After a couple of weeks, the school's rugby coach tracked John down and practically begged him to rejoin the team. John conceded, though he was apprehensive about changing in the locker room with the rest of the team before practice. There's often contention surrounding the issue of LGBT kids in locker rooms, particularly concerns about making the other team members uncomfortable. However, when John finally entered the locker room after a two-month hiatus, a few friendly faces greeted him in the doorway.

"Hey, he's back," Mike Stamford said, grinning amiably. "Where've you been Johnny?" He and Henry Knight were already at their lockers getting undressed. They didn't seem unsettled by John's presence at all.

John shrugged. "I just took some time off."

Henry tugged off his shirt and donned his uniform. "Well it's good to have you back, mate. I've been filling in for your position, but I'm rubbish at it."

Feeling a bit more relaxed, John walked over to his locker and pulled his uniform out of his rucksack. He got a few looks from his teammates as he undressed, but thankfully John was completely comfortable with his body, and so their stares didn't make him feel the least bit self-conscious.

Stripped down to his tight red pants, he heard a huff to his left and turned to see Anderson glowering at him. John smirked and said, "I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate you gawking at me."

Mike and Henry snorted as Anderson's face turned red and he stormed away angrily to finish changing on the other side of the locker room. He didn't make eye contact with John for the rest of the season.

The last rugby game of the season was a home game. The stands were packed, but the top right corner where Sherlock and Dannie were sitting was virtually empty apart from them. Still, Sherlock's mind was inundated with random sensory details from individuals in the crowd. He wanted to close his eyes and block it out, but then he might miss something important going on in the game.

Dannie pressed the left side of her face against Sherlock's shoulder and mumbled, "Too many people."

Sherlock sighed. "I know." He put an arm around her, and she curled up against his chest. "We have to endure it, though, for John's sake."

They sat huddled together like that for a bit, ignoring the few awkward glances from other members of the crowd. Sherlock needed something to keep his mind anchored in the sea of sensory data, and Dannie needed to feel hidden. It was an indirect kind of comfort they took from each other.

After a while Dannie spoke up, her voice muffled against Sherlock's chest. "John has really done a number on you."

Sherlock stayed still with the girl nestled in his arms. "What do you mean?"

"You're much more cuddly now."

"It's not like I'm going around giving out free hugs," Sherlock muttered, cringing at the idea.

"Not many people would want one if you did."

"Because I'm a sociopath?"

"No," Dannie giggled, "because getting smushed against your cold, hard, knobbly body with all your bones poking out can be a tad uncomfortable."

Sherlock smiled and loosened his grip. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine. I'm sure John doesn't mind. He's probably soft and squishy enough for the both of you."

"He has quite a bit of muscle tone, you know."

"I bet he does," Dannie said. She perked her head up for a moment and watched John dash down the field. "Look at him go."

John was on the perimeter of the action, but Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on him. He couldn't see from this distance, but he imagined that John had the same fierce, determined look on his face that he did when he was in his element, in the midst of a conflict. Suddenly the whistle blew, and everyone on the field stopped moving. Before Sherlock and Dannie could figure out what was going on, however, two figures approached them and blocked their view of the game.

"Oh sweet Jesus," Dannie muttered, clambering up behind Sherlock and burying her face against his shoulder blade.

"Calm down," Sherlock whispered. "They don't look that intimidating."

Molly Hooper and her boyfriend Tom stood awkwardly above them, staring down at the spindly girl clinging to Sherlock's shoulders like a baby koala. Sherlock looked up at them quizzically and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Um, hi," Molly said timidly. "We're friends of John's."

"Hello," Sherlock responded.

Molly bit her lip and fiddled with her braid. Then after a rather long pause, she said, "I was talking to John the other day, and well… has he mentioned anything to you about prom?"

Sherlock squinted at her in the fading afternoon light. "John is well aware that the mere phonetics of that word make me nauseous."

"Oh, um," Molly faltered. "I know proms can be a bit stuffy and pretentious and…"

"Boring?" Sherlock supplied.

"Yes, that too," Molly said, giggling nervously, "but, um, have you ever been to the Globe?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "The theatre or the nightclub?"

