The next Monday, John told his classroom to group in fours again to finish last week's tasks, and he approached the front row group as soon as it was safe to do it without any other student eavesdropping.

"Have they arrested anyone?" he asked Rick, as quietly as he could.

The boy shook his head.

"Sadly, no. My father says they don't have enough evidence about Robson, and that he would end free of charges if he was to be sent to Court right now."

"I see", John sighed.

"Why did the Yard think he is the main suspect in the first place?" Sherlock whispered.

"He had been fined before for physical abuse to his girlfriend", Rick answered. "My father says it's the only thing they have found".

"No alibi and a violent background", Nell mumbled. "Well, it's something, but not enough. I think a student would fit better as the attacker."

Sherlock looked at her, surprised.

"Why do you say so?" he asked her.

Nell leaned forward, her head almost touching Marcie and Sherlock's foreheads, and adopted a conspiracy tone.

"I managed to speak with Tina. She was very reluctant; she seems to think Claire's attack was her fault, because she left her alone, and now she has turned extremely protective of her friend." Five pair of eyes turned to look surreptitiously to the victim, who was staring by the window while her group worked on the chemistry questions. "But, after some insisting, she told me she couldn't remember anyone Claire had rejected recently. The problem, as I see it, is that even though Claire never dates, she usually ends up snogging someone at every party. She never goes further, but perhaps some boy felt she was leading him on…"

"So it's definitely a student", Sherlock added, with bright eyes.

Nell smiled at him.

"Clearly. Claire wouldn't kiss or flirt with a handyman! Robson must be at least thirty!"

"Sssshh, guys, keep your voices low, please", John asked, worried. Some of the other students were starting to look at them.

He left the group and went to check the rest of the classroom. He kept an eye on Sherlock and the others, though, and was a bit surprised to notice that Nell and Sherlock were talking way more than usual. Talking and giggling. John turned his back to them, feeling confused. That was good, isn't it? That's what working in small groups was for. In Sherlock's case, it was almost a miracle, seeing him enjoying of someone else's company, but still, it was good.

When the lesson had ended and he retreated to the corridor, walking slowly to his second period, he wondered again about that sudden tang of jealousy he had felt before, and he arrived to the conclusion that it was understandable: since the beginning of the year, he had been Sherlock's only friend at the school. He had gotten used to that situation, and it was normal that now he felt a bit possessive when he finally had to share Sherlock with other friends. But it was only for the best: Sherlock needed friends of his age. Nell, Marcie and Rick were clever, funny and nice, and it was good that Sherlock finally got along with them. No, scratch that, it was brilliant.

Anyway, that Thursday on the lab he followed a wicked impulse and, completely out of the blue, he asked Nell:

"I see you get along with Sherlock lately… What happened to that Mark you said you fancied?"

Nell and Marcie, who was pairing with her also in the lab, giggled and shushed John.

"Nell!" Marcie whispered loudly, "You didn't tell me!"

"Hey, don't judge me, remember when Sherlock arrived to Greenwood? He was fourteen, and we all thought he was a cutie pie!" Nell almost chocked, laughing. But she sobered up a bit and added, looking at John. "Not that he would ever pay me any attention, mind you…"

"That's what I meant!" Marcie said. "He's not interested in girls."

John felt a bit silly and at a loss of words. He wanted to ask, but he did remember the girls had already told him some stories… that he had chosen to forget. Luckily for him, Nell was so willing to tell them again that she didn't need to be asked.

"When he arrived, transferred from another school, he was very shy", she told him. "But he soon became friends with another boy, Will Johnson. They were inseparable for a year and a half. But then, last year, Sherlock opened his heart, or tried to kiss Will, something like that, and Will was mad at him. Will started to mock him in front of everybody, and told all his friends a lot of strange stories about Sherlock."

John felt his heart crumpling and couldn't help staring at the boy, who was focused in his task, oblivious to their conversation.

