John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock to phone the police and an ambulance, but he already heard the boy taking out his mobile phone and doing it. John licked his lips, feeling completely lost. It was the first time he had to face a rape victim.

"Claire, do you think you can stand up? I will help you walk to the nurse's office. There you'll be able to lie down, and rest for a while, until the police arrive."

The girls whined, and her sobs turned more hysterical.

"I don't want to see the police, this is so embarrassing! I don't want everybody knowing it."

"Claire, you were attacked: there's no shame in that. We must catch the person who did it, and any help from your part will lead to put that person in jail. I assure you, no one in the school will laugh. If we don't say anything, it could happen again, to other girl, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that."

The girl seemed to calm down a bit and finally nodded. She had stopped crying, but her face was a mess of black rimmel and tears, and her bangs were half glued to her wet cheeks. John reached for her, and Claire allowed him to help her stand up. They started to walk slowly, taking the stairs one by one. It was obvious that the girl felt dizzy and weak. After some painfully slow minutes going downstairs and walking along the empty ground floor corridor in complete silence, Sherlock's strong steps ran towards them.

"The police will be here in five minutes, and an ambulance is coming as well" the boy explained.

The nurse office was closed: absolutely everybody seemed to be at home or at the cafeteria. Luckily, the general key also opened that door, so John opened it with his key and the three of them stepped in. They helped Claire to lie on the stretcher. The girl still looked dizzy and about to cry; John thought of sending Sherlock to find the Head Teacher or the Deputy Heads, as they were most surely at the cafeteria, but instead he found himself asking Claire:

"Could you see the face of your attacker?"

The girls shook his head.

"He surprised me from behind" she explained with a tiny voice that had nothing to do with her usual cheerful self. "I had come back to our classroom to look for my homework: I wanted to do it with Tina during lunch time. Tina said she would wait for me outside, on our bench. I asked for the key at reception, I went up, grabbed my book and my notebook, ran downstairs again, and when I was almost at the first floor landing someone pushed me to the floor. I fell down on my face. I swear at first I thought it was Tina, and I was about to shout at her, really mad, when a rough, big hand covered my mouth. Christ, it almost covered my nose, too! Then I got scared. I tried to bit that hand, but then he knocked me on the head, hard. I don't think I lost consciousness then, but I felt dizzy and confused for a while. Well, until I felt the pain, of course, that woke me up completely. I've… I've never done that before. It was awful. It was like having an animal ripping me in pieces!"

At that the sobbing returned. John reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

"The police will find him, Claire. Hmmm… Could you sit up a bit? I'll put a cushion under your shoulders. I would like to take a look at your head. Please don't fall asleep, not until they have observed your concussion at the hospital, OK?"

The girl nodded. She seems so small and young, John thought. What a beast! His stomach churned and he realised he was opening and fisting his hands; he remembered well that gesture from his army times. His body was getting ready for battle. Only that this time there wasn't any battle, only impotence and restrained rage.

"What else do you remember of him?"

Sherlock's voice came from his back; he had almost forgotten the boy was still there. He was going to tell him to leave the poor girl alone, but Sherlock was quicker, and John's words died in his mouth.

"I'm sorry to bother you in this pitiful situation, Claire" the boy said, "but we have to rule out as many people as we can, and we must do it quickly. He is out there, perhaps having lunch at the cafeteria as calm and happy as if anything had happen. Please, make an effort."

The girl frowned, still hiccupping.

"I couldn't see him."

"But you said his hands were big… What else? What did he smell of? What was his voice like?"

"Sherlock, that's a bit too much…" John tried to intervene.

I should be phoning her parents, locating the Head Teacher… Sherlock shouldn't even be here. But the girl considered the questions for a moment and, instead of bursting into tears as John had feared, she tried to actually answer, her voice still hesitant and small.

"No especial smell. A light sweat, but I can't be sure. He had something over his mouth, a jumper perhaps, but that couldn't disguise he had a deep voice."

"As deep as Sherlock's?" John couldn't help to ask.

Sherlock glared at him.

"I don't smell of sweat, John. Never."

Only he could feel insulted by that, John thought, almost amused. But the girl had opened her eyes wide with horror, so John hurried to assure her Sherlock had been with him when the attack took place.

"But it's true that the attacker had a deep voice", Sherlock followed, unrelenting, pacing by the small room and turning to look at John, "like me, as it seems to happen, and he is obviously strong, tall and with big hands."

"Your description, again". Sherlock stopped his pacing to glare dangerously to John, so he added: "But you were in the lab with me, so you are out of suspicion."

