There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

Therapeutic Interrogations

    "Well hello you two." Mike said with a smile, unwrapping his silverware from his napkin and cutting apart his meatloaf with ease. John didn't know why he insisted on using a knife, maybe he thought it to be more proper, but this stuff was so crumbly John was sure that the side of a fork could do just fine. Maybe even a gust of wind had the capability of separating the meat into bite sized pieces. John wasn't feeling very hungry at all, probably another side effect of the punch from last night, but Mike dug right in.
"So, how was last night for you guys?" Mike wondered as he took a break from eating. Even Greg didn't seem in the talking mood, he was hunched over the table on his elbows, staring dreamingly into his milk carton as though the face of his newest girlfriend was staring back. Whether or not they were officially together John had no idea, but it was better to assume they were for the time being, just in case he insulted Greg by doubting his commitment.
"Oh it was wonderful." Greg breathed, smiling up at Mike for a moment, who just laughed in agreement. John didn't say much, he was quiet. He didn't want them guessing that he had an encounter with another human being at the dance, so he decided that if he didn't look too interested in their conversation they might just assume that he had been alone.
"You were with that Sarah girl, right? Molly was friends with her." Greg remembered with a soft smile.
"Ya, they came over together, don't you remember? Beautiful girls, and nice ones too." Mike decided proudly. John kept his head down, wishing that he had the same wonderful experience with beautiful girls that his friends had. But it wasn't like he had been alone, his story just wasn't as socially acceptable as the other two's.
"She gave me her phone number too, she wants me to come over for dinner and meet her parents!" Greg exclaimed, almost writhing with excitement on the bench. John rolled his eyes, he was sure that a meeting between Greg Lestrade and some Lauriston parents was bound to be a disaster.
"I got a phone number too, but she hasn't made any plans with me yet. I think she liked me though, I certainly liked her." Mike admitted with a little smile. John's scowl deepened.
"We certainly are the eligible bachelors, aren't we?" Greg determined proudly, sitting up straighter and puffing out his chest. Mike just laughed in agreement, mixing around some butter into his mashed potatoes throughout the comfortable silence.
"What about you John, I saw you weren't alone at one point in the night." Mike observed, looking over at John with a knowing smile. John suddenly froze; feeling his face heat up agressivley as he quickly shook his head.
"What, no, I wasn't with anyone." He insisted, suddenly fearing that Mike had seen the whole thing. Did he know that the stranger had been a boy? Was he able to see that clearly through the darkness? Mike just laughed, shaking his head as though he didn't believe that John was being so modest about the whole thing.
"I doubt that completely John. I saw you with someone, it was definitely you, and you were definitely having a good time." Mike said with a little wink. John felt his face go completely red, growing so hot that he felt the need to splash his face with ice water just so that he could maintain a normal complexion. It was completely obvious that he was lying; they could see right through him just based on the state of his shaking hands; however he couldn't let them know. It was either deny it all or make up some sort of lie...
"That wasn't me, I was alone all night." John said flatly, taking a deep breath and putting on a look of the utmost seriousness. His face cooled down, thank God, and he could see that he had them both fooled. So they just shrugged it off, continuing their conversations about their own girlfriends carelessly and leaving John to sit there alone and still, until finally he excused himself to go back to his dorm and finish his chemistry homework. So he climbed up the polished wooden staircase, passing all the photographs of the classes of two hundred or so boys, dating all the way back to the 19th century. The pictures were something of a tradition, they got all the boys who had enrolled that year and took their pictures right before term started, that way they don't look dead on the inside just yet. John thought it was a rather tedious tradition; however it seemed to be almost ceremonial around here. The pictures were black and white at first, but as he ascended farther and farther up the steps they became colorized, and soon he saw the last, most recent picture hanging on the wall. It was of this year's class, having just been hung a couple of days ago, and incidentally the only one that he had been present in. John's family had moved into this area around the middle of last year, and he had moved from the most prestigious boarding school from his previous town to this one here, all the credits transferred and everything was smooth; however he often forgot that he really wasn't a Wisteria boy, not really. He had missed five whole years of bonding with the students and getting to know the teachers, he could still walk down the hall and pick out two or three kids from his own year that he didn't recognize, it made him feel more like an outcast that ever. When John finally arrived at his room he sat down on the bed and picked up his books, staring rather blankly at them while his mind floated off in places that certainly weren't about electrons. His thoughts wanted to wander to darkness, semidarkness that was, where the frail spots of illumination danced upon the face of the boy, that terrified looking boy... It wasn't like he was appalling to look at; quite the opposite in fact, and maybe that was what scared John. It was the fact that the boy would be, if John were a girl and able to use such a description, considered attractive. He was pale, ghostly pale and paler still when John had turned around and they had locked eyes. His face had looking like something of marble, sculpted by the finest tools and the most precise of hands, his complexion almost looked like something John would find buried away between the treasures of a museum. And his curls, the color of darkness and unseen beauty, well John could almost consider that boy to be a work of nature, a work of art! A beautiful boy, what a shame, John told himself rather forcefully, what a shame that he was wasted to such delusions. John's very brief train of thought was interrupted when the door opened, and Greg made a very loud entry by slamming the door, falling onto his bed, and giving a great big groan of exhaustion. Maybe last night's events were finally catching up to him, because he simply lay there for a moment and stared at the ceiling, now all scuffed up from the marks his stress ball had made previously. Finally he rolled over, his faced pressed half way into the pillow with his gray eyes fixed intently on John. John looked up at him in confusion, pretending to be concentrated on his chemistry homework while he felt Greg's rather accusing gaze penetrating his very soul.
