Sorry for the wait everyone! Please read and review! (although I didn't like this chapter and I almost cried) ~Lissa

Trigger warning for attempted rape. This chapter is actually pretty sad. :(

Sherlock sat down on a chair and held his drink in his hand. He looked around the room, deducing everyone in just a few minutes.

He couldn't believe the amount of idiots stuck in this room at the time, drinking cheap whiskey and beer and smoking something that suspiciously looked like weed.

"Eh mate, why're staying over here by yerself?" Patrick slurred out, slumping down next to Sherlock. He took a swig of beer and after swallowing, brought a cigarette to his mouth.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Bored."

"Bored? Why're ye bored? You're at a party, relax and have fun!" he giggled and chugged down his drink. "You're so uptight. Here, have a drink."

"No."

"No?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "No, I don't want one."

"Why not?" Patrick asked, frowning a bit and squinting his eyes.

"Because I don't want one. Because I don't want to become like my father. Because I don't want one."

Patrick lifted up his hands as if to apologize. "Alright mate..."

"I'm going out." Sherlock stood up and secured his coat around him. He found the front door and opened it, stepping out into the cold winter air. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his emergency cigarette and lighter, and quickly lit it up.

He inhaled and felt himself relax immediately, the smoke of the lit cigarette gathering around his face, blurring his eyesight for a second.

He might as well head home. The party was boring (as he had suspected before even arriving) and he had already finished deducing everyone here. He had snooped around a bit as well, learning a few things about the people who lived here.

The father was addicted to something; probably alcohol or heroin, and was having an affair. Sherlock could tell that the father and son weren't close at all and there was some history of abuse somewhere. The couple were probably out somewhere on a date, or maybe a weekend vacation.

There was no way that they would allow their son to have a college party in their home.

He took another drag and started walking towards campus. It wasn't very far from here, maybe a 10 minute walk. It was only 9 P.M, but the streets seemed deserted...he should be careful. He doesn't really know the area so well and he doesn't want to get lost.

Sherlock slipped his free hand into his pocket and felt around for his pocket knife. He felt relieved when his hand touched its' cold blade; it made him feel safe to carry it around. Sure, it was pretty small but it was sharp and if he wanted, he could hurt someone with it.

It was only for protection anyway.

Dad had given him this pocket knife when he was just 7 years old. He had already started snooping around and trying detective work at that age, and dad felt that he needed something to protect him in case something happened. The knife had been in the family, and grandfather had given it to dad when he was 14.

Sherlock took so much pride in carrying it. It was the only thing dad had ever given him, apart from the few pounds he received during birthdays and Christmas. It was one of his most prized possessions, apart from his violin of course.

He suddenly heard footsteps behind him...not too far, but too close for comfort at this time of the night. Throwing away his cigarette on the floor, he picked up his pace and tightened his grip of the knife handle. Sherlock made a quick turn and headed quickly for campus; he could already see the main building.

He wasn't far. He could make it in time.

Sherlock took a sharp turn and walked faster. He heard the footsteps behind him get faster and closer to him.

Suddenly, he turned around.

"Stop following me!"

Sherlock breathed heavily, then slowly realized who had been following him for the past 5 minutes.

Jeremy.

The boy wore a sweater and torn up jeans, and he looked angry. From what Sherlock could see, Jeremy's nostrils were flaring and his eyes were red and puffy.

"Sod off," Sherlock said as he started walking again.

Jeremy followed him again and picked up his pace.

"I said leave me alone. Can't you hear?" Sherlock asked again, stopping to face the boy.

"Why should I?"

"Oh, are you really playing this with me? Leave me alone."

"No."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're intoxicated, Jeremy."

"So?" he moved closer to the young detective.

Warning signs went off in Sherlock's mind and he stepped back. His hand slipped into his coat pocket again and he retrieved the knife.

"Step back."

Jeremy laughed. Even in his laugh he sounded drunk. "You think your little princess knife is gonna stop me?"

"Stop you from doing what?" Sherlock asked. "You better stay away from me."

"You know what? This is all your fault." Jeremy started. He inched closer to the young detective.

"Oh?"

"You think you're all special, don't you? With your little fancy coat and shoes and all. You think you're too good for me?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "I—"

"Did I say you could fucking speak?!" Jeremy yelled at him.

Sherlock smirked and barely flinched. "You never said I couldn't."

"Smartass. You deserve what's coming to you."

"What's coming to me?" Sherlock eyed Jeremy. He suddenly realized what was about to happen. "Stay back."

The other laughed again and lunged at Sherlock, grabbing the detective by the collar.

Sherlock reached for his knife and swiftly cut Jeremy in the ribs. The cut wasn't deep, but it was enough to make Jeremy yelp. Yet, he didn't let go.

Jeremy stabbed Sherlock in the shoulder with something...it was small and thin. A needle. Oh God, a needle.

He was being drugged.

Sherlock couldn't think. The one time he really needed to think and defend himself; he couldn't. He was powerless.

"S—stop," he breathed out, his voice sounding far and faint. He couldn't move or think or defend himself. His mind went foggy and his limps were like jelly. No matter how hard he tried to push the bigger man off, he couldn't. Jeremy had him pinned to the wall.

He froze when Jeremy's hand were on his belt buckle.

"Please stop, stop,"

"Shut up you little bitch. You deserve this, you little stuck up prude. You think you're too good for me, don't you? Well not anymore. I'm going to have you and you can't do anything about it."

"W—why?" the words barely left Sherlock's lips.

A hand lashed out and slapped Sherlock across the face harshly.

"I said shut up,"

Sherlock could smell something strong on Jeremy's breath. He tried to move again, but he had lost control over his limbs completely.