"What a bastard!" Marcie exclaimed.

"Yeah, Sherlock was devastated", Nell added.

The three of them watched the boy until he noticed the sudden attention and raised his face to look in their direction, puzzled. All three pretended to be busy with the experiment at once. John coughed, feeling his cheeks warm. I bet I'm red as a beetle, he thought. John, let the topic go. In fact, move your ass to another table.

"Ehem… and now? Is he seeing anyone?" he asked, feeling completely stupid.

Marcie and Nell exchanged a naughty look and giggled again.

"How in Earth haven't you noticed yet?" Nell answered. "You men are so blind sometimes… It's quite obvious Sherlock has a huge crush on you, John."

Sherlock has a… And the girls have noticed, oh my god. He managed to close his mouth, but he didn't feel like moving at all: his feet seemed to be glued to the floor. His eyes moved involuntarily to Sherlock. The boy was watching him, and at seeing his glance, he smiled at him. It wasn't anything naughty, just a warm and friendly smile, but John felt confusion spreading through his whole body and knotting firmly in his stomach. He finally moved towards his desk, without smiling back.

That night he dreamt of Sherlock. They were fumbling against each other, rubbing the bare skin of their chests, their trousers still on. In his dream, he ran his lips over Sherlock's clavicle, and let his hands wander by the boy's ribs, marvelling at the softness of his flesh, the warmth that seemed to shroud them both, the unexpected hardness of his chest, suddenly a bony hip that fitted just perfect inside the palm of John's hand… He woke up panting, asking for more aloud, and then realising it was just a dream and palming himself, his own throbbing and hot self, and pumped hard closing his eyes and evoking Sherlock's skin, wishing he had dreamt a little longer, that he had the chance to know the taste of his lips, even though it was in dreams.

He came with a cry, and tried to get asleep as fast as possible, knowing if he stayed awake just some minutes more, he would start to feel guilty and fucked.

He couldn't hold those feelings at bay the next morning, of course, and regret made his stomach churn. Lusting after a pupil… Could I sink lower? And a boy, nonetheless… Well, as if it would make it any better if it was Marcie or Nell instead… John shuddered at the thought. He spent all the day thinking about it, staring at mid air in his lab periods, absently. What made things worst was the fact that Sherlock was infatuated with him; it would turn him not only into a molester, but into a cruel abuser if he followed his instincts. What he was feeling was sick, wrong, and the only possible path of action was avoiding Sherlock as much as possible. It

was only a fleeting attraction, the logical outcome of too much time without being laid. It would pass in a couple of weeks.

He whatsapped some friends from the army, hoping one of them would be available to go out that Saturday night, and luckily Bill was free and willing. John went back home feeling slightly better.

He tried to keep himself busy and in company all the weekend, deciding that spending time with his two flatmates could be nice, for a change. Well, watching football with them was okay, but sadly they had few more things in common.

Saturday night with Bill was fun, as well. They went to a popular club in Leicester Square, full of elegant chicks and handsome men, where both of them felt slightly out of place, with their comfortable but rather ordinary clothes, until they had a couple of pints and started with whisky. Then things got better, they told army jokes until they realised they had got public; their new friends led them to another pub where they attempted to dance, and soon Bill was too drunk to stand up, and the situation seemed so funny to John that he couldn't stop grinning. He didn't see any girl whom he felt attracted enough in all the night. He even took a look at the men. Nothing. In the end, he helped Bill stand and, instead of taking a cab, they walked across half London, singing army songs and remembering still more funny stories.

"I'm sorry, John", Bill mumbled when they arrived to his flat, safe and sound. "I know you expected to get laid tonight, I've fucked your chance."

"Don't worry, I didn't find anyone interesting. And it was great, we should repeat it!"

John arrived home and slept without a dream. Come morning, he felt at the same time relieved and disappointed. And he had an awful hangover.

