John POV: There was no one else on the road as John struggled to his feet, groaning and heaving his broken body onto the car, taking in breaths as they came and spitting out the blood that was still streaming from somewhere. His ribs felt as though they were broken, his stomach feeling as though it was turned to a bloody gush inside of his torso, his face untouched and yet throbbing all the same. He felt like he had been run over by a car, then backed up on, then run over again. And yet it had only been one man, one boy to be more accurate, who had finally begun his revenge. And yet no matter how much John ached, no matter how much he bled, the pain that was beginning to sprout in his imagination was far worse than anything he felt. His worry for Sherlock lead John to try to pull open his car door, falling into the seat near the ripped seatbelt (Victor had cut it with a pocket knife to drag John out of the crashed car) and letting his head fall momentarily against the steering wheel. He was in no position to drive, in fact he was in no position to be conscious right now, however he dared not tell anyone about what had really happened. His story would be that he had crashed his car, simple as that, those who didn't know much about injuries would believe it straight away, like his parents, however those who were able to figure out that a car crash didn't break very many ribs, well they were the ones he had to worry about. Never would he admit to anyone that he had gotten beaten up for supposedly taking Sherlock from his boyfriend, not only would that scar his reputation as a tough athlete but it would also threaten his reputation as a heterosexual, putting his relationship with Mary at risk. And yet that didn't matter, none of it, Victor was probably with Sherlock right now, dragging him by the throat into the house, that poor boy, this was John's fault and he was going to try to take the blame! That idiot, it was almost as if he wanted to get hurt! And so John had to drive, no matter how horrible he felt all the while he sat here in this ditch Sherlock was getting hit, kicked, screamed at. So John turned on the engine, listening thankfully as it sputtered to life, starting to drive his way out of the ditch. Perfect in this situation, this old little car had wonderful suspension, and it was able to drive easily out of the ditch that it had found itself in. And so not a moment later John was driving down the road, going as fast as he could in this condition, and praying that somehow he would make it home safely. However as he approached the two houses he realized just how hopeless this situation might be, how was he to protect Sherlock if the door was locked? No one would be stupid enough to let him in, and of course it wasn't like he could carefully explain to Victor what had happened. It was worth a shot, and so John pulled his now dented car into the driveway and stumbled up to the Holmes' front porch, seeing that Victor's car sat innocently in the driveway donning a new scratch in the metal. John flung himself onto the door and found that, predictably, it was locked. He rang the doorbell a couple of times, getting no response, and he even tried to stumble around back to find if there was any sort of backdoor that might have been unlocked. He was unlucky in this search as well, and so he resorted to simply yelling outside the house, yelling mere screeches and sounds, no words actually forming in the sound. And yet the house was still, suspiciously still, which made him wonder just what they were getting up to in that house. He heard no screaming, no signs that Sherlock was being injured in anyway, however Victor was smart, maybe he would wait until he knew John was gone. That was only incentive more to stay, however John's screaming had alerted his own mother, who came walking out of their house across the street curiously.
"John what on earth are you doing out here? I'm trying to cook and you're doing...bad opera." Mrs. Watson muttered, crossing her arms over her patterned apron while John just turned in defeat, finally displaying to his mother his bloodstained shirt, holding his body limply as he tried to stumble over across the street. Defeat washed over him like a torrent, and suddenly his knees got weak, suddenly the world was fading away. The last thing John remembered was his mother's horrified cry, and then there was a pain that rather felt like he had fallen face flat into some very rocky pavement. 

 When John woke he was alone, the lights were off in his room and his curtains were drawn. He found that he was lying shirtless on his bed, wrapped in white bandages but thankfully still in his own house, and not some senseless hospital. His face felt clean and yet it stung, as if his mother had been using some sort of alcohol to clean out his newly developed wounds. It was dark out, he could tell that much, and yet that was all. As soon as he began to stir John pulled himself from his bed, ignoring the flash of pain that was protesting very heavily from his chest. John pulled open the curtains to see that the light was very faithfully on across the road, displaying the scene inside, which was not at all the one he might expect. Sherlock was there, as was Victor, and yet instead of wounds being exchanged there were kisses, Victor's hands weren't clenched in fists they were instead clenched around Sherlock's bare shoulders, the two boys flailing about the room with their lips locked, looking too preoccupied to get violent. John sighed heavily; wondering if he had misinterpreted this whole situation, was Sherlock really not in any danger here? Was he praising Victor for saving him, was he somehow blaming this whole thing on John? Why would he kiss that boy so furiously when he was undoubtedly terrified? John's train of thought was interrupted when he heard his door open, and immediately he tore the curtains closed, worried that his mother might decide to have a look outside and notice the two boys getting a bit too affectionate across the street. Thankfully, however, Mrs. Watson seemed much more concerned about her son that with whatever else might be going on outside. 

