Hi again ^^ Sorry for the delay, but real life got in the way ^^ Thanks to Jaimi for the review, I really appreciated it. And thanks to all who followed or favorited my story or just even glanced at it ^^ I'm so happy to see people read this since it is my first story in english ^^

Chapter 4: Masquerade

The rest of the week went by in a hurry. John tried to follow the line of the subjects, but it was hard. Hard because he didn't nearly get enough sleep, being woken every night from his very own screams. Hard, because of the medication he had to take and which left him drowsy and sleepy. And hard because compared to watching Sherlock everything seemed hopelessly dull.

The new medication his psychologist wanted him to take either did nothing to prevent his nightmares or didn't kick in yet, because the bloody thing didn't fucking work. He was frustrated. Another week over and yet nothing had changed. Sometimes he just wanted to leave it all behind and forget.

But as much as he loathed this existence he called his – he couldn't help to be a little bit thankful for it too. He would've never known Sherlock Holmes otherwise. He had never seen the other taking any notes so far – yet he seemed to be able to remember whatever he wanted to remember. Most of their classmate didn't like him, and John could see why. Besides being attractive and extremly intelligent which would cause enough envy, Sherlock didn't help matters with his rather... special personality. To call him a right git or prat at times would be polite.

Yet – John couldn't help but feel intrigued with him...

Helena didn't wait for him at her usual spot. She never ever was late again after The Incident. Again, she somehow wasn't able to go to university. Pensively he bit on his right thumb's fingernail. What had happened now? It was the second day in a row. It must have been severe, she'd never willingly miss two days of courses. She had told him some time ago that she had to work very hard to keep up with the fast pace of her lessons being the slow learner she was.

Sherlock couldn't reenact, he never had problems remembering anything he wanted to remember, he had always absorbed knowledge like a dry sponge absorbs water. But then again, he knew he wasn't normal in this regard, never had been. His brother was the same, they never really had to study to learn things. They just knew. And that was part of the reason people at school didn't like him. Of course, the far greater part was because he always was observing things and telling people in plain language what he thought about them. Which normally wasn't much.

It took him about two weeks into primary school to know something wasn't right with him, that he was different. And it took him only a few hours more to understand people simply don't like different. They would tell his father he was special, that he was gifted but even then at the tender age of six he could see right through their lies. None wanted to be bothered by him.

The insults and violence directed his way convinced him rather fast that it was safer for him to stay silent if he wanted to survive his schooldays.

Freak. Weirdo. Psychopath.

Ugly, hideous, foul as sin.

Shoves. Punches. Kicks.

It always was like this. It never changed. His tormentors grew, just as the violence they bestowed on him.

By the time he entered high school he knew one thing for sure: he indeed was a freak. None was the way he was. None besides his older brother, but Mycroft was far away attending university and so it was just him. Him and the stupidity of those around him.

The indifference of the adults showed him how right he was and that he indeed deserved to be treated like this by society. Nobody ever did anything against it. The teachers just added to it by sending him to psychologists to cure him, to mend him. Of course they were as appalled by him as was the rest of the human population. They wanted him to take medication since he was not normal, not safe for others to be around, not mentally stable.

After the first two sessions he knew what they wanted to hear. It really wasn't that hard to understand (at least not after he read some books on the topic). If he had to play act to free himself from the psychologists, then he would do so. And he did.

Helena was the first human being that didn't shun him after he talked to her although he only insulted her and her intelligence. She just shrugged it of.

After their first meeting and her continued company he tried to deduce her motive – there had to be one, right? But he couldn't find any. She was what she seemed to be – an absolutely ordinary girl. Besides her troubled home-life – which he had of course known even before The Incident – she was just like every other girl, just like the ones at school. She wasn't the least bit special.

And yet...

And yet he found himself enjoying her company while he loathed being with his classmates. He found himself looking forward to their trips to and from school. He found himself worrying about her when she wasn't waiting for him in the morning.

It started slowly – but it was fairly discomforting, now that he thought about it.

"Morning Sherlock.", John greeted him. He hadn't even noticed he had arrived at school. Discomforting, just as he thought.

"Where's the girl? Sick?", he inquired. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "You and I know perfectly well that you know her." John flinched. It was clear he didn't expected Sherlock to react to the question. "How'd you know? Did she tell you?"

"That wasn't necessary. None could have missed your reactions when you saw each other last week. It's clear that you've met before, and wherever that was, both of you don't want be remembered. It wasn't a pleasant situation in which you made each others acquaintance, most likely it was at a hospital of some kind, I know she's … sick very often. Of course it could have been at a facility of child services too, but although you don't live with your parents I'm quite sure it isn't because of some kind of abuse."

"What the... how do you know all of this?"

"It's obvious. Everything is laid out openly. You just have to observe."

John seemed like he didn't believed a single word.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It had to be boring in these tiny brains.