"Thank God for that" Sherlock whispered. He faced the girl again. She looked a bit afraid of them now (the knowledge that any man in the school, including us, could be her rapist might have just landed on her, poor girl, John thought). "Anything else? Did you see his hands? Was he wearing any ring, did he have a mole, callus?"

"I couldn't really look at them! But they were rough, so yes, he had callus."

The girl's eyes went at once to Sherlock's hands. He raised his hands, palms up, and showed them to her: they were soft and white, without any trace of roughness. Claire raised his gaze again to Sherlock's face, and John could see a silent "thank you" there. He was tempted to show his palms, too, but she didn't seem to need it. Sherlock started again to pace, joining his hands in front of his face, and talked aloud for himself.

"So we can rule out all the teachers over forty; not one of the elder teachers is fond of racket sports or gardening. We can discard as well all the younger students, because our man has already changed his voice. Regarding the height and the physical force, the staff suspect list reduces considerably…"

"What? How…?" John tried to react, open-mouthed.

But then the door opened, and a man and a woman in blue police uniform stepped in, showing their badges. The policeman asked them to follow him out the room, what they did, and the female officer stayed in the nurse room with Claire. Once outside, the officer (Sergeant Gregson, as he introduced himself) asked them to explain what had happened. He listened carefully to them, but when Sherlock started to give him the details he had deduced from Claire's explanations, the man raised his hand and made him stop.

"That would be all. Except I will need to talk to the Head Teacher. Any idea of where they might be?"

John led him to the cafeteria; Sherlock tagged along them, two steps behind. The Deputy Heads was there; the woman jumped as soon as she saw the man in the uniform. She approached them with a questioning look directed to John, and her face turned ash grey when the cop started to explain what had happened. She almost ran towards the main corridor, leaving John and Sherlock standing at the door. The cop took his leave with a curt nod to John and followed her. John sighed and turned to look at Sherlock; he couldn't read his expression, but he bet Sherlock was feeling rather annoyed right now: Sergeant Gregson shouldn't have ignored him.

"You still have half an hour to have lunch", he told the teenager. "If we hurry up, there's that Chinese take-away in the corner."

Sherlock nodded absently and followed him out.

The neighbourhood, like most of Greater London, was shaped as a main street, with almost all the shops and restaurants and traffic, and a lot of quiet streets around it, mostly terraced houses with a solitary shop or pub now and then. Greenwood was in one of the furthest corners of the neighbourhood, so all the variety available for lunch was the school cafeteria or a greasy Chinese take-away. John usually sat at the teacher's table and had a salad or a soup and a sandwich, something easy. But the day had been unusually stressing, his favourite pupil looked battered, and his body was demanding something heavy and spicy. And a beer. And to celebrate he was crossing a couple of boundaries, he bought one beer for Sherlock, too. The boy looked at him confused, and said a feeble thank you, but pocketed the beer without opening it. They sat down on a bench, in a green patch just out of the school ground.

"What about what you said before, not spending more time with you?" Sherlock asked, suspicious, as soon as they settled down with their food boxes.

"Well, what happened just after that changed the circumstances a bit, don't you think? I can make an exception". John paused to munch his noodles. Once he swallowed, he added: "Besides, I wanted to talk with you. How did you know all those details?"

Sherlock frowned, pausing his loaded sticks on their way to his mouth.

"Which ones? About you, or about the rapist?"

"They were both quite amazing. Start with mine."

"Ah, OK. Middle sized town of origin: your style of clothing, just that. Your family: you never talk about them. You have explained some army and uni stories in the classrooms, but you have never mentioned your family. You have a photo of your sister inside your wallet, though."

"How have you seen it? And hey, it could have been my girlfriend!"

"I saw it one day you were asking for a photocopy of a personal document in reception. And she looked very alike you. You don't have anyone at home, because you always have lunch in the school, even though you don't have lessons in the afternoon. The rest was just making deductions out of the gathered data. Was it all spot on?"

John sighed.

"Almost."

Sherlock eyebrows lowered.

"Oh. Can you tell me what did I read wrong?"

"My parents are alive, and they weren't disappointed when I joined the army. Well, not much."

"Then?"

"It's personal."

Sherlock looked frustrated, but said nothing. He focused on his food for a couple of minutes.

"You did get angry when I told you my deductions about you", he whispered at last.

John considered that while he munched.

"I wasn't angry about that, no, I don't think so. But it was too much. I'm sorry, I should have been more patient, handle it better."

