Hi again! Here's the new chapter - hope I can keep up with my promise to post one chapter each week - law school is starting soon again and I'm busy with studying right now...

Thanks to Guest for the review ^^

Anyway - enjoy!

Chapter 6 - The dark we know well

The second his alarm went off Sherlock managed to quiet it down. No need to wake his father earlier than absolutely necessary. Sherlock had passed the night reading online about suicide and anti-depressants in general and Sertralin and Helena in particular. It took him only about 15 minutes to hack her medical files. Honestly, either the hospital had a complete moron taking care of their online security or they just didn't give a damn. Either way it was slightly disturbing.

Helena wasn't ill very often, it seemed, or rather she wasn't seeing a doctor often. There were some broken bones in her medical history, twice her left arm, some ribs, once a finger. That was pretty much everything. He had to dig a bit deeper to find the records of her stay in the asylum. Truth to be told, he wasn't really surprised she had been admitted to a hospital after her first try to end her life. What surprised him although was that she had only stayed about two weeks there. It had been
throughout winter holidays which was the reason why he didn't notice her being away. They would only meet on their way to school and university.

Helena had been away almost a week by now, Sherlock mused. And he knew for sure that Moore and his cronies would soon start to torment him again on his way to and from school. It was their sick idea of fun to chase him, catch him (because really, they were all rugby players and he didn't even bother to attend PE) and do whatever they wanted to do to him. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of their "fun" way to often to hope he would get out of it. It had been so many years that he had become indifferent to people like Moore and his father in many ways, just like he had become indifferent to the beatings. Yes, they hurt, yes, he was scared, but he never cowered in front of them, never panicked, never gave them the satisfaction of seeing how much they hurt him. And he never cried.

And sure enough they caught him again that day. He didn't even reach the school ground, they waited for him right before he left the park. That was their favorite spot, close enough to school so they wouldn't be late even if they would forget time over their "fun", isolated enough so none would see them. None ever went through this part of the park, it wasn't well cared for and there were quite a few homeless lounging on the benches and roaming through the woods.

He felt them nearing, a hand on his shoulder shoving him to the ground, laughter. They loomed over him, sneering and calling him names. Before he could even try to scramble on his feet again, Moore delivered some well placed kicks to his ribs. Sherlock curled in on himself. Another blow, this time aimed for his head but thankfully stopped by his left arm, shielding it from severe damage, his right hand cradled close to his chest to protect the cast on his wrist. Unfortunately that left his kidneys unprotected and with a low grunt he had to admit that Moore and his side-kicks knew at least how to inflict a maximum amount of pain within a minimum amount of time.

Someone grabbed him by his collar and tried to yank him on his feet. But Sherlock knew better than to give them more contact surface, curling even tighter. A cruel hand found its way into soft curls, dragging and jerking eliciting a low moan of pain and didn't let go until it took a bunch of the tresses with it. One of them seized his bag, tearing at it until Sherlock had to let go and whoever had his bag now held it upside down, spilling its contents on the dirty forest floor, pens, a few books, a writing pad, his mobile scattering everywhere. A foot came into his view, dragging his belongings through the mud.

Laughter.

Loud, cruel laughter.

"Poor ugly freak – can't defend himself without his little girlfriend?", they taunted and although Sherlock would never admit it, the mockery and name-calling was just as bad as the physical violence, maybe even worse because he knew it was true. He was an ugly freak, he knew as much. And without Helena... well, he was defenseless.

They were five bulky rugby players and he was just one stupid... well, him. No muscles, no speed. He could never fight them.

One last kick to the small of his back and they left. A victim without resistance was only amusing so long.

Sherlock stayed on the ground, waiting until his ragged breath calmed, waiting until the hit burning pain in his back subdued once more to a dull aching, Somehow they always managed to hit the exact spots where his father already had left his mark. At least he had been generous with the gauze this time otherwise there would already be red spots forming on his shirt if the hot wetness he felt was any indication.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!?"

