After another week, my plan was finally ready to be preformed. That's what it is to me - a performance. I had gone over my part so many times in my head I could do it in my sleep. There was no telling exactly what I would have to say or do, the Trio's level of stupidity was too far down for me to venture in order to predict their every move - but the plan was foolproof.

The late-January Saturday morning came after a very long night of anticipation on my part and a restful one on John's. I woke him up at a reasonable seven AM so we could talk before my plan was to be carried out.

"Today's the day!" I cried joyfully. Unknowingly at the moment, I had already been muttering the phrase during John's breakfast (one which I had fetched for him earlier, and I was quite proud of myself for that display of domesticity).

"What day is that?" John asked.

"Seriou-"

John laughed. "Of course I know what day it is, idiot. You've been ranting about it for weeks! It seems like you're more excited about the act itself than helping out Harrison."

I didn't know how to take that - a mere observation or a subtle hint of my ever-present insensitivity? John smiled over his toast and the moment of doubt was gone, anticipation expanding to fill the void.

"So," I cleared my throat, "yes, I will go down to their not-so-secret hangout with my super-spy tape recorder -" John snorted at that "- and catch them in the act. It'll probably have to wait for a while, the bumbling fools won't get out of bed until at least eleven, oh I hate just waiting -"

"Wait, catch them in the act? I though you said it would just be -"

"Yes, yes, semantics. I will catch them confessing, John, don't worry, it shouldn't be too hard."

"I always worry," he said, quite seriously. "Especially when it comes to you."

Our eye contact didn't break for a few seconds. John stood up, presumably to get dressed, and kissed my forehead as I took up my thinking pose (John thought I looked like an otter when stretched out on the bed like this) and traipsed through my memories to keep me from too much boredom in the hours to come.

I opened my eyes and stretched my neck, yawning and rubbing sleep from my eyes - Shit! I had fallen asleep! What time is it? Why hasn't John woken me up? I snapped my head down to my watch and sighed. It was just past them time I had planned to leave and John was nowhere in sight.

I got up and made for the door before remembering to put on my shoes (important). On them lay a note from John.

Sherlock,

I went to the store, needed jam and those tongue depressors you wanted.

Text me when you awake from the coma,

John x

It was - sweet - of him to leave me to my thoughts, but it didn't change that I was late! I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door. Their hangout, a mostly-deserted corner of campus behind a building, had been prepped by me a few days ago. I knew where to stand and where they would be. The stage was familiar. My recorder was taped to my chest, just below my right collar-bone in a sort of hollow spot - the safest place I could think of for the events. John was away, all according to plan, and without another thought I walked briskly through the dreary campus, coat turned up against the biting January wind, to confront the Trio and end their reign of bullying.

John walked to the nearest Tesco, not wanting to waste his precious pocket money on cab fare, and preceded to do some shopping. Grabbing jam, re-filling school supplies and a impulse-buying few odds and ends he though Sherlock would like, John checked out and began the trek back, keeping all the bags in his right hand.

As he rounded a corner, John noticed a black car trailing slowly behind him out of the corner of his eye. Wary, he set his bags down and pretended to re-tie his shoe. The car stopped. He took a deep breath, his mind suddenly clearing and his vision becoming sharper - fight-or-flight mechanism in full gear as he weighed his options. He could continue back to the school, keeping in the public's line of sight until he could get help, or he could bolt and hope to lose whoever-it-was. Of course, he could just call the authorities and have them de- Too late. A man and woman were fast approaching and the car at the kerb beside him. John looked around, making for the alley to his left in vain as he was wrestled into the car, bags forgotten on the sidewalk.

I was so caught up in my thoughts as I walked that I almost walked straight into the idiots. Luckily I lifted my head in time to stop several feet away from them. The Trio was half circled up, smoking and making noises in what must have been an attempt to laugh. I waited patiently for them to notice me while they looked at something on one of their phones and 'laughed' together. One of them looked up.

"Oi! What 'choo doin' 'ere ya fag?"

Idiot One's lack of enunciation almost caused me to flinch, but I repressed my actions in favor of observing the group. The one who spoke was the stereotypical big-dumb bully. He wore shirts much too tight for his body weight and had a squashed up face that made him look constipated 24/7. Next to him, Idiot Two, was the 'brains' of their group and the leader. A chain smoker since eleven, Number Two grew up in a spoiled home where his parents cared more for their money than their heir. His particular brand of ignorance was based on trying - and failing - to fit in, making himself known by beating up those who ignored him. And behind curtain number three stood my least favorite, if there could be such a thing, idiot. He sported a pinched face and generally was the first to throw a punch in any confrontation. Due to his bony body structure, and his tall frame, his knuckles were rather unforgiving when confronted with flesh.

"I asked you a question, punk!"

Punk? I thought Really?

"I am here," I began (rather dramatically, I might add), "to collect evidence on the behalf of Derek Harrison. I do believe I will find answers with you three."

The two on either side looked dumbly at their leader. Number Two huffed.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, ya poof" he said. The others took this opportunity to put out their cigarettes and moved slightly closer to me.

"Oh, no, I think you do," I countered. I was going to have to make them angry now so they would make a mistake, I wasn't there just to get beat up. "Even though you exist as a lower form of intelligence than most, you must remember your actions over holiday break, no? Or are your alcohol-addled minds too void of brain cells to know what's going on?"

My simple insult largely went over their heads, causing them to turn red in the face.

"Oh my, did I not use small enough words for you to comprehend? God, what hell it must be to lead a life in your tiny little minds-"

"Hey!" Idiot Three managed. "Shut up pussy!"

"Yeah, what he says!" said One.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, so you do remember - "

"Of course we do!" said Number Two proudly, like a puppy starved for attention but too smug to receive it. My god, was it really that easy? "We beat up that little fag, he deserved it, kinda like you." They started to close in on me but I took no notice, I needed more evidence.

"How did he deserve it?" I asked, feigning an innocence that was able to convince the Idiots of my confusion.

"How didn't he?" asked One.

"The little fag had it comin'" said Two. "He was infectin' my space with his disease - Harrison deserved to die the little fucker, we wanted him to rot in that alley."

"Yeah," said three, trying to form an argument, "he beat him up real good, the stupid fuck."

Charges Confirmed: battery, attempted murder, ignorance and general idiotic behavior. Time to make my exit...

"Ah, thank you boys, I understand now," I said. My backing up was blocked by the quick Number Three and soon the other two blocked my means of escape. I looked through their bodies, no one was around. My hand made for my phone but was stopped by the greasy hand of Number One.

"Jus' where da ya think yer goin'?"

Shit.