"John honey no, you can't be up, get back into bed!" she exclaimed worriedly, rushing quickly over in an attempt to usher John back into bed where she thought he belonged.
"Mom I'm fine, trust me I'm fine." John assured, however there was no arguing against a protective mother and so John finally eased himself back into bed, letting his mother pull the blankets up over his chin so as to keep him warm.
"Oh it's so good to see you up, your father insisted we didn't need a doctor but I told him if you didn't wake up soon I was going to call, you scared me to death John." Mrs. Watson insisted, holding her bejeweled hand to her heart and huffing a breath of relief. John just sighed, shrugging carelessly as though his own health didn't even matter to him, which of course in this case it didn't. He couldn't care less if he lived or died, he wanted to make sure that Sherlock was alright, he wanted to prevent whatever was going on across the street, no matter how seemingly innocent it was. There was no way Sherlock really wanted to be close to that boy right now, there was no way that he could possibly love him. This was forceful love, that or it was fear. He was trying to protect himself, should there be any rumor of his 'affair' with John then he had to ensure Victor that his heart was unwavering, that was for sure, it was just the question of how far he had to go until Victor's suspicions were put to rest.
"I'm fine, I'm fine." John lied again. His mother very obviously didn't believe him, however she was busying herself mopping off John's brow with a warm washcloth, as if that would in any way do anything to help.
"What happened to you?" she wondered softly, asking as if she didn't really want the answer. John sighed heavily, remembering that the car crash was his cover story for what had really been done.
"I crashed my car, it was stupid, it was just into a ditch, but the impact sent me into the steering wheel, and it really hurt." John admitted finally, groaning just to try to emphasize his pain. Of course he need not exaggerate, for the pain he was in was legitimate, however his mother only decided to pamper him more after this so it didn't work exactly as he had intended.
"Don't worry about the car John, we'll get it fixed, you just fix yourself alright? We don't want you hurting; I don't like it when you're hurting." Mrs. Watson mumbled, making sure he was properly tucked in with a nice glass of water at his bedside.
"I'm fine, I just want to sleep." John insisted finally, deciding that the only way to get her out of his presence was to directly tell her to go. Mrs. Watson sighed heavily, almost as though she didn't quite believe John's need for rest as he had just woken up, however she obeyed his wishes after a couple of kisses on the forehead (all of which hurt) and telling him that if there was anything he needed at all that she didn't want him getting up to do it. When finally Mrs. Watson disappeared John dragged himself out of bed again, making sure the door was properly shut before he fell into his desk chair rather painfully, leaning heavily over the wood as he pulled at the curtains only slightly, so that he could have a clear view of what was going on without any immediate danger of being spotted by the wandering eye. It was now very hard to see anything, which was actually a good thing considering that whatever colors were moving over there was only the paleness of skin, the two figures distorted into one, thrashing together with their fingernails digging into the other's shoulders, their lips kissing every bit of skin that was readily accessible. John could hardly bear to look, he didn't want to see what Sherlock had to resort to in order to protect himself, that wasn't love across the street, that was desperation. Sherlock would do anything; he would say anything, just to protect himself from the one man that was supposed to be protecting him. He had always gushed about how Victor was the love of his life, and yet now the very thought of their relationship was pitiful. Sherlock was trapped to him, bound and connected by a series of interlocking chains of violence and control, all morphed and concealed to be love, falsified into something that might not make the world wince. And yet they didn't know that John saw, they didn't realize that whatever play they were putting on for themselves, whatever mirage of love they might attempt to create, well it was being watching with knowing eyes, for John knew that not a kiss that was exchanged was genuine. Sherlock was afraid, Victor was angry, they turned these feelings into desire and by that they flourished, for at least a night, at least until they were forced to confront whatever deep seated issues their relationship was spawning on. John dropped his head miserably, pitying Sherlock, hating Victor, and smacking himself for being so stupid, for being so naive. Why had he not realized that by crossing the lines laid down by Victor he wouldn't just get himself hurt but Sherlock as well? Why did he seemingly not care for what that boy felt, for what he had to do to survive? How could he sacrifice Sherlock's wellbeing for his own? What kind of love was that? 

