Deduce Me

Sixteen: What can we do but fight back?

Sherlock

I walked out of forensics class, my second to last class of the day. My last two classes, forensics and chemistry, were the only ones I had without John, so they seemed to drag on forever.

Anderson had been building up to an attack all day; I deduced it from his walk. He never actually did anything, which only meant that he was saving it for something. He may be stupider than a brick, but he knows how to fight.

Which is why I wasn't surprised when he caught me by my collar as I rounded the corner to chemistry, dragging me down the hall, where nobody was. The bell rang, signaling the start of class, so Anderson and his boys had a slim chance of getting caught.

How fortunate for me.

Anderson didn't even miss a beat; he connected his fist to my face almost instantly, sending me flying to the ground. He stood there, like the idiot that he is, as the two others laughed at me on the floor. I kicked out, sweeping my foot out to catch his leg and send him sprawling on the ground next to me. Of course, his friends pulled me off him before I could do much damage, but he'll definitely have a black eye tomorrow, at the least.

They grabbed my arms and pulled me to a standing position, only to knock me back down again. Once on the floor, I couldn't get my bearings before they started kicking.

Somewhere in the midst of all of that, they were shouting at me. Things such as "fag," "puff," "queer," and "gayboy." They accented each kick with a new word, and I could barely think. There was no chance of me winning this fight, especially with three homophobic boys kicking at me as hard as they could. Sometimes they threw in a punch or two; I felt skin breaking beneath their knuckles, blood oozing from the cuts and scratches.

Pounding feet. Footsteps running down the hallway, growing ever louder, until they stopped somewhere near my head, and the kicking stopped. I couldn't see anything- my eyes were swollen shut, and I was fading fast. I think a few ribs were broken, to be honest, because it was hard to breath. I registered the sounds of shouts and grunts of pain before I blacked out.

John

I was late for class, because I had been searching for Sherlock. I had wanted to see him before our last class, because I knew that Anderson would attack very soon. Sally had been tormenting me in Health, going on about how Phillip was going to kick my arse, and whatnot. She threw in a few derogatory terms, but I ignored her.

It was hard to ignore an entire hallway of teenagers yelling derogatory terms, though, which was what was happening now. I think Sherlock had just blocked everything out this morning, but I had heard it all. I'd heard every hate-filled word muttered under breaths, and saw every glare. However, I also saw every congratulatory smile and proud glance (though they were few and far between). Through it all, we walked on, clutching at each other's hands like they were our lifeline. Sherlock kept his head up, probably used to people hating him and calling him things like 'Freak.' I, on the other hand, kept my eyes lowered, face tilted toward the floor. I didn't want to be here, with these people.

But now, with people pushing against me, I couldn't see Sherlock anywhere. As the crouds thinned, I searched on, my mind automatically assuming the worst. He's dead somewhere. They jumped him and left him to rot. Of course, I knew I was over exaggerating.

But not by much.

I found them at the end of some hallway after the bell had already rung. They were kicking him, screaming all those nasty words I hated so much. I didn't think; I just acted.

I ran at them full speed and jumped onto one of their backs, knocking him down. Since he'd fallen and hit his head, one hard punch had left him nearly passed out. I turned to Anderson next. He held up both hands in surrender, but was still grinning evilly at me. I could see he already had a split lip and cheekbone, and a black eye was forming.

"We're done, Watson," Anderson spit. I still had my fists raised, ready to punch him. I should have. "We'll leave. But this isn't the last you see of me," he threatened. He and one of the boys ran off, the one who I'd jumped on. He was clutching his head.

The other boy, Jamie I think his name was, lingered for another few seconds. But he didn't want to fight. No, he only spoke four words before trailing after the other two. Four words that confused the hell out of me, because they made absolutely no sense.

"Anderson didn't start this."

I would have asked him more questions before he ran off, but Sherlock's hitched breathing from behind me pulled me back to reality. I whirled around to see his eyes shut, shollow breaths puffing in and out of his bloody nose, the red liquid dripping onto the floor and creating a small puddle. I had to call an ambulance...

We finally made it to the hospital, after I had called Mycroft in near hysterics, yelling into the phone as my rage-fueled adrenaline rush faded into panic. My fear that Sherlock would die returned full force, especially after every time I looked down at his broken body in my arms. I'd tried to help in any way, tilting his head up so he could breathe, moving gently in case of broken bones.

I stayed by his side, even when the doctors said they had to put him in a medically induced coma, and when they said that he was beaten up very badly. I held his hand, and talked to him, even when some of the nurses or doctors looked at our clasped hands with distaste, but others smiled at us with warmth. I guess there are two kinds of people in this world: the kind who matter, and the kind who don't.

But the only boy who mattered to me was right here in this horrid hospital bed, under these horrid fluorescent lights, in a coma. I was lost without him, really. Sherlock, wake up...

(A/N:

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