"P-p-please?" John stuttered, his knees weak.

"P-p-please?" mocked the tall rugby player.

John had been on his way back to his room when he'd been stopped by three rugby players. He only knew they were rugby players because they were wearing their jerseys. John had tried to just go around them, but they blocked his way. He asked to pass and the middle one said "What's the magic word?" John didn't know what they wanted. He just wanted to go back to his room.

"You are pathetic," the middle one said (the others seemed to only be able to laugh), "I heard you already fainted twice. What are you a girl?"

His two goons joined him in snickering at John, who just wrung his hands, nervously. He shuffled his feet, staring at the ground. He didn't deal with humans very often and was unsure what to expect. If they'd been three vampires, he would easily assume that they would attack him. All he could do was helplessly wait as the rugby players decided their next move.

"Do you see this hallway?" the middle one spoke again, gesturing down the hall they blocked, "This is Baker Street. And guess what? I'm Drake Baker. Which means you're living on my street."

John looked hesitantly up at the massive boy and tried to figure out what he meant by that. John's brain wasn't working very fast and his hands were shaking. Drake seemed to think this was hilarious, as he began snickering again.

"Are you scared?" Drake took a step forward, "What's your name, dweeb?"

"J-j-john W-watson," John sputtered, staring at the floor.

"John Watson," the boy lifted John's chin up, "I think you need to pay your rent."

John blinked hard, knowing what would happen next (or rather, he had a pretty good idea). Drake's hand left his chin and pressed down on his shoulder. It wasn't hard for John's knees to give out and the banged to the floor within seconds. He squeezed his eyes shut, now knowing for sure what would happen. His brain went fuzzy as the sound of a zipper being undone seemed to echo through the hallway. John forced himself to think of something else, anything else as hard flesh was pushed into his mouth.

He didn't know why, but he thought of Sherlock. He thought of Sherlock's sharp cheek bones and lovely mouth. He thought of the way Sherlock looked at him with worry and the way his cool hand had been on his arm when he woke up from his panic attack. He thought of the way his dark curls shook when he looked up at John. He thought of the way they hung in his face a bit, as he read a book. He thought of how Sherlock's slender hands had untangled him from his sheets.

Pretty soon it was over. The rugby players left John in the hallway on his knees. John just stared into space filled with thoughts of Sherlock. He just knelt there; eyes squeezed closed, mouth ajar, thinking of Sherlock, only Sherlock. He finally realized it was over and shook himself slightly. He opened his eyes to the empty hallway and closed his mouth. He still felt half-dazed as he stood and walked to his room shakily. He opened the door and closed it, still staring into space, only now he was thinking nothing. He walked to his bed and sat, saying nothing to Sherlock, who had looked up from his book. It took him several minutes to realize that Sherlock was talking to him.

"What?" John said, turning emotionless eyes on Sherlock.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock's face and voice were filled with worry, "You're staring into space and you have saliva coming out of the corner of your mouth."

"I'm fine," John turned away and wiped the saliva away.

Sherlock breezed over to John and knelt in front of him. John just stared at him with the darkest, emptiest eyes Sherlock had ever seen. Sherlock knew that something had happened and he knew what it was. He could smell the boys on John. For some reason he felt tears come to his eyes. He felt that warmth spread through him again. Being dead for so long, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been warm before John. He touched John's knee and stood up briskly.

"I'll take care of it," he said and nodded.

Before John could ask what he was taking care of, Sherlock was gone. John suddenly woke up from his trance. Before he could even take a breath, his hands were shaking violently. He clasped them together tightly, trying to make them stop. He leaned forward, putting his head between his knees. He suddenly could taste the boys on his tongue and feel their hands on his head, their fingers in his hair. He sputtered and gagged, trying to get the taste from his mouth. Tears were streaming down his face as he gripped his knees, trying to focus on something, anything, but his eyes went fuzzy and he could barely see.

"I'm here, John," he could barely hear the steady baritone calling out to him, "It's ok."

Suddenly there were strong, thin arms holding him. He felt himself being lifted and settled onto soft, but slightly boney legs. His face was pressed into the folds of a nice black shirt, with buttons down the front. A hand touched his face gently. It was a thin, pale hand that was cool as ice. John's breathing slowed and became steady.

"That's it, John," Sherlock whispered, "Focus on me. I'm right here. You're going to be ok."

Sherlock kept whispering in that lovely baritone voice as John slowly came back to the world. His body quit shaking and his hands followed suit soon after. He found himself clutching to Sherlock, his shirt held tight in his fists. His tears eventually stopped and his eyes cleared, but he still held tight to Sherlock, who stroked his hair and whispered to him for as long as John held on to him.

"You can let go when you're ready, John," Sherlock said, soothingly.

"O-ok," John whispered.

But he didn't let go. He felt like he would never let go. He felt like he could live like this. He could eat, sleep, and breathe clinging to Sherlock. He closed his eyes and relaxed slightly against Sherlock. Sherlock only paused in his stroking for a moment and then continued. They stayed like that, neither talking, just holding on to one another. John started drifting off to sleep, the constant stroking to his hair calming him entirely. Right before he slipped into sleep, he could have sworn he felt Sherlock press a kiss to his head. But that's just silly…his thoughts whispered before sleep overtook him.