Here we are again - a new chapter of my baby.

I would love to say my thanks to a reviewer but sadly, I didn't get one...

And honestly, writing this chapter had been a true pain and it would be so much easier for me to get motivated if I would know that there are people out there appreciating - or criticizing - my work. If you know what I mean ^^

Chapter 7 - Everyday A Little Death

John really wasn't in the mood for another lengthy discussion about his feelings, his nightmares and how his art therapy was progressing. And yet he knew perfectly well there would be no way around it. The deal was crystal clear: He had to attend therapy and he had to take his meds otherwise he would be back in the nuthouse faster than he would know.

Miss Wilson smiled at him when she led him into her bureau. She had her long brownish hair braided, the thick plait resting over her left shoulder, much like Helena's had, John noticed. He sighed.

"So, how are you?" She wanted to know.

John just shrugged. "Same as always. I'm fine. A little bit tired maybe."

"Because of the medication?" She inquired. John shrugged again. He wasn't tired because of the medication, not strictly speaking. He was tired because the medication didn't work the way it should – he still had nightmares every night – hell he had even taken to sleep with the light still on... again. It had taken him about five months of hospital treatment and a rather irritated room mate to get rid of that peculiar behaviour.

"The nightmares haven't improved then? Have you started writing them down – right after you wake up you should be able to remember, maybe you need some practice but it's learnable? It might help if you see a pattern and we could work on them more specifically." John didn't answer. He didn't need to write down what was playing on his mind every damn time he closed his eyes. It wasn't as if he would be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. But he would rather die than concede what had happened to him. What they had done to him.

John stayed quiet although he could feel the expectant look of his therapist on his face. She sighed nearly inaudible. But of course she knew by now that if he didn't want to talk about a topic he would just fall silent and stay that way until she would choose something else to talk about.

Another sigh, heavier this time. John wasn't impressed.

"So... What about school? How are things going with your new friend..." She searched her notes for the name.

"Sherlock." John helpfully interjected, a faint smile on his lips. The warm, soft feeling he discovered this morning nestled back into his stomach, spreading warmth through his whole body.

"Yes. Sherlock. You like him very much, don't you? You've talked a great deal about him in your last two sessions. You told me he is rather smart and observant. Does he know you're here right now? Or that you spent the last year hospitalized?"

John's eyes widened. "No, of course not!"

"You know, being treated for an illness is nothing to be ashamed of. Even if said illness is of mental nature. And you are ill. You made great progress, but you're still not fully healed. It will take some time until you are. A friend could help you heal, he could support you."

John snorted. "I'm quite sure he doesn't want to be supportive..."

"Well, you wouldn't know until you ask him, would you? And what about your scars? You can't wear long sleeved shirts in summer."

"Watch me." John deadpanned. Of course he had thought about it. But until now he hadn't come up with a bearable solution. Right now no one was wondering about his choice of clothing but sooner or later it would be getting warm, hot even, again... He didn't care about what he wore when he was in the hospital, hell, he wasn't the only one with – rather telling - scars on his arms and his weren't the worst, not by a long chalk. At home he didn't care either. But in school... this wasn't going to be easy. And it would be even more difficult to hide his... weakness from Sherlock. That guy knew to much already.

"I guess we're not talking about that topic anymore either right now, but don't think it will go away just because you choose to ignore it." Miss Wilson stated. "So, I've read about that suicide attempt in the news papers. As far as I know you met the girl in hospital?" She inquired.

John sighed again. Trust the woman to find the next worst topic after his relationship with Sherlock to talk about. And how did she even know they met? He wasn't her patient back then.

"I did meet her. But we weren't close."

It was already dark outside although it was only 4 pm. John could see himself in the window and tried concentrating on the street lantern in front of him. It was snowing softly, if he squinted he could detect the small layer of white on the windowsill.

He leaned heavily on the wall, relishing in the silence surrounding him. A nice change from the ever lasting buzz of the patients in the ward. Most of them went home today, seeing as tomorrow was Christmas. Only the really severe cases had to stay in hospital over the holidays. Such as himself. Although they allowed him to go home until 4 pm tomorrow to celebrate with his family. Not something he looked forward to.

