A/N: Oh, Loki. I'm sorry this took so long!
Please forgive me readers!
Anyways, here you are!

Sorry this one's a bit shorter. xC
The next update will come sooner this time!

Please review to let me know you're still with me!
-All the best!

*Trigger warnings for bullying.
And also the mention of child abuse.

Chapter 5: Work, Worry, Work, Worry

It had been a week; a week of more torturous interning and ridiculously pompous, know-it-all doctors. John had been hoping to run into Sherlock again, perhaps once more at the bench in the park or in the little diner, of which he may or may not have visited quite frequently throughout his work week. The boy had quite frankly vanished. And John was off his mind worried.

He could use his own powers of deduction to calculate the enigmatic reason behind Sherlock's injury, the bruise to the side of his face, and the fact that he admitted to living in a damaged household. John Watson has never been an idiot. But he also wasn't one to jump too quickly to conclusions. So, he had set a plan in motion. If Sherlock Holmes shows up with more contusions, of any kind, he would approach the boy on the subject of parental neglect, and abuse – of which, he hoped to God wasn't the real reason behind his wound. If he no longer appeared beaten up or bruised, John would simply ask who had done it the first time. His plan was lovely – it was convenient and not too obtrusive, and he wanted to be this kid's friend and show his support and his will to care for him. And then Sherlock Holmes hadn't shown up. And his plan had crumbled.

It was quite irritating – he never exchanged numbers with the teen, nor had he established any sort of meeting spot or, frankly, relationship. He inwardly murdered himself for that, because all he could think about now was one important question: where the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

John really thought he was simply overreacting. Sure, he'd had a heart-to-heart with the boy, but that didn't give him the right to baby him. He was acting like the father to a stubborn teenage girl: where are you going, who are you with, what are you doing?

He sighed, attempting to knock his mind clean with thoughts and start the day fresh; it was of course Friday and he wanted to end the week on a high note – what a week it had been: work, worry, work, worry, work, worry. Even taking a sip of the dreadful coffee from the hospital cafeteria didn't startle him awake; all he could think about was if Sherlock Holmes was okay, if he was hurt, if he was scared, if he was –

"John?"

The intern's head flew upwards, surprisingly helping him to forget his worry for a moment, as he caught sight of Mike Stamford standing beside his lunch table, holding a chicken sandwich and a flask of, most likely, hot tea. He smiled wearily as his friend sat down before him, grinning as he started to unwrap his meal for the day.

"You look a mess, mate." Mike commented, leaning forward to take a huge bite of loose chicken.

John scoffed and nodded his head, "Thanks, Mike."

His friend chuckled, and took a tissue to the side of his lip, wiping away whatever had originally been there, "The bird is out tonight, with a couple of her girls. Want to hit the pub?"

It sounded tempting – oh, so tempting.
What would he be doing if he didn't go?
The same as he had been doing all week – fretting over a kid he barely knew.

"Sure, why not." John sighed in exasperation, "I could use a drink."

Mike let out a laugh and bobbed his head up and down whilst chewing on a chunk of sandwich, "Trust me, mate. I can tell."

John winced and took another sip of his bitter coffee.

It had been relaxing, to say the least. John had sat in his bar seat for most of the night, simply sipping on a large bottle of beer, while Mike had spat out joke after joke – to which John couldn't help but laugh at. A few women had approached him, as well, as the night went on; chatting him up and seductively tucking their phone numbers into his breast pocket.

Mike had always leaned forward after that and sniggered, "You might want to take up a few of those offers, Watson."
John only shrugged and responded with, "They're just expecting some kind of doctor foreplay."

They would laugh after that, express between the two of them how confused they were upon debating why 'being a doctor' was such a turn on.
Then John would ask Mike a little about how his relationship is going, and he would merely reply, "Fantastic, John. Now how about you?"
John would glare playfully at him, and take another sip of his beer.

Overall, he had forgotten about his constant concern for the mystifying kid named Sherlock Holmes. Until, they left the pub.

