He marches through the crowd. Uncaring about the stares. He pushes - too gentle to be rude - everyone in his way as he goes to his destination. He didn't have a good sleep last night. He kept having images of an unmoving corpse with the face of Sherlock Holmes. He may not know the guy but he doesn't want to see someone die because of a beating. He saw it once, he's not going to see it again.

Everyone whispers about the Freak and the Captain. They all saw Sherlock Holmes. Bruises and cuts everywhere. Since the rumour of John's beating wasn't corrected, they decided to stay away from John Watson as much as possible. So when they see John Watson marching in the corridor, with that look of murder on his face, they part almost immediately. Goodness knows who he'll beat up this time.

He feels everyone looking at him but he doesn't care at all. He just wants to give somebody a certain something. His mind flashes back from the events yesterday. That calm but alert look on Sherlock's face. The little panic behind those eyes when he got angry. He shakes his head to remove the thought. He keeps coming back until he bumps into someone - then he comes back to reality.

He hears some, "Oh shit.." and some, "Oh god..." and some, "Oh dear..." around him. He looks up to see Sherlock Holmes looking back at him, with bruises on his face, still a bit stiff, though.

Silence washes over the whole place. Everyone is looking at them. John wonders what they are all thinking, what are they preparing themselves for? "I see your bruises are healing," He tells Sherlock. He can hear some people's breath hitch. 'God, these people.'

"I had a good doctor," Sherlock replies with a smile and John smiles with him.

"Of course you did," he says, rolling his eyes. Knowing his level of brilliance in medicine. Fuck yeah he's a good doctor.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. "Yes..." He awkwardly says.

"Good to see you," hepats him on the back and carries on walking. He turns around and sees everyone is looking at him like he just grew another head at the back of his neck.

'Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you.'

A mild sentence. Four words and four syllables. And yet they manage to make such an idiotic impact on Sherlock's mind. He shakes his head in disbelief. John probably just says that to everyone.

And yet he isn't like everyone now, is he?

He's Sherlock "Freak" Holmes. He will never be like everyone. And that is both a good thing and a bad thing. It's a good thing since he is unique and is not as stupid as everyone else he meets. A bad thing since he's too different to be a part of everyone. He's an alien.

Who cares anyway? It's not important. It's just titles.

Idiots like titles.

'Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you. Good to see you.'

He just wants to get that stupid sentence off his head. It's just a four-word sentence. Nothing special about that. And yet there is. None has told him that before. And yet someone as average as John Watson passes through his boring life and clicks a trigger. How can an average person be such an interesting impact on someone above-average as Sherlock Holmes?

No, he denies it completely. He's thinking too much of himself. He doesn't care about John Watson. He's just as stupid as everyone else.

And yet he helped him from Moran yesterday.

No, no. John Watson is basically a vigilante in school. Punching bullies - he winces at the word. He doesn't have bullies. No. Bullies are people who prey on people who are lonely, different, sad, disgusting and pathetic. 'Is that not what you are?' A little voice creeps at the back of his head.

'Shut up you ludicrous voice. I do not need your foolish lies.' he thinks.

'And yet you still let me talk to you.'

He mentally slaps himself - as he slaps himself in reality as well. He hits one of the bruises. It stings but he's had worse.

He whispers. "Good to see you too." And yet no one hears him.

"Oi John!" Greg runs to him from the school to the benches at the back garden.

"Hey mate!"

"What the heck happened to Sherlock's bloody face? Didn't I tell you not to do anything violent!?" Greg tells him.

"Greg! How many times do I have to bloody tell you that I don't want to beat up Sherlock?! Why the hell do you keep blaming this on me, Greg Lestrade?"

"I'm just detecting what could happen here," Greg raises his hands in defence. "Not accusing you!"

"But why do I feel like that's exactly what you're doing? Hmm?"

"Okay! I admit! I'm sorry!"

"See? Was that so hard?" He shrugs as he continues his book.

"You know," Greg starts and he secretly listens but his eyes stay on the book. "Sometimes I forget you're such a swot."

