John was finding it difficult to try to approach Sherlock at school with all his rugby teammates constantly watching him. The budding relationship between the two of them had become a dark and dangerous secret. His feelings for Sherlock were beginning to intensify, and if he was afraid of other people noticing this, that was nothing compared to his fear of Sherlock taking notice of it. Strangely enough, though, it seemed to be the one thing that kid was oblivious to.

After the final bell rang on Friday, John gathered his books at his locker and made his way stealthily to the side entrance. Maybe if he snuck out unnoticed he could catch up with Sherlock on the walk home.

This plan didn't work out, however. As soon as he stepped through the doors onto the sidewalk, he heard voices coming from the courtyard.

"You want to talk shit now, freak?" Anderson was shouting. "Go on, say something clever."

Adrenaline coursed through John's veins as he ran towards the voices and peered around the corner. Tristan and Sebastian were standing on either side of Anderson who had Sherlock pinned up against the wall. Sherlock's face was slack, his eyes vacant, and he didn't move or make a sound when Anderson grabbed him by the collar and shoved him hard, making the back of head smack against wall, or when Anderson punched him in the stomach.

"Oi! Leave him alone!" John yelled, rushing forward and pulling Anderson off of Sherlock. Anderson tried to push him away, but John stood his ground.

Tristan reached out and put an arm between them as John stared daggers at Anderson. "What's your problem, mate?"

"Yeah," Anderson taunted. "Why are you sticking up for this faggot?"

John swatted Tristan's arm away and spat at Anderson, "I've had enough of your narrow-minded, homophobic bullshit." He put up his fists. "Beating up a kid who's not fighting back doesn't make you a tough guy. You want a real fight? Have a go at me."

Still pressed up against the wall, Sherlock came out of his trance and saw John being ganged up on by the other three boys. Even though John was outnumbered and a head shorter than the rest, he fought with the skill and ferocity of someone who had been trained in hand-to-hand combat. He stayed low, using his small stature to his advantage as he threw hard, strategically targeted punches. It seemed that he might actually have a good chance of fighting them off, but not without incurring a few injuries, and Sherlock didn't want that to happen.

He reached into his pocket and unsheathed his razor from the piece of paper he had wrapped it in. Walking calmly into the scuffle, he grabbed a hold of Anderson and held the edge of the blade against the bridge of the other boy's nose.

"You know, Anderson, I'm currently working on an experiment with human eyeballs," Sherlock breathed menacingly. "Normally I borrow specimens from the morgue, but it would save me time to just gouge out one of yours."

Anderson wrenched himself out of Sherlock's grasp, his eyes wide with terror. "My God, you're a bloody psychopath!" He turned on his heels and ran, the other two boys following in earnest.

When Sherlock turned to see if John was alright, he found him doubled over in laughter. "That was brilliant!" John wheezed, holding a stich in his side. "Did you see Anderson's face? I think he pissed himself."

Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed too.

Still giggling uncontrollably, the pair of them followed the sidewalk up to the road near the front entrance of the school. It was a long time before their laughter subsided, and by then they were beginning to draw near Sherlock's house. Sherlock stopped for a second to catch his breath and looked John up and down.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, searching John's face and neck for bruises and scrapes.

"I'm fine," John reassured him.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "What you did back there, that was, um… good."

"A simple thank you would suffice," John said teasingly.

"Right, yes, thank you."

"You're very welcome."

A silence fell between them. It seemed they had stepped into new territory, and there would be no turning back now. What transpired in the last ten minutes had been too world changing, too permanent.

John bit his lip and spoke up. "I was looking for you after school today because I wanted to show you something. Do you have Netflix?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Yes. What did you want to show me?"

"Well, there's this TV program I started watching recently called House MD, and the main character reminded me of you."

"The main character of a medical show reminded you of me?"

"Well, yeah, because he's a genius, and he solves medical cases by making deductions sort of like you do. Plus he tends to rub people the wrong way," John added with a grin.

Sherlock fought the urge to grin back. "Well, my place is right up ahead if you want to come inside."

