When Sherlock woke up he couldn't see anything but light. It wasn't a harsh light of course, but then again it was just enough to convince him momentarily that he was on his way to heaven. However it took him a moment to realize that surely heaven wouldn't have so many voices, feminine voices at that, jabbering away around him. Sherlock was quite sure that if he had died and gone to Heaven he wouldn't wake up in white light, he would wake up in a small dorm room, curled up against his headboard with a chemistry textbook propped up on his lap. And John would be there, only John at that, and they never had to fear for their freedom again. This wasn't Heaven.
"Sherlock, oh Sherlock are you awake?" asked Molly's careful voice. Sherlock felt a horrible cold feeling on his forehead, and he opened his eyes to see that he had become blinded by a white washcloth drenched in water, pressing down over his forehead and dripping all over his pillow. Sherlock wasn't having much trouble breathing, however he could feel that there were bandages tapped all around his nose, trying to contain the blood that he could only hope had stopped by now.
"What...Molly?" Sherlock muttered in confusion, wondering just where he was lying right now. However the ceiling looked familiar, and the bed felt rather cozy, his blankets were the familiar color black and there was that mingled scent of rubbing alcohol and coffee being brewed downstairs. This was his house, he was sure of it, and yet Molly's voice was most certainly lingering above him.
"Sherlock honey are you awake?" asked a more familiar, more motherly voice. Sherlock blinked a couple of times, focusing in on the two faces that hovered over top of him. They wore the same expression of pity and worry, which only annoyed Sherlock more. He already had one pestering mother; certainly he couldn't handle it if Molly made the final transformation.
"Yes I'm awake, my eyes are open." Sherlock snapped irritably, pulling at the gauze that they had tied haphazardly around his face.
"He's fine." Molly assured with a tone of annoyance, walking away for a moment and returning with a fresh roll of gauze to replace the stuff he was tearing in shreds from his head.
"The doctor says your nose isn't broken, however it's pretty messed up." Mrs. Holmes declared, as if that was somehow supposed to be good news. Sherlock forced a smile, trying to sit up in bed and in turn getting pushed down by four mothering hands.
"Just rest, that's what you need." Molly insisted, and Sherlock simply swatted their hands away, sitting up against the headboard and scowling at his reflection in the low mirror. His face was paler than ever, as if all the blood from his veins had gushed straight out of his nose. His hair was sticking up in all directions and there were still scraps of gauze and tape stuck to his face and neck. His nose was blood free, except for some crusty blood that had dried on to the nooks and crannies of his sculpted face, however for the most part his nose looked intact.
"I don't need rest, I need to warn him." Sherlock snapped, starting to rip the covers off from himself but getting pushed away by Molly, who was forcing a laugh.
"Ah, you're delirious then?" She wondered nervously, as if trying to remind Sherlock that their secret was not to be confided in his mother. Then again it would be leaked all over the country if Sherlock didn't get to John first, to remind him about their confidentiality, to insist that he deny all rumors that might fly their way. Moran knew now that there was a boy named John from Wisteria that Sherlock was in contact with, it was all in the letter, and of course he and all his horrible friends had the great pleasure of reading that letter. Sherlock needed to get to John before those stories did; they needed to get a game plan together, either one to deny the accusations or an escape plan all together, to leave their friends, family, and futures behind them on the road. Preferably not the latter, however Sherlock wanted to know that it was still in the picture should the need arise. And he couldn't do all of that sitting here, with gauze covering his face, trapped in his bedroom by both of his mothers.
"Who do you have to warn honey?" Mrs. Holmes wondered curiously, looking between Sherlock's careless face and Molly's anxious one. She was trying to smile and yet in turn proving to be a dreadful actress, because as she forced the corners of her mouth to upturn she was making herself look like something of a depressed clown, bearing her teeth and trying to look amused.
"No one that concerns you." Sherlock grumbled, pushing Molly out of the way and stumbling out of bed with shaking legs. At some point his shirt had been changed, presumably because of the blood he had managed to drip all down his front and yet he still blushed in humiliation. He really hoped it wasn't Molly who had that honor.
"Sherlock get back in bed, you're going to hurt yourself!" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, rushing over to where Sherlock was leaning rather weakly against the bedroom wall. His head was spinning but only for a moment, he wasn't used to being up and active with this little blood stored away in his veins.
"I'll do what I want mother. I'm going out." Sherlock insisted flatly, lumbering over to the mirror and patting down his curls anxiously, pulling off any stray gauze and trying to wash his face of all blood with what little spit he could collect on his finger. Maybe not the most sanitary method of self-hygiene, and yet at the moment it was the only effective option.
"You're not going out, no, no you're not." Molly said flatly, trying to grab Sherlock's arm to pull him back to bed. However Sherlock shook her easily off, walking towards the door and knowing that no one would be daring to use any force to keep him here. If he had a job to do they knew that he certainly had to do it, and no method of manhandling or harsh wording would convince him to get back into that hateful sick bed.
