Like a Fairytale

Hopeless Desires

Sherlock Holmes could have anything in the world he wanted, the biggest TV on the market, the finest silk from China, and the best food and drink in the entire world. There were three things, and three very specific things, that he wanted, but couldn't have.
1.) People that were as smart as he was, or close to it. Sherlock's IQ was 160, and rising as the years went on. One particularly annoying thing to him is having to explain everything to the lesser of minds, like his parents, teachers, and peers.
2.) For people to just leave him alone. Unfortunately being blessed with brains usually makes you cursed with bullies; they followed him around like flies, throwing things, beating him up, yelling nasty comments. It didn't bother Sherlock, he was fully aware that he was a freak and that he should move back to Mars, it would be much quieter there after all. It was always the same pack of people, the football players and all the other athletes that seem to think they're above Sherlock in the hierarchy of the school. So that brings the last, and most desperately desired thing on the list, the one thing he'd have to be magic to obtain.
3.) John Watson. John was the football captain since 10th grade, he was the star of course, he was simply the most attractive kid in the entire school, with a girl under each arm, and also the head bully. John was the reason Sherlock's frowns turned to smiles, but he was also the reason he frowned in the first place. Their love could be like a fairytale, everything hasn't fit together first, but soon something will happen, maybe even something magical and they would live happily ever after. Of course John didn't know a thing about his secret admirer, how could he when he was too busy throwing spit balls in his hair? But Sherlock saw there was a good side to John, one that wasn't pressured under the influence to take his internal anger out on the one kid who couldn't defend himself. It was unfortunate though, the Holmes family was multimillionaires, most of the time they could have anything they wanted, and usually money like that would get Sherlock whoever he wanted, but once again this world didn't work in his favor most of the time. They lived in a small city, not too big and not too congested with crowds and cars. The city grew off of two main businesses, but producing the same thing, steel, and both rolling in money. The Holmes family, and the Watson family, and they were both at each other's throats from the time they first laid eyes on each other. See his problem now?
"Sherlock you should get going, you'll be late for school!" cried his mother from the staircase. It was quite unfortunate that she was loud enough to be heard from his room; a good excuse was that the house was too big and he missed what she had said. Sherlock cursed softly, buttoning up the last of his shirt and pulling a comb through his hair. Sherlock was very proud of his hair, that and his IQ was what he most liked to rub in people's faces, but you can't brush your IQ to perfection, you could only demonstrate. He didn't look like a normal teenage boy either, he had raven black curls that were right now not cooperating, pale skin that always gets his mother worried about sunscreen, and startling green eyes. At least twice a year Sherlock was asked if his eyes were contacts, it was simply unnatural to have such green, another thing he was proud of. Sherlock always wore black slacks, a button down shirt, and a black jacket, with the most comfortable shoes he could find, in this case, Italian dance shoes, made from sheep leather. In his head he was a specimen, but in other's he was simply revolting, embarrassing to be seen around. Sherlock threw his books and pencils into his bag and ran downstairs, two steps at a time, only to be attacked by a mass of red fur and slobber. His dog, Redbeard, was his best friend, and there was nothing wrong about that at all. Redbeard knew about everything Sherlock wanted, he listened to his daily rants about the fantastic John Watson, he knew about the bullies, and the best part was he could never tell anyone. Sometimes Sherlock wished he could make the dog talk back, especially when the times were rough and he needed another's opinion.
"Have a nice day at school brother dear." said his brother, Mycroft in a bit of a taunting tone. Mycroft was three years older than Sherlock, and he definitely had three more years of fat built into him. Since he graduated high school all he did was taunt Sherlock about everything, he was the 'little brother' the lesser of the entire family, and Mycroft made sure to point that out. What made it worse was that Mycroft had the same skills, he was what you might call a genius, and that makes everything a lot more difficult for Sherlock.
"Shut up." he muttered, pushing Redbeard off with a quick scratch and trying to push to the door.
