Hello once again. I'm glad that people are reading an enjoying this. I actually enjoyed writing it. It helped me to understand what others go through and... Yeah, it just helped. Warnings: There is a lot of self harm in this chapter and also mentions of rape... It's not describing the rape, it's simply saying about it. Sorry. I hope you like this chapter, you start to see how everything affects him over time. Thank you for reading and enjoy.

Chapter 3

Boarding School- Aged 11

"English?"

"Boring!"

"Mathematics?"

"Boring!"

"Chemistry?"

"Ah. Now that is something to look forward to." Sherlock had found his new dorm, and also his new dorm mate inside. His name was Alex Sheppard. Sherlock had started their 'friendship' by insulting how overly attached Alex was to his teddy-bear. But then he realised that it was the PERFECT place to hide his drugs and cigarettes. He could smell both cocaine and heroin on Alex's new blazer, along with smoke. He could tell that his parents were soon to be divorced by the way that Alex always imitated a wedding ring being taken off of his finger.

"Very clever." Alex smiled at Sherlock, watching Sherlock's expression turned to a very obvious 'unimpressed' expression. "Cigarette?" Alex smirked towards the boy opposite him. Sherlock had literally pounced upon the cigarettes. Nobody knew about his smoking habits, but it started during a self-harm attempt last year. After experimenting with the cigarette pressing against his wrist. He didn't much enjoy that, but liked the smell of the smoke coming off from it. An hour later, and Sherlock had finished a whole pack of cigarettes.

Sherlock puffed out the smoke that he'd held in his lungs for a minute or so. Being only 11, he hadn't done many interesting things. His experiments at home were his life. But now he had been dragged into a poxy Boarding School, and he wasn't excited.

'Mycroft. Why do I have to attend this place? I should be at least year 9. -SH'

'Sherlock, just please give it a chance. -MH'

'Easy for you to say. You're the family favourite. -SH'

'You really are a little brat, you know. If you continue to smoke those cigarettes I will be having words with mummy. -MH'

'Piss off Mycroft. Leave me to my own business. -SH'

Sherlock sent one last message to his brother. Mycroft was bad enough at home. Always telling their parents about his 'dangerous' experiments. And what would Sherlock get?

* "Sherlock Holmes, get your arse down here right NOW!" Those 9 words were swiftly followed by a right-hook around the jaw. Then he tripped Sherlock up by kicking the back of his knee. Smacking the back of his neck, his Father held him down and kicked right into Sherlock's groin. Sherlock never made a sound. He simply took what was coming to him. He'd got used to it now... *

"Do you ever get lonely? Being a 'freak' and all." It'd been 4 months and even Alex had turned against Sherlock. "Seriously, that deduction thing that you do is starting to scare me..." Alex started coughing.

"Alex. Alex. Alex. Never let your room mate know where your cigarettes are." Alex looked puzzled at Sherlock. "You never know what I can slip into them." Alex continued to cough. He started to fit violently, and eventually landed in a pile on the floor. Sherlock picked up his violin and started to compose. He decided on something about his drug addiction. He knew he had one, but admitting it was the tough part. He'd started playing the violin when he was five. At first only screeches managed to tumble out of the strings, but after much practice, Sherlock was happy with playing this instrument.

After an hour or so, there was a knock on the door. It wasn't three knocks so it could not be a teacher. If it was Anderson it would be only the one knock. Sherlock, even though he tried, could not work out who was standing outside of his dorm. He yelled several times for the person to go away, however their knocking continued. He had forgotten that Alex had passed out upon the floor. It had to be Sherlock that answered the door. "Fine." He stomped loudly towards the door, slamming it against the wall as it opened. "What do you... Molly." Before him stood a newly dressed Molly. Her hair hadn't changed colour, however she decided on a right hand plait instead of her old ponytail. She was much taller now, however he still towered over her. He remembered the day when she had left their First School. It was a day in year 4. Her Father had important business to attend to in America. "You left on the first available flight..." Molly blushed.

"I wrote." Her head drooped, she knew that she'd hurt him, but she wanted to pass it over. "How can I, you know, make it up to you?"

"How's your dad?" Molly's eyes now started to fill with tears. Sherlock had no clue with what she was crying over, but it had to be something important about her father. "What's wrong?" Even though he'd been great 'friends' with her in their childhood, he didn't know what to do now. "Molly." Her whole body collapsed. She fell to the floor in one big muddle. He eyes leaking like a fountain as she clutched her body tightly. Sherlock could see the pain that she was feeling as her arms got tighter and tighter around her stomach. He slowly edged towards her, wrapping his arms around her. One around her scrunched up body, and one around her head, pulling it closer to him. With each tear the fell from her hazel eyes, his grasp got tighter. Molly's hand slowly gripped onto his arm. She didn't want him to let go. She felt his beating heart press against her ear and his lungs were breathing heavily. It was clear to Molly that Sherlock didn't want to show that he cared, but it was hard for him.

