Author's note: Thanks everyone for all your support and reviews! Sorry about the wait, enjoy the chapter and please leave a review if you get time

The next few weeks were a bit of a blur for John. His mum spent 2 weeks in hospital, recovering both physically and mentally; Harry came back sober from her friend's house for once and John was allowed to stay at home since Harry was 16 and was 'responsible' enough to look after him- not that she did, John cooked all his own meals while she drowned her sorrows in drink, reminding John of his father.

After all of the initial police interviews, witness statements and meetings with social workers, John had a meeting at school and was given a week off. He spent most of the time with his mum in hospital, sat silently. His mum wore a blank expression and hardly spoke, save asking for food or water. The doctors said it was shock. Sherlock visited John most days and both boys would just sit and think, but at least John knew Sherlock was there. The funeral was difficult; John's mum refused to go and Harry didn't want to either, saying "the pig deserves to rot in the ground." John wasn't sure whether to go or not. He'd spoken to Sherlock about it, who thought it wouldn't be a good idea to go, but when John muttered "he was my father, I have to"; Sherlock gave in and agreed to go with his friend to support him. Unfortunately, Sherlock was correct when he said it would be a bad idea; some members from John's dad's side of the family were there. They gave John horrendous looks and John's Uncle, a big burly man, shoved past John on the way out of the church. He looked down at John and said "it's your fault" with as much venom in his voice as a viper. John remained silent and distant throughout the whole thing, as if he was just going through the motions. Sherlock estimated that since the night it happened, John had said fewer than ten words in total. His friend seemed removed from the world, he was losing him. Sherlock was losing his best friend and he was determined not to let that happen.

Two weeks after that night, John decided to go back to school. He couldn't spend another minute at home. His mum just sat there, crying most of the day until Harry came home pissed and they would argue about how Harry was turning into her father. John would just sit in his room and listen. He couldn't cope with that anymore.

Monday came around and John walked into registration; Mrs Hudson did an awful job of hiding her surprise, her eyebrows raised and her mouth dropped open. John took his seat as Mrs Hudson regained her senses and managed to stutter out "welcome back". The rest of the class looked over shyly and began whispering. John knew what they were saying. He rested his head on his recently healed arm and sighed. Registration was awkward and long; eventually, Mrs Hudson dismissed the class but asked for John to stay behind. As usual, Anderson and his mates' elbows found the back of John's head as they passed. John kept his head low as Mrs Hudson sat on the chair beside him, reminding him of his second day at school when she had shown concern. There was a moment's silence, then the older lady spoke.

"John. I think you should consider having some counselling."

John kept his arms crossed and his chin on his chest, breathing heavily. Mrs Hudson continued.

"What happened was traumatic and I think it would help you to talk about it."

John looked up, anger replacing the empty sadness inside of him.

"What would you know about it?!"

Mrs Hudson sat back in the chair, surprised at John's outburst. John surprised himself and swallowed.

"Sorry… I didn't mean to…"

Mrs Hudson interrupted.

"It's ok. I understand. My husband died two years ago, I didn't feel anything at the time, but in hindsight I think speaking about it would've helped, instead of bottling it up."

John looked up at Mrs Hudson and saw vulnerability in her he'd never seen before. The older lady put her hand softly on John's.

"Come on love; let's take you over to Mr Sholto's office. He'll refer you to a counsellor."

John stood up and went with Mrs Hudson to C-Block, into a small but very neat office. John sat on the chair opposite the desk and Mr Sholto took the seat behind the desk. Mrs Hudson patted John encouragingly on the back before leaving. Mr Sholto clasped his hands together and crossed his legs as John sat scuffing the floor with the toe of his shoe.

"It's Watson isn't it?"

John nodded.

"Yes, John Watson Sir."

"I'm sorry for your loss John. Like Mrs Hudson said, I think it will beneficial for you to speak to a counsellor. They can help you get rid of that anger and sadness inside of you. Does that sound good?"

John shrugged and continued to focus on his feet. The teacher sighed at the half hearted response and beckoned for somebody to walk into the room. A youngish looking woman entered and stood beside the desk.

"Hi John. My name's Helen. How about we go to my office and have a chat, yeah?"

