Hey everyone! So I had a some time on my hands and decided writting the next chapter would be way more fun than studying ^^ Hope you enjoy, and thanks to Weyhe and Guest for the reviews! I really love to hear what you think about my baby ^^

Chapter 5 - Façade

He wouldn't admit it, but he was shocked when he saw her. She looked so … small. Almost tiny. And fragile. Like a child in a bed way to big for its little body. Helena's head was heavily bandaged, the white a violent contrast against her black hair, which someone – most likely an over-sentimental nurse – had bound to a thick braid.

She was surrounded by machines to monitor her heartbeat and life signs. It was silent in her hospital room but for the soft beeping of the technical equipment, working to keep her alive.

For about two minutes Sherlock just stood and watched, John right by his side.

To say John was surprised they were allowed into the intensive care unit would be an understatement. Sherlock hadn't said much during the first part of their school day, obviously he had been deep in thought. If it wouldn't be for him Sherlock would be still in a – by now abandoned – classroom, staring out of a window. John expected him to mourn for his friend but it seemed he was the only one to think so.

Most of the boys gloatingly made fun of him, calling him names like they did normally but this time they would go for Helena too. Sherlock ignored them which made them only more violent and less creative. John never left his side but that didn't help either. The girls were no better.

It was after the fourth hour, in their lunch break when John finally lost the last bit of his precious self control and exploded.

Sherlock's tormentors weren't impressed.

They didn't back away – the harassment just got much worse. At least he shocked Sherlock out of his stupor. John clearly remembered the surprised and amazed look Sherlock sent him. Did none ever defended him? Although, thinking of the last week and a half – no, none ever defended him. Not even the teachers. But that wasn't eve the worst. He remembered precisely how the spectators of his outburst reacted.

"The psycho doesn't mourn for a friend – he doesn't have friends. He's just his stupid freakish self. Trying to be special, aren't you, fag? Poor freak, his friend is in hospital. Are you going to cry, freak?", a dark haired girl drawled, after the first second of shock because someone just got angry on the freak's behalf passed. The girl smirked at Sherlock.

"I'm sure he doesn't even know how to mourn."; another girl interjected and the whole bunch cackled. John bit his lower lip.

How dared they?

They knew even less of the genius than he – and he had known Sherlock a mere week. He felt slender fingers touching his shoulder. Sherlock. John looked at him, he offered a tiny head shake. Don't, it said. They aren't worth it. John swallowed thickly but surrendered to the silent plea.

"You're very loyal very quickly.", a boy smirked. John remembered his name – Anderson something.

"What did he do? Gave you a blow job? Let you to fuck him? Bet he did. And I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you? Fucking that tight ass?"

John saw red. Only Sherlock's death grip on his sleeve prevented him from jumping and killing Anderson right here and now.

A light touch on his shoulder brought John back to the present. A nurse stood behind them, a thin folder in her arm. Apparently Helena's medical files. "I was told to answer your questions.", she said, voice soft. Sherlock turned to study her carefully. "Do you know what happened? I only read the newspaper..."

The nurse, her name tag said "Miller, S.", nodded slowly. "Actually the paper wrote pretty much everything we know for sure. She took quite a few sleeping pills, the doctor estimated about eight. It wouldn't have been enough to kill her, but enough to get here drowsy and therefor clumsy. It seems she tried to get down the stairs and fell. Apparently she hit her head on the wall, causing a craniocerebral injury. That wouldn't have necessarily led to a coma... but she was alone at home and was only found a day after the incident."

Sherlock turned back to Helena. "So... you still think it was a suicide attempt?", he murmured.

"Well, it's hard to believe otherwise. She had her prescriptions filled in, but obviously she didn't take them since quite some time. We didn't find any trace of her anti-depressants in her blood. That alone would be suspicious. But since it wasn't her first try..."

Sherlock whirled around. "Anti-depressants?", he asked. The nurse nodded again. "After her first attempt she had to take Sertralin, 200 mg a day."Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What about the Pill?", he inquired. John turned slightly red at the question, even the nurse seemed to be taken aback. "Excuse me?"

Obviously Sherlock didn't take well to repeating himself. "The contraceptive pill – did she take it?", he asked again, rather impatiently this time. "No, not that we know... her father didn't say anything about it..." she stammered. "I'm sure you've run a complete blood count – look at it.", he ordered harshly. The nurse was flabbergasted but did as she was told. Maybe because she was flabbergasted, John mused.

It took her only a second. "No she didn't take it. If that's all..." Sherlock didn't even look at her, his eyes were fixed on Helena's bed as he waved at her dismissively.

"Yes, thanks a lot for your time. We really appreciate it.", John translated, flashing her a winning smile. "You need to go now, I'm not even sure why and how you were allowed in here or why I had to give you information about her. It's not standard procedure to tell strangers about our patients...", the nurse trailed sending them a pointed look. Clearly they had overstayed their hospitality.

Sherlock didn't react so John grabbed his arm and they both were ushered out of the intensive care unit.

"Something's wrong.", Sherlock muttered. John studied him on their way back to the main entrance of the hospital. He was biting his thumb's nail, lost in thought again. John knew better than to question him right now, he wouldn't get an answer. At its best he would get a confused look. At its worst he would be ignored.