"The nightclub. Tom's cousin owns it actually," Molly explained. "Anyways, every year kids from our school sneak into the Globe on prom night and have a sort of alterna-prom. It's a much more welcoming environment."

"Meaning all the gay kids will be there," Sherlock said bluntly.

Tom nodded. "Yeah, basically," he managed to say before Molly elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Everyone's welcome," she interjected cheerfully. "It would be really great if you and John could come."

Sherlock smirked. "Sounds lovely."

"Great," Molly said excitedly. "That's, um, really great." Tom gave her a sideways glance and started tugging her back to the second row of the bleachers where they were sitting before. "We'll be over here," she called, tugging her arm out of Tom's grasp. "I guess I'll see you later."

Dannie lifted her head and watched them go. As they returned to their seats, another face from the second row glanced up at the top of the stands. Dannie wrapped her arms around Sherlock's upper body and rested her chin on his shoulder as she willed herself to make eye contact with Irene Adler. The girl was wearing a dark green halter-top that accentuated her pale shoulders. Her blue eyes and the delicate features of her heart-shaped face gave the deceptive illusion of innocence.

Irene's mouth twisted in a quick smile before she turned to face forward again. Dannie relaxed a bit and sighed. "I don't know why she does that."

"She finds you interesting," Sherlock responded. "Irene prides herself on being able to figure out what people like, but apparently you're a bit of a challenge."

"That's because I don't like anything," Dannie muttered.

"You like her, obviously."

Dannie retracted her arms and pressed her face against his back again. "It would make my life a lot easier if my visual memory was half as good as yours. I always feel this compulsion to look at her and try to hold onto a mental image of her for more than five minutes, but she's so…" Dannie swallowed, "she's so pretty it hurts to look at her for too long."

"Have you considered telling her that?" Sherlock asked.

"God, no. What kind of response would that get me?"

"Worst-case scenario she'd just think you're adorable."

"What's the best-case scenario?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know how these things are supposed to work. Me and John just sort of happened."

The game was nearly over, but the score was tied, and the opposing team was set up for a penalty goal. There was an almost unanimous intake of breath in the crowd as the player approached the tee for the kick. His foot made contact with the ball, but the well-aimed kick fell short of the goal posts. Rather than hitting the ground, however, the ball was caught in midair by none other than John Watson.

"Oh my God," Sherlock breathed. "Dannie, look," he said, nudging the girl behind him.

They both stood up as the rest of the crowd rose to their feet. Dannie stood on tiptoe and watched over Sherlock's shoulder as John sprinted down the field, darting past the opposition to the other goal post. A few came close to tackling him, but after a ninety-nine yard dash, John tumbled across the goal line and touched the ball to the ground.

The final whistle blew and the crowd practically exploded. Knowing Sherlock's reserved nature, Dannie lifted his arms for him and waved them over his head as she shouted loud celebratory nonsense in his ear. Sherlock tilted his head away and laughed, feeling his heart quicken when he saw John break apart from the flailing mosh pit of his fellow rugby players and run towards the stands. Dannie relinquished his arms and gave him a little shove, and Sherlock bounded down the steps of the bleachers with his coat flying behind him.

The instant they met at the fence, John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a fierce kiss. Sherlock ran his hands through John's sweat-mussed hair as the other boy gripped his coat collar and snogged the breath out of him.

"That was brilliant," Sherlock said, coming up for air. "You were brilliant."

John beamed at him, "I have something to ask you."

"Yes?" Sherlock had a fairly good idea of what the question would be.

"Will you go to alterna-prom with me?"

Sherlock smirked. "You know the prefix doesn't make that word any more palatable."

John shook his head in exasperation and grinned. "Cheeky git."

"Alright, if you insist. I'm sure one night of teenage clichés won't kill me," Sherlock muttered, pulling him in for another kiss.

John hummed happily against his lips. "You're looking forward to it, aren't you?"

In the process of formulating a snide remark, Sherlock glanced back at the stands and saw something unexpected. John followed his gaze and bore witness to the event as well. "Wow," he whispered, "would you look at that."

At the top right corner of the bleachers Irene and Dannie were sitting in close proximity. Neither seemed to be saying much, but when Irene brought up a hand to Dannie's temple and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, Dannie didn't flinch. She did, however, notice Sherlock and John watching the interaction from the field. They both gave her a thumbs-up.