"I need to tell him." Sherlock insisted carelessly, swinging open the door and starting his way down the hallway.
"It doesn't concern him, Sherlock stop! If you go there you'll get...well you'll get in trouble. You're not overly discrete!" Molly called, racing down the hallway after him and leaving his very confused mother in the empty room. Sherlock jumped down the stairs and pulled on his trench coat, spinning once more and throwing out a hand to keep himself steady.
"I'll be fine." Sherlock demanded.
"You'll get caught. You'll be exposed, you'll get in trouble, you'll get him in trouble." Molly insisted in a hushed voice, following Sherlock to the front door as he laced up the shoes they had managed to get off him in his unconsciousness.
"Moran knows, Molly, what else am I supposed to do? Wait for him to hear the rumors himself?" Sherlock wondered snappily. Molly groaned, as if she simply had no idea what she was supposed to do with such a rebellious yet idiotic friend.
"And what are you going to do? Pop in at Wisteria, oh hello headmaster, hello Victor I just wanted to come in here and..." Molly's sentence was cut off when Sherlock gave a warning growl, straightening to his tallest height and towering dominantly over Molly. She gave a little squeak of surrender, taking a quick step back as if worried that he would take his pent up anger out on her.
"Don't say his name." Sherlock warned, and with that he grabbed at the door handle and ran down the sidewalk into the street. He was heading back now, back the road he had traveled so much when he was a boy. He was following his footsteps, following his memories; he was leaving one home only to arrive at another. 

 John POV: It was getting darker by the minute, the walls of Wisteria being cast in shadows as they sat in their dorms. For once in their lives the two of them were actually doing homework, engulfed in the words on the pages that they were, by some miracle, supposed to remember by tomorrow morning. It was a quiet night, all of the boys were getting too tired to make a ruckus and lights out had been called not a half hour ago. They were working by the light of their flashlights, too nervous to turn on the lamps should Mrs. Hudson notice the light under the crack in the door. Then again, their punishment shouldn't be all that bad, considering they were staying up simply to study; it wasn't like they were sneaking out again. 

"Alright mate, I'm going to bed." Greg decided after a while, yawning widely and snapping his book shut.
"What time is it?" John wondered groggily, looking up from his book to observe the layers of moonlight that were penetrating their window pane.
"Oh I don't know, maybe around nine thirty. Almost ten." Greg shrugged carelessly. John nodded, watching the trees as they shook in the gentle evening breeze. He was about to tear his attention back to his textbook when he noticed motion, not tree motion, or anything blowing around in the grass, but an actual person, a humanoid figure running up the grassy hill, concealed in shadow.
"Greg, there's someone outside!" John exclaimed excitedly, throwing his book aside and watching as the figure dashed up to the walls and stopped about fifty yards away, studying the windows as if trying to figure out which one was the most accessible. Surely it wasn't a burglar, no one was stupid enough to try to rob a boarding school, however a murderer was a possibility, killing boys while they slept may just be considered a past time in someone's sick mind.
"Is it Molly?" Greg wondered hopefully, jumping out of bed without taking a care to how much noise he was making as he went over to the window and yanked it open.
"No Greg wait, what if he's armed?" John exclaimed nervously, to which Greg just laughed.
"Oh ya, I'm real worried." Greg teased carelessly, sticking his head out of the window and looking down into the night. John tried to get a view as well, however with Greg's big head sticking out there was hardly any visibility. So he just closed his book and sat expectantly on his bed, waiting for Greg's commentary to begin.
"Well, it's definitely not Molly, I don't see any long hair, however it's definitely a kid, it's thin." Greg muttered thoughtfully.
"Do you recognize him? Is it a murderer?" John wondered nervously.
"Why are you so worried about...Oh wow! Well congratulations John, you're officially Rapunzel." Greg pointed out with a laugh.
"What on earth do you mean by that?" John snapped rather hatefully.
"Hello Sherlock!" Greg called down, and John force momentarily.
"It's Sherlock?" John asked excitedly, scrambling off of his bed and pushing Greg out of the window. And, just as promised, that familiar shadowed figure was running up to their window through the grass, with his long lanky limbs and curly head of hair. Even though they couldn't see any recognizable figures it was impossible to deny that Sherlock Holmes was waiting in the grass for them.
"Greg, is John there?" Sherlock's voice called. John stuck his head the best he could out the window, just so that Sherlock could see that he was indeed alive and well.
"I'm here! Keep your voice down though." John called back, dropping his voice when he remembered that nearly anyone could be listening. The good news was that it was getting chillier out, and so no one would dare open their windows at a time like this.
"Can you help me up?" Sherlock called quietly, seemingly shivering in the grass as he stood expectantly.
"Greg, make the rope." John insisted, pulling his head out of the window to start tearing the bedsheets off of his bed.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? This is pretty risky John; anyone could come in and see that he's here." Greg pointed out rather reluctantly.