Someone called him. Sherlock tried to focus on the voice, to recognise it but he couldn't. Who was it that searched for him, called out to him) He couldn't think of anyone. Silence settled over him again, sweet silence, heavenly for his pounding headache.

"Sherlock?"

This time the voice was accompanied by quick foot steps. Sherlock felt them more than he heard them, his left ear still pressed to the dirty ground.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!", the voice exclaimed – obviously shocked. Whoever it was who went searching for him seemed to have found him, Sherlock mused. Of course he wasn't a pretty sight, being still curled up into a fetal pose with his belongings scattered everywhere around him.

Someone fell to his knees next to him and in anticipation of the pain that would surly follow Sherlock curled up even tighter, a small whimper left his lips when the movement stretched the skin on his back even further and a sharp sting announced the reopening of yet another gash his father had marked him with.

A soft touch on his left shoulder startled him out of his stupor – whoever was with him apparently didn't want to hurt him – a rare occurrence indeed. Sherlock tried to sit up. The hand never left him but tried to steady and help him. The world around him was spinning and he felt himself swaying slightly although he was only sitting. "Light concussion.", his mind supplied belatedly.

"Sweet Jesus, Sherlock, you look awful!", the voice announced and Sherlock looked up, finding himself being caught by the blazing blue eyes of John Watson which were now clouded by worry. Worry? For him? Sherlock was surprised, which he was careful not to let on. The only two people who ever worried for him were Mycroft (and really, he was his older brother. Older brothers always seemed to worry) and Helena (although he still didn't figure out why she would worry). And yet, here he was, John Watson, new kid with quite a past to hide – and really, he knew he was hiding something – kneeling in front of him, worrying about a person he only met two and a half weeks ago. Sherlock was... intrigued.

John had been puzzled when he had seen the bully-gang emerging from the nearby forest. He knew for sure this wasn't their normal way to school – because they shared his way – and when he heard them laughing and joking about the "fag-freak" (really, that was just stupid – who had come up with this one?) John had become suspicious. He had seen Helena and Sherlock vanishing on some kind of trail leading into the park after school so he knew they lived somewhere behind that forest. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he made his way to the woods, starting to call out for Sherlock.

It had taken him longer than it should have to find the lithe, lanky figure of his classmate, lying on the forest floor, curled into himself in a fetal pose, making himself as small as possible -making himself as little a contact surface as possible. John found himself to be almost sick when he noticed the slight shivering of the hurdled figure and he had to swallow around a thick lump in his throat when he heard the small whimper of pain the moment Sherlock tried to curl up tighter. When he reached out to him, the taller one shied away from him and he could see Sherlock was steeling himself for the hit he no doubt expected.

Carefully John touched his shoulder, helping Sherlock to sit up. He saw the remote swaying and how the normally piercing green-grey eyes went unfocused. "Slowly." he murmured when Sherlock wanted to stand up but landed on his knees the very second he tried to get up from the ground. The taller one seemed to be dizzy. John scanned the things scattered around them then snatched a bottle of water out of his own bag. "Here, drink, helps with the dizziness." he explained, shoving the bottle into Sherlock's right hand. To his own surprise the genius complied.

While Sherlock greedily quaffed off the water, John eyed him up. A split lip, a nasty cut above his right eyebrow, a few scratches in his right cheek due to the grovel on the ground, a bruise forming on his right arm where he had shielded his head. The hair was a mess, just as his clothes were. That was all John could see, but the way Sherlock had been curled up... they must have had access to his back and sides.

"You finished?" John didn't flinch although Sherlock's voice had been icy and full of venom. Instead he sighed. Sherlock had been hurt and humiliated. Sure enough he would lash out to the next human being – even if said human being just wanted to help him. John understood how he felt, he had been on the receiving end of some nasty bullying too.