Mike was pulling on his coat as John made his way out the swinging doors and into the frigid night air. He sighed in content upon realizing he had no work the next day – he could lounge around the house all he wanted to, drink tea, and read books. A pat on his shoulder jolted him back to reality and grinned over at his friend, tugging his jumper farther down and around him as they took to walking down the sidewalk. They didn't divulge in conversation for the most part – they simply marched on, gazing at their surroundings with thoughtful expressions.

And it was then that John saw him, across the street, on the opposite walkway; his gray hooded sweatshirt was encaging, head of hair hidden, so that merely his sharp facial features stood out in contrast. His navy blue jeans just made his legs appear longer, and his plimsolls glided across the gravel with a sort of guarded tension. Redbeard was closer to him than usual, crimson and orange fur waving in the cool breeze as his paws clicked on the concrete ground. Behind him trailed a group of three male teens, perhaps the same age, perhaps a little older. They all had conniving sneers twisting their expressions as they nudged one another and sniggered audibly. John's feet had stop moving. He had merely frozen in place, staring with narrowed eyes, dazed as he focused on one human being in particular – the boy he had been worrying about all week upon his disappearance. And there he was, safe and sound – or as well off as he could be.

Mike had already turned to watch John in confusion, features seemingly perplexed as the intern strolled forward, checking the road, and jogging to the opposite sidewalk. He let his heart carry him, growing closer and closer to the teen, while the calls of the three pursuers echoed through the London air.

"Hey, freak!" One of them shouted, pace quickening as he attempted to walk alongside Sherlock.
Another did the same, joining their friend in his amusement. "Hey, we're talking to you!"

John observed, as he kept striding forwards, Sherlock inching a little into their view.

"What happened to your face, freak?" One of the boys, with quite an ugly pig-like face, mocked and John felt his heart drop in his chest.

He was running now, ignoring Mike Stamford's questioning as he followed behind.
He didn't drown out the other teens – he listened intently to their insults, picking up whatever information he could.

"Did someone finally teach you a lesson?"

"Oi, I bet his father did that to 'im."

"Does your father beat you, freak?"

"Look at him, lads! He's too bloody twisted for his own parents!"

John was cringing, and grimacing, and he was almost there, almost to him. Pig-face stepped into the action, and with both palms lifted, he shoved Sherlock forwards, causing him to stumble slightly, eager to recover from his loss of balance.

"Hey!" John snapped, and was finally next to him. Their eyes met – Sherlock's own were blank, so very broken, and it was terrifying. His complexion was no longer pale, but ghostly white, and his brow was furrowed in an expression of constant agony. And, needless to say, not only was his eye still tinted a light, healing blue, but his lip was split and his eyebrow was releasing a thin line of deathly shaded, red blood.

John whirled to glare at the three boys before him, now staring in confusion as the intern lifted his arms in some sort of protective barrier.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" His tone of voice was low, and threatening – strict and deadly.

The boy next to pig-face, who merely looked like a rat, smirked carelessly, shrugging his shoulders as though there was nothing wrong with the situation.
"Just having a bit of fun, mate."

John scoffed in disgust, and glowered daggers at the human filth before him, "You call this fun?"

The teens looked at one another, sneering ruthlessly.

John shook his head and laughed mockingly at them, "You're pathetic. Get out of here."
His command was cold, harsh and so frightening the bullies glanced at one another, before turning around and jogging off into the foggy night. John let out a deep breath, unaware he had been holding it in the first place. Once he had composed himself, he turned to face Sherlock, whose posture was standing hunched, eyes on the ground. Redbeard was situated in a tense position, as though, if John were any second later, he would have made his attack.

John cleared his throat and leaned forward, feeling his doctor-mode come swelling back to him, "Sherlock," He began, "Sherlock, look at me."
He didn't. Instead, he turned even farther away and went to carry on walking once more, albeit at a slow pace.