"Have a nice day at school Sherlock; remember if you need someone just go to the office." Mrs. Holmes suggested, what she always said. Unfortunately Sherlock informed her of the bullies back in kindergarten, sobbing that they had stolen his cookie and all that, and since then she has simply refused to let it go. Even back then Sherlock had his eye on John, though he hadn't known what it meant to linger glances and always want to share crayons, it had been much simpler back then, simple and clueless. The school year had started a couple of months ago, and now they were on their last year of high school, the top of the school, the big bad seniors. Of course the freshmen still beat up on Sherlock, they simply couldn't resist apparently, so it was no different. Sherlock grumbled a goodbye, shutting the white painted door quickly in his now swarming family's face, breathing in the cool fall air and sighing slightly. He was definitely not in the mood to go to school, not so much the bullies but he could do every single one of these topics with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. It was so simple to him, he'd taught himself this 'complicated' math back in eighth grade, and still some of the brainless football players couldn't manage a passing grade. He sometimes felt bad for them, sure they were the biggest jerks he had ever met, but in job applications you don't get in because you play football and were the cool kid in school, you get in on grades and brains, two things most of the school simply wasn't capable of having. So when Sherlock leaves this rubbish town and goes on to be even richer than his family before him, maybe he couldn't be nice enough to throw them his table scraps. Of course John would be invited in, given a nice warm blanket and a fine glass of wine, if he'd ever accept help from the Freak. Since the city was small there were no buses, everyone walked to school, which was kind of nice in the sense that he didn't have to be trapped with those stuck ups in a metal container. But the bad part was Sherlock was usually out of breath by the time he walked up to the school, he wasn't what you'd call athletic. But he wasn't fat, which was the odd thing, he was actually one of the thinnest boys in the school simply because he didn't eat much and he had a high metabolism. He shouldered his backpack, walking through the sidewalks and recognizing some of his classmates walking in a pack ahead of him. He slowed his pace, not going fast in the first place, but he saw the gleam of long, bleach blonde hair, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with those girls right now. The girls in school were different than the guys, some of them thought he was rubbish but some of them thought he was cute, not like that stopped them from laughing at all the cruel jokes. If he were any other type of boy he'd be thrilled with the girls sort of paying attention to him, but he was Sherlock Holmes, and as you probably already know nothing seems to go his way. On his way to school Sherlock bought some coffee from a street vender, the best one around of course, at least the best you could buy from a street vendor. The drink seemed to improve his day the slightest bit; at least he wasn't as cold as he was. There was a crisp breeze in the air, the fall weather approaching of course, and the temperatures were dropping faster than he wanted them to. It was always nice to go outside and feel the sun on your face, hear the birds and sit in the green grass. It wasn't like his wardrobe changed though, he simply never wore shorts, the only thing he added to fight off the cold was his most favorite trench coat and blue scarf, which his mother said makes him look 'shady and mysterious'. She hated it of course, though he looked like he was selling drugs or something, which was complete rubbish. He knew all the drugs salesmen on the corner by first name, the men in the hoodies willing to sell cigarettes and morphine to whoever had the money for it. And of course Sherlock had both the money and the desperation to sink to that level. He knew it was a bad habit, but through the constant years of torment he had picked up many bad habits, but smoking was by far the worst. His parents had no idea, thank god, but he knew one day they just might smell the smoke and put two and two together, if they were intelligent enough that was.
"Hey Freak! You're late; we were all hoping you'd wandered in front of a bus." A football player named Mike was yelling as Sherlock walked into the door, draining the last of his coffee and slamming the cup rather forcefully into the trash can. He didn't reply or show emotion of any kind, as usual, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Sherlock walked through the glass doors into the school, scowling at everyone he passed. He wished his mother had been kind enough to send him to private school, where at least he might get a proper education with properly minded kids, but it was 'good to know how to handle people you don't like' apparently, just like in the business world. But Sherlock knew Mycroft would be taking over the family steel company, it only made sense, he was older, smarter, and looked a lot like a CEO than Sherlock did. As he walked down the hall he jumped over three extended feet, ducked one punch, and sidestepped a push into the lockers, hearing the usual jeers and name calling. In a normal school Sherlock supposed the teachers would take pity on him, which would be if they didn't hate him nearly as much as the students did. Sherlock's favorite hobby in this trash can of a school was to prove everyone wrong, and it was most satisfying when he was able to stick his hand up and tell a teacher that they were mistaken, everything from grammar to test questions. So they turned a blind eye at his torment, and he swore he saw some of the nastier teachers smile at some of the comments shot at him. But who needed them anyway, they could barely tell the difference between to, too, and two apparently. Sherlock finally made it to his locker, turning the combination like second nature, pulling it open and scowling into the empty metal container, much like most of the football players heads. He pulled the things he didn't need out, thrusting them on the top shelf and tucking an escaped pencil into his backpack when the locker closed with a snap. To a normal person this paranormal closing would scare them to death, but Sherlock simply sighed. Here we go again. But when he looked at the culprit he saw none other than John Watson, leaning casually against the locker, accompanied by his best friend and equal jerk, Greg Lestrade, and his girlfriend Mary Morstan, who was constantly throwing her bleached hair over her shoulders and laughing like a five year old.
