Sherlock POV: It was getting harder and harder to inject that poison into his veins. It was becoming increasingly difficult simply to pick up the newly unwrapped syringe much less fill it with the medicine and stick it into his arm. Dr. Thompson was under the impression that he was getting better, his family all thought that he had a girlfriend, he was happier than ever, more mentally stable than ever, he simply didn't know why he needed this medicine at all! It did nothing except try to taint his beautiful relationship with John, tried to null his feelings until he was almost stupid enough to drag his heart over to the women. Why on earth did he even take it if he knew the damage it would do to him? It was horrific to say the least. And so, in a rather rash move, Sherlock decided that he didn't need the medicine at all. No one would notice if he took his daily dose straight to the sink, not even Mycroft would go far enough to check the pipes for any trace of Sherlock's poison. And so Sherlock filled the syringe up to the proper daily dose and went over to the sink, squirting it down the drain and running the water a little bit to make sure it was properly disposed of. See, no harm done. Sherlock then bided his time trying to do homework, if that's what Lauriston even wanted to call it. The assignments they gave out seemed more like an excuse to inconvenience the students, it wasn't work so much as it was annoying. To Sherlock these problems were about as easy as picking the primary colors, and so what usually would've taken him an hour to two hours at Wisteria took him a mere fifteen minutes to scribble down numbers and solve equations carelessly. There were definitely things about Wisteria that Sherlock missed so desperate, things that Lauriston simply couldn't provide. Most kids, of course, would never complain about the minimal workload at public school however Sherlock saw it, if anything, as a bit of a rip off. Certainly the children with the more extensive education would get farther in life, get better jobs and actually know what to do with them rather than the kids in Lauriston who got to learn all about triangles but never about how to do taxes. Lauriston lacked the challenge that Wisteria had offered, that and the reward that followed a perfect score on homework or tests. Sherlock loved to learn things and remember them, while in Lauriston he could simply get away with memorization and regurgitation, every Brainiac's worst nightmare. Sure, you knew the information for a good day, maybe a day and a half, but come two years when you're neck deep in the word force and suddenly you find yourself in need of a certain piece of information that you had erased all those years back, well, it was frustrating to say the least. Sherlock had dedicated himself to learning everything before he even had to know it (which wasn't hard because it would seem that Lauriston was teaching things much later than Wisteria) and so now, even though Sherlock knew the information by heart, he couldn't even waste his time studying! Oh it was so incomprehensibly boring when he had nothing to learn! Sherlock certainly missed Wisteria on nights like tonight, when even his boredom could be relieved by simply listening to his roommate jabber on about pathetic topics with his friends. He missed the walls when they creaked against the wind and the rain, he missed the sunlight as it started to fade under the tree line right outside of his window, he missed sitting in class and gazing down over to the small pond that say at the edge of the property, he missed answering question that his single minded peers couldn't even touch... Sometimes Sherlock was able to crowd out his negative memories of Wisteria with the positive ones and he found himself wishing beyond anything that he could be there once more. However he knew now that it was impossible to even step foot near those walls, so he had to tell himself that it wasn't Wisteria he was missing, it was simply one of its current occupants. So Sherlock pulled out a blank piece of paper and propped it up on one of his thicker books, taking out a pen and tapping it loudly against his chin while he pondered what to write. What ever could he write to John when there was nothing to talk about, nothing to mention at all? Maybe he could write a follow up from the stream, just to ensure him that all was well and that he had made it back without too much of an issue. Yes, that would make a good excuse to send out a letter and hope for a reply.
John,
I hope you made it back to Wisteria in time after our little adventure, I apologize once more for putting you in that situation. Then again, it's not really my fault that you called on me so late at night, so you rather had it coming when I fell asleep in the grass. Nevertheless I am unscathed over here, I was able to convince my parents that I had spent the night at the stream with Molly and they seemed to take it alright. Mycroft (my brother) is the only one who doesn't seem convinced, but then again he has no proof but his own suspicions and he could never trace my nightly excursions back to you, so I think we'll be safe. How is life at Wisteria now? I kind of miss its walls, but then again I'm sure you'd do anything to be at Lauriston, so I shouldn't complain too much. I miss you already, if it's not too clingy to admit such a thing, I know it hasn't been long but I've almost gotten accustomed to your hanging around. It's nice to have someone to talk to for a change, even in a one sided conversation in a letter it's nice just to know that someone will take the time to read this. It's nice to know that you will be reading this. Maybe you're even thinking of me right now, I don't know. I want to see you again, so whenever you want to plan a visit I'm sure I'll be free. You're my only social life, so any time works for me.