The entrance hall of the Holmes estate had high vaulted ceilings with a glittering chandelier hanging above the staircase. Sherlock took John's coat for him and hung it on the tall mahogany rack by the door as John took a look around.

"Are your parents home?" John asked.

"No. They're off on a cruise around the Mediterranean or something. The sitting room is that way," he said, pointing John in the right direction.

John took a seat on the white linen sofa in the middle of the room facing the immense flat screen television mounted to the wall. Sherlock sat down in the adjacent armchair and massaged his ribs.

"You okay, mate?" John asked, studying him with concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "Anderson didn't hit me very hard. I think he was a little put off by me going into a catatonic state."

John considered this a moment. "Um… about that. What was going on? You looked dead on your feet."

"It was just a survival mechanism," Sherlock muttered. "The acute stress response is commonly referred to as the 'fight or flight' response, but the full term is actually, 'fight, flight, freeze, or faint.' Of course people usually attempt fighting or fleeing even when they know their attacker is faster and stronger than them. If you're trapped, though, sometimes the only option is to… play dead."

It occurred to John that Sherlock was now talking more to himself than to him. A dark look had come over the scrawny boy's handsome face. Suddenly Sherlock stood up and walked briskly towards the hallway.

"You sure you're alright?" John asked.

"Yes, fine. Of course I'm fine," Sherlock muttered. It may have been John's imagination, but it sounded to him like Sherlock's respiratory rate had quickened. "Just going to the kitchen to… check on something."

In the safety of the kitchen Sherlock gripped the edges of the sink and tried to slow his breathing. A flashbulb memory had flickered in his mind back in the sitting room and now his autonomic nervous system was responding with an unnecessary dose of adrenaline. He felt a strange tingling sensation in his arm as if all the tension in his body had transferred there awaiting release. Hands shaking, he fumbled in his pocket for his razor blade, but then he thought better of it. He couldn't do this with John in the next room. There wouldn't be time to wait for the bleeding to stop. Searching frantically for an alternative, Sherlock opened a small cabinet high above the oven and rummaged through his parents' impressive collection of prescription pills until he found what he was looking for, the bottle of Valium. He swallowed four pills and chased them down with a sip of brandy from his parents' liquor cabinet to speed up and amplify the effects.

Relief came quickly, and Sherlock let out a deep sigh as his heart rate slowed and the tingling sensation in his arm stopped. The number of pills he had taken would be enough to knock out most people in a matter of minutes, but due to his history of drug use, Sherlock was very resilient. Remembering that John was still waiting for him in the sitting room, he called down the hallway, "Did you want anything to drink, John? Some water? Tea? Brandy?"

He heard John chuckle in the distance. "No thanks. There's a cold water bottle in my rucksack. I've got the show paused… anytime you're ready." There was still an edge of concern in his voice.

Feeling a bit light-headed, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and slumped down on the sofa beside John much closer than the other boy had expected. After a sideways glance at him, John cleared his throat and aimed the remote at the telly to press play. "I hope you enjoy this. It's one of my favorites."

Sherlock leaned his head back and watched the TV screen with his eyelids half closed. He had enough consciousness left to pay attention to the first thirty minutes of the show, but then his eyes fluttered shut completely.

John spoke up, though he sounded far away, "Please tell me this isn't putting you to sleep."

Sherlock roused at his voice and blinked. "No, it's good. I'm enjoying it," he said, his speech slightly slurred. "That House bloke should be a detective, though. A doctor would never get away with ignoring his patients for that length of time."

"Yeah," John said, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "You're probably right."

"Wilson is well-suited for his job, though. He reminds me of you." Sherlock hunched over suddenly and slid his hands over his face. John turned all the way towards him.

"God, Sherlock, are you feeling alright?" John asked. "You look like you're about to pass out." Sherlock made a move as if he was trying to get to his feet, then he turned and kneeled up against the back of the sofa and clung onto the cushions. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock slumped over sideways, and John grabbed a hold of him and pulled him close, cradling Sherlock's head and shoulders as the boy collapsed into his lap. "Sherlock, talk to me. What's happening? Did you take something?" John asked, cupping the side of Sherlock's face with one hand.