John growled in frustration, feeling only an overwhelming need to help this boy as he pushed forward to meet his eye. "Sherlock," John sighed.
He reached forward gently, to place his hand on the boy's shoulder in an attempt to turn him back around; he received a violent flinch before the teen whirled to meet his eyes, a scowl present on his face amongst all the tragedy. John felt himself shiver at the icy expression, but he was determined to aid in whatever was troubling the dark-haired boy before him.

"Are you alright?" John was grasping onto Sherlock's wrist, concern evident on his features.
The teen's eyelids dropped further, concealing the multicolored orbs below, as his head tilted downwards.

John sighed and shook his head eagerly, "Sherlock, did they do that to you?"
He was sure he knew the answer – but he wanted to ask. He needed to ask.

"Let go." The demand was growled in a low voice and John felt himself shudder at the sudden tone of enraged defeat. He quickly unfurled his fingers from the Sherlock's bony arm, and stared with wide eyes, as the boy didn't move an inch, merely stayed put, as though frozen in place.

"Sherlock, I need to have a look." John pleaded with him, gaze inspecting the gash above his eyelid and across his bottom lip, blood still oozing around the remnants that had already dried. The intern attempted to get a better look, thumb rising to carefully hold Sherlock by the jaw, eager to examine the injuries further, but he drew away upon witnessing the teen recoil in fear, and the dog at his feet growling lowly in a desperate undertone.

"Don't touch me." Sherlock snapped suddenly, once again hiding his face from John's searching eyes. The intern swallowed and sighed, the tension remaining as Sherlock sniffed softly under his breath, "Just, leave me alone. Please."

And then, he was striding away, pace eager to flee the situation, eager to be left to his own company. John watched him go, observing the dog slowly trotting beside him, as he tucked his hands into his pocket, dropped his head, and disappeared around the corner.

"John?"

John twisted around, eyes latching onto Mike Stamford, stood there appearing slightly dazed with confusion.
The intern cleared his throat, feeling slightly guilty for just forgetting about his friend who had, ultimately, witnessed the whole ordeal.

"God, sorry Mike." John apologized, looking down at his shoes, the stress of more worry flooding in once again.

Mike took a few steps forward, drawing in closer to John before the two began their walk again, "What was that?"

John winced, "I honestly don't know."

Mike arched a brow in curiosity, "Who's the kid, then?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The intern exhaled wearily, and attempted to pull off a smile for his friend.

"He seems a bit unpleasant."

John grimaced at the statement, a wary rage forming at the bottom of his stomach – he tried to remember Mike was merely going off what he had just seen. "He really isn't – once you get to know him." John shrugged and chuckled sadly, "Hell, I've only talked to him a whole of three times and he fascinates me."

Mike craned his neck in surprise, swaying a little as he walked beside John, "Why's that?"

"He's so smart, Mike. So clever. A legitimate genius. No joke."

His friend smiled and nodded thoughtfully, "But?"

John sighed, "But he's also secretive; enigmatic. A right mystery."

"And you don't know why?"

"I don't know much about him in general, to be honest."

"What do you know?"

John considered the question, narrowing his eyes in serious thought, "I think he's lonely. He's also the definition of rebellious. And I know he doesn't really want to go home, so he spends most of his time on the streets."

Mike cocked his head slightly at that, obviously thinking it over, as he stared dead ahead, and then back at John, "Maybe he's just involved with the wrong crowd of people?"

John bobbed his head back and forth in contemplation, "I thought that at first as well, but he's the opposite of social."

Mike chuckled, "Mystery indeed."

"Yeah."

"Why's he got you so frantic?"

John took a deep breath, and cleared his throat, "I don't know. I just feel like he needs someone who will take the time to understand him; someone who will be patient with him."

"And that someone is you, then?"

John shrugged, and scoffed in a lack of confirmation, "I guess, but I won't really be giving him much of a choice."

Mike lit up, "That's the John Watson I know."