He looks up at the book with an offended look and Greg shrugs. "Oh come on, don't deny it. You basically read every single medical book your mum owns. And don't tell me you keep trying to make good grades. God, you're a swot and everyone forgets about that thing in you."

"Well, people like my good looks and my brilliant arse."

Greg rubs his face with his palm. "You're so confident with yourself that it's getting annoying."

"I'm ace, you're not." he replies.

"Shut up, swot."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Oi!"

"What? You're a dog and you're female!"

"I'm one hundred percent male that I eat rocks for cereal without any milk!"

He mocks a fake-gasp and talks in a five-year old voice, "Wow mister, you're so strong."

"Damn you, John." and they both laugh.

After detention - goodness knows what he did this time - he walks around the school. Since this morning, people whispers around him, both in amusement and satisfaction. They snigger at him as they see his poor state. Weak and bruised. Beaten up. He winces at that.

He goes around the school, trying to find John Watson. He wants to ask him why he helped him. No, scratch that. He would try to talk to him and observe his behaviour and probably find out his - probably sick - intentions.

He was fooled for a moment. He is fascinated with how good John pretends to be a good person around him. Because it would be ridiculous for someone like John Watson to be nice to someone like Sherlock Freak Holmes, right? Why would John ruin his own image by helping him? Clearly there's a bigger picture around this and Sherlock would find out what.

As he walks around the corner, he is faced with the backs of Rugby Players. Probably having a meeting. Which means John would be with them. It would be better if he'd just wait at the corner. He walks back and leans his head on the wall, being casual and all. He takes out a cigarette.

He has nothing better to do and so he tries to listen to whatever boring things Rugby Players talk about. That's when he hears John's voice. "-anymore. Are we clear?" Commanding, firm, perfect for a soldier.

He hasn't heard this kind of silence. You'd hear an ant walking.

"I said. Are. We. Clear?" Soldier indeed.

He hears hums of agreement.

"Speak up!" John stomps his foot.

"Yes! Yes!" The other say.

"I don't want today's events to happen again. And if you even dare to try and test me, I will take my fist out and punch you all harder than I've ever done before. On the weakest spots of your anatomy. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" He can hear the perfect hum of satisfaction from him.

"Get out of my sight." says John Watson, army... doctor... John Watson, army doctor.

Some of the other players walk in front of him. Some doesn't even notice him. He sees some have sprains on their arms, some are limping. Moran has a bloody nose and a cut on his cheek. A guy with black hair in a suit walks towards him and they both talk. Moran then kicks on the wall in anger and they both leave. Some catch his eye and give him the dirtiest look in human history. John is the last to go round the corner and sees Sherlock.

John has signs that he would have some bruises on his face. "Hey, Sherlock!" John then frowns.

'Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.' Sherlock shakes his head to remove the voice. "Watson," he offers his hand and John hesitantly shakes it.

"Didn't know you smoke," John says, still frowning. "Not good for lungs."

He shrugs in reply. "It would seem that you had a meeting with your team."

"Yeah. Yeah, we did. Moran wasn't too happy," John chuckles.

"I bet," he replies. "What happened here anyway? Fight while practising?" He raises his brow as he stubs out his cigarette.

"A little something like that." He narrows his eyes at him but John just stares back. It's clear to him that John was the one who did all those cuts and bloody noses on them. He's hand looks bruised. So he lets go of the topic.

"Good punch." He suddenly says.

"Yes, must have been. Moran's all bloody."

"You'd know." John gives him a look. "You better treat your knuckles. I don't suppose you'll get caught but let's avoid suspension." John clears his throat and looks around nervously. "Are you all right?" he suddenly says. 'Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What the hell is asking that for?'

"Of course I'm all right."

"You have just beaten up a man."

"Yes I-" He looks at him closely and John stares back with a look. "That's true, innit?" John smiles but he remains to look at him closely. "But he isn't a very nice man." He nods in agreement.

"No. No, he isn't really, is he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful player."

He chuckles and they both walk. "That's true. He is an awful player. You should have seen the kick he did to that wall!"

The two giggles.

'Maybe I miscalculated about John Watson.'