Trigger Warnings: This covers the very controversial topic of school shootings and their consequences. If this topic makes you upset, please do yourself a favour and skip this story.

Unfortunate Circumstances

Sherlock looked over his shoulder before moving around the Headmaster's desk and rifling through the files hidden in the bottom left drawer. Standing guard at the door, John glanced over to see what Sherlock was getting up to. His eyes widened, "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed urgently. "I thought you were going to go through the A-levels or something, not riffle through his things! We will be in even more trouble!"

Sherlock scoffed, "Don't be ridiculous, John. We were not called in here because we are in trouble." He closed the drawer he was riffling through and stood up, walking towards the window behind the oversized desk chair. Lightly, he swiped his fingers across the sill and brought them to his face, rubbing them together.

Sherlock hummed to himself and bent down beside the desk to peek at the garbage bin under the desk. He frowned and reached into his jacket pocket for a pencil so he could go through it.

"Then what exactly are we here for, oh great detective?" John said, sarcasm dripping in his voice. His eyes trained on the mobile in his hand.

"Copies of the A-level exams that the school received for review yesterday afternoon have gone missing. The headmaster wants us to investigate, obviously." He stood, eyes scanning the desk. "It was the exams minus language A-levels that most of the students here are set to take, so it makes sense to steal those rather than, say, the Greek History A-levels or, dare I say, History of Art. And if I am correct, which I almost always am," Sherlock moved over to the Headmaster's planner, picking it up to keep at the papers stacked below, and nodded his head, "Yes, as I expected, those exams were right here."

"Is that so?" John asked distractedly.

"If you insist on pretending to listen to me rather than actually doing so, which is only for your benefit, I might add, then at least try and put some interest into your tone. Besides, that text you are waiting for won't come for another hour. Sarah is in mathematics, and her professor collects everyone's phones at the beginning of class."

John snapped his phone closed and placed it in his pocket, "I wasn't waiting on a text from Sarah." His cheeks reddened, and he turned to glare over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was giving him a 'Why even bother? You know I am right' smirk. "Besides, how can you be so certain that you aren't here because he believes that you were the one that stole them?"

Sherlock snorted as he stood up beside the desk and wiped off his pants. "I knew the questions that would likely be on the exam before the school even received them. Besides, I wasn't in school when the crime happened. So I would be the last person to suspect."

"That is exactly what makes it the perfect crime. No one would expect the absent one to be the one to steal the exams."

"Never become a detective, John. There are enough idiots on the force without you making it worse. Besides, the person responsible was smart enough to work out that they could make good money off the desperate idiots here, but not smart enough to make copies rather than take the originals."

John turned towards the door and motioned for Sherlock to get away from the desk, "He's coming. ETA 10 seconds." He backed away from the door and slipped into one of the two seats in front of the Headmaster's desk, taking his phone out and opening up Snake. Sherlock took the other one, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. They both looked up towards the door as the Headmaster entered. Faces the epitome of innocence.

"Morning, boys."

"Morning, Headmaster Smith." The boys chorused dutifully.

They watched while he placed his coat and scarf on the coat rack, hair messy from the heavy winds outside. The bottoms of his pants were soaked from the puddles leftover from the early morning rain.

Headmaster Smith sat down heavily in his seat, wiping his brow with a handkerchief as he looked over the papers on his desk. "Right, well, as you have probably already know, being you that is, several of the A-level exams went missing last night."

"Yes, I heard several professors discussing it this morning before Homeroom." Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "Do you know who may be responsible?"

"I was hoping you did, Mr Holmes."

"No one would be stupid enough to give me the answers to the exam- I would use it to my advantage as blackmail," Sherlock said simply, with a shrug of his shoulders. "There are several clues here that point to it being multiple people if you wish for me to investigate. Perhaps you could tell me what you remember from yesterday?"

John pulled a notebook from his bag and flipped to the last two pages, pencil poised.

"Well, I left the office at half five for a meeting with an old friend at Café Nervosa. Before I left, I placed the copies under my planner and locked my office. About an hour later, Ms Fleur came to collect the key to my office. She misplaced hers on Monday and needed a couple of the files. Not ten minutes later, she called me on my mobile frantically."

John stood and smiled at them before leaving the room, firmly closing the door behind them. He may not be Sherlock, but he could at the very least interview Ms Fleur for her side of the story. "The door to my room had been ajar, and low and behold! Her key was in the lock."

"How did you know it was her key?" Sherlock asked, stepping up from his chair to walk around the room, hands behind his back.

"She is an organised one, she is. Everything of hers is organised in colours. Red means home, yellow means car and blue means work. She had the master key for this office painted blue. The key in the lock was blue. It doesn't exactly take a detective to figure out.