A low moan startled himself out of his thoughts, when he searched for its source he found a girl leaning heavily on the wall on the far end of the entry to the day room. Her face was contracted in pain and her right arm was pressed to her abdomen. John didn't know her but he had heard rumors that a new one would join them in the suicide ward. Of course everyone thought it would happen after Christmas, maybe even after New Year's Eve. Seems like they had been wrong.

Another moan escaped the girl, she bent forward a bit, letting her long dark hair hiding her face. Slowly John approached her. "Hey, you need a nurse or something?" He asked softly, not wanting to startle her. Her head jerked up, dark eyes locked his and within a split second her whole posture changed. She stood straight, her hand left her middle, her face – grimacing with pain a moment before – evened out and an easy smile was on her lips.

"I'm fine, thanks." If John hadn't seen her writhing with pain a second ago he would have believed without any second thoughts.

"Touchy stomach? I know that one, too. Can be a right pain in the ass." He said, smiling softly, trying to comfort her that he would – in no way – ever judge her.

She searched his face for falsehood and finding none, she returned his smile tenderly. "Yeah... they just let me out of treatment, didn't know I would miss the IV that much..." She shrugged.

"You wait for a sec, I'll go see if Michaela still has some of that fennel tea and a hot-water bottle. That does wonders." He grinned, leading her to a chair next to the window front he had been starring out before. She slumped into it, drawing her knees to her chest, nodding.

When John had returned with the promised tea and the hot-water bottle, they had talked a little bit. Not much, Helena – the girl's name, John had learnt – had still tired easily.

They had spent Christmas Eve together seeing as they were some of the few patients staying. After the holidays, routine settled back into the hospital. They really hadn't had that much time to get to know each other since Helena hadn't stayed long. She was released at January the sixth, the day before school started again.

John had wondered briefly why and how, normally, patients in the suicide ward stayed longer than about two weeks...

"How do you feel about it?" Miss Wilson wanted to know.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He hated this kind of questions. How was he supposed to answer that? What ever he would say, she would turn it against him. So he settled for an evasive strategy.

"I feel sorry for Sherlock. He knew her well, it seems. And they were close."

"His girlfriend?" Miss Wilson asked.

He crooked a small smile. What were Sherlock's words? Don't you have anything more important to do than question me if I'm romantically involved with her? He was sorely tempted to quote him here but he knew it wouldn't sit well with his therapist.

"No. Just friends. But close friends. He was rather shocked... he didn't find out in a good way since he read it in the newspaper. He actually was sick afterwards. We went to see her... "

"She is still in coma?"

"Yeah... hit her head pretty hard." He said.

"I guess you understand now how your sister felt when she discovered you in the tube." Uh, he didn't like the direction this session was taking. He thought the woman was there to help him not to increase his guilt...

Nevertheless he nodded. Of course he knew he had hurt his sister. But to be fair he never intended for her to find him like this. Although finding him dead would maybe – surly, he corrected – have been even more cruel for her. It had been part of his therapy to apologize to her and after that, they never spoke about it again. Ever. Until now he didn't even know why she had come home early that day.

They talked about his sister a little bit more – she started drinking again after she had stayed sober for nearly 4 months. Miss Wilson knew how hard it was for him to think that it was part his fault that Harry started drinking again, it sure went to hell when she found him back then after his attempt to kill himself. Before she was just drinking occasionally – too much to be considered okay but nowhere as bad as after his hospitalization.

The sun was nearly gone by the time he emerged from his therapist's place. The wind was blowing harshly, gathering clouds darkened the sky. It would be raining soon...

Sherlock had been working on dissecting Helena's pills since the moment he entered his room, and now, nearly five hours later he was finished. This wasn't Sertralin at all. Of course, it had the right size, the right shape, the right imprint and everything. Whoever had made this sure knew his business well. The perfect facsimile. But the contents were all wrong.

This wasn't the anti-depressant Helena had been prescribed. This was a weak barbiturate. He had read about the medication she should have taken, it was supposed to make one tired one to two hours after being consumed. The sleeping pill would do exact the same but without stabilizing her mood. No wonder she had taken more than the supposed dosage – she must have been desperate for the medication to work. She had taken it since she had been out of hospital treatment – that would have been nine months now. Sherlock had no way to find out when she had gotten the false pills. She had been off the medication at least three weeks, otherwise it would have shown in her blood. To really feel the change it would have taken about six weeks. It had to be not less than two months since she had taken the anti-depressant the last time.