"This wasn't a suicide attempt.", the taller one stated again. John sighed. "How can you be so sure? It wouldn't be her first, you know?", John said calmly. He could understand that Sherlock wasn't able to relate as to why someone wanted to end their own life. Nevertheless, all evidence led to the conclusion that Helena indeed had tried to commit suicide.

Sherlock resisted the ever present urge to roll his eyes. How was it that people just didn't see?

"First – since this wasn't her first try – wouldn't you think that by now she would know how to do it? Eight pills? Sleeping pills nonetheless? And no alcohol? She isn't stupid, John. She would know that taking pain killers with alcohol would be more effective. And then falling down the stairs? Why would she even move? That's just too much of a coincidence. And second: the Pill.", Sherlock said like it was obvious for everyone that the Pill was the best reason why Helena didn't try to kill herself.

Presumably John looked as dumbfounded as he felt because Sherlock managed a rather dramatic eye roll. "A few days ago she made me wait for her because she forgot something...", Sherlock trailed, thinking of the day in question.

Helena halted for a second, reflecting. "What is it?", Sherlock inquired. "I think...", she started, worrying her bottom lip. "Wait a sec, would you?", she asked and dashed back home. It took her only a minute or two until she closed the gap on him again, capping a water bottle and stashing it in her bag. "Sorry.", she sent him an apologetic smile. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, studying her. She smirked. "You want to know?", she checked. "I forgot to take the Pill." she stated.

They continued their walk to school. "Why do you even take it?", Sherlock asked absentmindedly. "Honestly?" Helena laughed, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't have a boyfriend, why bother with contraceptives?" Helena shook her head. "You are aware that's a rather... strange question. We talked about social norms, did we?" She chuckled.

"Well, besides the obvious benefits like knowing when to anticipate the beginning of my menstruation...", she grinned broadly. "Never mind, forget that I ever asked...", Sherlock interjected. Helena smirked. "Told you you wouldn't want to know."

John watched him closely. What did he miss? "And how does her... period connect with a non-suicide-attempt?" He was clearly lost.

"Well. Since she obviously didn't take the Pill – it would have shown in her blood – what else did she run back for?" Sherlock wanted to know. John shrugged. Honestly, she could have forgotten anything. "Homework?", he volunteered.

Sherlock shook his head. "Remember what I told you, she recapped a water bottle, indicating that she just drank. She had taken some kind of medicine, and the nurse told us that she had to take anti-depressants. Most of them are consumed in the morning."

"But the anti-depressants didn't show in her blood either.", John wondered. His face showed his evident confusion by now. "But she filled in her prescriptions. Why would she do that if she didn't intend taking her meds?", Sherlock queried, his right eyebrow raised in question. "You mean she didn't got the real medication but placebos?" Sherlock nodded slowly. Finally, John had managed to follow his line of thought.

"But... how?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe someone at the pharmacy, who knows? But one thing's for sure: Whoever swapped her meds tried to kill her." His voice was arctic. John gaped at him. "You're talking about murder? But who would want to murder a student? That's ridiculous, Sherlock."

"Well, there's only one way to be sure.", a small grin graced his thin lips, as chilly as his voice was.

"Tell the police?", John asked, but somehow he knew this wasn't what they were going to do. And truth to be told he really didn't want to be at a police station ever again. Not his best memories.

"No, John. We're going to get her pills and look at them a little more closely." With that they left the hospital and made their way to the bus station. "But not today, tomorrow, after school. As far as I know her father isn't at home during the day. We won't be disturbed.", Sherlock smiled again. John didn't even get the chance to ask again what Sherlock wanted to do exactly because his bus arrived that very moment. The taller one got in and waved at him through the window, still smiling when he drove away.

John had to wait another 10 minutes until his own bus arrived, the whole time thinking what Sherlock had said. Placebos instead of real medication? At least his own pills have been changed a few weeks before... He wouldn't have been able to take one more dose of Sertralin, not with Sherlock's suspicion in mind. The idea that Helena's pills had been tampered with was unsettling, to say at last.

It is a series of stop-motion blurs. He sees hands slap bare soft skin. He sees clothing torn apart. Hot breath against his neck and strong legs wrapped around his. Firm hands hold him in place, sweaty fingers squeeze his wrists, he can't move. He hears groans and frenzied laughter, his back and neck wet from sweat and spit. He smells cigarette smoke and hears mute talk once it's over. The jokes. The comments. The promises to return – and never an empty promise.

John woke because of his own screaming. His head was light and fuzzy, his eyes swollen with sleep and tears and it took him longer than it should have to recognize that he wasn't in imminent danger. Feverish he felt around for the switch of his bedside lamp. Crude light flooded his room. He was alone. None was with him. He was alone in his room at Harry's flat. Everything was ok. He was alone.

His breathing slowly quieted down from the heavy gasps which weren't transporting nearly enough oxygen in his lungs. Small, silent sobs escaped his mouth, he shivered. The fear was like a cold stone in his stomach. John sat alone on his bed and cried. Cried because of the pain he still felt, cried because of the despair and cried because of the shame and hatred which now owned his heart and body.

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Countess