"John, Key, Blue!" Sherlock shouted through the door.

"Sherlock, rude, shut up!" John called back.

"Go on, Headmaster, what happened after she found the door to your office open?"

"She waited until I arrived, it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, and we searched the room. At first, it didn't seem like anything was missing, and nothing had been broken. It wasn't until I sat down to my desk this morning to review the A-level exams that I noticed they were missing."

Sherlock bent down and picked something up from the ground, ".5 lead container for a BIC mechanical pencil." He commented, taking a tissue from the desk and placing it inside. "Might I have sandwich bags? I would like to gather as much evidence as possible. Your assistant has a box in her top left drawer."

"Ms Fleur, send in the unopened box of sandwich bags, please."

The tall blonde woman handed the box to Sherlock with a strained smile. He was not her favourite student. At least once a year, he would complain loudly about the classes he was forced to take and demand changes be made to his schedule. "Mr Holmes, fancy seeing you again."

"Ms Fleur, I trust that affair with Professor Rouke is going well?" Sherlock asked dryly, accepting the box and placing it on the desk. She turned and walked out of the room, closing the door sharply behind herself, "Apparently not." he said, utterly unaffected by the encounter.

"I am sure you realise, Mr Holmes. I wish to know the person's identity to make sure they are properly dealt with. These exams are important for University acceptances as well as scholarships. So you can comprehend the importance of making sure those responsible are caught."

"Of course, Headmaster." Sherlock frowned, noticing a scratch on the desk hidden beneath the A-level papers. "Did you happen to find anything yesterday upon arrival?"

"Ah yes, there was a broken piece of lead from a mechanical pencil at the table by the window. Several pieces of lead for a mechanical pencil were beside it- they must've refilled their pencil when the lead broke."

"Their original idea was likely to copy the answers rather than take the sheets," Sherlock said, snorting. "He would've been better off using his phone and taking photos of the exams. This is the technological era. What idiot copies anything by hand nowadays?"

"Yes, well, that is not all I found." He moved the rest of the A-level exams to show Sherlock a three centimetre scratch in the oak wood. "This was not here yesterday morning, and as you could see, it is quite deep. It is almost as if a paper cutter or something was used. The last thing found was one of those kneadable rubber erasers that the art students use. It had some type of black powder on it, which was a bit odd- there is nothing the art students would use that hold that consistency."

"Give it here," Sherlock demanded as he walked up to the desk.

"Excuse me?"

"The eraser," he said impatiently. "You still have it, don't you?"

"Yes, of course." He reached over his desk to retrieve a tissue before reaching into the top drawer and producing the kneaded eraser for Sherlock to look at.

Frowning, Sherlock took it in hand and reached into his back pocket for his portable magnifying glass. "Interesting," he muttered to himself. "You are correct in assuming no Art student would have anything to use that is of this consistency. Even charcoal is heavier. I'll be taking this with me to run some tests." Sherlock placed it in one of the sandwich bags and put it on the table beside the bag that held the lead. "Is that all there is to know?"

"Yes, that is all I am afraid. There were no footprints or anything else of the sort." He stared at Sherlock, who had fallen silent, "Do you think you could find out who did it, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock scoffed, not even bothering to answer the man's question. "I'll have your culprits before tomorrow's end. Might I be excused from classes for the day?"

"Very well, I will notify your professors that you are to be excused from today's lessons."

Sherlock gathered up his evidence and opened the office door, storming out. "John, let's go. We have a case to solve."

John rolled his eyes and nodded goodbye to Ms Fleur before grabbing his bag from the foot of her desk and following his friend out, the door closing sharply behind him as they disappeared around the corner.

"What did you get?" Sherlock asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"That American student, Williams, was in the office at around half three frantic about A-levels and asking for some pointers for the exam."

"That is absurd. They have similar exams in America, and he isn't exactly an idiot. So why would he be nervous?"

"He is new to the country and has been teased constantly about being an idiot American. I am sure that must've had some effect on his self-esteem."

Sherlock snorted, "Americans are as intelligent as much of the civilised world. He, in particular, is going to score higher on A-levels than most in our class. So he needn't worry about what those drooling idiots think."

"That was almost nice, Sherlock," John said with a slight smile.

"Mere fact, I wasn't trying to be nice."

"Anyway, according to the records I pulled up while Ms Fleur retrieved some tea, the exams he is set to sit are-"

"Biology, Chemistry, Psychology, Mathematics and Anthropology- he wants to go into some medical program in Uni."

"If you already know, why bother asking?" John asked irritably.

"I didn't, but that is the obvious conclusion. So do continue, John."

"Well, he was the only person in the office before Headmaster Smith left for tea. The exams arrived when he was in a meeting with him."