 In the morning John nearly had to sneak out of the house in order to go to school. Mrs. Watson was literally trying to lock him in his room in an attempt to make him rest, and no matter how miserable John felt he insisted that he really had to go, there was no alternative. Of course he told his mother that the reason he must be in school was because he would miss important lessons should he miss, however the real reason of course was that it was the only place he could talk to Sherlock without a shadow of a doubt that Victor might be watching. That boy would be far away in his technical school, he wouldn't be allowed to enter the hallways, he wouldn't be able to see anything that was going on. John thought that a lonely road might be safe for the two of them to talk but evidently it was not, and so he was running out of ways to get to look into that boy's eyes once more. School was the only option, and he knew of course that Sherlock would be going as well, and so he had to join. His entire torso was bruised and broken, however John was able to get to his feet and at least stand for a moment, walking around just enough to wrestle himself into a tee shirt and jeans before tying his shoes as minimally as he could, since it hurt to bend over. When John was dressed he winced as he eased the weight of his backpack onto his shoulders, however he couldn't show pain as he left, for his mother would insist on him staying once more. She had made a lunch for him however that would be waiting in the guarded kitchen area, and she had presumably put it away now that she knew that he was potentially injured. He just had to go without. And so John hobbled down the stairs, safe enough for now to make it to the front door to meet Harry on the porch. 

"Bye parents!" John called quickly, and with that he closed the door and walked as fast as he could to the car, just to make sure his mother wouldn't catch him on the sidewalk somehow. John was safely pulling out of the driveway when his mother burst out the door, running to the side of the dented car (which they decided was still drivable) and shaking around that brown bag of lunch that she had packed for him. Maybe this was just her excuse to get him to stop. John, however, stopped the car and rolled down Harry's window so that they could talk, and yet by the time Mrs. Watson had reached the vehicle all she could do was breathe heavily and thrust the lunch into the car, dropping it carelessly onto Harry's lap.
"John you be careful, alright? If you hurt, or if you feel like you're going to faint, just please tell the nurse about the accident yesterday." Mrs. Watson begged. John groaned, rolling his eyes carelessly, almost as if his mother's worrying really wasn't worth his time.
"I'll be fine mom, really." John assured, and yet even as he said it he had to readjust himself in the seat, just to be sure that his ribs that were potentially broken would sit in the right place. Mrs. Watson looked beyond worried, however for once she seemed to understand that some things were simply out of her control. And so she stepped away, waving meagerly at her children as John began to pull away, Harry whining about how the open window was freezing and waiting for John to be the one to roll it up instead of simply moving her own arm to complete the daunting task. John was too tired to argue. Upon looking at the Holmes household he saw that the usual car wasn't in the driveway, which either meant Victor had left during the night or he had already driven Sherlock to school. Either way the house would be empty of the two, as Sherlock wasn't out on the curb waiting for the bus. And so John drove faster, anticipating their conversation in his head and trying to think of appropriate things to say. Of course not one sentence came to mind, how do you approach someone about a boy who might kill them if he saw them talking again? This would have to be discreet, more discreet than they've ever been before. And of course you had to remember that Sherlock didn't know about John's ability to see through a window (which is of course an impressive skill) and so he wasn't aware that John had seen the two of them the night previous. How was he supposed to insist to Sherlock that whatever was happening between the two of them was not love? How could he beg Sherlock to separate from Victor when he presumably had no idea what was really going on? Oh well, he would just improvise, he was sometimes very good at worming his way out of situations he didn't like to find himself in. And yet he needed to talk to Sherlock, he wanted to, if that villain had so much as laid a hand on him then he should pay, he must pay.
"Can you just drop me off at the curb?" Harry begged as they pulled into the parking lot of the school, with cars and people alike milling around and nearly crashing into each other.
"No, if I have to walk all that way so do you." John growled, not in the mood to do any special favors for his whiny sister at this point.
"That's not fair; it's not my fault that you insist on driving every morning." Harry growled.
"It's your fault that you never got your license." John pointed out with an antagonizing smile, to which Harry just grumbled and looked out the window longingly, almost as if she hoped the school would be getting closer, not farther, as they drove.