Sherlock was sitting up against his headboard when he heard the front door open. He had skipped dinner, and although he knew that it was somewhere around six o'clock he knew that he couldn't eat anything, not right now. His stomach was still tangled up in knots, he had tissues pressed up against his cheek and an ice pack behind his neck, trying to heal himself back to being the normal level of sickly he had come to expect. There was a sharp knock on his door, however Sherlock didn't have to answer it before they let themselves in. It was his father, of course, opening up the door rather stiffly and staring inside at his disfigured son. Sherlock wasn't delusional enough to expect any sort of sympathy, and so he just tried to rearrange himself to make it seem like he had some sort of dignity left.
"Kids again?" Mr. Holmes wondered in a deep, careless voice. Sherlock nodded slightly, pressing harder down on the lump of bloodstained tissues. Mr. Holmes didn't seem to care, in fact all he did was clear his throat and avert his eyes, as if he didn't want to accept that this weak, scrawny homosexual was actually his son. Sherlock knew that he was ashamed.
"You need to stand up to them Sherlock, even if it means you get hurt in the process, you need to defend your honor, your name." he insisted sharply. Sherlock just shook his head, clearing his throat and trying to think of something to say.
"They're determined to make my name into dirt. If I try to defend it, I'm sure I'll end up buried underneath the dirt sooner than later." Sherlock muttered, looking up at his father with a pitiful gaze. Mr. Holmes sighed, his hand still on the door handle, as if he was expecting this to be a short visit.
"Where has your mother gone?" he wondered, ignoring Sherlock's response all together.
"Out somewhere with Mycroft. I don't know when they'll get back." Sherlock admitted. Mr. Holmes nodded quietly.
"Well, dinner, somehow? Can you cook?" he wondered, looking up at his son hopefully.
"No of course I can't cook." Sherlock admitted with a sort of laugh, and Mr. Holmes nodded once more.
"I expected not. Take away then." He decided, and with that he stepped out of the room, shutting the door sharply. Sherlock sighed heavily, staring at the door for a moment and slouching down into his bed once more, in his usual form of relaxation.
"And don't forget to take your medication!" Mr. Holmes called through the door, banging on it a couple of times just to make sure that Sherlock had heard him. Sherlock sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a moment and debating whether or not he should take it today. He was in such a fragile state already, and he knew that medicine wouldn't do anything to help him. It would only break him farther, until the cracks erupting upon his skin turned into massive canyons, and he shattered where he stood. However it was what the doctor demanded, it was what he deserved. So Sherlock rolled carefully out of his bed, staggering over to the dresser with aching legs and letting the mass of bloodied tissues fall to the carpet beside the bed. Sherlock stepped to the dresser and eased the drawer open silently, staring for a moment at the black zippered pouch that was waiting for him, sitting there so innocently atop his folded shirts. It looked so harmless; it almost seemed irrational that the very sight of it made Sherlock cower in fear. It wasn't necessarily the side effects that made Sherlock so uneasy, not the shaking, or the paleness, or even the depression. It was the purpose; the reason that black pouch was sitting in his dresser. He was terrified not of himself, but of society as a whole, their reaction to what he had been born to be. That medicine wasn't in there to hurt him, it was in there to change him. It sat and waited to be flushed away into his bloodstream, and its job wasn't to heal him, but to rearrange his heart and his desires until they were nearly inexistent. They thought that he was wrong, that he was a mistake. And they claimed that by poisoning himself every day he could make himself better, he could fix himself with every dose until he was...whole. Until he was normal. But by God, they knew nothing! Nothing of him, nothing of his heart or of his treatment! He was lost, lost since the moment his heart was first formed and they think that with a couple of milliliters of medicine they could change that? That they could somehow fix that? You don't medicate a cripple to try to heal their disfigured body, so why did they medicate Sherlock to heal his disfigured heart? His disfigured