"He would have seen where they were placed. The only other person other than him and the Headmaster is Ms Fleur. We know that Ms Fleur's key had gone missing, which means someone had been planning to steal the exams."

"It couldn't have been a coincidence?"

"John, stop tutoring Anderson. His IQ is rubbing off on you." John scowled, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes. "There is no such thing as a coincidence. Now, to make sure your IQ hasn't dropped any lower, where do you think the entrance was from?"

"I would say the door, Sherlock." John pushed open the doors separating the Administrative Department from the Arts Department.

"How obvious, why?"

"Well, the key in the lock for one, but the other reason is that there is no way to open the windows in this building. So, unless he climbed through the air vents- the door."

"Very good. There is hope for you yet." Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "What do you say the lead was for?"

"Lead pencil." Sherlock stared at him, un-amused until he continued. "I don't know. Did he copy the answers by hand?"

"Yes, why? Why copy it by hand if you could use a mobile."

"Could it be that his phone had died?"

"Perhaps. What are the other options?"

"That he left it at home, lost it, merely didn't have one." John shrugged.

"Right, assuming that it would take the person about twenty minutes to copy the answers from each exam- and the essay questions with the points on what should be looked for while grading. Since the English Literature exam was a bit rumpled, that is the one they finished copying and placed back.

"They had been writing so frantically that they the pencil's lead. That is why there were several fresh pieces on the side table. The case for the lead was on the floor between the desk and the door, which meant that they were in such a hurry that they dropped it on the way out."

"I get why they were in a hurry, but you wouldn't be able to hear someone unless they were at the door already. But by then, they would've been caught." John pointed out with a frown, "How did he get around that?"

Sherlock frowned, "I don't know, but I'll find out soon."

John stopped, catching the evidence Sherlock had in his hands and grabbing the bag with the kneaded rubber eraser. "Sherlock, that is the stuff we used in Forensic Science class yesterday for fingerprinting."

"Are you sure, John?"

"Yes, I am bloody well sure! That black stuff on the eraser is fingerprint powder. It got all over everything yesterday. We used it for latent fingerprint testing. These erasers were used for the plastic prints, and red paint was used for the visible fingerprinting." John sighed and handed the bag back to Sherlock, "Had you been in the lab yesterday, you would've known that."

"That explains the state of your hands and clothes yesterday," Sherlock muttered, pausing before his eyes widened. "John, we must go back to the Headmaster's office!" Then, turning on his heel, he raced through the corridor, shoving open the door separating the Administrative and Art Departments leaving John to catch up.

"Sherlock, what's going on‽" John called.

"Paint, I am certain that there was some under the desk- I need to just double check something." He raced into the room and barded into the Headmaster's office. "Headmaster, I need to have a look under the desk!"

"Mr Holmes?"

"Move, now, please." Sherlock bent down and crawled under the desk when the Headmaster moved. He held out his hand, "Mobile."

John pulled out his mobile and handed it to Sherlock, watching as he opened up the flashlight app and ducked back under the table, "Yes! Red paint in the creases of the wood!"

"Red paint? Whatever from?" The Headmaster exclaimed.

"The forensic science class was doing fingerprint analysis yesterday. Red paint was used- it could be an art student using red in their painting, but given the circumstances and other evidence, I would say the person we are looking for is in John's and my Forensic Science Lab."

"Why would there be paint under there for?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock said with an air of superiority.

"Explain it anyway."

"The person copying the answers heard someone come into the front office and knew that they had no time to get out of the room, so they ducked under the desk when Ms Fleur entered. The desk goes to the floor except for the final 1/2 inch, and they would be hidden from view unless Ms Fleur walked around the desk.

"As the desk is quite cramped, they were probably crouched and held onto the sides of the desk to hold them steady. Sweat and rubbing against the wood would cause some of the red paint to stick to the sides of the desk."

"Which means had Ms Fleur merely looked around, we would have had the culprit and all of this avoided?"

"Probably," Sherlock frowned for a minute. "Adrian Williams was in your office yesterday afternoon, according to Ms Fleur- was there anyone else? She said no, but perhaps while she was away on an errand?"

"Two other students that came in just as Mr Williams was leaving. Ms Fleur was tending to some personal matters."

"Who?"

"Mr Anderson and Ms Donovan."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Sherlock stormed out of the room, John on his heels.

"Both of them are in our Forensics class," John said as he hurried after Sherlock.

"Williams does not take Forensics, does he?" Sherlock stopped short, causing John to bump into him.

"He took it last year. This year he is an art elective if I remember correctly."

"Oh, I would love to get Anderson on this," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his hands together.

"Wasn't Anderson," John said, with his arms folded across his chest.

"How could you possibly know that?" Sherlock snapped, "I don't even know."