Jeremy pulled on Sherlock's trousers and let them fall to the floor with a thump. "Still think you're too good for me?" Jeremy snickered, kicking Sherlock's trousers to his left.

This was happening so fast, he hadn't had the time to fully contemplate—

By now, Sherlock was shaking and panicking, and he wanted to cry.

Why didn't he?

"Oi!" someone yelled. "Take this inside, this is private property!"

...John?

"J—ohn" Sherlock mumbled. Inside his mind, he was screaming.

"Shut up," Jeremy whispered. He clamped a hand down on Sherlock's mouth and turned back.

"Eh, yeah sure." he called out to John.

John however felt something was wrong. He picked up his pace. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine!" Jeremy yelled again, his voice an octave higher. He sounded nervous.

John started running as soon as he saw someone pinned to the wall. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. The person wasn't moving, or talking.

"What the hell?!" he exclaimed as he reached the wall. He pushed Jeremy off and his heart almost stopped when he saw Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? What did the bastard do to you?!"

Jeremy started running.

"J—ohn, he's...getting away"

John looked worried. He smoothed down Sherlock's hair and checked his pupils.

"The bastard drugged you, didn't he? I'm not letting him get away with this Sherlock, but first we have to get you somewhere safe..."

Sherlock panicked again when John reached for his discarded trousers.

"Don't...touch me."

A saddened look covered the teacher's face. "Oh, Sherlock. I won't hurt you. We need to get that nasty cut on your arm patched up..."

As if on cue, Sherlock's arm seemed like it was on fire.

"We need to tell the police. Come, Sherlock."

"N—o. No police,"

John sighed and reached for Sherlock. He carefully picked him up. "Fine, Sherlock. No cops. Come on."

Sherlock let a whimper escape his lips as John carefully carried him to the parking lot. He felt so stupid, so helpless...where was John bringing him?

"Where?"

John understood. "I'm bringing you to my apartment. I have a first aid kit there...and I'm not letting you stay by yourself in your dorm."

John put him in the back of his car and went to the front. He started his car and drove away from the campus, speeding a little.

In the back, Sherlock did everything he could not to cry. That was the first time in his life he felt so vulnerable and powerless...and he didn't like it.

Why did it happen to him? Was Jeremy right? Did he deserve this for saying no to him? ...was he really a prude?

He sniffled and closed his eyes. His limbs still felt heavy, but he could move a little. John looked in the rear view mirror worriedly.

"Shh...I'm almost home, alright? I'll take care of you. This wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

That was the last thing Sherlock remembered before he blacked out.

Sherlock woke up a few hours later. He found himself in a bed, covered with soft white sheets. Where there used to be cuts and nicotine patches on his upper arm, there now was small bandages and band aids. The cut on his arm and shoulder was patched.

He frantically checked if he still had his clothes on, and sighed relieved when he saw that his shirt was still on. He had his boxer shorts back on, and he remembered that Jeremy had thrown his trousers when...when the incident happened.

His head hammered.

"John?"

He waited and heard someone stumbling in the hallway, running to the room. John burst the door open and looked around the room. He had a silver gun in his hand.

"Sherlock, hi," he said softly, still standing in the hallway. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded and hugged his knees.

John put his gun down, but still stayed in the doorway.

"Why are you standing there?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I've...had lots of experience with people recovering from shock, Sherlock. They like their personal space." John explained.

"Oh."

"Yeah." John shifted on his feet.

"What's the gun for?"

"Oh, this? It's for protection. I have them everywhere around the flat."

Sherlock nodded again and sniffled. His throat felt dry and he looked around the room. "I'm thirsty."

"I have a cup of tea ready in the kitchen, I'll bring it to you," John said, turning around.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, jumping up from his position on the bed. "Don't leave me!"

John's face softened. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you...would you like to come with me to the kitchen?"

Sherlock followed close behind the teacher as they walked to the kitchen. The flat was clean and nice, and smelled faintly of cologne and peppermint tea.

John handed Sherlock a cup of tea and led him to the living room, where Sherlock sat down on the couch. He tucked his legs in beneath his body and sipped on the beverage.

"I'm...sorry for all the trouble," he whispered.

John sincerely shook his head. "There was no trouble, Sherlock."

"I let it happen. It's all my fault." tears started pooling in the younger man's eyes.

"It's not your fault, Sherlock. It's never the victim's fault. What happened was wrong, and I'll have the bastard thrown in jail for it."

Sherlock froze. "Did you tell the police?"

"No, you told me not to. So I didn't."

"...Thank you."

He sipped his tea again and tried to wipe the oncoming tears from his eyes. John was worried.

"Sherlock...do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock shook his head and put his tea down. He stood up and moved to where John was sitting and threw his arms around the teacher.

John stilled, surprised by the sudden movement but hugged the young man back. Sherlock shook and the tears started flowing. He cried.

It had been years since he had let himself cry. He hadn't shed a tear since his father died when he was younger, and now he was letting everything out.

"I can't tell the police," he mumbled between sobs. "Not now."

John nodded and carefully patted Sherlock's back.

"If you hadn't arrived when you did..."

"Shh, Sherlock."

"An—d if Mycroft finds out, he'll skin him and his family alive."

The teacher nodded again and ran a hand through Sherlock's curls.

Everything that had been bottled up since he was 10 years old was being let out now. He cried for all he was worth, and when he was done, he looked up. His face was red and his eyes were puffy.

He looked at John's shoulder, where the fabric was soaked from his tears. He awkwardly laughed.

John looked at his shoulder and offered Sherlock a smile.

"I'll make some more tea."

Roll around on the floor.

Try not to cry.

Cry a lot.

Because this chapter was sad.