soul? So what if he was different, so what if he was a freak? What did that change, what did that affect? Their views of him, their safe neighborhood? Did they think his very presence as a homosexual would threaten them, or their sons, or their husbands? Did they think his disease would spread? It wouldn't! It couldn't! Sherlock knew that no matter what he did, he was alone, he knew that no matter who he tried to love, or who he hoped would love him back, they would turn out to be nothing of a disappointment! As a traitor! Lying to protect themselves, lying to hide their heart, their feelings, and subjecting him to a lifelong medically induced torture! If homosexuality was a disease then he would've spread it already, he would've spread it so that he wasn't alone anymore, he would've let someone else bear the burden of being an outcast, so that at least someone would understand! If homosexuality was a disease, then why was he so alone, why was he the only one? If homosexuality was a disease, why had he been born a freak? Why had he always been...wrong? Sherlock took up the case in his trembling hands and slowly unzipped it, pulling the syringe and the bottle of clear medicine out of the pouch. He carefully filled the syringe to the proper dosage, reading off the milliliters as they drowned. Finally, when the dosage was correct, he rolled up one of his sleeves so that his lower arm was revealed, the pale, bony thing revealed to the light after being hidden under his shirt and jacket for so long. There were puncture wounds already, scabs and scars and bruises from uncountable days shoving this needle into his skin. And yet every single time Sherlock went to medicate himself he hesitated he was scared. It hurt him, and he knew that as soon as the simple act of pushing a needle through his skin was over the pain of the medication would last all throughout his life. But what else could he do? Sherlock pushed the needle into his arm, wincing as the sharp pinch drew a tiny drop of blood, and he pushed the medication inside. He watched as the syringe emptied, and he could almost feel his veins inflating as they struggled to hold all the new liquid that was heading directly to his heart. Sherlock's fingers trembled so madly that the syringe slipped from his hand and onto the carpet, lying next to the pile of bloody tissues that lay at his feet. But he couldn't cry, he couldn't give up now because he knew that this was going to be his life. They would never let him off the medication, they would never believe him. He could hope, he could pray, that maybe one day they would trust him enough out on his own in public, but would that day really come? Was freedom even an option at this point? Sherlock tucked his head into his hands, not letting tears flow; however he shut his eyes tightly so that all he could see was darkness. So this was his life, wasn't it? This was his very existence.

John POV: John was up early, incredibly early, actually. He was sitting up against his headboard, prying open a book and trying to read by the light of the early morning sun when Greg started to rise. John was quiet, rather awkward actually, because last night's conversation still hung in the air between them. Greg would have questions, obviously he would want to pry every little detail out of John's skull, and yet he had been so calm last night, as though he should've expected John to admit such a thing. He would be able to piece together John's encounter with Sherlock very easily after knowing that John had been approached at the dance by a stranger, so it was no use trying to hide it anymore. John was just worried about what Greg might do, how he might react. Of course there was no doubt in John's mind that the advances made by Sherlock Holmes on that night were looked upon strictly as unwanted, after finding out what that boy had done John wanted nothing to do with him, and he was going to say that confidently and unwavering, as if that had been his mindset since this whole incident arose. To think that he had found that boy strangely romantic, to think that he had wanted more...
"You're up early." Greg mumbled, rolling over in his bed and shoving his hands under his pillow, balling it up under his head as if to make it more comfortable. He looked sleepy but not delirious; in fact it was a miracle that he even woke up without the aid of a wakeup call.
"Couldn't sleep." John admitted in a small voice. Greg hummed in agreement, staring at John from across the room as if trying to get the story out of him without asking directly.
