He can't help but get even more curious and suspicious. He sees him coming towards him with the shadow of a dark hero... He can't help but think like Sherlock's this sort of dark mysterious person who secretly helps people. He secretly helps others with their lost items and such... Sherlock keeps telling him that it's all in the adrenaline and the mystery... He thinks that's bullshit. He thinks - no - he knows that Sherlock likes helping people.

Which is why he likes protecting Sherlock from those arseholes. If Sherlock is actually a good person, why the hell would others treat him like dirt? That's very unfair. He threatened the bullies enough. Moran and his other weird dark-haired friend are a good distance away from them now...

But how does Sherlock still get bruises?

"Sherlock, we really have to talk about this," he tells him.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock asks casually, walking beside him.

"These bruises! There's more of them!" He loudly whispers. Loudly whispers indeed. Good thing no one's around here. They always meet at the abandoned park beside the school an hour before school starts.

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock shrugs. "Probably in my sleep."

He pinches his nose, "Oh really? Yeah, good deduction, Sherlock. How smart of you."

"Thank you."

"That was sarcasm you idiot."

"I know."

"Did you get in another fight."

"John, you sound like a mother."

"I'm basically you're mother!" He says, frustrated and Sherlock gives him a look. He sighs. "You know what? Fine. Have it your way. I won't ask."

"Good. Your endless chatter annoys me."

"Endless cha-" he stops himself. He huffs and carries on walking with Sherlock. They reach a bench. "I want to sit," he tells him and the two sits quietly on the bench. "You're getting even more impossible to talk to nowadays."

"I was never aware I'm even more impossible to talk to..."

"You're worse than a brick wall," John sighs. "Why won't you just tell me who keeps adding those bruises on your face?"

"Because it's none of your business," Sherlock snaps and John shuts up.

He did not expect that at all. Sherlock Holmes just bloody told him that something is not his business. 'What a cliché thing for someone to say and now even the great Sherlock Holmes says such a cliché thing? Something's off but what is it? Is it some people before who beats the shit out of-'

"Shut up," Sherlock suddenly snaps, bringing John back to reality.

"I'm not saying anything."

"You were thinking, it's annoying," 'That's the Sherlock I know.'

Johns starting to get suspicious, he can feel that. He doesn't want to tell John because it doesn't really matter, does it? Okay, he admits that to John, it would matter but that's just because John has a strong moral principle... If he tells him, John will get all military and angry... He doesn't really need John's help anyway. But the bruises are adding more daily.

If only there are other ways to- he'll have to negotiate. John's been such a good friend. 'Friend. Friend. What a foreign word for me to use it to such an ordinary person. No. John's not ordinary. He has a part of him that differentiates him from others. Probably why his other friends hate him. I should write a blog about suppressed hatred in close proximity! I'd base it entirely on his friends. Easier.'

He shakes his head. But the thought that he'd see the hatred in looks. But he doesn't see it in John's face when John looks at him. It gives him hope that he can have a friend. He's an obnoxious arsehole, he's hopeless. But then there's John and maybe... Just maybe... He can..

He reaches his house and opens the door.

"Where have you been?" He hears someone yell from the sitting room.

"School," he yells back, hanging his coat on the coatrack.

"At this late in the hour?" he hears him and he checks his watch. Ten o'clock at night. He must have drifted off when he was hanging out at Montague Street. 'Welp.' "Come here."

He walks in the sitting room and finds him sitting on his usual armchair. "Yes, sir?"

"Where have you been? And I want a proper answer this time."

"Montague Street."

"And what were you doing there?" His voice is stern, angry. He inwardly winces at his tone.

"Thinking."

THWACK!

And the first slap hits his face. 'Left hand, ring on. Sucks the fact that he's left-handed.'

"What did I tell you about dozing off?" He stands up and towers over him.

"That it's a good rest?" He says sarcastically.

THWACK!

"I don't need that foul mouth of yours, William."

'Ugh. William. Stupid first name.'

"Now tell me what you were really doing."

"I already said-"

THWACK!

"Stop lying to me, you no good useless arse."

"I'm not-"

THWACK!

"Do you want to continue?"

"No."

THWACK!

"What were you doing in Montague Street?"

"NOTHING! I SAID NOTHING!" he yells at his father.

Bad mistake.

His father steps towards him but he keeps his ground. He tries to not-show that he's getting intimidated by his own father. He can handle him. 'Eyes, little squint in the eyes, means either humour, happiness or anger. Clearly means the latter. Anger at me. For getting late? For yelling? No, false. For breathing. Stance, getting ready. Fist, clenching and unclenching. Leaning over, cornering me. Not working in my behalf. Fist moving upwards. About to hit me. Dodge!'

He dodges the first punch but his father is smarter than being tricked. He didn't notice his other hand getting ready for the dodge and so he hits him on the chest. Sherlock falls on the floor, coughing, as if the wind is punched out of him.

"Think you can outsmart me, hmm?" He leans over him. "You're forgetting, offspring, I'm more intelligent than you'll ever be."

He kicks him once on the ribs and Sherlock closes his eyes as he absorbs the pain. He doesn't dare make a sound. A sound means that he doesn't approve, that he's in pain. And he doesn't want to give his father the satisfaction he wants.

"I'd have been a better man if you never turned out the way you are. You could've been like your brother, Mycroft. But no, you decided to be a freak in your nature. Pathetic," Siger Holmes tuts. "A Holmes, being a pathetic one as you are. Not the kind I'd want you to be. So I have to punish you instead. Grow a brain, you're being slow and stupid, William." Siger scolds him and he mentally rolls his eyes.

'Another one of his stupid lectures.'

"Get your presence out of here. I don't want you lowering my intelligence as I talk to you. Don't talk. Just leave..." He pauses.

'Can I move?'

"NOW!" Siger yells and he jumps up, ignoring the pain in his body. He runs to his room. 'Dizzy, spinning endlessly. Stop. Shut up and deal with this.' He goes to his room and gets a gel pack from his mini-refrigerator Mycroft got him last year so he wouldn't 'spoil the good refrigerator.' He looks at his face in the mirror.

'A new cut, from father's ring, no doubt. John would interrogate me again.' He rolls his eyes at this.

He removes his shirt and sees new bruises coming out from the other healing bruises, cuts and scrapes. He looks like a map. No, he is a map. A map of all the 'misbehaving acts' he does. His parents should just call it for what it really is. A map of how much his family hates him.

Good thing Mycroft isn't in the manor much anymore. Often out in his office. Probably stalking him whenever he comes out of the manor. He already got to talk to him about John. Reminding him of Redbeard.

Stupid Mycroft.

Redbeard is his first best friend. John is his first human best friend. And he'll always owe them a lot.

He just have to do his best and keep John from his family.