"Anderson was with me at Football practice from until dark- we talked during the break. He didn't have the time."

"You have an alibi for Donovan too?" Sherlock sneered.

"No, I have no idea where she was. I do know she's been seen on dates with Williams, however. From what Sarah says, it is a way to get Anderson jealous."

Sherlock scowled but left the room, "I need to think, don't follow me."

Johns stared helplessly at his friend's back as he retreated down the corridor. If Sherlock wanted to be alone, then he best go to class.

o0o

John sat at his desk, nibbling at the end of his pencil. His head was leaning on his fist as he stared down at his textbook, studying over the notes from the previous day, highlighting the parts he found important and putting a star on the things he needed Sherlock's help with. It had been over three hours since he heard from Sherlock, but he wasn't too worried. When Sherlock was concentrated on a case, everything else fell to the wayside.

"Hey, John," Sarah slid into the chair beside him, crossing her legs and throwing him a flirty smile.

"Hey, Sarah." John pushed his hand through his hair, "Sorry about Friday. Sherlock was feeling ill, and I needed to take him home." He was still annoyed at Sherlock for that one, especially since he was back to normal as soon as they were back in the car.

"It's quite alright." Sarah smiled, "is Sherlock feeling better? He hasn't been in any classes this morning."

John scowled, "He's just fine."

"That's great to hear!" Sarah smiled, tracing a design on the desk by his forearm. "Well, how about we pick up where we left off on Friday, say… next Saturday?"

"William Holmes?"

"It's Sherlock, Professor," John said out of habit, wincing slightly as the class turned to him.

"As I tell William every day, given that Sherlock isn't his first name, it is not the one he will be addressed by, Mr Watson."

John shrugged, "It isn't a hill worth dying on, Professor."

She ignored him and continued down the list, allowing him to turn back to Sarah with a smile. "I'd love to continue where we left off. But, what —" John trailed off, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. A pit of unexplainable dread started to form in his stomach.

"Are you all right, John?" Sarah asked.

John opened his mouth to brush it off, ignoring the sharp, twisting feeling.

"Something's wrong," he murmured under his breath.

"Is it Sherlock?"

"I—" John furrowed his brow, shaking his head.

He was cut off by the shouts of alarm and terror filtering through the window.

The hair on the back of his neck stood, and he stood, his chair falling, a loud clanging against the tiled floors.

"What was that!?"

"What's going on?"

John shook his head and focused. Then, through the murmuring of his classmates, he heard it. The sounds of shouting, tones of urgency and screams of terror floating through the window made his blood turn cold.

Suddenly, the lockdown alarm blared. Followed by two gunshots.

Bang.

Bang.

The sound washed over the classroom, creating a blanket of silence over the teenagers. He could practically hear their hearts beating frantically in their chests as reality started to sink in.

Bang.

The students jumped into action, pulling the curtains over the windows and door. Shutting off the lights, and barricading the door with their desks, chairs, anything they could get their hands on as soon as Professor Palmer had locked the door.

"Duck down as low as you can and stay as far away from any openings. And for god sake, be quiet. All phones should be on silent." She urged them in a high whisper, watching to make sure they were doing as they were told before sliding under her desk, fingers moving quickly over the keys of her phone.

Terror raked its claws through John's brain as he ran over scenario after scenario. He had some training from Mycroft, less than Sherlock but much more than the twenty other terrified students and the professor in the classroom.

John wanted to scream but followed her orders. He never understood how turning off all the lights, covering the windows and acting like quiet sitting ducks were supposed to protect them. Mycroft had reiterated the same thing in his training, adding that he should do so if he could get out without being caught or somehow disarm the perp. But only if he could do so without sacrificing himself or others.

He huddled by Sarah in the back corner of the room and tried to tune out the whimpers and sobs that surrounded him. First, he had to check in on Sherlock, make sure the idiot wasn't one of the people shot.

div class="phone"

p class="messagebody"

span class="header"Sherlock/spanbrbr

span class="time"bToday/b 12:42 AM/spanbr /

span class="breply"Sherlock, where are you?/spanbrbr

span class="breply"Are you safe?/spanbrbr

/p/div

His stomach twisted as he waited for a response that never came. He quickly searched through his phone for Mycroft's number five minutes later. His hands were shaking as he pressed the CALL button.

He put the volume down to its lowest setting, trying to minimise the noise from the room, but he could feel the stares pinned to him.

The phone rang once, twice, and then a third time. It was then that he began to panic. Mycroft always answered by the second ring.

The line rang several more times before going to voicemail.

"You've reached the voicemail of Mycroft Holmes. Leave a message, and I will get back to you at my earliest convenience. BEEP."