"It was… just a couple of Valium. I'll be fine," Sherlock mumbled. He shuddered and looked up at John. "Your eyes are fascinating. They're blue with a ring of hazel around the middle. Partial heterochromia." His eyes closed as his breathing began to slow and his whole body went limp.

Panic rising in his chest, John moved his hand to Sherlock's neck and found the carotid artery. He monitored his pulse for a few minutes, praying for it to remain steady. The light of the side table lamp cast shadows in the valleys of Sherlock's high cheekbones and the triangular dip at the crest of his lips. With an uncomfortable swoop in his stomach, John realized that he was feeling an impulse to take Sherlock's face in his hands and kiss him. It would be improper to do that while Sherlock was unconscious.

Deciding to monitor the radial pulse instead, John reached for Sherlock's wrist and pulled down his sleeve. What he saw there made his heart drop into his stomach.

"Oh God. Oh my God."

A patchwork of deep red lines stood out against the porcelain skin. John pushed the sleeve down more and found the scars continued down to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, where the cuts met collapsed veins and faded needle marks.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Fuck," John cried aloud, knowing that the unconscious boy in his lap couldn't hear him. "Why would you do this to yourself?"

Unable to stand the sight anymore, he tugged Sherlock's sleeve back up to cover the scars. John returned his hand to the carotid artery and checked Sherlock's pulse again. Before he could stop himself, he kissed the boy's cheekbones, his eyelids, his nose, his temple. Then he laid his forehead against Sherlock's and rocked back and forth a bit.

In his anguish, John didn't hear the front door creak open. It wasn't until the sound of someone clearing their throat reached him that he looked up. A tall man stood in the living room leaning against his umbrella. He was staring at John with raised eyebrows.

"Good evening," the man said in a casual tone.

John sat up and hugged Sherlock's lifeless form closer to his chest. "Hi. Um, who are you?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft. I know who you are. I've been keeping my eye on both of you."

A bit unnerved, John looked down at the younger brother and checked to make sure he was still breathing. "I think he'll be alright. He just took something that knocked him out."

"Ah, yes, the Valium," Mycroft said softly. "I've repeatedly stressed to our parents the importance of keeping prescription drugs out of reach from their ex-addict son, but of course they're hardly ever home to monitor the situation. Anyways, pills were never Sherlock's drug of choice."

John furrowed his brow at this, wondering what type of drug Mycroft was talking about. "Right, so I better be going."

"I can give you a lift home. My car is parked outside."

"Thank you, but I think I'll manage."

"I was trying to be polite by making it sound like an offer rather than a command. Either way, you will be taken home in my car. I have something to discuss with you."

It was a long ride home sitting in the back of the black Mercedes. John stared out the window and watched the streetlamps pass by as he wondered what Mycroft wanted to discuss with him. Mycroft didn't say anything, though until the car pulled up in front of John's house.

"You two have become rather close it seems, you and Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. He stayed facing forward in the front seat. "Been spending a lot of time together."

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's fine. It's positively heartwarming," Mycroft said airily. "I just thought I should give you fair warning."

"Warning?" John repeated.

"Yes. I'm not entirely sure about the nature of your relationship, but I feel obligated to inform you that I had Sherlock's last boyfriend executed."

John had no idea how to respond to that. A part of him hoped that Mycroft was making a joke, but he didn't seem the type. "Why? What happened?"

"I don't think it's my place to tell you that."

"Well it's probably not my place to hear it, but tell me anyways."

The man sighed wearily. "Sherlock ran away from home when he was fifteen and went to live with a student at uni. He got Sherlock into drugs, and… well," Mycroft swallowed. "When the police found Sherlock at the man's flat, he was in rather bad shape."

John began to feel sick. "What did he do to him?"

"All I can tell you is that when my men finally found the bastard, I came very close to strangling him with my bare hands. I gave the order, though, to have him killed slowly and painfully." Mycroft turned around to face him now. "The point I'm trying to make is that there is nothing, absolutely nothing I wouldn't do to protect my little brother."

John exhaled slowly, still trying to process this information. Finally he said, "I suppose I don't have any reason to be afraid of you, then."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because there's nothing I wouldn't do to protect him either."