The woman sounded kind and had a very soft voice. John stood up and followed her out of the office and into a different room containing a sofa and some beanbags. John stood by the door until Helen beckoned for him to take a seat on the sofa. He sat in the corner of it and fiddled with the button on his blazer.

"So John, as a starting point I'd like you to tell me what happened if that's ok?"

John looked up and studied the woman's face. She was smiling slightly in a polite and engaged way. Her hands were ready with pen and paper and John detected an eager glint in her eye. Perhaps she was new to this? John noted how he was starting to notice things like Sherlock did and wondered if Sherlock would have been proud of him. He sat for two minutes in his own thoughts until Helen spoke again.

"John? Perhaps you could tell me how you feel right now then?"

Angry. Upset. Relief? I don't know. What does it matter? John thought. My dad was abusive. He's dead. It doesn't matter.

"He was your dad after all…" Helen said as if she read John's mind. John looked up at her, slightly confused. Her eyes looked concerned and John felt angry that she pitied him. How would she know what he went through all those years? Why would she understand the pain of seeing his mother beaten on a day to day basis? She didn't realise how many times John had wished his dad was dead. She didn't understand what it felt like to have a knife held to your neck by your own father. John breathed in deeply and clenched his fists to control the red mist that was rising in his head.

"Perhaps we should continue the session tomorrow?" Helen suggested at seeing John tense up. He nodded curtly and stood up, leaving the room without a word. John walked down the empty hall towards Maths; it was only round the corner. He didn't want to speak to Helen about it; he didn't want to speak to anyone about it. No-one understood.

Except Sherlock.

He'd been there on the night it happened. Sherlock seemed to understand. John walked into the chaotic Maths lesson without a glance in his direction and started the worksheet.

…

Over the next few days, John had counselling during every registration but continued his other lessons as normal. Helen kept asking pointless questions, to which John didn't answer. He saw her write 'trust issues' and 'mute?' on her notepad. Let her think I'm mute, John thought. It would stop her asking stupid questions. In fact, most teachers were beginning to worry that John had become mute, as he never once spoke in school since the incident. Sherlock hadn't seen a lot of John as the smaller boy had to check in with Mr Sholto at lunchtimes, much to his annoyance. Sherlock knew he was the only person John would speak to. Thursday morning had gone exactly as the previous three mornings had, with John refusing to speak and getting on with his work silently in lessons. However, lunchtime changed. Mr Sholto was busy, so John made his way to the canteen instead, hoping to see the familiar mop of curls sat on the corner table. Instead, as he walked through the tables he was greeted by Anderson and his mates, stood in a group blocking the passage. John clenched his jaw and looked up.

"Oh, hey Jonny! You're back in school then huh?"

Anderson's voice was full of scorn and his face wore his usual disdainful smirk. John breathed in deeply.

"I heard your Dad died. Shame. No one to teach you how to be a proper man now is there gay boy?"

John clenched his fists and his eyes narrowed. He spoke.

"One more word and I swear…"

Anderson laughed, a crowd had gathered to see what was happening.

"What? What'll you do? Kiss me to make me stop?! That what queers do isn't it, like you and the freak, Sherlock."

That did it.

John didn't think. His fist swung and hit Anderson's stupid face. He fell to the side and John rushed forward, swinging his fists at the other boy. The crowd shouted and cheered for no-one in particular. Anderson's mates moved forward to grab John but he turned and kicked out, punched and rugby tackled them, turning his attention back to Anderson who was on the floor, clutching a bloody nose.

"YOU'RE A BLOODY BASTARD!"

All of the pent up anger was coming out, all of the times John had stood by and accepted people's taunts, their threats, their beatings. It all came out and John rushed forward in blind fury, screaming and hitting Anderson over and over again. John wasn't thinking, memories of his dad came flooding back into his mind; his mum's bruised face, Sherlock's eyes. He kept hitting and hitting. People tried to grab at his arms but he pulled free, screaming and kicking. John hadn't even noticed the crowd part and Mr Sholto rush through. Tears rushed down John's red cheeks as he slammed his fists down on Anderson's bloodied and unconscious face. The teacher grabbed John's arms and pulled him up. John screamed and struggled, kicking out at the teacher. The crowd had turned silent and people rushed to Anderson's side to check if he was ok. Mr Sholto pulled John back, kicking and screaming out of the canteen.