He bit on his thump's nail again. Hot, white ire filled him only to be oppressed the next second. He didn't do sentiments. He didn't need them. Not now, not ever. It would make everything more complicated and wouldn't help anyone.

So... Why would anyone do such a thing? John had been right – why would anyone try and kill a student? Compared to how her father had treated her last attempt to kill herself this time was rather different – now it was all over the papers. Why would he do that? Of course, the sympathy card got him quite some publicity for his business. He got to play the grieving father, seemingly heavy with guilt because he couldn't save his daughter from her self-destruction.

But other than that...

There wasn't a mother in the picture, probably dead or left (although Sherlock thought that highly unlikely, leaving a child with an abusive father was something even he was sure would go against every mother instinct) so maybe there was a life insurance and the motive was money after all? The reasons for murder were almost always the same: Money, jealousy or passion. But somehow he couldn't fit Helena in there...

Sherlock had been so immersed in his own thoughts he failed to notice that the comfortable silence of the house was rudely disrupted by the banging of the front door. He never heard the shuffling or the heavy footsteps on the stairs. He was so focused he startled rather badly the moment someone opened his door and stomped into the room.

"Father." He was surprised. How late was it? He sure had lost every sense of time while contemplating the problem at hand. The heavy smell of alcohol greeted him when his father Sherringford Holmes inched closer to his son.

"What the fucking hell are you up to now?" The man slurred, his breath thick with the smell whisky. Sherlock knew for sure his father had always possessed the capacity for violence, being the physical imposing, ill-tampered man he was and becoming a heavy drinker did nothing to ease his flaws.

He knew what was bound to happen now...

Sherlock managed to get his precious microscope out of the way and to scramble off his bed before the man had chance to lash out at him. He shielded his beloved science equipment, the one Mycroft had gifted him with from the drunken wrath his father displayed.

His arm was caught in a death grip and he was yanked forward, stumbling, falling. The coldness of the floor abruptly greeted him. Sherlock could hear a well known snap – a leather belt being churn in the air.

Sherlock curled in on himself, the reaction had been internalized a long time ago.

"Fucking freak, can't y'do anything normal? Always sitting in the bloody dark, always starring at weird things. Fucking weirdo."

Sherlock tried curling up even tighter when the lashing began, making himself as small as humanly possible. It had only been hours since his body had been subjected to the violence of Moore and his cronies, the bruises and aches still fresh, still tender.

"Bloody freak, look at you – what are you, a fag? Can't even stand up for yourself." Dry laughter accompanied the next strokes. "Bet you get off of this." The voice dripped with barley concealed hatred.

Silently he tried counting the blows his father landed on his back and side, trying desperately to distract himself from the pain and the hurt and the cruel voice, calling him worse things than Moore, Donovan or Anderson could ever come up with. And it pained him just the more because it was his own father...

By the time the man lost interest Sherlock was barley conscious at all, holing up in his own mind, sheltering from the abuse he named his life.

He didn't know how long he just lay there on the floor, eyes scrunched shut and waiting for the pain to fade away, knowing it would take days before he could even think to move without agony. In the morning it would only be worse...

The next day was anguish. His whole body felt sore like he had done way to much work out the night before. The struggle to get him out of his own bed was nearly to much and by the time he made it into his bathroom he was properly exhausted. He never looked into the mirror, not wanting to see how... pathetic he was. His back felt horrible and inflamed and he only wished to crawl back into his bed and never move again.

But of course, that wouldn't do. He had news for John regarding their case and since the other still didn't own a mobile, he had to tell him himself. Besides, he enjoyed spending time with the youth, he wasn't as narrow minded as the rest of the pupils and Sherlock had to be blind to not notice that the other was hiding something. And the genius in him loved nothing more than a good puzzle.

In school he found himself discussing their approach of the matter with John and they agreed that the police won't take them seriously if they would just strut into the station and announce the alleged suicide attempt was – in fact – a rather brilliant murder attempt.

They didn't decide on a course of action although Sherlock was thinking about talking to Mycroft – how much he might detest it.

All thoughts of how to proceed and what to do were put to halt exactly 14m and about 50cm before he entered his father's estate. Put to halt by a guarded "Mister Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?" Across the street. Sherlock turned and saw an elderly woman of east-European origin approaching him fast, eyes sorrowful and a thin writing block clutched by her side.

And just then Sherlock knew something had happened.

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