A/N: Sorry it took me over a month to get this out to you. My muse was running around like a crazy person with ideas for everything BUT this. But here it is. Extra long to make up for the extra long time it took me to get it to you.

Sherlock woke up feeling excited for school for the first time since he started primary. He looked over at the cause of his excitement, who was at this moment still sound asleep. That just wouldn't do. John needed to be awake right this minute.

He leaped from his bed to John's, which was ten feet from his. He landed on his new roommate's chest with a thud and the sound air rapidly leaving John's chest.

"Oi!" John yelled as he stared up at the mop of fluffy hair leaning above him. "You nutter!" Sherlock grinned. The blonde youth looked at the clock and groaned. It read 5:51am. "Couldn't you have waited ten minutes?"

"Nope!" Sherlock said, popping his 'p' and leaping from the bed as John tossed his pillow at him. He narrowly avoided the fluffy projectile with a laugh.

Sherlock grabbed his uniform and dashed for the bathroom. John jumped up and pounded on the door.

"Oi! I need to pee!" he hollered. He was about to pound on it again when the door swung open to reveal a perfectly dressed Sherlock Holmes tying his tie. The only thing missing was the socks and shoes. John blinked.

"Just don't take long, I still need to brush my teeth and hair," the taller boy said with a wink.

"How did you get dressed so fast?" John asked, gaping at his roommate.

"What?" Sherlock returned. "That was slow. Mycroft would have had his shoes tied."

"Mycroft is your brother?" John asked. Sherlock nodded as he pulled on his socks and shoes.

"You and your brother would have races to see who could get dressed the fastest?"

"Not just the fastest. You'd get docked if anything was out of place, too."

"And to think me and my sister played kick ball," John said and then ducked into the bathroom to take care of his business. He emptied his bladder and brushed his teeth, his hair too short to need anything other than a run through with his fingers.

Sherlock went in after John was done and brushed his teeth and hair. When he came out, John was standing by the drawers pulling out his white shirt, the shorter boy's torso on display. Sherlock took in every line, every plane, every crevasse.

"Rugby, right?" he asked as his roommate pulled on his shirt.

John jumped and whirled around. "Jeez, Sherlock you scared me."

"Sorry," but the other boy did not sound repentant in the slightest.

"But yes. How could you tell?"

"Tan lines suggest short-sleeved uniform, which narrows the sport you play to rugby or football. But if it was football you wouldn't have the callouses on insides of your thumb and forefinger. Football doesn't use hands, which leaves rugby."

"Brilliant!"

Sherlock blinked. "Really?" This boy was constantly surprising him. Doing the 'trick' once might warrant such fervent praise, but twice? He really expected John to grow tired of it. Well, it was still new. Give him a few weeks, it'll wear off.

John finished getting ready to go and together they went down to the dinning hall. Sherlock stopped at the threshold, suddenly frozen.

John looked up at his roommate in concern. "You alright there, mate?"

"Yes, um…I'm fine. Just remembered, I need to get something at the library." Sherlock took a step back. "I'll meet you in Professor Allen's class."

"Alright," John said, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked into the dinning hall but he couldn't see anything that might have spooked the other boy. He looked back at the retreating form of Sherlock Holmes, wondering about the strange fellow that had been thrust into his life. He shook his head and went to breakfast.

Sherlock ran to the library as though hell itself was mad on his heels. He wove through the halls, ducking back and stopping as though he was being followed. When he finally made it to the library, he straightened up and took a deep breath. He strolled through the doors as if he hadn't been running. Sherlock nodded to Mrs. Coleman, the head librarian. She smiled in return. Mrs Coleman was the only adult besides Mrs Hudson to actually like him. The others either hated him or they merely tolerated his presence.

He made his way to the Psychology section and curled up with his favorite book. "Unsolved Crimes of England: 1880-1915." He had solved half of them already, but he still never got tired of reading the same cases over and over.

It was not long, however, before he heard snickering behind the stacks. He carefully put the book away and then slowly turned around. There, peeking through the gap some of the books had left on the top portion of the shelf were three boys.

They stepped out from behind the bookshelf and Sherlock let out a low curse. There stood his old roommate, Edward Stewart and his two cronies, Freddie Adams and Jasper Sewell.

They were all football players. Large and stupid. Edward was a tall, black boy with a shaved head and crooked teeth. Freddie was a ginger with more freckles than sense. Jasper was the pretty one. He had wavy blond hair, perfect teeth, and personality of a warthog.

Sherlock loathed them. They were friends with the Gibbons boy and they were no doubt here to take their revenge. He sighed, this wasn't going to end well.

Jasper leaned against one of the bookshelves and inspected his fingernails. "Didn't think you'd show your face after what you did to Paul. How much did daddy pay to let you back in?"

Sherlock scowled. It was rare they actually hit the nail on the head, but when they did, it appeared they did so with deadly accuracy.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," Sherlock said taking a step back.