"Ya I couldn't either." Greg agreed after a moment of very awkward silence, rolling around once more so that the bed creaked and groaned under his shifting weight. John just rolled his eyes, snapping his book shut and setting it back on his bedside table. There was no use pretending that he was interested in the plot anyway, he hadn't been able to read a word since he had woken up and he doubted that Greg's consciousness would change any of that. The wakeup call came before either of them could start a proper conversation, which was probably for the best, so they groggily crawled out of their beds and dressed for the day, pulling on their uniforms and ties and trying to make themselves look presentable before meandering down to the dining hall for breakfast. They joined the crowds of boys all ages, all fighting to get down the steps, and John couldn't help looking around, looking for a quiet boy, a broken boy. He imagined that he had seen Victor Trevor before, probably without realizing it, but now his eyes were scanning desperately, trying to find the boy who had known Sherlock Holmes before his name became infamous. When they arrived at the high ceilinged dining hall John and Greg took their usual places, shoved between rows and rows of other seventh year boys, all looking tired and miserable. John was just as tired, however he was alert, inquisitive even, and Greg's eyes showed the same sparkle of anticipation. The two were silent as they loaded up their plates with anything they could reach, eggs, bacon, potatoes; however John knew that as soon as the initial hunger passed curiosity would take its place.
"So what did you mean, last night?" Greg wondered after a good five minutes into the meal.
"When?" John muttered sleepily, knowing exactly what Greg had said but he was choosing to keep him talking just a little bit longer, trying to decide if he was mentally prepared for this conversation after such a lack of sleep.
"You said that you met him...Sherlock Holmes." Greg muttered, looking quickly up at John before bowing his head back down and staring down at his half eaten breakfast. John sighed, repositioning himself in his chair and looking down the rows, making sure no one was listening in on their conversation from afar.
"I did, at least I think I did." John admitted. "He was at the dance." Greg was silent for a moment, processing, the gears in his brain turning rapidly as he tried to piece together everything he was hearing and everything he already knew. And suddenly he got this look, a look of pure amazement, a mixture of curiosity, excitement, and fear, a look John knew quite well as it distorted Greg's face almost comically. However he wasn't laughing now, because he felt as though he should be ashamed of what he had just admitted.
"He wasn't...no way." Greg muttered to himself, but John dropped his head in shame, and he felt Greg's feet kick the stone ground in excitement, as if he had so many emotions balled up in him but no way of letting them out except in passive violence.
"He was the 'girl', the one who you were with at the dance?" Greg asked in a harsh whisper, his eyes alight with such excitement that John suspected they might burst into flame at any moment. John's face turned scarlet, and as if on impulse he shook his head, however Greg knew that meant nothing more than nothing.
"I didn't know it; I mean...I didn't know that he was a...he." John admitted heavily. "I just kind of went with it."
"How do you know it was him? God I thought that kid left the country, I mean I would, wouldn't you? I'd be too ashamed." Greg admitted in awe, dropping his fork carelessly so he could lean closer, as if more details came if he was in a closer proximity.
"I suppose he goes to Lauriston, but then again he might have just been visiting. It was him, I know it was, he um, he paused, and I took that moment to grab his wrist and sort of turn myself around...he ran off after that, but I'm certain of it. That picture and that boy at the dance, they were the same." John insisted gravely. Greg sat in a dumbfounded silence for a moment, shaking his head and trying to make sense of what he had just heard.
"You called it beautiful." He remembered. "Beautiful and soft, you said that just the other day, and at that time you had known!" Greg suddenly launched himself away, leaning so far away from John that his whole torso hung out into the aisle, nearly tripping a poor first year who was just stumbling around, looking for a place to sit. John's face turned, if possible, even more red, and he just shook his head erratically, trying to deny anything that Greg might have concluded.
"Greg get back here, you're making a scene." John hissed irritably. Greg slowly eased himself back into his seat, but he stared at John with his mouth askew, as if wondering just who he was looking at, and where John had gone off to.
"John...are you a homosexual?" he whispered in a voice that John could barely even hear, even from just across the table.
"No, Greg of course I'm not, you're being paranoid!" John insisted in a harsh whisper, trying to make sure no one looked over at their conversation and decided to eavesdrop. "When I thought he was a girl, I mean when he was actually um...kissing...it had been nice, you know? Romantic even. But then when I found out he was a guy I was kind of taken aback, but it didn't make it any less beautiful, I mean...not that I would do it again. Ever. And now, looking back and knowing what kind of monster he was...I mean that's horrifying, isn't it? Do you think he planned on, you know...?" John wondered. Greg just stared at him with raised eyebrows, looking pale and beyond confused.