"M-Mycroft, something is going on at the school. You have to come quickly, please. I don't know where Sherlock is or if he is hurt—"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Some of the students couldn't contain their gasps and cries of fear. He flinched. Panic rose within him.

"Mycroft, hurry!"

He hung up the phone and shakily typed a text to Mycroft and a couple of his associates. If he was in a meeting, his secretary, or Lestrade, would get the message and call him out.

He had to do something. He couldn't just sit there. Not when Sherlock was missing and could be hurt or…

John took a few steadying breaths and slowly rose to his feet. Sarah reached up to grab at his sleeve, her eyes wide as she started up at him, terrified.

"Mr Watson, sit down." Professor Palmer hissed frantically.

He took another deep breath and shook his head. They would be sending him for a psych eval after this.

John leaned down and took Sarah's phone from her hand, quickly typing in Mycroft and Anthea's numbers. "Don't stop calling them. Keep calling until one of them answers. I need to find Sherlock."

Sarah nodded, "Be careful, John." Then, taking back her phone and pressing CALL, she leaned the phone against her ear, lips pursed in concentration.

John walked to the door and pushed several of the desks away, and moved the bookshelf until it made just enough room for him to wiggle through the door. "Put this all back when I leave. Don't answer the door for anyone."

"Mr Watson—"

"I'll be fine." John cut her off and slipped through the opening, firmly shutting the door behind him. Before descending the dead corridor, he waited a moment, listening to the shuffling of furniture behind him.

He needed to find Sherlock.

o0o

Mycroft swallowed down a sigh. He had to be in what was considered the most boring MI:6 meeting he had ever been forced to attend. He didn't understand why he had to be at this one, a mere financial budget meeting when there were many other national and international issues to deal with, but he hadn't been able to come up with an excuse quick enough to get out it.

The sound of hurried heels on polished floors met Mycroft's ears before the door to the conference room was open. Anthea appeared, looking as put together as usual, but he could read the sense of urgency. "Mr Holmes, there's an emergency."

Mycroft cleared his throat and stood from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket. "Excuse me, Gentlemen."

He closed the door behind him and sighed heavily, "Thank you for that, Anthea."

"Don't thank me yet, Sir."

Mycroft's eyes popped open, "Pardon?"

Anthea showed him her phone screen.

div class="phone"

p class="messagebody"

span class="header"John (Sherlock), Mycroft, G. Lestrade/spanbrbr

span class="time"bToday/b 12:54 PM/spanbr /

span class="text"SOS/spanbrbr

span class="text"Shooting at school. Sherlock missing./spanbrbr

/p/div

Horror. Absolute, bone-chilling horror-filled Mycroft's body.

Sherlock.

He read over John's text message again before pulling out his phone. "Why didn't he—" He had. Mycroft cursed his stupidity and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Twenty minutes. John had been trying to contact him about a school shooting for twenty minutes.

"The car is downstairs, Sir."

Mycroft nodded and started towards the stairs, the elevator would take too long, and he had already wasted enough time.

"Someone is trying to call," Anthea said. "Unknown number."

Mycroft took the phone from her and answered. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Sir! It's Sarah. I'm Sherlock and John's classmate." She was whispering frantically. He could just pick up the sniffles of others through the line.

"Sarah, are you safe?" He asked, jumping down the steps two at a time, Anthea at his heels. "Where are John and Sherlock?"

"Yes, Sir, we are still safe. I am afraid I don't know where they are. John left to find Sherlock. He gave me your assistant's number to see if I could get a hold of you."

"John did what!?"

"H-he left. John told us to stay, but he's out unarmed! No one knows what happened with Sherlock. No one has seen him all morning, and we heard gunshots..."

BANG!

Sarah and her classmates whimpered, letting out muffled shouts of horror through the phone, "Please help us, Mr Holmes."

"We'll be there soon." Mycroft hung up the phone as he and Anthea jumped into the backseat of his unmarked car.

He dialled Lestrade's number, fingers tapping against his thigh while the car quickly made its way down the street towards Sherlock's school.

"We are already here, Mycroft."

"Where is my brother?"

"Don't have eyes on him yet, I'm 'fraid. We were able to get a couple of classes out from the back of the school as far as we could safely go. SCO19 is working on getting into the building now."

o0o

John was sure that searching for his best friend while an active shooter in the school was at the top of the list of the stupidest things he's ever done. He would be in so much trouble with so many people if he got out alive.

He turned a corner and barely took a step into the library when, from above him, there were two loud bangs, quickly followed by screams.

John swallowed heavily as he stared, wide-eyed at the ceiling. He had to find Sherlock, and quick. "Sherlock!" He hissed, running through the Library, checking dark corners and under desks as he went. He slipped around a corner, away from the stairwell leading to the second floor and along a small corridor that led to the study rooms.