He started his week with Sherlock's group, as always. John avoided looking at him, what was easy, because he sat on a side of the classroom, and John could focus his wandering gaze on the centre. But then, after the explanation, Sherlock raised his hand to ask a question, as he usually did, and John's eyes were caught on the soft curve of Sherlock's lips, those lips he had never tasted, not even in dreams. He had to cough and ask the boy to repeat the question. This time John looked at a blank point upon Sherlock's head.

He did the same on Wednesday and in the lab the next day. Sherlock worked alone in his task, looking at John now and then, and John didn't need Sherlock's observation skills to read the boy face, it was clearly screaming: "Why are you avoiding me?" When Sherlock stopped by John's desk at the end of the lesson, John got up quickly and apologised:

"I'm really sorry, but I have an appointment and I'm in a bit of a hurry."

And he took his folder, saw the students out and closed the door behind Sherlock. He could feel those bright cat-like eyes on his back while he walked away, piercing him, and could imagine vividly the hurt expression on Sherlock's face. I'm sorry, Sherlock. So, so sorry…

The next week was more or less the same. He avoided looking at Sherlock during the day, and thinking of him during the night. The second was harder than the first. All the loneliness he had been accumulating since he returned from the army attempted to jump over his shoulders at once, and even when he let his mind wander by the whole list of beautiful actresses that usually made do for him, now it was useless, and he just wasted his time and got distracted, until his dreamt Sherlock filled his mind and made him focus. He often stopped and went to have a shower instead. Perhaps joining a gym would be a good idea. Sport, showers and friendly company: that would finish with any fleeting sick interest.

They were already in December, and the students' conversation revolved around the Christmas holidays, the recent events mostly on the background. It was Thursday, that meant Sherlock's group lab hour. But John had already delivered the worksheets to his pupils, and Sherlock still wasn't there. He asked Marcie and Nell if he had come that day, and they said so. It was a bit worryingly. Was Sherlock so uncomfortable with his avoidance that he preferred to play truant now? At last, a quarter past the time of the beginning of the lesson, the door opened and there

he was, Sherlock Holmes in his long dark trench coat, scruffy dark curls and a dark eye to match.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, alarmed. He turned towards the classroom. "Alright, guys, please keep working, I'm having a word with Sherlock in the corridor. Please be quiet, I can hear every word!"

He almost pushed the tall boy out again. Sherlock sighed and walked a few feet away before stopping. His fingers were reckless until he opted for putting his hands inside his coat pockets. John betted he was dying for a cigarette; he knew the boy smoked now and then, although he had never seen him. He would have to abstain now, though: he wasn't going to let him go anywhere.

"What happened, Sherlock? Was that Adrian again?"

Sherlock avoided John's eyes, but answered all the same.

"Some of his minions today; he seems to be very busy of late. Don't worry, I went to the cafeteria to put something cold on it, I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it, but perhaps you need a bit of extra help. What do your parents say about this?"

Sherlock sighed again and let himself fall onto the floor, sitting with his forearms on his knees.

"I started Secondary school in the same school my brother was attending… Saint Peter's". John nodded, he knew that school. It was the best one in the area, and the natural choice for someone as brilliant as Sherlock but who couldn't, or wouldn't, go to a public school. In fact, John had asked him before why he had chosen such an ordinary school as Greenwood, but that time Sherlock had just shrugged. "I didn't fit there; the teachers hated me, my brother was too busy to put me under his umbrella and I rubbed some bullies the wrong way… So after years of begging, my parents allowed me to change schools. But when I had just arrived here, Adrian came to greet me with his usual newcomer's prank, and I told him a couple of things I should better have closed my mouth about…" Another sigh, but Sherlock finally looked at John's eyes. "My parents are concerned about me, sure, but they won't let me change school again. And, in the end, this is my last year, so it doesn't matter any more".

"I will get them detention the whole next week, Sherlock, but I wished I could do a bit more…"

Sherlock's jaw tensed and his eyes flashed with sudden anger.

"Don't."