"She-Sherlock..." At first the words struggled to leave her mouth. But she eventually found comfort in Sherlock's heart beat, as it guided her through her speech. "My father... He..." It took a few seconds to catch her breath, "Raped me..." Sherlock's head jerked towards hers. He pushed her away a bit so that he could see her emotionally broken face.

"Molly... I..."

"It's okay, Sherlock. You don't have to say anything." Molly started to wipe the tears away from her cheeks. As she rose from her mess Sherlock grabbed her arm.

"I..." He paused before finishing, "I've never cared for much." Molly half-heartedly chuckled at him. "But you... Why didn't you tell me?" He pulled her face towards his, making sure that Molly looked right into his eyes.

"I was in America. You were here." She shrugged at him. "What was I supposed to do?" She said, shaking her head slightly at him. Sherlock let out only a small whimper, but Molly heard. Sherlock pulled her in to himself. His heat was incising and powerful as his arms protected her from the World around them. Her stare was at the floor. She looked at his violin and the strings that had just been snapped, due to his frustration at her knocking. "He's dead now." Molly whispered, breaking the silence between them. Sherlock's eyes closed delicately. He could feel Molly's breathing change next to his chest as she started to explain. "My mum found out, and they... Sentenced him to death. I was there. I watched him swing, and somehow; it didn't make me feel any better." Molly sighed slightly, telling Sherlock that he needed to say something about her father to make her happier. He couldn't say anything, his mind still trying to digest her past few years. "We would still be there now, if it wasn't for the bullies..." Sherlock hummed at first, thinking about everything else she had said previously, when he realised what she'd just remarked.

"Bullies? They bullied you?" From deep inside his eyes, Molly could see tears forming. She knew that he tried not to care, but for some reason, she was different.

She sighed at him and then let out a small, "Yes." in response. He was trying to hold back his deductions from her, even though he cold see small fresh cuts peering out of Molly's sleeve.

"Molly. Self harm is not the answer!" He pushed her away again. "Please, don't do it any more..." Molly's eyes started to leak. All of her truths had been told, and now she had nothing left to hide. Her head drooped again in sorrow.

"I'm sorry Sherlock..." Molly sniffed, trying to clear the tears on her cheeks away with her palms. "I'll see you in class I suppose..." Molly then left, her hands were pulling her cardigan arms down so tight that it nearly fell from her shoulders. Picking up her bag, she turned back to Sherlock, smiled and walked away and down the stairs. Sherlock stood for hours staring at the door-way. How could Molly be here? How could her past be so terrible to his ears.

"She wrote to you, but you never wrote back?" Mycroft now sounded as if he was pinning the blame for Molly's rape on Sherlock. Sherlock however, didn't stir from his place. "Well. What did you do the next day? I know you remember now." Mycroft smirked continually at his brother, he knew that Sherlock was trying not to remember the truth.

The next morning, Sherlock sat in his room searching for Molly's old letters. She'd write once a week or so, and always send him birthday cards. She always finished the letters off with two kisses and a smiley face. Underneath his pillow, were 12 different letters and cards. Each and everyone contained something from Molly, or her parents when she was too ill to write. He could see how her writing changed over the years to something much more like his. After looking through those 12 letters, he spotted small traces of blood that had rubbed against the page in later sent ones. He could see the tear stains from where Molly had cried during writing them. The next few hours he spent looking for the others; he never left them at home in case his Mother or Father found them. He didn't want them snooping into his private conversations with Molly. Even though she tried her best to stay in touch with her friend who she'd saved from Anderson sending into a coma on the playground, he never wrote back to her. He didn't see the point. Oh how he was wrong.

(At break)

Sherlock had found Molly in the crowd of people that queued for a drink at break. He pulled her away and told her to meet him in his dorm room after lessons had finished. "It's urgent."

"Tell me now then." Molly scowled as she pulled down her sleeve even tighter than yesterday.

"Molly? You haven't..." Sherlock grabbed Molly's arm and pulled up her sleeve, right to the elbow. All the way up her forearm were red and half-bleeding cuts. Molly bit her bottom lip, watching as she knew Sherlock would shout at her. Although Sherlock wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to talking about her pains, at the moment. Instead he walked past her, their shoulders brushing. He placed his hands firmly into his pockets and sulked away.

(After lessons)

Lessons had now finished. Molly padded slowly up the stairs towards Sherlock's dorm. She could hear his violin playing out through the window, when she stood outside. Now he was smacking both his fist and his foot against the wall. She could hear his breathing so clearly, it was as though he had asthma and had forgotten his pump. When she knocked loudly on the door, the banging didn't stop immediately. It continued for several minutes until finally Molly slumped herself down the door to the floor. "Sherlock... Please." Her voice started to whine, not a guilty whine. Simply one that signified her suffering on the inside. "Sherlock. Come on." A few steps later, and Sherlock had opened the door and pulled her up.