The sun was beginning to set by the time one of Mycroft's black Mercedes dropped Sherlock and John off at the Holmes residence. John headed straight for the kitchen. "Anything in?" he asked, opening the refrigerator. "I'm starving."

"There's a sandwich on the bottom shelf that's been there for less than thirty-six hours," Sherlock answered from the table. "Mycroft has a habit of ordering take-away and sending it to the house a few times a week. Sometimes he brings it over himself and stays to make sure I that I eat. It's rather irritating."

"Well, I can't blame him. You have a habit of neglecting your bodily needs." John set half of the sandwich on a plate and put it on the table in front of Sherlock before wolfing down his half in two bites. Then he found a six-pack of Coke bottles in the fridge and handed one to Sherlock, who was now staring intently at his laptop screen. He popped open the Coke bottle and took a sip, but he ignored the sandwich.

"Did Lestrade send you another case?" John asked. He took a few gulps from the Coke bottle before screwing the cap back on.

"There's been a stabbing at the university," Sherlock answered, clicking on the attached file containing the police report. "These investigations would go a lot faster if I was allowed to see the actual crime scene, but Lestrade doesn't want his superiors finding out that he consults a seventeen-year-old on his cases."

Sherlock was still semi-aware of his surroundings, but John knew that wouldn't last for very long. "Well, I could really use a shower, if that's alright."

"Good, fine," Sherlock muttered, his eyes quickly scanning the report.

Aaand he's gone, John thought to himself. "Okay, then. I'll be upstairs."

If Sherlock hadn't been preoccupied at the moment, John may have been tempted to invite Sherlock to shower with him. Still, he knew that it probably wasn't a good idea. They'd managed to make it through a few hand jobs without Sherlock having a panic attack, but they had both remained almost entirely clothed under the covers of Sherlock's bed. The ministrations of Sherlock's long, dexterous hands brought John to climax in a matter of minutes, and afterwards he was quite eager to reciprocate. As the recipient, though, Sherlock always seemed a bit detached. He lay very still with a faraway look on his face while the other boy stroked him in an effort to give him pleasure. Then when he finally reached his climax, apart from a few shuddering breaths, he orgasmed silently as if he'd been trained to stay quiet. After a few of these attempts at intimacy, John decided that it was best to stick with snogging and cuddling for now. He could deal with the occasional raging erection on his own.

In the kitchen, Sherlock was mumbling to himself as he read the detective's notes. Apparently the murder weapon had been left embedded in the victim's body. The killer had used it to pin a note to the corpse's back, and the police were under the impression that the note was meant for the victim. "Idiots, all of them," Sherlock muttered. "Why would the killer leave a note for the victim? He's dead."

Curious about the contents of the note, Sherlock opened the attached images. A close-up photo of the victim's face appeared on the screen, and Sherlock's breath caught in his chest. He recognized the man as one of Jim's clients. With a trembling hand, Sherlock clicked on the other attachment showing an aerial view of the body. The moment he encountered the three words scrawled onto the bloody scrap of paper, Sherlock felt his whole world come to a crashing halt.

The note read, "YOU ARE MINE."


About twenty minutes later John descended the stairs with damp hair and a fresh change of clothes. He wandered into the kitchen and found the table vacant. "Sherlock?" he called. "If you're done crime-solving, I can turn on Netflix." He got no response, and the silence unsettled him. "Sherlock?"

He breathed a sigh a relief as soon as he walked into the living room and found Sherlock on the sofa. The sound on the telly was turned down low, but John could see Dr. House and Dr. Wilson arguing on the screen. "You couldn't wait until I got out of the shower before starting the next episode?"

"This is an old one," Sherlock murmured faintly. His voice sounded hollow. "I just put it on for a bit of background noise."

Taking a good look at him now, John noticed that Sherlock's eyes were glassy and unfocused. He was slumped back against the couch cushions like an invalid lying in a hospital bed. He hardly noticed when John paused the show and turned off the TV.

"Sherlock," John said softly as he settled next to him on the sofa, "how many Valium did you take?"

"Just the usual four," Sherlock answered, still staring straight ahead.

John lifted a hand to Sherlock's neck and felt a slow pulse. "Are you sure that's all?"