See you soon I hope,
Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock sighed, leaning back against the bed and observing his newly created masterpiece. He knew that in a couple of days John's beautiful eyes would gaze upon his writing, the loops in the ink, the smears where his hand touched too close to the paper...That was the charm of letters, more personal than a phone call in Sherlock's opinion because there were traces left on the paper and in the handwriting, traces that simply couldn't be transmitted through a phone wire. He would see him soon, Sherlock could feel it. There was that looming presence in his stomach, an internal countdown until he saw John again. And it seemed, as curious as that may be, that it was starting to get to zero. As if, unexpectedly, John Watson was going to show up in his life unannounced. 

 Sherlock tried to make it seem like he wasn't looking at Molly, however he simply couldn't stop trying to get her attention. The mob of females around her locker had simply been too thick to penetrate, however he still had this letter tucked in his coat pocket. The longer he had the letter the longer he was in risk, if it fell out or if someone stole it they could trace it back to him, to John, and all would be lost. He liked it a lot better when it was stuffed in an envelope along with Molly's scribblings, on its way to the safe walls of Wisteria and the deserving hands of John Watson. English was gong extremely slowly, and Mrs. Turner, their old and crabby teacher, wasn't making anything easier. She was jabbering on about something that they were supposed to have read, however Sherlock wasn't paying all that much attention. He was trying to wave over to Molly, who was either zoned out so much that she didn't notice or she was deliberately trying to avoid him. He hoped it wasn't the latter, because it was rather nice to have a friend to hang around with at school. Nevertheless, the longer he tried the more hopeless it became, and so he simply sat back in his chair and listen to his teacher jabber on about the literary masters, like Poe and Shakespeare. Very interesting... When the bell finally rang Sherlock loitered until he was sure Molly had made her leave, making sure to tag along the back of her little pack to be sure that he was able to catch her. It was the last class of the day, thankfully, and so Sherlock knew that if worse comes to worse he could just follow her home and give her the letter then. Maybe that was a little bit stalkerish, but if it was anything he would classify it purely as efficient. Dedicated, maybe. Molly was the middle man, the delivery girl, between the secret relationship between John and Sherlock. Without Molly and Greg their love would be basically impossible to maintain over these extended hiatuses, when they were forced to interact with ghastly human beings that weren't each other, and so her presence in their lives was essential. However as Sherlock followed Molly and her pack of friends down the hall at the minimum safe distance, he noticed that another pack, a much more aggressive pack, merged with hers. Jocks. There were about five of them, moving in a predatory pack and converging with the girls to try to woo them with their muscles and their varsity jackets, slicking back their hair and putting their arms around their girls of choice. Sherlock was glad to see that Molly was effectively keeping them at bay, swatting at them with her bracelet covered hand and insisting that they leave her alone. She was sticking up for her relationship with Greg, which was certainly admirable and something that Sherlock would be proud to report back to Greg when he saw him next. Molly was always such a good person, it was hard to imagine her in such a dedicated relationship with a hooligan like Greg Lestrade, but somehow their opposite personalities attracted, and they made the ultimate power couple. Of course they weren't as powerful as John and Sherlock, but then again their relationship was secret, so for now Molly and Greg led the way on relationship goals. They all stopped at Molly's locker, chatting together as she got her bags organized for the day. Sherlock knew that his mother was probably waiting outside with the car. Ever since the incident with the projectile can his mother seemed to feel responsible for picking him up, as if she was trying to repay him for that one time she neglected to arrive. So he had to get to Molly now, as discreetly as possible, in the middle of this very rough crowd. Tricky, to say the least. The jocks and the popular girls formed a thick ring around Molly's locker, making it nearly impossible to break through without some sort of distraction. That or he had to just suck it up and walk straight through, saying multiple excuse me's so the boys didn't pound him into a pulp. Then again, they might just move at his very presence, and they certainly wouldn't be daring enough to touch him long enough to beat him up, so maybe he'll be safe after all. The girls didn't worry him, he knew that they had already become accustomed to his presence, but then again the presence of the boys might change their views all together. To fit in they might try to bring him down, and he had to pray to god that once he handed Molly his letter that ring would open back up and let him leave. Otherwise he knew there was danger ahead. So Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes and giving himself a mental pep talk. All he had to do was walk in there, hand her the letter, and walk out. Simple, easy, anyone could do it, so why shouldn't he. Sherlock clenched carefully to the folded letter, hoping that Molly would know exactly what it was, and stepped in. 