"Well what a surprise." Sherlock muttered, although he couldn't help his racing heart.
"You know when I walked in I was very happy, it's just such a nice day, and seeing the Freak, it just makes me swell with happiness." John sighed. Mary laughed once more, a horrible screeching sound not unlike a banshee, but there wasn't even a joke. "You and your stupid hair, and your stupid shirt, how many of the same pair of pants do you even have?" John asked.
"More than your entire house is worth obviously." Sherlock snapped.
"Oh really? Because last time I checked, Watson industries is pulling ahead in sales." John pointed out.
"Did you blackmail them?" Sherlock snapped, trying to ignore the beautiful hazel eyes in front of him, the color of chocolate and everything else beautiful in the world.
"They just didn't want to risk seeing your ugly face." John pointed out.
"Oh... I think I actually felt something there, right in the heart, your insults are just getting better and better." Sherlock grumbled, fixing the lock back on his locker before John could slap it out of his hands. Of course he did feel something in his heart, but it wasn't hurt. John just rolled his eyes, kicking out one of Sherlock's knees before trudging away with his posy, losing that battle evidently. Sherlock just smiled, able to keep his balance, and slung his bag over his shoulder. John was just playing the tough guy, Sherlock knew that deep inside he wasn't out to kill Sherlock, he was a very good kid. John managed to pass classes, and he wasn't held up to his family name. Even though he rubbed it in Sherlock's face he wasn't too proud and obvious about his family's fortune. He had a job down in the local café, (where Sherlock liked to hang out, for the good coffee of course), and he tried to make his own money and living. One time he even volunteered at the animal shelter, where he helped dogs get adopted. Of course Sherlock only knew that because he had gone looking, very unaware of John's presence, for a new puppy to give Redbeard company. In the end he had taken one look at John, with a small golden lab puppy in his arms, making it wave and smiling like he was having the time of his life, Sherlock couldn't take it. He turned right around and walked home, trying to remember that image for the rest of his life, which wasn't too difficult with the memory he had. The day was a waste of time, it always was, Sherlock always sat in the back row of the classroom, his head buried in a college textbook, all of his work completed in front of him even before the teacher could explain it. It seemed the only time he was called upon was from the other students, who seemed unable to solve one plus one without getting out their calculators.
"Hey, freak, what's number three?" hissed Mike, the guy from outside.
"I got hit by a bus this morning, so I am unable to answer that question." Sherlock said simply, turning the page of his textbook carelessly. He heard Mike grumble some words that would make Sherlock's grandmother wash his mouth out with soap, but he simply ignored him. The next period was just as pathetic as the first, Sherlock was once again done a good forty five minutes before the bell rang, making it time for everyone's favorite, lunch. Of course lunch wasn't Sherlock's favorite; the torment had gotten so bad in the cafeteria that he didn't even bother with it. He had been splattered with everything from stale chicken nuggets to discarded pudding, which was very hard to wash off of his clothes and out of his hair in time for third period. So he packed his lunch and made sure to stall until the halls were empty of all the kids, some who were taking their dear old time to head off to the cafeteria. Instead of walking with the crowd, something he rarely did anyway, Sherlock headed off to the back stairwell. It was a secluded spot, not many people used it in the first place, and no one would think of looking underneath it.