"SHERLOCK!" He whispered as loud as he could. "C'mon, where are you!?"

He was about to round another corner when two more gunshots sounded from around the bend. He stopped abruptly, the bullets hitting the wall just ahead of him. He started stepping backwards, freezing when his step back caused him to run into something.

He turned, heart, squeezing. "Oh, Sherlock, thank god."

"We have to go, now, John." Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and pulled him in the direction he had just come from. Sherlock must have been in one of the rooms he passed.

John followed Sherlock back down the corridor. Their footsteps, while light, still echoed, making them easy to follow. John hoped they were far enough ahead that the gunman wouldn't be able to tell where they were.

Sherlock dragged John through the corridors at the back of the Library. Few students knew of it. John only knew where they were going because he stumbled upon Sherlock there once. They took the first right, fifth left, down to where there was a fork in the corridor and took the left side, all the way to the end where there was a hidden study room that was used as storage.

More gunshots sounded behind them, but John refused to look back, hoping that the winding path would confuse who was after them. They were about to turn the final corner when John caught sight of the shooter down the corridor opposite where they needed to go.

Sherlock backtracked and pressed his body to John's, keeping them close and out of eyeshot. John screwed his eyes shut and pushed his face into Sherlock's neck, his hands twisting in Sherlock's uniform shirt as he held his breath and listened to what was going on.

He could feel Sherlock's hot breath in his ear as the boy pressed closer to him, body going stiff upon hearing footsteps approaching. Of course, he would think it a figment of his imagination when he examined the memory later. Still, he swore that he felt Sherlock's lips shakily press to his cheek and a streak of wetness when Sherlock pressed the side of his face to his, hiding his face in John's shoulder and keeping them as still as possible.

The footsteps stopped a couple of metres from around the corner and turned back down the corridor. John and Sherlock relaxed against each other and waited until the footsteps faded completely before pulling away.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and led him down the corridor to the room. He pushed down on the handle, and it opened quickly enough. John was able to glance at Sherlock's face — pale, which made the tear tracks and his grey shining eyes stand out, his jaw set in determination– before the boy followed him in and shut the door behind them, just as more gunshots were heard overhead.

It was pitch black in the room, the only light source coming from underneath the door. Sherlock moved to the back of the room to sit on one of the desks, moving with much more grace than John ever could. The same natural grace that served him well on the football team, or rather, did, Sherlock got kicked off mid-season for calling Coach Smith an idiot.

John tripped over a stack of cardboard boxes, squeezing his eyes shut as they tumbled to the floor, textbooks sliding across the tile.

"Be careful, John!" Sherlock hissed, pulling on his sleeve and dragging John to sit next to him. "You'll get us caught."

John pulled himself up to sit beside Sherlock on the shaky dusky desk beside his friend.

"Where have you been?" John whispered, ignoring the flare of heat at his ears from his clumsiness.

Sherlock scoffed."Finding out that Anderson's girlfriend caught him and Donovan last night."

"How can you possibly know that?" John whispered.

"I heard her crying to her friends in the football field," Sherlock admitted, huffing a breath and pushing his hair out of his eyes.

He hesitated momentarily before suddenly pulling on John's sleeve to get him to look at him."I'm sorry I left you, John."

John rolled his eyes, "Don't be ridiculous. Even you wouldn't have been able to deduce a school shooting, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled at that, and John shoved his shoulder. He wouldn't allow Sherlock to blame himself. Despite how he acted, Sherlock would allow the death and injury of every single person in the school to weigh him down if given a chance. John couldn't let him fall into such despair.

"I mean it, Sherlock. This is in no way your fault."

"..."

"Sherlock."

"I know, John," Sherlock said softly. They sat in silence for several minutes before Sherlock shifted. "It was Donovan who took the examinations."

"Oh, what're you going to tell the Headmaster?"

Sherlock shifted, pulling a leg up onto the desk and leaning an elbow on top. "Why do you think I am not going to say it's Donovan?"

"Because despite everything, you don't hate her."

Sherlock laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "Would you know, the examinations magically appeared back on the Headmaster's desk during lunch? He called me into his office, saying they must've gotten mixed up with his paperwork. It was the funniest thing."

John smiled. "That was nice of you."

"Hardly. Do you know how much blackmail I have on her now?"

John snorted and bumped his shoulder with Sherlock's. "How long do you think we will be stuck in here?"

"Those who weren't in classes have been trying to get out of the building. There's a bottleneck that will be hard to get through. I imagine they are the primary targets. The police are trying to break that up as much as possible and get them out."

John leaned his head back, "What about everyone else? Whoever has that gun could be anywhere… What is that?" A sound echoed someone down the corridor from them. John could barely make it out from where they sat.

