(When reading this chapter, I recommend that you listen to Getting Better by The Beatles)
John was busy studying for the upcoming exams, and Sherlock was sitting in a chair next to him, checking his notes for any mistakes. Not a single sound, not a single word exchanged, however their relationship had changed dramatically the past few months. John felt that he could see through Sherlock's otherwise cold nature. Sherlock wasn't the warmest of company, but in a way they fulfilled each other. What John lacked, Sherlock had. What Sherlock lacked, John had it. And they had affected each other.
Even though Sherlock wasn't among the most popular in his class, he was now trying his best to act somewhat friendly towards John's other friends. At times they got tired of even being in the same room as the young genius. John could easily see the rage in Sherlock's eyes at times, however he always stayed calm, and that was one of the things that John liked the most about his flatmate. Sherlock reached out his hand and with a pale, white finger he pointed at John's last note.
"You forgot to mention viruses. They are the only living beings without cells." Sherlock's voice was calm.
"Oh" John said. His thoughts were not as present as they perhaps should have been.
He could feel the physical pain in his stomach and for each breath he took, it became more and more difficult to breath. He rubbed his neck in discomfort. Sherlock could easily sense his flatmate's nervousness, but decided not to ask, as he knew exactly what was the matter and even though Sherlock didn't want to admit it, he was bothered by it too.
Sherlock couldn't stand the thought of losing him. It was the one thing in world that he absolutely couldn't go on without. Admitting it to himself felt strange, however he knew it was true. It made him weaker, he thought. But he didn't care.
Three knocks on the door broke the unbearable silence. John felt his heart rate increase, causing adrenalin rush. His brain told him to run. Run, run far away, and never return. And he would if it hadn't been for Sherlock. He glanced nervously at him. He seemed perfectly calm, though he purposely didn't let his eyes meet John's. He wished for Sherlock's calmness to be trustworthy, by cause of him being more scared now than he had ever been in his entire life.
"This is it, then." John said, taking a deep breath. He had kept rubbing his neck, causing it to be sore, but he didn't seem to notice. Sherlock didn't answer, although his face showed a rather grave expression.
"Come in," Sherlock said. His voice was cold, even more so than usual.
The old, creaking wooden door was opened, and a man whose hands were nearly twice the size of Sherlock's slender hands, and even taller than the already tall boy. His face showed a furious expression which made John hold his breath due to the simple feeling called fear. He remembered what had happened before. He remembered the bruises and the cuts, even though he wished more than anything to forget.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded to know, though he already knew quite well who he was, and what John hadn't told him about his father, Sherlock deducted in less than a minute.
"I'm John's father." He nearly spat the words, as they were the worst word he'd ever heard in his existence.
"I know that. I was hoping that you'd fill out a few details which I haven't been able to make out just yet." Sherlock said. "Let's try again, shall we?" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Why are you here?"
By now, the old man's face had turned pink, nearly red. His eyes were wide opened and he approached Sherlock. "Don't you dare talk to me like that!" He pointed a thick, threating finger at Sherlock.
"Oh, are you really capable of caring for a child?" Sherlock asked, smiling slightly. He knew he was about to gain the upper hand in the situation.
"I'm perfectly capable of doing whatever pleases me!" the man snarled.
Sherlock pretended to sigh. "It would be awfully sad if someone found out about what you're doing." He let his ice blue eyes rest on the man. "I could easily gather enough information to get you in jail."
Suddenly it snapped for the old man, also known as John's father. With long, determined steps he approached Sherlock, but he dodged easily. However John could barely feel his legs. Moving them was absolutely out of the question. His entire body felt somewhat petrified.
"Someone's got to teach this boy a lesson!" He said with a voice that seemed lower and more threatening each time he used it.
John was easily knocked over the first time he hit him. What only lasted for less than a minute felt more like several hours. It was like everything happened in slow motion. He closed his ears for his father's harsh words, his endless litany of insults. Listening to what he said would hurt too much. The physical pain however, was impossible to escape. The few seconds between the times he felt the hard knuckles smash against his bones felt unreal. It was like he was standing above it all, looking down at his own, nearly unconscious body. Sherlock had managed to call for help, but even before it arrived, he had managed to pull out his gun from under his bed and was now aiming it straight at the middle-aged man.
When talking, his voice was hard and cold as ice. It was nearly trembling with rage. John was immediately let go of, and he fell down to the floor, gasping for air. Huge parts of John's body were covered in blood.
"You're making a mistake, boy" The old man said through gritted teeth.
"I believe that decision is mine to take." Sherlock replied.
Only secounds later, three teachers arrived at their flat, two of which Sherlock already knew from school. Sherlock had immediately let go of his gun and was not sitting on the floor, bending over John's beaten up body.
"I've never liked family meetings anyway." John mumbled before closing his eyes.
Sherlock sighed relieved, relieved because he would no longer have to fear to lose John to anyone.
Sherlock had later that day convinced the school's nurse to let John stay up in their flat. She had of course given in to his request. One of Sherlock's many talents was to make people do what he wanted them to, and he was good at it. The nurse visited him twice a day when she changed his bandages. Sherlock had stayed by his side the entire time, though he didn't admit it. Giving in to a feeling such as affection seemed impossible for someone like him. It was not something he had ever desired, however, there was nothing he could do about it that changed it.