Sigma Eta

Are You Hiding Too?

John sat trembling in his bed, having thrown the blankets up and over his head to block out the rays of dying sunlight that were trying to disturb his darkness. It wasn't nearly time to go to bed, though he couldn't think of any other hide away that would keep him safe from what was lurking outside his door. For the first time in his life he felt afraid, so afraid, that he could hardly move. He could hardly stay standing. His entire body ached, his arms raw and bruised, his chest still oozing with the wounds teeth had inflicted. He didn't dare tend to them yet; he just allowed the blood to run free. John almost didn't want to acknowledge what had happened; he didn't want to admit to himself that he had been defiled in such a way. He felt tainted, he felt dirty, he felt abused. Most of all he felt fearful, not only for his health but now for his very soul. He was tethered to that madman by a deal that had been struck in ignorance, not understanding what might go into another favor after this one had proven to be so devastating. When he closed his eyes he could see it again, Sherlock's eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, his hair matted and his teeth barred. He looked more like an animal than a lover, and he treated John as his prey. There was no softness, no gentle love as John would have expected from such an easy going boy. He had wanted praise, soft kisses and smooth touches, he had wanted to fall into the arms of a boy who would love him and admire him to the highest degree. When he imagined love with Sherlock Holmes it had always been a pleasant experience, though the stark reality had proved it to be anything but. He felt as though he had been attacked, as if he had only just escaped with his life. Even now John could feel the fingernails, digging above his hip bones as if with the intention to dislocate them from the rest of his body. He could feel the pressure, the pushing, he felt as though he was still being dragged across the mattress top, smearing the sheets along with his sweaty, sticky skin. He shuttered, pushing his hands onto his eyes in order to block out what visions were sparking underneath his lids. He couldn't think of it any longer without trembling, though before long he could not get his limbs to stop twitching. Every nerve was demanding freedom, every bit of common sense he had left begged him to run. His suspicions were confirmed, they were not under the rule of an easy going miracle worker. They were being held hostage by a monster, an uncontrollable, love sick beast. And what did Sherlock want with them, why did he desire their loyalty and favors so much? What was his end goal, if not to torture them all to the same extent? The hours passed by in this way, with John immobilized with his memories under the shadow of his duvet. He wasn't sure what time it was when Greg walked in, though he briefly remembered the light turning on and off again, as if he hadn't realized his roommate was asleep and automatically went to shed some light on the room. For a while there was silence, shuffling around as Greg got into his pajamas and set his things in order for tomorrow morning. Since the light was off there was a lot of extra bumping and banging around, and with the third of Greg's beautiful choice words John was at last wide awake, thrown back into the world of the living whether he liked it or not.
"Greg, what are you doing over there?" he asked in a whine, at last unearthing his head from the blankets and staring over at his roommate in the dark.
"Trying not to die." Greg said simply, at last hopping up onto his mattress and kicking his feet gleefully. "Didn't think you were awake." He went on.
"I was." John mumbled, not wanting to elaborate on just what he was doing if not sleeping. Greg must have found the same irregularity, for he just huffed and snuggled down into his blankets.
"I didn't see you downstairs, were you up here this whole time?" he wondered casually, obviously unaware that he was digging into dangerous territory.
"Yes." John whispered. Greg hummed in agreement, though he rolled over so as to face the shape that lay across from him in the dark.
"You okay?" he asked at last. John sighed, holding tight to the blankets that were protecting his chin, as if their warmth would save him from the rapid fire questions.
"No." he admitted.
"No?" Greg clarified, the shifting of the bed springs announcing that he had sat up. "Why not?" John groaned, rolling over onto his side so that he could at least try to determine Greg's shadow from the rest of the darkness. From what he could tell, the boy was still sitting up in bed, though he hadn't moved in a while. He was frozen, staring at his friend and ready to jump to his aide whenever possible.
"I made a deal." John murmured. "I needed to pass algebra, so I made a deal. And he took his payment this afternoon."
"Oh." Greg mumbled after a thoughtful silence. "So you're just, you know...processing?"
"What was yours like, Greg?" John wondered.
"I don't think about it much." Greg said quickly, as if begging John to let his memories go.
"Was it...was it nice?" John asked more specifically.
"That depends on your choice of partner, I suppose. If I was, you know...into it, well then I suppose it would've been." Greg admitted. John nodded starkly, afraid that would been the answer he was met with. What differentiated his night from Greg's, if not the boy himself? Did Sherlock have more aggression towards John, or had he just been caught in a bad mood? Was there something that John had done wrong, something that he had missed?
"Mine wasn't nice, Greg." John whispered. "He hurt me, he hurt me real bad." There was some fumbling from the other side of the room, and at last there was the final sound of feet hitting the floor. This was followed quickly by the light of Greg's desk lamp, and there was Greg making his way over to where John lay, still quite immobilized.
"What on earth are you talking about?" Greg growled. "I'm telling you; if he hurt you in any way I'll have his head."