"Why are you lying to us?" Greg wondered with a bit of a sour tone. John looked up in confusion, pretending to wonder what on earth he had lied about. Greg seemed offended in some way, and obviously he wouldn't buy any of John's excuses any longer.
"Lying about what?" John asked innocently, sharpening his pencil and leaning back onto the wooden wall behind him.
"About your date last night, we have an eye witness, and yet you still claim that you were alone!" Greg exclaimed, as though this were some sort of severe crime. John sighed; shaking his head and wondering what Greg would do if he only knew what was going on in John's life at the moment, if he knew what was playing on repeat in his head...
"Well, maybe you guessed it earlier, maybe I want to protect her from you and your gossiping." John muttered.
"I'm your best friend John; I wouldn't insult you like that. I respect your privacy, and if you don't want to tell anyone then I understand that." Greg assured in a tone of sincerity that was very unlike him. John just stared accusingly, knowing that there was something more to this little speech than he was supposed to realize.
"And yet you still want to know?" John asked with a little laugh. Greg fell over himself in excitement, dropping his head once more to the wooden floor as if trying to prove his anticipation.
"Yes! God I need to know John!" he exclaimed with a laugh. John just rolled his eyes, trying to think of some sort of cover story as fast as he could. Well, that was easy; just change the gender, the more truth he could keep in this little story the more convincing it would be.
"Well fine, whatever you want. Just know that I really wasn't prepared to tell anyone." John admitted.
"I know, that's okay, I won't make fun of you." Greg assured, most likely preparing for the worst. John sighed, shutting his chemistry book and pushing it aside. Greg watched him with the most intense of upside down glares, and despite all the blood rushing up into his head John knew that he was listening so intensely that his ears probably hurt.
"Well I wasn't lying; I did go get some air, just to the corner you know? And it's not like I wanted to attract attention..." John sighed heavily, remembering how it felt to suddenly be carried away into someone's arms, how it felt to be cradled so gently... "But someone came up from behind me, so I never saw their face."
"Oh my god, that's so mysterious! Was she ugly, is that why you don't want to tell us?" Greg wondered with a little sympathetic frown. Obviously he wasn't finding this story nearly as interesting as he had hoped.
"No, well, I didn't really see...her...that well." John admitted, stumbling over the pronouns for a moment and hoping that Greg wouldn't notice.
"So why were you so scared? My god, you didn't, you know..." Greg wondered.
"No, Greg come on, I'd at least want to know a girl's name before any of that happened! No, it was just...soft, and kind of beautiful." John admitted with a breath, remembering the feeling of ecstasy that had become of that boy's beautiful lips on his skin.
"What happened? I want details." Greg insisted, swinging back up to his bed and leaning against the wall, trading his dangling head for his dangling feet.
"You didn't give me details of your night!" John defended, feeling much more in the spotlight than he would prefer.
"You really want details?" Greg wondered with a suspicious frown. John sighed heavily, but he shook his head truthfully. Greg was right, of course, John always insisted that Greg never told him what he did with his girlfriends. It always made John feel kind of bad for himself, when Greg was having such a nice time with women while he sat alone in his dorm, studying or doing homework. Greg's social life coupled with his excellent grades made John feel very much like a loser, so he never pried.
"No I don't want details." John grumbled finally.