"If I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn't use pills to do it."

"God, Sherlock. Why would you even think of doing that?" The boy was unresponsive, and John's anxiety increased. "Sherlock?"

When he finally spoke again, Sherlock's voice was broken. "I'm sorry, John. This isn't fair to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm always doing something that scares you or worries you or hurts you, and I can't even tell you why."

Even if John could come up with reply, it was unlikely that Sherlock would remember it later, and so John simply wrapped his arms around him and held him for a few minutes, feeling as though if he let go, Sherlock would fade away. Then he got up and pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Come on," he said, guiding him to the stairs. "Let's get you to bed."


The room was dark when Sherlock stirred awake. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and a dull ache in his chest. Suddenly, the image of the blood-splattered note flashed in his mind, and the implications of it hit him full force. Jim had been watching him all this time, waiting for the perfect moment to reach out and take possession of him again. Obviously he knew about Sherlock's emails with Lestrade, about how he'd been consulting on murder cases. Chances were that he also knew about John.

John.

Sherlock turned onto his other side and found John asleep next to him. He tentatively placed a hand over the other boy's chest and felt his steady heartbeat. John. Kind eyes, strong arms, gentle hands, caring heart. Unlike Sherlock, John was pure and whole and and undamaged. John didn't deserve to get dragged into this, and Sherlock realized then that he would rather die than let that happen...

A cool breeze drifted in through the open window and roused John from his dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes and immediately noticed that the space next to him on the bed was empty. Turning on a lamp, he blinked and glanced around the room. He heard a buzzing sound and saw Sherlock's phone light up on the bedside table. John flipped open the phone and found several texts from Lestrade. He read the last two.

Lestrade: What do you mean the note wasn't for the victim? Who was it meant for then?

Lestrade: Dammit, Sherlock this is serious. The note said, "You are mine." Whoever the killer left it for may be in danger.

John began to look around frantically now. Finally he caught sight of Sherlock in the window. He was standing outside on the ledge with his arms outstretched, and John was reminded of the night they met.

John stuck his head out the window. "Sherlock, get your skinny arse back in here right now! This is no time for one of your daft experiments!" The boy lowered his arms, but he didn't turn around. "Sherlock?"

Taking care with his approach, John stepped out onto the roof and gently tugged at Sherlock's arm to pull him down from the ledge. He turned the boy to face him, and that's when John saw something that scared the hell out of him. Sherlock was crying.

Oh God, he was really going to jump.

John pulled Sherlock close and crushed his body against him. "Don't ever do that," he whispered brokenly. "Promise me. No matter what's going through that wonky brain of yours, you won't ever, ever do that to yourself."

Sherlock choked out a sob. "John, I-"

"Promise me!"

"Alright, I promise."

Back inside the room, Sherlock began to tremble, and not just from the cold. The moment John closed the window, Sherlock collapsed on the floor. John rushed to him, lifted his cold, thin, shivering body from the floor with surprising ease, and carried him back to bed. Pulling the covers over both of them, John cradled Sherlock in his arms and stroked the boy's cheek with his thumb, wiping away the tears.

"Please, Sherlock," John said imploringly, "I'm really scared now. Please tell me what's happening." He glanced over at the bedside table. "Lestrade keeps texting you about the case. Something about the killer leaving a note and someone being in danger." The trembling grew worse. "Oh God, Sherlock. What's going on?"

When Sherlock finally spoke, John wasn't prepared for the answer he got.

"The note was for me."

John's mind reeled. "How can that be?" he asked. "Do you know the murderer?"

"I know who organized the murder. He set it up to send me a message."

"Who is he?"

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock murmured faintly. "My ex."

John stared down at him in confusion. "I though he was dead."

Sherlock turned away and grimaced. "Oh God, what did Mycroft tell you?"

"He didn't go into details. He just said that he had the guy executed."

Sherlock breathed a shaky sigh and said, "There are things Mycroft still doesn't know. The man he killed wasn't my boyfriend. He was a client."

John was sure he hadn't heard him right. "A client?"

"It's a long story."

"Sherlock, if someone out there is trying to hurt you-" John felt a shiver go through Sherlock's body. "Shh, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay," he whispered, tilting Sherlock's face up to look at him. "You can tell me anything. Just please help me understand what's going on."