"You'd never get it." John groaned in protest. Greg was staring at John with squinted eyes, standing right up towards the mattress so that his chin could hang onto the bedsheets if he willed it. Though he seemed more preoccupied than the bed's occupant, for his eyes were heavy with concern and he wasn't so easily dismissed.
"What can I do to help?" he asked anxiously. John thought to the open wounds, those which were undoubtedly scabbing with the dried remnants of his blood. He winced, not wanting to involve Greg in any of this. Surely he didn't deserve to be the nurse? Oh John hated to ask for help, he just hated it. Though at the moment he felt as though there was no other solution. If he didn't ask for help he may never receive it, and he may find himself lying in this bed for the rest of his life, festering in his own wounds. And so John did the only thing he could think of, he merely pulled back the blankets away from his bare chest, revealing the blood stain that had been growing on the sheets as long as they had been pressed against his body. Greg gasped, choosing some more nice words to describe Sherlock before rushing towards his desk drawers and unearthing his tiny first aid kit. The thing had only been opened once for the bottle of Tylenol, back when Greg had knocked his head off the window frame of their freshman year down trying to throw a football up and down the three story drop. John wished their second use had been so innocent, so pointless.
"Can you sit up?" Greg suggested.
"Probably." John whispered, remaining lying all the same. Greg grumbled, dragging over his little stool so that he could get a better angle towards John's wound. He unearthed a square of rubbing alcohol, warning John that it might sting before applying it onto the corner of John's chest, right below his collarbone. John shoved his hand over top of his mouth to stifle the scream, for it would seem Greg was squeezing the wipe on top of the wound without actually cleaning anything. The alcohol seethed into his open skin, though after a while the pain died away. As Greg rubbed the wound clean he was finally able to determine just what had happened, and as he ran his finger through the indentation his eyes began to narrow, and realization set in.
"This is a bite mark." He commented. "He bit you?"
"I suppose he must have." John grumbled, finding that last question a bit unnecessary. Greg was at a loss for words; even his hands had stopped working. Instead he just stared, his mouth hanging askew.
"I might just kill him. That or...or report him to someplace." Greg mumbled. "This is abuse, isn't it? Some sort of pervy illegal stuff?"
"I don't think it's illegal." John whispered. "Even if it was, I am not reporting it anywhere. How the h*ll are you going to explain that? Oh you know, just John going and sleeping around. Arrest his attacker, but make sure to get John locked up in the loony bin while you're at it. My God Greg, think a little bit! We can't tell anyone, or everything's going to spill out."
"But this is violent!" Greg defended.
"I report this and my parents are going to find out. You think this is abuse, wait until they kill me for sleeping with another boy!" John growled. Greg sagged his shoulders, deciding at last that John was right. How could they report this, without reporting themselves as well?
"Just bandage it, alright? We'll get this sheet washed, and it's like it never happened." John suggested.
"But John, God! You've already got bruises forming on your arms, and here on your torso." Greg pointed out, prodding at each bruise and watching as John winced so as to make sure they weren't just persistent shadows, darker than the rest of John's skin.
"You're saying he wasn't like this with you?" John clarified, almost nervous to hear the ultimate truth.
"Not at all." Greg said finally. "If he had been I wouldn't beaten him up a long time ago. Though it seems as though he's long past due."
"You saw him with Sebastian, Greg you wouldn't last a minute. You don't know how to fight, and needless to say you're the worst linebacker this school had ever seen." John debated.
"Ya, but I've got rage on my side." Greg pointed out with that stupid grin, that smile he wore when he was hatching a very bad idea.
"Don't even think about it. He's not just a boy, he's a God." John warned. Greg grumbled as he unfolded one of the bandages, but obviously he wasn't in a position to debate. As much as Greg didn't want to admit it, John was right. He was thinking even more rationally now that he was nursing the results of his mistakes.
"And your bottom lip is swelling." Greg added as he patted the bandage onto John's chest.
"Ya well, I think he bit it." John admitted miserably, patting at his lip and feeling, as per Greg's comments, that it was growing much bigger than it was supposed to be.
"I'll get you some ice for that." Greg decided.
"You don't need to. It won't help." John mumbled, patting at the bandage on his chest and wincing. It would do, for now.