"Oh, we heard all about your probation. You make your roommate your bitch yet, Freak?" Edward sneered.

"You would know all about that wouldn't you, considering you were my roommate last year?" Sherlock cursed inwardly. Apparently, he did have a filter problem.

"Are you calling me a shirt-lifter, Freak?" Edward asked, cracking his knuckles.

"No, that would be Freddie, here," Sherlock sniped. He then closed his eyes. That was one step too far, and he knew it.

"I ain't the poofter, Freak. That would be you," Freddie said as he stepped closer to Sherlock.

Which the dark-haired youth took as a sign to run. They chased him out to the hall and Jasper took him out with a maneuver using his legs that would make cheetah green with envy. They started raining down kicks on his torso and arms, avoiding the face.

Sherlock was sure they were going to continue until he began coughing up blood, but the bell rang and the boys ran off. Sherlock struggled to his feet, hand pressed tightly to his side. He leaned against the wall and wheezed out a pained breath.

Masters Jenkins and Wentworth were going to murder him. It was almost impossible to dance or ride with bruised ribs. At least he hoped they were only bruised. He would have to check later tonight. Away from prying eyes.

He pushed away from the wall with a wince. He staggered to his first class and when he reached Professor Allen's classroom he was out of breath. He dusted off his clothes and straightened his tie. He lifted his chin and sauntered into the classroom like he had meant to be late.

He mustn't let them see that they had hurt him. John looked up at his roommate in concern. The teacher on the other hand didn't even glance at the dark-haired youth. She continued to write their syllabus on the board. When she was done she turned to face the class. It was then she addressed the tardy student.

"Mr Holmes. How good of you to join us. It appears that you have no respect for being on time. As usual. That's one strike," Prof. Allen said with a sneer.

John opened his mouth to protest but he felt a sharp pain in his ankle where Sherlock had kicked it hard.

He looked at his roommate, who shook his head.

"Is there something you would like to add, Mr Watson?" she asked with a smirk.

"No, Professor," he said shaking his head.

"Good." She went on to teach her lesson.

John looked around the room at the reaction of the other students at how unfairly Sherlock had been treated, but there wasn't a single sympathetic face among them. There were a few bland expressions, but most were smirks and even full-on grins that the dark-haired youth had been put in his place.

John fumed silently as he thought about the professor. She was a regular Severus Snape. A bully. He had them in his old school and she was no different. He doubted going to the Head Master would have any effect. Well, there was the Dean of Students, but John had no doubt that he would be even sympathetic. John thought briefly about going to Mrs Hudson directly, but it would be his word against that of a professor and he knew exactly how well that would go.

He rubbed his hands over his face. There was nothing he could do, and Sherlock certainly didn't look like he could mount his own defense. The boy was pale; paler than usual and looked about ready to pass out. And John had no doubt that the teacher would dock him for that, too.

The class passed both excruciatingly slowly and in supersonic speeds. John felt as though time was going backwards but class was over before he knew it. He tried to catch Sherlock to find out what happened, but the boy vanished into the crowd before John could reach him.

John stood at the door as the other students jostled around him, staring down the hallway where the dark-haired boy had vanished. He caught up to Sherlock in their next class, but the other boy was coldly silent despite John's pleas to find out what had happened.

Sherlock stared at the blackboard, his lips in a thin line as if holding himself together by sheer will alone. John managed to get through the class with only mild jittering. At least it wasn't bad enough for the professor to call him on it.

After class, John was able to lay hands on Sherlock before the boy vanished into the hallway. "Look, I know you don't want to tell me what happened, but I'm here for you, okay?"

Sherlock nodded jerkily.

"Good. And Sherlock? Be careful, all right?"

The boy smiled wanly and did his vanishing trick into the crowds of students. John sighed. It was going to take more than a few kind words and one nice evening to get the dark-haired boy to trust him, John knew. It just killed him that Sherlock never had any reason to believe that anyone would have his back.

Well, he'd never had a John Watson before. And John was loyal.

He was also a teenage male. Which was his excuse for mooning over the pretty blonde in his art class instead of thinking about how to help his new roommate. She was striking. Her hair was short and spiky, her eyes were azure, and she had curves that made John pant. She didn't appear to be one of those giggly girls, either. He couldn't stand that in…well, anyone really, but girls especially.

He was regaling his mates about this mystery girl when he heard someone call out, "Oi! I didn't touch him. He just fell."

John leaped over the table and Greg, Dale, and Victor were fast on his heels. John prayed that it wasn't Sherlock. Please, don't let it be Sherlock, he pleaded over and over. But alas, it was to no avail, for there surrounded by other Marylebone boys was a Sherlock, unconscious.

"Someone get the nurse!" John called out. Dale nodded and dashed off. "Victor, hold his head still. I don't think he fell hard enough to do anything to his spine, but I don't want to take any chances."