"What…?"

"Just don't, John. If there's one thing I don't need from you, that's your pity". Sherlock almost spat the last word.

He turned his face in disgust and got up from the floor, enveloping himself on his long trench coat and turning up his lapels. John felt tempted to grin, this boy and his dramatics!, but he refrained.

"Who's talking about pity?" he said, instead. "You are a brilliant young man, strong, independent and stubborn. Why would I pity you?"

Sherlock glanced him askance, his face unreadable.

"Secondary school and uni will come to an end, and you will still be your brilliant self. Who knows where those bullies will be? Not in your league, that's for certain. Just ignore them, Sherlock."

The boy looked again down to his shoes.

"What if those bullies are right about me?" he whispered quietly.

"What do they say?"

"That I'm a freak, that I'm weird and mad. That I'm a lonely loony."

John's mouth was so dry that it felt suddenly as sandpaper. He licked his lips, thoroughly, trying to find words.

"You are not a freak, Sherlock" he managed to say. "Or, if you are, then you are a new kind of freak, one fantastic kind, I should add."

Sherlock gaze found his, frowning.

"But still, you don't like me" he threw accusingly at John.

"It's not like that!" John exclaimed, sighing. "Can you please remember you are my pupil, and underage? We can't even discuss that, can't you see it?"

"I'm over the age of consent! I'll be seventeen next month!"

John mentally facepalmed.

"Seventeen? I thought you already were!"

"In primary school I skipped a year, they put me forward."

"So you are in fact just sixteen?" Now I'm the one who needs a cigarette, and I don't even smoke.

"Only for one month more, John, I've just explained."

Sherlock kept staring at his teacher, but he pointedly refused to return his gaze. John was trying to compose himself enough to come back to the lab. But then, Sherlock added:

"What if I asked you again in the summer, when the year finishes? You won't be my teacher by then."

John's heartbeats menaced to jump off his chest. He dared a quick look in Sherlock's direction: the boy was smiling. A warm, lovely smile, without anger, without flirtation, just a tug of his lips and a sparkle in his incredibly deep blue eyes. John found himself smiling back before he noticed.

"You are missing lab time, you idiot" he told the boy, holding the door open for him. "Come inside before the hour ends!"

Curiously, now that they have finally talked, John felt more relaxed, and if Sherlock came to his mind that weekend (and he did), it was not the "wet dream Sherlock" who appeared, but the smiling clever boy, proud, strong and somewhat childish, and his thought didn't hunter John's nights with impossible lust, but rather filled him with affection. This is better, he thought. Is it? he asked himself. But as long as he hadn't anything to feel guilty about, he could rub off the doubts.

Monday lesson was… nice. Comfortable, amicable, sharing witty jokes with Marcie, Nell and Rick, and Sherlock still sitting by the racks, but clearly eavesdropping and smiling to their comments. The whole morning was quite acceptable, in fact, with even his worst group mostly behaving. Lunch with Mike and Molly commenting on football and some gossip, anything especial, but anything wrong either, and John was glad for that. But peace never lasts, in John's experience, so why would it last then?

As soon as he stepped off the cafeteria, he knew something was off. Mike and Molly didn't seem to notice, but there was definitively something. When he saw Sherlock running up the stairs to the second floor, jumping two at a time, he had the evidence he needed. He apologised to his mates and ran after Sherlock.

The second floor corridor should be quite empty; there was still fifteen minutes left until the bell chimed, announcing the afternoon lessons. But a small crowd was gathering around the girls' toilets. John begged to be let pass and, when he managed to peek inside the toilets, his heart sank.

Sergeant Gregson and two more yarders were talking to a couple of very frightened girls. The girls' toilets featured a long mirror, unlike the boys' one, which displayed just bare tiled walls. A long mirror that sported now a huge crack above one of the washbasins, a crack stained in red. Some blood drops were splattered here and there on the floor. And Sherlock, of course, was already there.