Sherlock blinked up at John's kind face and let strong the arms holding him and the gentle hand stroking his cheek lull him into a sense of calm. Then he closed his eyes as if in shame and pressed the side of his face against John's shoulder before he began to speak. "I met Jim at the university. He was only twenty-three and had already secured a tenured position there as a professor. I thought he was brilliant." He cringed at the memory, at how he'd been taken in so easily. "He could tell that I wasn't a student. He asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home. I told him that I had run away, and so he took me back to his place." Sherlock swallowed. "I thought he was planning to let me sleep on the sofa, but that night he took me to bed."

"It hurt more than I thought it would the first few times he… had sex with me. Jim said it was because my mind was always too worked up for me to be able to relax and enjoy it. In order to fix that, he introduced me to heroin." Sherlock subconsciously ran a thumb over the crook of his elbow. "He was a supplier, and so there was always a stash in the apartment. People would stop by the apartment at all hours, men who worked for him, dealers, buyers, clients with other criminal affairs to discuss. Every so often one of them would say something to me, sometimes even when Jim was in the room, things such as what a good little 'pet' I was and how they'd like to have some 'playtime' with me. I just told them to fuck off, because I figured Jim would kill them if they actually tried anything."

Sherlock's voice faltered a bit when he began to describe that night, the night everything changed. They had been sitting in the living room watching telly. Sherlock was lying on the sofa coming down from a high, and Jim was sitting in the recliner, his fingers beginning to twitch from boredom, when suddenly three of Jim's men came in the room. They stood around the sofa staring down at the fifteen-year-old boy, and Sherlock sat up and hunched himself in the corner. Before he knew it, all three men were on him, running their hands all over him.

"I don't know why I felt like I didn't have any say in what they were doing to me. I looked over at Jim expecting him to tell them to get their hands off of me, but he just sat there and watched like he was fascinated. When one of them stuck his tongue in my mouth, I tried to push him away, but he hit me and gripped the back of my head while the others kept groping me. They took my clothes off and pushed me to the floor. Then they looked up at Jim like they were asking for permission. He just gave them a nod," Sherlock's body tensed, "and so they held me down and raped me."

Tears were streaming silently down John's face now. He brought a hand to brush them away and hugged Sherlock tighter to his chest. He couldn't allow himself to fall apart while he was trying to hold Sherlock together.

"After that Jim decided to offer the same opportunity to his clients. He charged three hundred quid for an hour with me, a thousand quid if they wanted me delivered to their place of residence so the transaction could take place in private. Only a few of them could afford that option, though. Jim usually gave me a small dose of heroin beforehand, but he waited until it started to wear off before he let the clients in. He preferred to watch me struggle a bit while they fucked me. I never tried to escape. I couldn't go home after... after everything that had happened to me. I just hoped that at some point I'd overdose or one of the more sadistic clients would kill me. The last one, Victor, came rather close to accomplishing that." Sherlock swallowed. "When Mycroft got to the hospital, the police told him that they found me in Victor's flat, and so Mycroft assumed that I had been living with him the whole time."

When Sherlock dared to look up again, John's eyes were shut tight. He reached up and laid a hand against the other boy's chest where his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, don't," John whimpered, "don't you dare apologize for what happened to you. None of that was your fault."

Sherlock was going to tell John that it was okay if he couldn't do this anymore. It was all too much, he was too damaged, and even John wouldn't be able to fix him. When John opened his eyes, though, Sherlock was stunned into silence. He wasn't looking at Sherlock like he was a victim, like he was broken. John looked at him the way he always did, like he was beautiful, amazing, the center of his universe.

John rocked back and forth a bit and kissed his temple. Then he took a deep breath and broke the silence. "We have to tell your brother."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "I can't."

"I'm sorry, but we have to. If that bastard is still out there trying to get to you, then Mycroft needs to know what's going on." John smoothed back Sherlock's hair and kissed his forehead. "It's going to be alright, Sherlock. Just let me know when you're ready, and we'll tell him together. Okay?"

Sherlock doubted he would ever feel ready to tell Mycroft everything he just told John, but it was obvious now that he may have to do it at some point to stay safe, and more importantly, to keep John safe. "Okay."