"Can you get up? The first two classes are canceled, Mrs. Grabiner is sick. But you should get that cut cleaned out and probably get some ice for your lip." John stated and absentmindedly began to collect Sherlock's belongings from the ground and stuffed them back into the bag. Sherlock tried. He really did, but his legs just wouldn't do what he wanted them to do! John took his right upper arm, helping him, steadying him. He took the bag over his right shoulder where his own was, shifting it a bit so he could hold both. Then he managed to sling Sherlock's arm around his neck, stabilizing him, taking a good part of the boy's weight off his feet. His shoulder would kill him later, but right now he didn't care.

Sherlock's knees nearly gave out under him a few times and John tried to readjust his grip and half carried, half dragged the other one forward. "I don't need you to...", Sherlock started to protest but it was rather faintly. "Shut it..." John gritted through his clenched teeth and didn't even bother to look at him when he felt a glare being sent his way. Sure, it would have been more of a threat if Sherlock didn't hang heavily on his shoulders.

It took them longer then they liked to make it to the school grounds. "You want me to take you to the school nurse?" Johns asked but wasn't surprised at the little head shake Sherlock gave him. Of course not. He wouldn't have gone to the nurse either. Mostly adults just make things like these much worse rather than being able to help. "Then we're going to the rest room again." John announced.

"Not this way. Over to the gym. There are rest rooms which aren't used normally." Sherlock explained with a slight nod in the general direction of the gym. Slowly they made it to the building next to the school and up to the second floor rest rooms. It was quiet. None was in the gym.

John dropped the bags he carried carelessly to the ground, leaned Sherlock against the wall next the basins and grabbed a handful of paper towels. He gave Sherlock another once over and started wetting the towels with cold water. "Here, press it on the lip. I'll see if the soda machine out there has some coke. The caffeine and sugar will help with the dizziness." John said and left.

It took him only a moment to return. Sherlock had slid down the wall and was now sitting on the cold tiles, head crocked slightly to the right, eyes closed and the wet towels still firmly pressed on his lip. John opened the can of coke and passed it to him. "Did you eat breakfast?" He wanted to know. Sherlock sipped the coke and just shrugged. "You brought lunch? Eating can help too." Sherlock just rolled his eyes – only to find out that that really wasn't a good idea right now.

"Stop to mother hen me, John. I'm fine." He mumbled into his can of soda. He felt John watching him closely.

"What about your back? They sure got a few good kicks there too, didn't they?"

Sherlock stiffened for the split of a second – his back? What about his back? - but John didn't seem to notice. "My back is fine." He retorted rather grumpy.

John sighed softly. If Sherlock decided he wanted to be stubborn there was no way how to change it.

They spent the remaining one and a half hours in the rest room over the gym, hiding away from the bully gang. Mostly Sherlock seemed to be lost in thought and John just sat next to him letting time pass by, sometimes watching the genius.

His mind traveled back to their first encounter this morning. Sherlock, curled in, hurt, beaten. Was this how he himself had looked back in his old school? Had they talked about him as they talk about Sherlock now? Calling him names to his face as well as behind his back, starting rumors, hurting him every possible way?

He had hoped he would never ever be target of bullying again, not in his new school, not when no one knew what he had done. They had no reason to hate him here. No one knew him. And yet... if he won't stop being by Sherlock's side and defending him... he would be targeted again, rather sooner than later. But somehow... he found himself unable to step aside and close his eyes like all the others did. He wasn't sure if the reason was the bullying in general or because the victim was Sherlock...

Nervously John bit his bottom lip, eyeing Sherlock up carefully. He liked the other. There was no real reason behind this, the taller one obviously didn't care to be liked or even tolerated but... Nevertheless, he had a strong suspicion about the feeling that nestled into his stomach whenever he had the chance to watch Sherlock. He just didn't thought he would ever be able to feel anything like it again. Not after him. Not after them. Not after what they had done.

"Stop thinking. You're disturbing me." Sherlock drawled.