"Heck it won't. I'll be back." Greg decided with a little nod. John sighed heavily, figuring there was no use fighting about something as simple as first aid. Besides, there wasn't any real danger in the hallways. Not if anyone else was awake. When Greg opened the door the hallway was dark, and with a look both left and right he made his decent down to the lower level. Oh, what a fool he was! In his haste to protect himself he had left the bedroom door wide open, just out of John's reach even if he would chose to turn! It was all he could do but let his head hang to the side of his pillow, staring into the darkness that was beginning to grow thicker, capturing the lights which shone under the doors of each individual room. John shivered, wishing now that he had blankets to cover his bare skin. He felt exposed, terribly exposed, and as that darkness grew closer he knew that it had eyes on him. In fact he could see them, two bulbs of light, floating together in the middle of that eerie darkness and shining with the same curious color palate as Sherlock's might've, had he been standing there. John started into the void, and the void stared back, and it was growing closer and closer. And he could hear it now; he could hear whispers shooting out from the shadows. They were in a familiar tongue, a familiar octave; it was Sherlock's deep baritone which approached, whispering intangible words or perhaps just breathing at different intensities to mimic the patterns of speech. John quivered, pushing his hand over top of his ear and closing his eyes tight. He decided there was nothing he could do against Sherlock, if indeed this was the boy coming back for a second round. Just like the first time, perhaps it was only within John's power to try to block out the world, to lie still and hope that his oppressor would grow tired, or bored. And so he huddled down into himself, trying to shield his face from the attack he knew to be coming. He blocked out the world until the world forced him back. A hand came down upon his arm, though with less force than he would've expected. It was more of a soft touch than a wrestle for dominance, one which prompted John to open his eyes. He expected to see Greg, though it was a woman's hand which withdrew from his skin. John jumped, scrambling towards the wall as he stared down at the pale face of a young girl, perhaps his age but with a strange haircut, glowing with the whiteness of her dress and the innocence of her gaze.
"Are you hiding too?" she whispered, looking off towards the hallway with the same look of fright that John now wore.
"Yes." He admitted, figuring there wouldn't be any other necessary questions right now.
"He always finds me." she insisted. "Always."
"What does he do to you?" John whispered in response. He imagined they were both discussing Sherlock, though he couldn't imagine what quarrel he might have with a girl like this. She certainly wasn't from around here, of that John was certain.
"He laughs at me." she admitted. "He loves to laugh, and to pull my hair."
"Have you ever slept with him?" John whispered. The girl grew pale (on top of her already blanched color palate) and winced at the question.
"No! No, don't be so crude!" she exclaimed, as if that was not a question which would fit in a proper conversation in her world. Well of course it wasn't a proper question in any time period; in fact it even made John's skin crawl. Perhaps it was not so much the question which scared him, and instead the answer which he would be forced to give.
"I have." He admitted quietly.
"You have what?" Greg's voice asked, emerging from the hallway and taking the girl's place at his bedside. John groaned, rolling back over onto his back as the door slammed shut.
"Been waiting." John finished.
"Ya well, I got it. No sign of Romeo, either. Maybe he's off in his master bedroom, licking up your blood from his mattress." Greg suggested.
"I wouldn't doubt it." John grumbled. Greg handed him a bag of frozen peas, evidently the only vessel able to carry the appropriate chill. John fumbled to set it in place, though when at last it covered his lips he was unable to talk, nor to thank Greg for being his faithful nurse.
"Are you okay for now?" Greg asked nervously, looking John up and down once more so as to make sure he wasn't missing any major wounds which would need tending. John blinked to approve, unable to express anything else but a simple yes. Greg nodded, turning the lock on their bedroom door as discreetly as he could before setting himself back up into his bed. With a stretch of his hand the lamp light shut off, and before long John found himself fallen back into the darkness which had once consumed him. Though this time, thankfully, the darkness was empty save for him. 

The first house meeting was called later the next evening, and it was the first time John was forced to stare again into the eyes that he had become so familiar with. Now they were calm, surveying the group of loyal brothers who surrounded the ring of chairs and couches, his eyes were silent. John tried not to remember the fire he had seen within them, he tried to disregard all that he had witnessed while trapped under the ferocious body of Sherlock Holmes. Though he could not help but shiver as the eyes passed over him, noticing of course the ice pack he was forced to hold to his lip to keep the swelling down to a functional level.
"Brothers, welcome to the first house meeting under my leadership." Sherlock began, easing back in his chair and giving a smile as a thread of broken applause began and ended. John stayed quiet, defying that monstrous boy just by refusing to applaud. He wasn't going to cheer, though he was not brave enough to openly speak his mind. Sherlock's influence over the house was still much too powerful, and if the house turned on John like they did with Sebastian then he would find himself on the streets.
"I wanted to begin by thanking you all for your support, and I will assure you that life under me will be much different than with Sebastian. He was a different sort of leader, an oppressive one at best. I wish for you each to spread your wings, to enjoy your college life while it lasts, and to embrace the challenges as they come along." Sherlock began. John grunted to himself, seeing straight through each one of his almost blatant lies.
"Furthermore, I wish for you all to approach me with any problems you may come across. I've never been faced with a problem I couldn't solve, whether it is academic, athletic, or romantic. I'm here to help each one of you boys." Sherlock pointed out. Now John could feel his eyes on him, moving in his direction and settling rather cunningly. Of course he remembered John's deal, a deal which never should have been struck. And here the offer was, being offered to everyone else in an attempt to ring them into that bed and to manually shove nightmares into their heads. Of course it would sound tempting, right up until the moment his eyes went dark and his nails grew into claws. John felt his chest flare up, pain shooting from his open wound in resurgence of memory and of aching. Those teeth which smiled so brightly, once dug into his skin...
"But now, before we get too excited, I would like to lay out my own rules, addressing some of the more concerning aspects of this house that Moran did not take too seriously." Sherlock dug around for a moment in his pocket, unearthing a little square of notebook paper where he had written all of his points of conversation.