"He wants to come in, if he's here in the first place it's obviously important, come on Greg." John pleaded, balling up his sheets into rope like tendrils and throwing them at Greg urgently.
"Remember you owe me one?" John pointed out with a smile.
"For what?" Greg asked reluctantly, taking the sheets in his hands and watching John extremely doubtfully.
"For when I let you copy my homework. And you owe me another thing when I went to get your book with you, remember that?" John pointed out with a smile.
"Ya but this is like, this is bigger than stupid homework, I could get expelled, and I'm not even part of this whole thing." Greg defended in a very exasperated tone.
"Then leave." John said simply. "Go to Mike's."
"No way I'm leaving you alone with this kid." Greg said flatly, crossing his arms and sitting fixedly on the bed.
"Greg, this is my other one. You owe me this too. Make the rope, and leave." John said flatly.
"What if he..."
"He won't! Greg...please." John pleaded in a rather hopeless voice, unable to contain the emotion that was now leaking into his eyes. Suddenly he only wanted solitude with Sherlock Holmes; suddenly there was an opportunity, to be closer, to be together. Who did Greg think he was to be able to come in and ruin it? Greg sighed heavily, looking out the window with an angry little huff of defeat.
"I hate you." Greg decided after a moment's thought, but then, miraculously, he began to tie the knots.
"Thank you Greg, thank you thank you thank you!" John sang, racing up to the window where he saw that Sherlock was now pressed up against the brick walls, so that no one looking out their window could see him.
"We'll throw something down, one second." John hissed. The figure moved, turning around and craning his neck to look up to the window. John could see the unusually pale glow of his skin in the moonlight, that beautiful aura that seemed to be reserved only for Sherlock Holmes. John smiled in a lovesick sort of way, hanging over the window and just staring down at Sherlock for a moment. Just his presence, his silhouette among the shadows, it was enough to get John's heart racing uncontrollably. He was so in love with this boy it almost seemed unhealthy, unreal. And Greg needn't worry; Victor's warnings had long since slipped through the cracks of John's mind. He didn't care what Sherlock did, or what he tried to do. He knew that it certainly wouldn't be rape; it couldn't be, if it was consensual.
"John I needed to talk to you, it's important." Sherlock called up in a quiet voice, looking nervously around him as if expecting other heads to start poking out of their respective windows.
"Obviously, if you're here so late." John agreed with a bit of a laugh.
"It's um...something happened at school." Sherlock admitted weakly, feeling at his nose for some reason, as if his poor face had come in contact with someone else's fist.
"Just wait, Greg's almost done." John insisted.
"No I'm not!" Greg whined from the background.
"He's a very quick worker." John assured, ignoring everything that Greg had just said. Sherlock nodded, crossing his arms to fight off the chilly breeze that was blowing through the night air. There was a bit of an awkward silence, however John didn't mind, he just watched him with loving eyes, knowing, even though he couldn't see him from these several stories up, that Sherlock was looking at him as well.
"Alright, alright, here we go." Greg said rather angrily, pushing John out of the way and throwing down their bedsheets once more. They tied one end off on the bed post, letting the other end fall to the grass below. Sherlock looked at the rope very nervously, and then back up at the boys, as if wondering if this was some sort of joke.
"I um...okay." Sherlock muttered reluctantly, walking up to the rope and testing his weight on it carefully. The rope swung and creaked slightly, and Sherlock looked, if possible, even more afraid.
"What did you expect, a ladder?" Greg asked, sounding a bit offended that Sherlock wasn't overly impressed with his handiwork.
"No I just, I don't know if I could get up this." Sherlock admitted nervously.
"You'll be fine; it's not as bad as it looks." John assured quietly. Sherlock nodded, grabbing the rope firmly with both hands and putting his feet on the wall. He gave a little squeak of fear, however very, very slowly he began to work his way up. John could hear his nervous breaths as he moved his way up the meager bedsheet rope, his hands working one over the other to pull what little body weight he had farther and farther off of the ground.
"You can do it, almost there." John assured, sounding a bit like a comforting mother who was proud of her son taking his first steps.
"I'm doing my best." Sherlock agreed with what little breath he was able to use for something other than heaving in air. It took him another five minutes just to get level with the window, and it took both boys to grab hold of him and pull him in through the window when he had finally arrived. Sherlock wasn't really a cat burglar, to put it lightly. There was a lot of ruckus as the poor boy got yanked to the floor, pulling the other two down with him with a loud yelp of fear.
"See, not too bad." John muttered with a little smile, his hands still around Sherlock's wrist as the three of them lay groggily on the dusty hardwood floors.
"Just be quiet, I don't want Mrs. Hudson to come see what's going on." Greg hissed, pulling himself to his feet and brushing all the dust and dirt off of his pajama pants. John helped Sherlock up, seeing that his face looked a little bit damaged, pale and rather bruised around his nose. Immediately he was struck with some sort of protective anger, as if he felt like he was entitled to both heal the blemishes and serve whoever had done this a nice knuckle sandwich.

n