"Excuse me." he muttered meekly, trying to push past a very large boy wearing an oversized varsity jacket. He gave a squeal of terror, one that was very unmanly, and scrambled desperately out of the way. Molly, hearing the small commotion, turned around curiously, and Sherlock had expected some sort of reaction from her. Maybe something of relief, however she looked nervous, smiling weakly at Sherlock as he made his way up to where she stood.
"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing here? Now?" Molly hissed, looking around at the clientele, all who were watching the two of them as if it was some new attraction at a zoo. He heard whispers, of course, and the circle around them shuffled uneasily, obviously not knowing how to handle a situation like this.
"Delivery." Sherlock whispered, holding out the paper so that she would take it quickly. He knew that everyone was watching, he hoped that she would just grab the letter and tuck it away, however Molly looked even more alarmed, as if the presence of Sherlock's secrets in this light terrified her.
"Sherlock I..." Molly started, however her sentence was cut off with a cruel laugh, and suddenly the letter was ripped roughly out of Sherlock's hands. He gave a shriek of defense, trying to grab back at the letter in a futile attempt to defend what secrets he had been able to keep for this long.
"Let's see what the rapist has to say." laughed one of the ringleaders, pushing Sherlock into the lockers before he could do anything to prevent the letter's interception. Sherlock's head slammed into the metal painfully, making him spin momentarily as he watched the laughing faces draw nearer and nearer.
"No, no wait! That's...that's private!" Sherlock exclaimed in horror, however he couldn't do anything except straighten himself up and watch as the boy unfolded the creases he had so carefully folded with his calloused, humongous fingers. Sherlock racked his brain desperately, trying to think if he had said anything too suggestive in that letter, or if he had used those fateful three words.

"Moran just give it back." Molly insisted, however the boy, already seemingly half way through the letter, held up a careless hand to shush her. Sherlock imagined that Molly might do something to defend him more; however she seemed dormant, silencing herself and standing obediently next to her locker. Sherlock felt his hands start to shake uncontrollably as the boy's mouth curls into a hateful smile, obviously he had read something that he liked.
"Who's John?" he asked with a growl, crumpling up the letter in his massive fist while Sherlock cringed. He disgraced the name, just rolling that beautiful syllable off of his disgusting tongue felt like a punishment, and even worse, now Sebastian Moran knew the name.
"No one, he's...he's no one." Sherlock whimpered weakly; however Sebastian's chuckling told him that he knew better. His crooked teeth gnashed as he passed the letter off to another one of his cronies, who anxiously unfolded it and read it intensely. Sherlock could only watch, he wished he could move, he wished he could at least defend himself and yet his legs suddenly turned to lead, his voice silenced unless addressed directly and his arms hung like jelly along his torso. He was at their mercy. Molly looked as if she were ready to cry, however it seemed like she could do nothing more than Sherlock could as they all passed the letter around, laughing and oohing and awing as their sinful eyes read the words that were supposed to be reserved for John Watson.
"Is he your boyfriend Sherlock? Huh? Have you pulled another beast into your disgusting game?" Moran wondered, smiling wickedly at Sherlock who had taken to cowering closer to Molly, for something of a defense.
"He's no one." Sherlock repeated, and Molly nodded in agreement.
"Obviously no one, you said you spent an evening with him, huh? Did you rape another one, are you simply that desperate?" Moran wondered with a laugh.