She studied him, from top to bottom. His knuckles were red with the blood leaking from them. His hands were also covered in red sticky liquid, but this was from his wrists. Molly could see the broken glass from Alex's old mirror laying smashed on the ground. He clutched the piece in his hand tightly as it cut straight through his skin. He didn't stop harming himself even when he knew she was there. His eye was black, his nose bled, and his lip was cut. It was obvious to her that he had taken a beating from Anderson an hour or so before she'd arrived. His shirt was open revealing scars and cuts all over his chest and ribs. Seven scars were left from broken ribs piercing through his chest, Molly could see that. There were fresh and purple bruises all over his face, arms and chest; so Anderson and his friends gave him a real beating. On his neck there were circular burn marks, which looked to her as though he'd been burnt with cigarettes. Was it himself or Anderson that did that, Molly was unsure. On both of Sherlock's hands there were cuts, which hadn't been there when she'd spoken to him last night, from the game 'Five Finger Fillet'. Somehow Molly knew that he was purposely aiming for his fingers; not to chop them off, but to slice them at least. He had been both beaten and self harmed. "Why?" Molly asked him as she stood clutching her chest. "You told m-me not to." She swallowed hard trying not to look too much at the half-dead boy that stood so silently in front of her.

Molly turned to leave and let him continue with what he was doing, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her in tightly to him. This was the first time Molly actually saw Sherlock cry over something. His eyes were red like the blood on his hands and were filled heavily with water. Every few seconds a small tear crept its way down the side of his face. She could hear every single one as the splash landed on the floor. He really was broken. Slowly she pulled him down to the floor, holding his hands, even through the blood.

After a few minutes of both of them sitting, crying and hugging each others pain, Sherlock finally managed to whisper, "I can't go on, Molly. My life is worth nothing..." His eyes were painful, stinging like nothing he'd ever experienced. His heart was gasping for air as it beat repeatedly fast. His lungs needed to take a break because his breathing was so loud and disorganised. At 12 years old, Sherlock had never been beaten harder by anyone, including his father, then he was today.

* Anderson and his friends has spotted Sherlock walking to his next Chemistry lesson, whilst picking leaves of the ever-growing bushes that sat next to the path. They grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and arms and held him into Anderson's punches. It was like all those years ago, on their first day of school all over again. The memories of that day flooded back to Sherlock. Along with his father's beatings. They increased every week, each time becoming harder and harder for Sherlock to contain the tears. This time, Sherlock only felt every single kick and punch that was thrown into him. He could cope... For now anyway. At that moment Sherlock shouted, "Go on then Anderson... Do it! KILL ME..." Anderson and his friends looked down upon Sherlock as he scrambled to get himself up. "Kill me... There's nothing left for me here." Sherlock remarked as he wiped the blood that left his nose. Anderson didn't keep going, he wanted to see Sherlock suffer more than he knew about. Both Anderson and his friends walked away quickly, leaving Sherlock on the path. His blood spat onto the pavement in lumps from his nose. Sherlock wanted it to end. He wanted everything to end. Nothing was worth anything any more. It was his time to go. *

"Why...?" Molly repeated, not noticing that Sherlock had just had a flashback of the previous hour of his life. He sat Molly down on the bed after a few more moments of cuddling, and started to explain.

After telling her about Anderson and the feelings that he's been trying to hide for so long, he told her something he didn't think he could say. "I couldn't end it... After all of the cutting and the burns, I couldn't bring myself to end it..." He half smiled into his hands and chuckled slightly. Molly folded her hand into his and pulled it close to her, studying the marks upon his wrists.

"You really took chunks out. Chunks that can never be replaced, by mind or by person." She then sighed into his hand, and then let go. "What did you want to talk to me about?" Molly then sniffed.

"About you. How are you?" Sherlock didn't plan on saying that in any situation. Instead he forgot the words that this situation was supposed to result in him saying, and said the first thing that popped into his mind.

"I'm fine. My stomach hurts a bit, but apart from that I'm perfectly fine." Molly then chuckled and looked up to the boy who was even more broken than her. She knew that she was psychologically worse than him. But in physical state, Sherlock suffered far greater pain; even if he didn't show it. "How are yo-your. How is your mind?" Molly didn't want to ask him about his health, considering she could see everything that he's done to himself.

"I'm pretty good Molly. The pain isn't that hard to control. You could have just asked that.." He lifted her face up with his hands. "I'm sorry I never wrote back." Molly's eyes started to fill with tears, she thought that they'd have gotten lost in the mail.

"What... You didn't even... I should have known." As Molly stood up to leave his dorm, Sherlock pulled her back in for a hug. He gripped tighter and tighter around her neck until he almost strangled her. Molly placed her hands delicately around his waist, feeling every single rib inside of him and she scrunched tighter and tighter from his on-growing grip. She placed a small and sweet kiss onto his cheek, and then moved away.

"So. She meant a lot to you when you were younger, and all you did was push her away in the moments that she needed you most?"

"Shut up Mycroft. I only did what you taught me to do with my feelings..." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't tell you to cut yourself until your near death, Sherlock. That was your own torture, something which YOU decided."

So there it is. Chapter 3 and Molly has arrived. I really like Molly as a character and I think that because she's so normal, she must have had a troubled past, so here is my view on that. Again, thank you for reading and please review! :)