Sherlock Holmes sat on the bleachers. The abandoned football field stretched before him. He sighed deeply. The notebook on his lap was empty.

Alone, he felt a sort of emptiness. His black eye was not fading, and his split lip had started bleeding during fourth bell, much to the derision of his classmates.

"Idiots" he mumbled to himself, and winced as his lip cracked. He stood with a deep sigh, and walked off toward home. He was halfway there when he heard a voice behind him.

"OI! Freak!"

He recognized the voice and paused. He turned to face Sally Donovan, a cheerleader wannabe who was always at the bottom of the football field. She was accompanied by a boy whom Sherlock knew only by his last name, printed on the back of his football jersey: Anderson. There was a group of boys with them, their letter jackets announcing accomplishments and rich parents.

Sherlock knew what was coming. It was expected, not an unusual occurrence. He noted the details of their face, trying to think of some scathing comments to make. He noted briefly that one of the older boys, a senior named Greg something, was standing in the back. He looked slightly uncomfortable, regretful. His eyes apologized.

Sherlock stood his ground as the boys approached. It had rained the night before. They formed a ring around Sherlock, laughing, prodding at him, shoving him from person to person. Sherlock remained stiff until the blow came, hard to the middle of his spine. He staggered forward, splattering into the mud. He could feel the bruise forming already. He tried to get to his feet, but felt a foot kick him hard in the abdomen. He could hear Sally jeering "Freak! Freak!"

Sherlock shook his head, trying to stand again. He was half upright when a rock struck his cheek. He fell on his side. Spattered in mud, he let himself go limp. He'd never begged for mercy. He wasn't about to start now. The kicking came.

They kicked him again and again. It was worse than usual, and Sherlock became certain that they did not know that they were killing him, not physically, but mentally. The scars on his wrists proved it, the antidepressants he refused to take, unopened in the medicine cabinet.

Then he heard another voice, a strong voice ringing out "OI! Get back, the lot of you, GET BACK!"

Miraculously, the kicking stopped. Sherlock lay, half curled in a fetal position. Sherlock looked with blurred eyes at the scene unfolding before him.

There were six guys and Sally, all staring disbelievingly at a short teenager striding toward them. Sally screeched with laughter, and the voice rang out "Alright hyena, that's quite enough. All of you, go back where you came from GO ON! GET. OUT."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, he wanted to say "Let them kill me…let it be over…" but words would not come, and he knew that this boy was going to get it just as bad.

The football players glared at him, but something in the eyes of the newcomer warned them back. They turned to leave, filing past Sherlock, spitting on him as they want, each repeating a word.

"Freak."

" Freak."

" Freak"

When they were gone, the other boy hurried forward, kneeling beside Sherlock, helping him sit up.

"Aw hell…" he muttered "Are you alright"

Sherlock laughed softly, his mouth bloody.

"Yea, sorry, stupid question" muttered the newcomer.

"John Watson. C'mon, my house is just around the block. I'll get you cleaned up."

He helped Sherlock up, half supporting him as he took him to his house.

He allowed Sherlock to wash the muck off in his shower, and went to get him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, so that he didn't have to wear his muddy clothes home. When Sherlock was dressed, he emerged, his clean hair a mess. He had a few more bruises and contusions, which john treated with rubbing alcohol and bandages.

While checking a bruise on his arm, he noted the scars, some old, some fresh. He looked up at Sherlock, who had been silent, determinedly avoiding his gaze. John took a deep breath.

"They aren't worth your pain" He said, his voice firm. Sherlock felt tears welling in his blue eyes. He did not attempt to stem them as he slid down his cheeks.

"I just want it to stop" he said brokenly

John gripped his hand, and gently wrapped a bandage around each wrist.

"It stops now. It stops here. They can try to tear you down, but I swear to you, Sherlock, there will never come a time when I won't build you up again"