"Well how else is he supposed to enjoy himself with such a disgusting taste in partner?" laughed another husky voice from the back, which lead to another outbreak in mean laughter. Sherlock was shaking so badly that the lockers were clicking behind him, his legs started to buckle and so he pressed his entire back against the cold metal, looking hopelessly at the group as they gawked and jeered.
"He's not...he's not my boyfriend." Sherlock breathed.
"He's your victim, I'm sure." Moran agreed with a laugh, stepping forward and slapping Sherlock harshly against the side of the cheek. Sherlock ducked away with a whimper, clutching at his face for defense and cueing even more laughter from the crowd.
"Moran stop it!" Molly exclaimed, stepping into intervene and getting pushed away carelessly, as if she were as light and as docile as a feather.
"Oh we're just having fun, aren't we freak? Aren't we? Maybe if I slap hard enough in either direction it'll straighten you out." Moran laughed stupidly, slapping Sherlock on the other side of the face with so much force he sent Sherlock tumbling into Molly, who took him protectively into her arms, cradling him as if he were simply a mere child. Sherlock cowered into her arms, shutting his eyes horrifically and yet knowing that the scene in front of him would still remain when he opened them.
"Oh don't defend him Molly, don't defend a criminal." Moran insisted, and there was a chorus off boos from the crowd, as if they disliked Molly's humanity. Sherlock heard them as if they were far off, his face stinging with the imprint of Moran's vicious hand on his skin.
"He's not a criminal, he's done nothing wrong." Molly said flatly.
"He's a homosexual, he's an abomination!" exclaimed someone from the back of the crowd. Molly just held Sherlock closer, as if her embrace would somehow protect him from the horrible words that were being thrown around so thoughtlessly.
"He's a human being Moran, just like you, just like the rest of you! All he's done was love, it's not a crime!" Molly exclaimed. For a moment Sherlock thought it was going to work, for a brief moment he heard nothing but silence. Molly's grip around him slackened, and Sherlock slowly eased out of her arms. His eyes were still closed, and yet she thought it to be safe, maybe they were gone.
"Love? Love, you call rape love? He dares to lust over another man and when he forces him to conform to his deformity you call that love? Sherlock doesn't deserve protection, he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Hell, but until he can reach his final destination I'll be happy to try to prepare him for it." Moran growled. Sherlock suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, ripping him away from Molly and slamming him into the lockers with the force of a tractor trailer. He couldn't run, he couldn't even slide to the floor, there was a force that was simply unprecedented, pinning him to the metal by his shoulder and making him ache for release. Sherlock opened his eyes just in time to see the deformed and disgusting face of Sebastian Moran, and then a flash of a fist. Sherlock felt his nose crack underneath the power of that boy's knuckles; he felt the bone crush and the blood spirt in a hellish volcano, pain erupting like tendrils, stretching across his face. Molly screamed and yet not a word was uttered from Sherlock, suddenly the pressure was released and his wobbly knees finally gave out, letting him fall to the floor in a pathetic heap. The crowd dispersed quickly; obviously they knew that they were in over their heads as soon as blood was spilt, and the absence of laughter confirmed his suspicions.
"Sherlock, oh Sherlock!" Molly cried in horror. Sherlock couldn't see anything, his eyes were closed and he was sure that his feeble eyelids would be covered in blood as soon as he dared open them. He was clutching at his nose in horror, oh his nose would be crooked, he would look horrible! Sherlock felt arms pull him to his feet, and it was all he could do but hope they were Molly's as he started to walk along with them, leading him somewhere down the hallways and though he maze of doors and turns. Molly was muttering things in his ear, things he couldn't hear over the drumming in his skull, the anger, the humiliation, the pain, all these emotions swirling up in his head like a tidal wave and pounding against his eardrum in a deafening harmony. All the while he felt he blood slipping through his outstretched fingers, dripping along his clothes and along the floor. And John, what about John, oh how much did they know, how much did they find out? And suddenly his mother's voice joined the chorus, cooing over Sherlock and whining just as Molly had, and he felt two arms leading him into a vehicle. He was starting to spin, what little light he could see through his eyelids was starting to fade into nothingness, the pain was taking over, enveloping him like a cocoon and spilling out as much blood as it could manage. And then suddenly, it was silent, and he didn't hear the voices any longer.