Warning for abuse and dubious consent. Slightly modified age in later chapters.

Please review! I will be updating once a day, regardless, but reviews are very nice!

Sebastian drew his fingers gently through Sherlock's dark curly hair, keeping his head pressed down to the pillows in Sebastian's bed, while fumbling with Sherlock's belt with his other hand. "Hold still," he muttered angrily, and Sherlock all but stopped breathing, his eyes wide and wild and unseeing. The white of the wall next to him was mocking him with its purity.

"Seb, please not so rough," he whispered, tensing at the first warm touches to the bare skin of his hips. He received a sharp slap in response. He didn't give up, though; at twenty years old, he felt perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and it was obvious that Sebastian was playing. He would stop as soon as Sherlock gave him word.

Wouldn't he?

Sherlock tried to look back, shifting against the older student's hold. "Sebastian, last time was… please, not so rough this—"

An even harder slap had him crying out in pain. "Shut up, freak," Sebastian answered, bearing his teeth in a grin. "You liked it. You were calling my name."

"You were hurting me!" Sherlock really struggled now, done with the game. "Sebastian, we've been dating for a week; I gave you my fucking virginity, for Christ's sake! Let me up!"

Sebastian sighed and pulled Sherlock's trousers and pants to his ankles, lifting his arse into the air by pushing upward underneath his hips. "Give it a rest."

"Seb? Sebastian? Sebastian!"

Sherlock awoke in a cold sweat, his heart racing and his vision blurred by completely unwanted tears. He swiped angrily at them, sitting up and letting the sheets pool around his waist. John rapped quickly on the door and Sherlock sighed, lying back down. "Come in."

John cracked the door open, seemingly unwilling to step inside. "You shouted… I thought maybe you were hurt…"

The detective blinked at him. "No, nothing like that. A nightmare. That's all." He pulled his sheets and duvet more tightly around himself and curled up, but made sure he was still facing John. "You can go back to sleep."

"If you're… I was awake, anyway." Obviously, from the jeans and jumper he was sporting and his freshly washed hair. "You could come out to the sitting room." He entered Sherlock's bedroom then, making him tense and frown. "Need help?"

Sherlock could tell John was going to cross the space of his empty floor to the bed. He knew John would look down at him with that concerned and slightly confused expression, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He knew John would lean closer in an attempt to meet his eyes. "No," Sherlock insisted, hoping his tone wasn't as sharp as it could have been. "No, I'm fine. I'll be out in a moment." His voice was getting more and more clipped with every sentence, his already fragile patience (and comfort) wearing thin.

John looked as if he were about to argue, but refrained, nodding slightly and closing Sherlock's door on his way out. The apprehension Sherlock's brain was imposing upon his heart faded and he could breathe deeply again. He closed his eyes, willing himself all right, before sliding out of his bed with the sheet draped over his shoulders.

The sound of his own screams echoed in his head.