Sherlock's mouth tightened and he set his eyes on his wooden sticks again.

"Don't worry, it's hardly the first time I'm being rejected" he said quietly.

John looked at him, feeling a pang of regret.

"Then clearly you are always asking the wrong person, Sherlock. I'm sure you will find soon someone who loves you; you deserve it."

Sherlock stood up and strode fast towards the bin, where he tossed the remains of his lunch and the packages. John joined him and felt bad at seeing the deep frown still set between his pupil's eyes. He wanted to comfort him, but he also needed a bit of space between them.

"Tell me about your other deductions", he asked to change the topic. They only had two minutes left anyway; the afternoon periods were about to start.

It seemed to work: Sherlock accompanied John to his car while he explained his thoughts.

"I think it's quite clear: the attacker had to be tall to be able to immobilise Claire. She is five foot four; more or less like you, right? The position he had her needed some extra inches to work, and a considerable strength. We can cross out all the men below five feet nine, I would say. Claire didn't smell tobacco, so he's not a smoker, or his clothes would have reeked of it. The voice is good evidence, too. And he plays lacrosse, cricket, tennis or other sport that uses a racket or a stick. The other option is that he does some kind of handy work. I could print a copy of the group registers and just cross all the discarded students off. I bet we would end with a list of ten suspects at most."

John couldn't close his mouth, shocked.

"But that's fantastic! Sherlock, I thought you were brilliant, but I had no idea. You are truly a genius!"

Sherlock looked down and tried to hide a smile, blushing. John couldn't help to laugh. But then the school bell chimed.

"Oh, God, you are going to be late!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't mind."

"But I do! Please go! We'll talk next Monday. Do that list!"

The boy nodded and started to walk towards the building. He turned to look at John, already inside his car.

"See you on Monday, Doc."

In fact, they met the next day, although they hadn't chemistry on Fridays. When John arrived to Greenwood, first hour in the morning, the incident was in everybody's mouth. He instinctively looked for Sherlock in the corridors; he saw him at the end of the second period, his dark curls and long trench coat were rather difficult to miss. The boy met his eyes and came closer.

"Did you made that list?" John asked him hurriedly.

"Yes, I did it" Sherlock said, annoyed. "I included the staff, and the outcome was a bit longer list of suspects, thirty-two in total".

"Thirty-two?" John smiled widely. He had no idea of the amount of students and teachers in Greenwood, but he was sure it might be around a thousand. Cutting it to only thirty-two looked incredible. "That's impressive, Sherlock!"

"But."

"Oh, what's the but?"

"The Head Teacher has refused to see me or even taking the list. No one takes me seriously!"

The boy looked angry and completely frustrated. John sighed, feeling sorry for him.

"Give me the list, I will make sure he gets it and understands its importance."

Without a word, Sherlock opened his schoolbag and took a plastic folder. He gave it to John, attempting a smile. The teacher smiled him back, trying to look reassuring.

He accomplished the first part of what he had promised to Sherlock, talking to the Head Teacher and handing him the list, but he wasn't so successful with the second part: the balding man only took a quick glance to the list, unimpressed, and hummed uncommitted.

"This list can be useful for the police", John insisted.

"They already have our pupils' list, John. I'm sure Sergeant Gregson can arrive to the right conclusions without the help of a sixteen year old boy. You shouldn't lead him on, John; it's not healthy for a teenager to obsess after gory crimes as this one. I know that Holmes kid is very clever. Perhaps you could suggest him to join our chess club? That's where he could be really useful. Tell him to leave this stuff to the police, would you? They are professionals, after all."

And that was all; the Head Teacher faked a tight smile and returned to his paper work. John didn't have any other option but leave the office.

The atmosphere at the school was slightly calmer after the weekend; but when John stepped in his first classroom, he found almost all the students gathered together around Rick. The group dispersed and started to sit down when they saw John, but Marcie exclaimed, joyfully:

"John! Come here, please! You know what? Rick's father has explained to him a lot of things about Claire's rape; he's assisting the Sergeant who is investigating the case!"

John noticed, concerned, that Claire hadn't come that day. Understandable, the girl needed a bit of rest at home until she felt calmer. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting on his usual spot, but he wasn't losing a word of the conversation.

"Yes, my father is just an officer, and he doesn't usually comment a word about his job, but he was worried because it has happened in my school and volunteered to help with the case", Rick explained, beaming. Although he wasn't shy, he wasn't very popular and it was not every day he could enjoy of the attention of the whole class. "They have been asking around all the staff during the weekend". John nodded; he had to explain again the entire incident to Gregson's assistant (perhaps he was Rick's father?) on Friday afternoon. "And last night they found their main suspect: Robson, the handyman!"

