or something more dangerous.

He thought about his often made and broken promise and wondered if, for the first time, he actually intended to keep it.

The attacker had everything laid out before him. It was beautiful. The clear drug, the clean syringes, the gloves, the mask, the condom, the knife, and lastly, a shot of amber whisky to take the edge off his nerves.

Tonight was the night. Tonight had to be the night. He didn't think that he could wait any longer. The desire, no, the need was pounding inside of his head, making his skin crawl like an itch that was impossible to scratch.

He half heartedly tried to convince himself that this would be the last time, that just once more would get it out of his system and he could move on with his life, get back into his routine before he got caught.

But who was he kidding? Nothing compared to this. This was his drug.

In the end, he supposed, he was just another addict.