"Footsteps, get down!" Sherlock urged, pushing John down and under the desk before huddling in front of him.

"Do you think it's the police?" John asked, leaning his chin on Sherlock's shoulder as he tried to peer around his head.

Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing with the movement. "Too soft, especially since it's Lestrade's unit out there."

John closed his eyes and listened. The steps stopped now and then. It didn't take Sherlock to realise that the gunman was pausing to check around corners for victims or police.

As the footsteps grew louder, John pressed himself closer to the wall, pulling Sherlock back with him. "Did you remember the lock?"

Sherlock froze, eyes widening. "...No."

John's mouth went dry. They had forgotten, and doing it now would alert the gunman to their position. The lock wouldn't hold up against a good kick or a well-placed shot of a gun if they were to activate it now.

Another set broke the quiet of footsteps, these running, and the noise they made was booming in the almost silence.

Two gunshots.

A thud.

John winced. He closed his eyes, feeling them start to water, and he forced the tears back. Sherlock shifted, pressing his face in John's neck, arms wrapping tightly around the smaller boy.

There was a shout, and the footsteps that seemed to be just on the other side of the door miraculously stopped. John didn't dare breathe as he listened to the footsteps fade, and even when he couldn't hear them anymore, he kept still. "Do you think they'll come back?" he whispered.

"I think not." However, Sherlock's voice had been a little shaky, as if he couldn't quite hold back the fear he felt.

They stayed silent for several more minutes before Sherlock quickly got out from under the table.

"Sherlock, what—"

"Shh," Sherlock held a finger to his lips and moved through the room, pressing his ear to the door and listening intently. "Coast is clear."

John relaxed and crawled out from under the desk. "What do we do now?"

"We have to get out of here," Sherlock said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's too dangerous to stay. If the gunman were to come in here, we would have been trapped. There's no other exit."

John nodded his head, shoving his own hands into his pockets to hide his shaking. He could do this. He had to. He wasn't about to let Sherlock go on his own.

Sherlock opened the door a crack and peered through before motioning for John to follow him. "Let's go."

They tiptoed to the first corner before stopping to crouch as Sherlock used a mirror to peek around a corner. Mycroft was going to tear them a new one when he found out. Of this, John was sure.

"C'mon, John." Sherlock stood and grabbed his wrist, pulling him along as they stealthily walked down the corridor on their tiptoes.

"Aren't we supposed to stay low if we don't want to get caught?" John hissed, flinching as his foot caught on a stray soda can that littered the floor.

They turned another corner, right before the stairs and stopped short. John gasped, gripping tightly to the back of Sherlock's coat. At the bottom of the stairwell was a boy from their football team.

"Sherlock, is that Rupert?" John swallowed heavily, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared down at his teammate.

They just had practice together this morning. Rupert and John were late to class because they were coming up with first date ideas for Rupert. He just asked out a girl he had been pining after since year seven.

Sherlock carefully extracted himself from John and went over to the boy at the foot of the stairs. He kneeled, hand pressing to the boy's neck to check for a pulse. He let out a shaky breath and shook his head, "I'm sorry, John."

"He was in the classroom with me, why was he outside? I told them not to leave." John whispered softly, feeling tears fill his eyes.

Sherlock peered around the corner to the laboratories where their class was. The doors were all closed, but the windows on all the doors were smashed in. Sherlock could smell blood, his stomach twisted, wondering if they would find any more bodies.

He stood, brushing off his pants and took John's hand, squeezing it. "We have to go," Sherlock said softly, eyes clouded with worry at John's green face.

"There's so much blood, I can't see it, but I can smell it."

"I know, come on. Don't look back."

Sherlock quickly pulled John through the science wing to the stairs at the other end of the corridor when footsteps sounded from their right.

He pulled John behind him before turning to glare at the boy in front of them. He was a student in one of John's classes, had a major crush on him, was always staring at John with a dreamy expression on his face.

"Richard?" Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily as John peeked around him. "Richard, why?" Sherlock raised his arm to try and keep John behind him, but John sidestepped and stood in front of him. Sherlock twisted his hands into the back of John's sweater as John stared into the eyes of the boy who now had a gun pointed at them. "Richard?"

The boy swallowed shakily, "I had to, John." His voice was rough, the sound of defeat heavy in his tone, visible in the weariness on his face. "You don't understand." He was pleading with John, the one he was pointing the gun at, his eyes wide and fearful. "You don't know what they did…"

"Richard, let's talk about this."

"No! The time for talking is over!" The boy screamed, taking another step forward and pointing the gun at John's head as Sherlock moved, trying to get in front of him. "You have no fucking idea how long I've wanted to talk and no one… no one would listen!"

John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs, eyes trained on Richard. "I would have helped you." John said firmly.