"NO! LET ME GO! GET OFF ME, NO!"

John shouted, pulling his arms and twisting his body. Mr Sholto kept a tight grip as he pulled John towards his office.

"NO! PLEASE NO!"

John could see his father, felt his hands pulling him back, grabbing at him. He didn't see the office door close, didn't hear Mr Sholto telling him to calm down. He could only see his dad's face.

"NO, YOU'RE DEAD! PLEASE NO!"

John was shaking, tears rolled down his cheeks and he was trying to pull free of Mr Sholto's grip.

"John you need to calm down, everything's ok."

John continued to scream. The world wasn't there; nothing else was there except anger and fear. The door opened and Sherlock rushed in. Mr Sholto noticed as John still struggled.

"Sherlock it's dangerous you need to leave."

The younger Holmes completely ignored the teacher and stood directly in front of John, whose eyes were squeezed shut so tight his whole face was screwed up in a pained expression. His hands flailed forward and he grabbed at Sherlock's blazer, still screaming.

"John. It's me. It's Sherlock. John, listen to my voice. It's me. I'm here."

John could still see the dark cupboard, the tight space, his dad was there, and Anderson and they were all coming down at him. All dark, so tight he couldn't breathe. Then there was gap in the darkness, a small light. John. It's me. It's Sherlock. The voice was distant, low and comforting. John struggled away from the transforming blackness and towards Sherlock. The Holmes brother took John's flailing hand and squeezed it tight.

"I'm here John, like I promised."

John was sweating and panting, his breaths coming out in short gasps but he had stopped screaming. His eyes opened wide and panicked and he stopped trying to get out of Mr Sholto's grip. The teacher led John slowly to a chair, which he slumped down in, his breaths wheezing out quickly. Sherlock crouched beside the chair and took John's shaking and bloodied hand with both if his own.

"John, I need you to breath. Slower. That's it. That's perfect John. Everything's ok. I'm here."

John's eyes remained wide and they flickered around the room absently. Mr Sholto stepped back and watched Sherlock comfort John. The smaller boy's breathing became gradually steadier until it was almost regular. John's eyes drooped and shaking took over his body until he drifted off into a calm sleep. Sherlock supported his head and Mr Sholto moved him onto the floor, to lie down. Sherlock didn't let go of John's hand. He woke five minutes later. Helen had arrived and Mrs Hudson was there. John blinked and lifted his head, sweat plastering his hair down. He saw Sherlock first, who smiled.

"It's ok John."

John sat up and looked down at his bloodied and bruised knuckles.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry." John said, remembering Anderson's unconscious face. Mr Sholto helped the boy onto the chair.

"Don't panic John. Anderson's been taken to the hospital. He should be fine."

John nodded but couldn't help his hands shaking.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. He said some things about my dad and Sher… some other stuff. I just lost it."

John looked awkwardly at the teacher. He felt exhausted. Mr Sholto seemed to recognise this.

"I think you should go home for the rest of the day John. Sherlock's brother Mycroft has agreed to take you home. Take some time to calm down and tomorrow we can discuss what happened."

Sherlock helped John to his feet, his legs felt weak and Sherlock supported him all the way to the car, and his hand remained on John's the whole journey. When they reached the house, John stepped out of the car slowly.

"Thanks for your help Sherlock. See you tomorrow yeah?"

Sherlock stepped out of the car and supported John under his arm.

"No way. You think I'm going back to school right now? I'm staying with you, at least you're sane."

John smiled half heartedly.

"Yeah, of course I'm sane; I'm the one who just had a complete breakdown."

Sherlock opened John's door and led him upstairs to his bedroom, sitting him down on the neatly made bed.

"Think about it this way. A breakdown means the start of a new chapter. The start of a new life. Plus, you gave Anderson as good as he deserved, so I'd say the breakdown was worth it."

John chuckled and lied down on the bed, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Sherlock pulled a blanket over John and sat beside him, stroking his hand.

"Get some sleep John. Tomorrow is a new day."