Victor nodded and did as he was told.

"Greg, you got a pen light on you?" John asked, holding out his hand. Greg dug into his pocket and pulled one out. He handed it to John.

The short blond took it from the dorm head and peeled back one of Sherlock's eyelids. He shined the light into Sherlock's eye. He moved the light back and forth.

"Okay, normal dilation and contraction. That's good."

"I brought the nurse," Dale said as he skidded to a stop next to Greg.

The nurse was a thin, reedy fellow with golden hair and green eyes. He raised an eyebrow at John who had taken control of the situation.

"Right," the nurse said. John could see that the tag on the nurse's left breast said "Rochester." "You two boys, help me carry him back to the nurse's station." He pointed to John and Victor. John grabbed Sherlock's legs and Victor moved to cradle Sherlock's torso and wrapped his arms around his waist, under his arms.

They lifted Sherlock and moved to follow Nurse Rochester to the station, but Greg put a hand to stop John, Victor stopped with him.

"Just let me know how he is when you're done," Greg requested. "Okay?"

John nodded. Greg let him go and then turned to crowd of boys that had gathered to see the spectacle.

"All right, break it up now. Nothing to see here. Move along."

As the boys broke up there were whisperings and giggles.

"I wonder who clocked him this time?" one boy asked another.

"God, I hope it was Edward and his lot. They needed payback after what the Freak did to their mate."

"Yeah."

"Fucking wanker," said another.

"Freak."

"Twink."

"Fairy."

The names echoed in John's head. It took all his might not drop Sherlock and punch more than a few noses in the unconscious boy's defense. But getting Sherlock back to the land of the living was more important than some stuck-up pricks with nothing better to do than pick on someone different than themselves.

The nurse did his own examination and when he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt to listen to his heartbeat, he hissed in sympathy.

Sherlock's chest was mottled with bruises.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" John swore.

Victor just paled, his dark skin taking on an unhealthy hue.

"You should sit," Nurse Rochester said, pointing at the older boy. "I don't need two patients on my hands."

Victor nodded and sat down on a nearby chair.

"I'm pretty sure judging from your reaction, you two weren't aware of his injuries," Nurse Rochester said.

The two boys nodded grimly.

The nurse removed Sherlock's jacket and shirt and went about probing the boy for broken ribs. Then he took a couple of x-rays. While he waited for them to develop, his patient had the presence of mind to wake up.

"Hello, your friends tell me your name is Sherlock," Nurse Rochester said as Sherlock struggled to sit up. "No, no. Lay back down. You've passed out."

Sherlock groaned. "You aren't the usual nurse, what happened to Nurse Ratched?"

"Fan of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, are we?" Nurse Rochester asked with a wink.

"My brother liked it," Sherlock murmured.

"Ah. Well, Nurse Keller retired. I'm David Rochester. I took his place." He looked Sherlock up and down. "I know you were attacked, judging from the bruises on your arms and torso. You want to tell me who it was?"

"They won't believe you. They'll think I told you lies," Sherlock told the nurse.

"Ah. So, you're the one they warned me about. Sherlock Holmes, the smart-arse extraordinaire and resident liar. They told me you'd fabricate things about my personal life to make me uncomfortable."

"It's not lying, it's deduction. Though, you should probably take your cat to the vet. Especially since it vomited twice before you left for work."

Nurse Rochester raised his brow.

"Brilliant!" John breathed.

"I'll be sure I do that," the nurse said.

"Can I go now?" Sherlock croaked out.

"What? Oh! Right. Just let me check your x-rays to make sure nothing is broken."

He dashed off.

"You and I are having words when we get back to our rooms, Sherlock Holmes," John threatened.

Sherlock gulped.

The nurse came back, the x-rays in his hands. He threw them up on the light board and flipped the switch. "Looks like the ribs are just bruised, Mr Holmes. You are very lucky. You'll be uncomfortable for a few days, but nothing serious."

He rummaged around for something in the cabinet. He called out when he found it. "Here. It's bruise balm. We give it to athletes to speed up the process."

He handed to Sherlock, looking decidedly unhappy. "I wish you'd let help you with your attackers. Maybe they'll listen to me."

Sherlock just shook his head sadly.

"Wait!" John said suddenly. "You can help. Give him a note for Prof. Allen's class. That way she has to reverse the strike."

"It's not worth it, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, it is," John said firmly.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "There is no arguing with you, is there?" he asked.

"Nope."

Nurse Rochester wrote out the note, saying that Sherlock had fallen down some stairs and was getting patched up by the nurse, which is why he was late.

"Well, it's almost time for your next classes, boys," Nurse Rochester said.

"Right."

Sherlock got up, clutching his salve. As he passed Victor, the other boy grasped his wrist.

"Take care, Sherlock," he said. "I worry about you, too."

Sherlock's stomach did a little flip, and he nodded.