Author's Note: Hi all, thank you so much for your responses so far. Sorry this is a short chapter but it's a bridge of a sort. The next one will be when our boys are fully-grown and (perhaps) a bit more mature. Anyway, hope you enjoy xxx

Chapter Five

Separation

"He just looks weird, that's all."

"Don't talk to me… we're not friends."

"Most people are idiots. Why would I want them to like me?"

"Wow. That was… wow. That was amazing, Sherlock."

"Are you my enemy, John?"

"Why? You want to humiliate him in public?"

"I'll do it. But nothing too excessive, okay?"

"You have your own mind and I wish that you'd use it instead of following those cavemen around blindly."

"If you… get into trouble and you need somebody just give me a call, yeah?"

"It just doesn't seem right, Rob. Shouldn't we just rise above it? I know he can be difficult but he's still a person."

"Why are you pushing this?"

"John… if things aren't brilliant with your parents, you would tell me, correct? That's what friends do, isn't it? And you know you can always stay here."

"Drunk… Look! I'm my dad!"

"You deserve much better than me."

"John, I… I really like you. I don't like to hear you deride yourself. And I…"

"Get him out of here guys! Show him what we think of him!"

"John? John! Please!"

"Shut up, freak… fuck and he forced himself on you. Always knew the freak was a faggot."

"John!... Please."

John wakes up with a strangled cry. His sheets are tangled around his body and drenched in sweat. His head feels like something hit it very hard with a sledgehammer and the nausea rocketing through his system is beyond anything he's ever felt. He barely makes it to the bathroom before vomiting into the toilet bowl.

Images are searing themselves into his mind. Sherlock, cold and calculating. Sherlock, warm and kind to him. Sherlock, alone in the circle and bleeding…

"Oh shit," he mutters, leaning over the toilet bowl. "Oh shit." He has never felt this bad about who he is. Ever. He's always thought of himself as a decent, stand-up guy. Nothing like his fucked-up family. Now he realises he has much more in common with his father than he thought. He's a coward. He's a bully.

He led Sherlock to that party like a lamb to the slaughter. He might have kidded himself that they would only throw a few jibes at Sherlock but he knew. He knew they would take it further and he did nothing to stop it. The image of Sherlock on the floor and bleeding, surrounded by baying hyenas will stay with him for a long time and haunt his dreams. He deserves nothing less.

After about twenty minutes of kneeling on the cold tiled floor he manages to stagger back to his bedroom and locate his mobile. He has numerous missed calls from Ryan, Rob and Joe but none from the one who actually matters.

Swallowing hard he accesses his contacts and presses Sherlock's name. The phone rings and rings before cutting off abruptly. Sherlock's pre-recorded voice echoes through the speakers.

"This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message."

"Sherlock…" he croaks out, "this is John. Obviously. Um, listen, I…" he trails off, racking his brains for any way to make what he did excusable, "I'm so sorry. Sherlock I'm sorry. Please, please ring me back. Or text. Just to hurl abuse at me or tell me you never want to speak to me again. I just need to know you're okay." As soon as the words leave his mouth he winces. Of course Sherlock isn't okay. When he'd left they'd been beating him to a pulp. "I really need to speak to you. My dad announced we're moving tomorrow so I won't see you at school and I…" he wipes a shaking hand down his face, "I want to say goodbye. I want to say sorry in person. I don't expect forgiveness but… just ring me. Please. I'm sorry."

He hangs up just as the warning sounds tell him his message is approaching maximum length. The mobile clatters to the floor as he makes another dash for the bathroom.

Five hours later and he finally feels like all the vomit has left his system. He's left about ten messages on Sherlock's phone and rung countless times. His other 'friends' have been trying to get in touch but he doesn't want anything to do with them. He did this to Sherlock because he was trying to be something he wasn't and only now does he realise how incredibly stupid he's been.

At about seven o'clock in the evening his mobile rings. He glances at the screen, expecting to see Ryan, Rob or Joe's name and instead sees Sherlock. He scrabbles for the phone and swipes to answer.

"Hello? Sherlock? Listen I…"

"This is not Sherlock, John. This is Mycroft, his older brother."

John blinks and immediately warning lights flash in his mind. "Oh, right."

"Do not attempt to contact my brother again. He doesn't want to speak to you or see you. Ever. His number is changing imminently so you may as well delete this one from your mobile."

John's heart sinks and his vision blurs with sudden tears as the fact that he has truly lost his only true friend properly sinks in.

"I understand," he says quietly once he finds his voice again. "Just one thing, Mycroft. Is he okay? They didn't hurt him too badly did they?"

"He's currently in the hospital. He has a broken arm and nose, suspected cracked ribs and a badly sprained knee not to mention severe bruising." John chokes out a gasp and fresh tears flood his eyes. "He'll be off school for weeks and after that we'll be moving away. Our mother feels that this town's education system is no longer working to his advantage."

"Right. Yes. Mycroft, can you tell him I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, for everything."

There is a long silence before Mycroft replies and when he does his tone is icy. "My brother trusted you, John Watson. He has been bullied and hurt countless times over the years during his school days but it didn't matter so much because he never left himself open to emotional damage. He took a risk on you. He insisted you were different. I suppose I should thank you in a way. He's learnt his lesson now. Caring is not an advantage. Goodbye John Watson."

The line goes dead. John stares at his phone, the tears dripping down his cheeks.

XXXXXXXXX

John can barely remember packing and getting ready to leave. His thoughts are blurred and fuzzy. The grief is almost overwhelming. It's strange to him that one person can have come to mean so much. He knows that Sherlock is somebody unique and interesting, someone who could have made him better, could have made him feel alive. Sherlock had trusted him. Sherlock had liked him for who he was, deep down inside.

As their car finally pulls away from the kerb, heading toward the motorway, John burrows down in his seat and doesn't look back.