The chattering noise suddenly peeked, as all the students seemed to have something to comment about Robson, and all at once. John coughed and raised a bit his voice.

"Alright, guys! Please, sit in groups of four; we are doing the exercises on page 67. You must discuss them in group and come to only one outcome. Well reasoned, of course, not out of the blue."

The boys and girls whined, as every Monday morning, but they slowly started to move chairs and take their books out. John called Sherlock with a gesture and made him sit down with Rick and the girls. As soon as they were sat facing each other, Nell asked:

"They say Sherlock and you found the poor Claire, is it true?"

John nodded.

"My father says there was a lot of blood", Rick muttered.

The girls were horrified. The Head had a point; they shouldn't know so many details, it's morbid, John thought. But it was a bit late to worry about that anyway, the deed was done, and he could only be grateful that any other student was listening to them now.

"Not a lot, but there was blood, yes. It wasn't just sex without consent, it was an attack."

Nell and Marcie looked to each other with wide eyes.

"Thank God they have caught that man, then", Marcie said after a silence.

"About that… I don't think I have ever met Robson. Sherlock, was him in the list?"

All eight eyes turned to Sherlock, who nodded absently.

"I'm not a hundred per cent sure about the voice, though", the boy added. "Would you describe Robson's voice as deep?"

Rick and the girls seemed lost. At last Rick answered:

"I have never heard him, sorry. But what it's this about? What list?"

John explained Sherlock's deductions and work. The three of them were amazed and started to look at Sherlock with awe. He avoided looking to any of them, and when he finally raised his eyes from his book, he focused only in John.

"But that's amazing!" Nell exclaimed. "Is Scotland Yard using that list?"

"No, sadly the Head Teacher thought Sergeant Gregson doesn't need any help. Well, if Robson is the attacker, then it's all said and done, and we only can hope Claire comes back as soon as possible."

"What if not?" Rick asked.

John looked at him and sighed. That was the question.

"Do you know if Claire has received any threat? Any angry ex-boyfriend?" he asked.

Rick and the girls looked hesitant.

"I don't think so" Marcie answered, "she has never had a boyfriend."

"But she likes to flirt", Nell added. "Just… nothing serious, you know?"

"Has she rejected anyone recently?" Sherlock asked.

John gulped, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, but tried to keep a blank face.

"I don't know" Marcie said. "You? No? I will ask Tina, her best friend. Perhaps she knows."

Sherlock nodded.

"Hey, I'm not on that list, am I?" Rick asked Sherlock.

John almost laughed; Rick was shorter than him, and the only sport that he had ever practised was football… in videogames. Sherlock shook his head and met John's eyes. They both smiled.

"John, please?"

Someone needed him in another group, so John left them to their task.

As the week was passing, things started to calm down. Claire came back to school on Thursday. She was quiet and shy, far from her usual self, and stepped back every time someone tried to give her a comforting hug.

"I hope you are feeling better" John said, smiling forcefully and feeling terribly clumsy.

The girl just nodded and started to work.

At the end of the lesson, everybody tucked their equipment away quickly and ran to the cafeteria. Tina was already waiting for Claire out the door; she was going with her everywhere now, apparently, and the teachers allowed it. Good. John turned to Sherlock and saw him already tidying up his table; he felt slightly disappointed. The boy didn't look at him, but he was obviously conscious of John's eyes fixed on him. John noticed the boy's bangs were longer than at the beginning of the term, and his curls came over his eyes when he was looking down. Suddenly, Sherlock glanced at him sideways and John realised, a bit embarrassed, that he was staring; he tried to focus in tidying up his own desk. Sherlock stopped by him on his way out. John refused to comment on his going out on time; a wave goodbye would suffice.

"Robson hasn't been arrested yet" the boy said. "He is under surveillance, though, but I don't think he is our man."

John considered those words.

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. But somehow he doesn't fit."

"He was in the list."

"Yes, I know… I still don't know why, but I would say the attacker was a student, not a member of the staff."

John watched the way Sherlock's eyes twinkled when he talked; if Chemistry arose enthusiasm from the boy, discussing a crime enticed him even more. Sherlock suddenly frowned.

"You are smiling, why?" the boy asked him.

John chuckled, feeling a sudden rush of fondness towards him.

"Nothing. Have a good weekend, Sherlock."

The teenager nodded, suspicious, and went out the lab.