"John that sounds a little bit homosexual to me." Greg decided after a moment's thought.
"It's not!" John insisted harshly, but he didn't seem to convince Greg either way.
"But like, you're telling me that you knew it was him, you knew that it was a guy, but you liked it?" Greg wondered, still seemingly at a loss for words.
"I did when I didn't know it was him!" John exclaimed defensively. Greg sighed, sitting back however he didn't look anywhere near convinced.
"This is weird man; even for you this is just...really weird." He admitted finally. John sighed, shaking his head and staring at the table for a moment.
"I'm disgusted by it Greg, I'm scared of what his intentions were." John admitted. Greg thought a little bit, his fingers tapping rapidly on the table as he tried to figure out what to say.
"Well, why'd he run away then?" Greg asked, as if that was the most peculiar thing about this story as a whole. John shrugged, slowly realizing that he didn't have an answer for that.
"Because I saw him, I assume. I mean he's probably not allowed to be approaching guys right? Like he's probably being watched by police and all that." John guessed stupidly.
"But why'd he pause? You said that he um...he paused and then you turned around, what made him stop?" Greg wondered. John thought for a moment, but he came up with nothing, it wasn't like John had done anything, at least the same amount of nothing he had been doing when Sherlock had found him, so why did he pause?
"I don't know." John admitted. "He just did."
"That doesn't help much. If he paused then maybe he just wanted to move on, or maybe...I don't know. Maybe he was trying to look around, see if anyone was watching." Greg decided in a meek little voice, as if he was scared of the words coming out of his own mouth.
"You don't think he intended on, you know, doing the same thing he did last year, to me?" John wondered in a terrified little whisper. Greg's face paled even more as that realization slowly dawned on him.
"Oh my god..." Greg muttered in a breath. "Ewww!"
"Do you think I should be scared?" John whispered back, straining his eyes once more to peer down the table at the kids sitting around them. He was half expecting to see Sherlock sitting among the boys, his harsh eyes staring at John even through the crowd and plates of food. A shiver went down John's spine, and he quickly looked away.
"No I don't think you're in any danger, I mean, he's gone right? And obviously they wouldn't let him in here." Greg muttered, nodding as if he was trying to convince himself of the fact. He still seemed a little bit shocked that John would confess such a thing, and that such a thing even happened in the first place.
"Ya, ya alright." John agreed, it made sense of course, that Sherlock would be banned from entering the school after what he had done.
"And he won't come back for you, that kid is a coward, always was. Why else do you think he stooped so low for his first kiss?" Greg wondered with a little laugh. John forced a smile on his face, but he didn't really know what was funny. It was actually pretty sad to think about it, that poor Sherlock Holmes, that once smiling kid, and to think what type of torture he must be going through right now, it was a miracle that he was just walking free. Isn't the appropriate sentence for a kid like that a lifetime in prison? They were rushed away to their first class before their conversation could continue, and John tried his hardest to pay attention, but learning was becoming increasingly difficult now that he had something better to do with his time and concentration. Sherlock Holmes...God why was he becoming so increasingly obsessed with that boy, that name, that existence as a whole? Who cares if it really was him, who cares about why he had paused and why he had run off, it was over, done, and it wasn't affecting John's life anymore! So why was he turning the encounter over and over in his mind, trying to make sense of it all, trying to gain Sherlock Holmes's perspective in the whole thing. He was trying to crack into the brain of a monster, and yet he was still so surprised when he couldn't succeed. Greg seemed equally distressed; he was hanging his head over his notes and staring with open eyes, obviously deep in thought. John had to wonder just what made Sherlock down such a dark road, what changed him in the time between the photograph and the incident, how he had somehow mutated from a smiling boy to a cold blooded criminal. Obviously there was only one boy in this entire school who knew the answer to that, obviously only one person that had the answers to most every question John could ever ask. The boy who had been there, experienced it, and survived it. Victor Trevor.