"Whatever. C'mon, we need to go anyway, class is going to start soon. Up you go." John announced, taking Sherlock's arm again and all but dragged the lanky genius out of their safety haven and back to the school building.

It was about 4.15 pm when the two of them emerged the park and stood in one of the high class districts of the city. "Wow." John murmured, examine the big mansions. Most of them looked rather old, maybe since generations the property of one family. But all were well cared for and if the walls were any indication – with extended gardens. The people who lived here seemed to be rather private, for he wasn't able to see far beyond the iron gates the villas all had. Trees and plants protected the estates from prying views on the street. John gulped hearable.

"So... Helena lives here?" He inquired nodding to the house nearest to the forest, Sherlock nodded. "What about you?" Sherlock jerked his head to the villa across the street from Helena's home. John's eyes widened comically. "Nice one..." He mumbled scarcely audible but Sherlock understood him nevertheless. He snorted. Sure, to everyone on the outside his father's villa must seem to be amazing, but those people knew nothing. They all were easily blinded by wealth and influence. Obviously John was just one of them. He shouldn't be surprised. And yet he was...

"What now? Wait until her father comes home and ask about the pills?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid John. Of course we won't ask about the meds. Least of all we would ask her father, he is the most likely that tried to kill her in the first place. No. We are going to break into that house and look if we can find the pills." He stated as a matter of a fact.

John's jaw dropped open. "Are you mad? They sure have security cameras and alarming systems around here."

Sherlock smirked. "Interesting that you're only concern is that we might be caught and not that we are breaking the law in the first place."

The smaller one sent him a glare but didn't honored the statement with an answer.

"They don't have security cameras nor an alarming system, Helena told me sometime ago when I mentioned that my father wanted to get some." He shrugged. "Now come on, no need to waste time. I don't know about you but I want to be gone before her father shows up." And with this he opened the iron gate and slipped through. John sighed heavily but followed him all the same.

He wasn't even surprised when he found out Sherlock had no problem at all to pick the lock to Helena's home.

The mansion's interior was as impressive as its outsides were. It was rather large, rather open with next to no doors and stylishly furnished. "I bet the bedrooms are upstairs" Sherlock muttered under his breath and made it to the pretty awe-inspiring staircase. At least it wasn't made out of marble or something the like, John mused as he followed Sherlock quickly.

They found Helena's room on the second try. It was – compared to the rest of the house – rather small and contained nothing more than a bed, a desk and an impressive amount of fully stocked bookcases. The desk was in front of a tall window showing the street they had taken. Next to her bed was a small bedside table and if one looked close enough, an inconspicuous door could be noticed. Sherlock opened it, revealing another room, the furnishing indicated a sitting or living room. A TV and a big sofa could be seen and more bookcases.

Sherlock scanned the room quickly then returned to the main bedroom, his eyes searching the neatly organized desk. "If you were an anti-depressant – where would you be?" He mused.

"Bedside table. First drawer." John supplied helpfully. Sherlock nodded. "Of course, since they are to be taken in the morning..."

A second later he held an opened bill bottle in his hand. "There we are.", he said triumphantly, and took one of the pills out. "Ser 200... they are engraved the way they should be..."

"We can't stay here – you've got the pills, now let's go." Sherlock didn't react so John grabbed his arm once again and within a minute they were out on the street again, Sherlock had locked the door once more.

"I need to examine these. I'm sure they have been tampered with." Sherlock announced and made his way over to his own home, leaving John on the street.

"Well..." the smaller one said, looking after the lanky figure vanishing. Obviously he wasn't needed anymore. He glanced at his clock. Better to get going, he had an appointment with his therapist in about an hour. At least he didn't have to make excuses to leave early... nevertheless, he was a bit hurt the other one took off like this, not even saying good bye...

Thanks for reading - don't forget to feed the author - wouldn't want to starve me, do you? ^^

Countess