"Both of you turned as white as chalk, and avoided eye contact. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, you bolted. Clearly you didn't want to think about the last time you've met. You had to stay in hospital for quite a while after you injured your left shoulder. The way you hold your bag, you're left handed, it would be natural for you to have it on your left shoulder, but you wear it over the other, rather stiffly if I might say so. Your father left the family over three years ago – so your mother has to earn the money. She had been a housewife before, therefore she couldn't get a good job, so she at least has two, more likely three jobs to support the family. That wouldn't leave her any time for you, but you live with somebody, every other day you have a lunch box with you. Whoever it is isn't very responsible, otherwise you always would have lunch with you. The person has to be either young or in a condition where they wouldn't be able to be responsible. Maybe an alcoholic. I tend more to the young person, your bag suggests it."

John looked positively shocked by the time Sherlock stopped.

"What the hell does my bag suggest?", he inquired, eyes still wide.

"It has 'H. Watson' embroided. Obviously it can't be yours. So you have an older sibling. Most likely a brother given the colors of the bag. Dark green and black. Not very girly."

"That was... brilliant."

Sherlock's eyes widened comically. Never ever had he been praised after he deduced somebody. "That isn't what people normally say.", he murmured.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off.", he offered John a small, tight smile.

They entered the school building. "Hey, fag!", Moore called over. Sherlock resisted the ever-present urge to roll his eyes. Again. Great. What a perfect start for a school day. He felt John beside him stiffen. Sherlock was quite sure the other had been targeted by bullies before on his old school.

Sherlock didn't bother to turn to face his tormenter but the next moment he was shoved against the lockers lined along the wall. A moan escaped his thin lips, those handles hurt like hell on his bruised back.

"Looks like you're on your own now, freak.", he drawled, pressing Sherlock hard against the locker, nearly strangling him with his forearm. "Are you mad? Let him down!", John interjected but Moore ignored him. "Poor you, there will be no more little girlfriend saving your ass. Now you're all mine.", he grinned, baring his teeth.

"What... what are you talking about?", Sherlock choked out. His mind worked on overdrive – what could have happened? What could Moore know?

Moore's smirk broadened even more, now being positively vicious. "You don't know, do you, freak? Nobody told the psychopath, nobody deemed him important enough. Ah, that must hurt your snotty self. Should I tell you, fag?" His eyes were gleaming with rancorousness. By now he was leaning heavily against Sherlock's throat. He bent forward to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"She's in the hospital, took some pills and was stupid enough to fall down the stairs. They said she hurt this big head of hers pretty hard. She might not even wake up again.", he stepped back, Sherlock was to shocked to react, he fell down to his knees, coughing, his hand at his throat, staring at the floor in front of him with wide unseeing eyes, wheezing.

Moore was laughing, taking a newspaper out of his bag and tossed it at the floor.

"Daughter of well -known businessman in coma – suicide attempt gone wrong?", was the headline.

John was at his side the instant Sherlock's knees had touched the floor, kneeling next to him, steadying him. His grasp on Sherlock's arm tightened.

"I think... I think I might going to be sick.", Sherlock murmured, choking.

John reacted fast, hurling him up and through the corridor right into the boy's restroom. The bell rang, they were alone. The taller one sunk down in front of one of the toilet bowls and retched. John stood behind him and watched him helplessly.

The sour smell of vomit hit John's nostrils. Sherlock was still heaving. After a few more minutes he sat back on the chilly tiles, his face drenched in cold sweat. He was breathing heavily, his dark locks matted on his waxen forehead. He stared into space, lost in thought.

John examined him, he could feel those bright blue eyes on him. "I want to see her.", Sherlock stated all of a sudden.

"Was he right? Is she your girlfriend?", John inquired.

Sherlock shot him an angry look. "Don't you have anything more important to do than question me if I'm romantically involved with her?", he spat, fury evident in his piercing green-grey eyes.

John sighed. "She's in coma and therefore in intensive care, I'm not sure they would've let you visit her if you're her boyfriend but I'm positive they won't let you see her if you're just a friend."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and made his way to the basins to wash his mouth and get rid of the sour taste of his own bile. "Let me worry about that.", Sherlock said and walked past him. John marveled at his ability to still being ridiculously attractive even though he just lost his breakfast in a toilet bowl.

"Are you coming?", he asked, startling John out of his trance. "What, now?", the shorter one asked. "Of course now, I'm not going to wait until classes are over." John shook his head. "No way. I'll come with you, but only after school is over.", he put an extra emphasis on the word "after". Sherlock looked profoundly shocked. "Don't you see...", he started, but John interrupted. "No. Either you're attending classes with me or you'll be on your own.", his voice showed that resistance was futile and for him the argument was over.

To his complete surprise, Sherlock complied.

But before they left the restroom, Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket. "Wait a second.", he said, and started texting.

- I need to get into intensive care – SH

- Are you hurt? - MH

- What? Of course not, don't be stupid. I need to visit someone. - SH

- The girl with the suicide attempt? - MH

- It was NOT a suicide attempt. - SH

- I take that as a yes. I'll try, but I'm not sure. It's not like I have the influence Father has. - MH

- Tell them to expect me and a friend at 4:45 pm. - SH

"Now come on, let's get this over with." Sherlock said, leading them to the English Literature classroom although he couldn't care less about classes today. His mind was elsewhere. Was it possible that Helena, that sweet, ordinary girl, had tried to kill herself in earnest?

Thanks a lot for reading - I'd love to hear what you think about it ^^

Til next time,

Countess