AN: Thanks for all the reviews! You all help so much to keep me motivated. I'm at the end of what has been a very long drought for me writing-wise. However, it seems that my writing demon within – known as Boris – may have finally come out of his hibernation! Woo!

Warning: the following section may at times be disturbing to some readers…

He must have finally fallen asleep on the floor because when he opened his eyes, it was dark and Daniel's leg was still under his head. He groaned when Daniel hauled him to his feet and directed him to his bedroom. John sat on the side of the bed, allowing Daniel to remove his boots and socks. John then collapsed back onto his pillows and Daniel pulled the covers over him.

"Thanks, Danny. You can go home now if you want."

"Nah, I'll stay for a while." Daniel replied mildly.

"You don't have to."

"I don't mind." Daniel waved a hand casually as if it didn't matter one way or the other but even in his still-groggy state, John knew that if he pushed the matter Daniel would suddenly become monumentally stubborn.

There was no point arguing with Daniel when he got like that – except for entertainment – but John was too drunk and miserable to be in the mood for that. Plus, he couldn't help but admit to himself that the idea of being alone in his apartment right now didn't thrill him that much. It had been a very bad day.

Daniel wandered out of John's bedroom after a bit and John wondered if he should have done something about making up the couch for him but figured Daniel could take care of himself. He knew where everything was. Lying in the dark, John tried to drift back off to sleep again but his not-so-sober mind kept replaying that scene.

The first thing he'd really focussed on when he'd entered that room was her hair. Not the fact that her fashionable clothing was pushed out of the way to reveal the perky breasts and long sleek nubile limbs that John always tried to ignore. No, it was that long, blonde hair – highlighted just so in a way that only a highly skilled, highly paid stylist could achieve. The unusually careless disarray of wavy tendrils hanging down from the edge of the teacher's desk could only belong to one person.

Heather Marlowe. The quintessential popular girl. Cheerleader. Rich parents. The aforementioned blonde hair and eyes that were the perfect compromise between blue and green – most likely via coloured contacts. Unbelievably pretty. That old cliché – boys wanted her and girls wanted to be her.

When John 'transferred' to their school, Heather had decided that she had a huge crush on him. He was unimpressed by her shallowness and by her sometime cruelty to those less blessed than she. Even if there hadn't been the crazy age difference, John wouldn't have been interested because most annoying of all was the way she tended to act a lot less intelligent than she really was. After having spent years being impressed by the exceptionally brilliant Samantha Carter, the acting dumb thing really irritated him. Besides, that was his trick. He and Heather just used it for very different tactical reasons.

Heather was not dumb, however, and she had noticed very quickly that John didn't respond to her usual methods. She countered by embarking on quite an amazing campaign of self-improvement. She began using her popularity as John did - to influence her peers to treat each other with respect. She started taking her schoolwork seriously – which showed others that there was no shame in doing well. Her transformation had done almost as much for the improvements in the school community as John's arrival.

She might not have won John's love but he could stand to be around her now. She seemed to find it quite a novelty to be treated like person instead of a sex object. John really tried hard not to notice how sexy she was because it felt kind of creepy perving on a teenager but she was so tall and sleek and curvy in all the right ways. God, her legs were so very long and tanned.

Those beautiful legs that had ended up hooked over that rat bastard Frankston's elbows as he stood between them viciously using her for his own pleasure. Disturbingly, John was less affected by the fact that she was being raped than the look in her blue/green eyes. He'd seen men tortured before – hell, he'd been tortured before – over long periods of times and he recognised the expression on her face. It was a resignation. An acceptance. No point left in fighting, only to endure. Again. And he knew in that moment that this was not the first time this had happened to her.

Head turned towards him, eyes vacant and unseeing, her pale perfect face was marred only by the slightest trace of tears. Her graceful swan-like neck held down by one meaty hand belonging to the teacher. His other hand grabbing and twisting at one breast. She merely whimpered softly.

Another sound had filled John's ears and it had taken him a moment to realise where it was coming from. It was his own voice – a low angry sound that was becoming a snarl. In seconds he had seized the bastard and flung him to the floor. Away from Heather. She merely sat up, pushed her skirt down and hugged her shirt closed around her. Her luscious hair hung down around her hunched shoulders as she barely took in the scene unfolding before her.

As the scene played over and over in his mind, it continued into his dreams. In his dreams he did more than just snap Frankston's arm and smack him down. In the dream he was slicing at the bastard's flesh with a wicked knife. Frankston became Ba'al torturing him and Osiris hurting Daniel and Cronos using the pain stick over and over on Teal'c. John killed them all so many times in the most terrible and painful ways.

Their blood dripped down his arms and their screams filled his ears but they kept coming at him, laughing and hideous and there was nothing he could do. No matter how many times he ripped apart their bodies he couldn't protect the people he cared about from them. All those girls being violated and there was nothing he could do. One after the other he saw them screaming until it was Carter that was screaming, begging him for help – begging Jack O'Neill for help – but he was only John and all he could do was stand there with blood on his hands.

John screamed and found himself back in his dark bedroom. Seconds later, the light came on and Daniel was there.

AN: More to come shortly I hope… I've already written a little of the next chapter… :)