"But you never did!" The boy snapped, moving closer. John took a step back, accidentally stepping on Sherlock's shoe and almost tumbling to the floor. "Why didn't anyone stop them?" John caught his footing and took hold of Sherlock's hand.

"Stop who?" John asked softly. He felt his stomach fall. Richard was his friend, how had he allowed himself to ignore what was happening? "I honestly don't know what was going on, Richard."

"Of course, you didn't, John." Richard mocked. "Especially not after you became friends with the freak." John peered over his shoulder, squeezing Sherlock's wrist when the boy had opened his mouth to retort. Now was not the time for Sherlock to egg on the person with the gun.

"You know what they say about you, John, don't you?" Richard laughed, "It's almost as bad as what they say about me!" John's eyebrows furrowed together, he had no idea what Richard was talking about, but the paling on Sherlock's face told him that Sherlock did. "That Sherlock and his big brother take turns with you."

John snorted, unable to help himself. "Sherlock and Mycroft share me? Have you met them? Sex isn't even in their vocabulary, it's much too below them."

"Oh really, so you didn't hear about what Sherlock got up to in his old school then? With the football team?" Richard asked. "I've a cousin that goes there, told me everything." He looked John up and down, "Seems he has a type."

John took one look at Sherlock's crushed expression, and let go of Sherlock's hand to charge at Richard. He was going to kill Richard for what he was saying about Sherlock. He was almost on top of the boy when the gun went off.

"NO!" Sherlock's eyes widened in shock as his eyes followed the trajectory of the gun until the bullet hit John, throwing him back until Sherlock was able to catch him in his arms. John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's forearm as he let out a scream of pain, his knees buckling. He fell to the tiled floor, his face contorted in agony.

"John!" Sherlock was kneeled beside his friend, his arm in John's clenched hands. Sherlock scanned John's body, twisting so that he was sitting and had John in his lap. The bullet had pierced his shoulder, and he was bleeding profusely. Sherlock pressed a hand to it, trying to stem the blood as best as he could until they could get medical help.

There was another gunshot, and Sherlock held John close, closing his eyes tightly and waiting for the touch of a bullet that never came.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up, his eyes watering at the sight of Mycroft standing behind the now fallen body of Richard, gun smoking.

"M-Mycroft," tears flooded Sherlock's eyes. "John was shot."

Mycroft kneeled beside Sherlock, moving his brother's hand out of the way to survey the wound. Mycroft handed his gun over to Sherlock before leaning over and picking John up and into his arms. "Ugh!" John pressed his face into Mycroft's shoulder.

"Sorry, John," Mycroft murmured. "We have to get him to the ambulance, make sure the safety is on, Sherlock. You do remember how to use it, don't you?"

Sherlock discreetly wiped the tears from his eyes as he scoffed. "What do you take me for, an idiot?" He checked the safety and firmly gripped it in his right hand, finger playing with the trigger.

Sherlock led Mycroft down the corridor towards the front doors. He stopped short at the sound of another shot but kept moving at his brother's urging. Finally, they reached the front door, careful to walk respectfully around the bodies of his former classmates. It opened to reveal Lestrade whispering into his radio as they approached the door.

"Shit, John! Go, the ambulances are to the right." Lestrade hissed, holding the door open for them to slip through.

Mycroft and Sherlock hurried over to the ambulances. Mycroft placed John carefully on the nearest empty stretcher and moved away as the EMTs began to examine him.

He pulled Sherlock out of the way and took the gun from him, putting it back in his jacket pocket. Mycroft looked over at Sherlock and pulled him into a hug, allowing Sherlock to cling to him. "You did so well, Sherlock. I'm proud of you."

"John got hurt because of me," Sherlock said, voice breaking. "Richard said that we share him, and then he told him… he told him what happened at…." Sherlock broke down into sobs. "John went to a-attak-kk him b-b-becaus-s-se…."

"Shh," Mycroft held him tighter and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "It's okay, Sherlock. You are both safe now. It'll be okay."

"W-w-what if he d-d-doesn't want to be my f-f-friend anymore?"

"Sherlock! Where's Sherlock? I need him!" John screamed, trying to get out of the stretcher to look for his friend.

"John lay down! I'll bring Sherlock to you!" Lestrade said hastily, pushing the injured boy back onto the stretcher.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I don't think you have to worry about that."

Sherlock sniffled and pulled away, rubbing the tears from his eyes. "Can I ride in the ambulance with John?"

"I'll be right behind you in the car."

The End


First Sherlock fanfiction! This is both an exciting and nerve-wracking experience.

Honestly, the first part of the story has been sitting on my computer for the better part of a decade. I can't even remember the original purpose.

What did you guys think?

Thank you for reading!