"So what then? Did you kiss her, or did she only hug you and then move on?" Greg wondered curiously. John blinked, not really knowing what he ought to say to Greg. The truth, most likely, but the truth was actually kind of embarrassing in itself...
"No, she um, she kind of just kissed my neck, from behind." John admitted meekly. Greg burst out into laughter, supportive laughter of course, but laughter all the same. Obviously he was happy to see his best friend finally getting some girls.
"John that's wonderful, that's like, super romantic. Anything else?" Greg wondered, a smile stamped on his face, as if John's just standing there and getting kisses deserved some sort of award. John thought, of course, to the shirt, and the tie, and the kisses down the shoulder, however he decided that he had told Greg enough, enough to satisfy him that is.
"Nothing else. She moved on." John admitted with a bit of a sigh. Greg frowned, obviously sad for John because he saw this as a wasted opportunity.
"No number, no name?" he wondered sympathetically.
"Nothing." John assured, bowing his head in legitimate disappointment. He would have at least liked to know that boy's name, you know, just for future reference. Nothing more than that.
"Well I'm sorry mate. That's a shame; you should've been more aggressive." Greg advised.
"I was too dumbfounded really, too shocked to realize that there was a human being behind me." John admitted.
"You thought she was a robot?" Greg asked with a laugh. John cracked a nervous smile, shaking his head and speaking truthfully for once.
"I didn't act quickly enough, I shouldn't have let her just run off." John admitted finally. Greg sighed, but for once he was silent, and he let John brood for a moment over his mistakes. Of course he wouldn't have wanted to go any farther with that boy, he didn't want anything but an explanation, maybe a name, maybe just a look inside the twisted head of homosexuality. He wanted to know what made that boy different, if there really was anything different at all. And he wanted to know why, most of all he wanted to know why that stranger had picked him out of a large crowd submerged in the darkness. 

   Sherlock POV: Sherlock sat very still in his chair, watching as Dr. Thompson looked over his syringes and medication, checking to see that he had taken all of the proper doses. She would be surprised, most likely, to see that there was a little bit too much missing, since after he had come home from the dance he had taken an extra dosage, just to try to clear his head and make up for the mistakes he had evidently made in the darkness. It wasn't like he believed in the power of that poison, it was just that he felt like he had to, he felt as though he were obligated to cancel out any feelings he had towards that strange boy by drowning his blood in medication. Dr. Thompson finally zipped the case back up and handed it softly back over to Sherlock, who accepted it back with shaking hands. They sat across from each other, each in very comfortable chairs, in a neat little office that smelled of oatmeal and lavender air freshener. It was a therapist office, his therapist to be exact, complete with a model of the brain, a couple of posters on how to treat your body like a temple, and a nice fluffy rug under his shoes. Dr. Thompson had obviously wanted to make it homey, a nice place to admit your darkest secrets, so she had a large curtained window letting sunlight and fresh air stream in, with soft Asian music playing from an unseen speaker. It was a comfortable music, he had to admit, however he always felt like it was more of a peaceful interrogation office than anything. This was where they sent him, after what he had done, to try to straighten him up quite literally. 

"How was the dance?" Dr. Thompson asked after a moment's silence, picking up her clipboard and pen from where they lay on the small circular desk beside her.
"The dance was fine." Sherlock lied, shrugging it off as if nothing eventful had happened between the walls of the gymnasium.
"Did you interact with a girl like I asked you to?" Dr. Thompson wondered, raising her pen onto the paper and preparing to take a note. Sherlock repositioned himself in his chair rather awkwardly, staring down at the carpet and thinking of a response that might excuse him from his failure.
"No, I um...I got nervous." He admitted. "You know I'm not overly social." Dr. Thompson didn't respond for a moment, she wrote something down with a rather sour look on her face before looking back up at Sherlock and humming with silent disagreement.
"I think you can be quite social...when you want to be." She guessed. Sherlock sighed heavily; he hated it when she pretended to know more about him than she obviously could. He's only been coming to this office for a year or so, it didn't seem possible that she could have wormed her way into his brain so precisely in that time, especially since he had been lying to her for most of their meetings.
"Well I wasn't last night, I was kind of timid." Sherlock admitted.
"Do you find it difficult to talk to girls, to associate with them all together?" Dr. Thompson wondered curiously, taking down another note while Sherlock sighed in exasperation. He could guess where this was going, down the same path all their conversations went, her diagnosis, her attempt at his origin story.
"I find it difficult to talk to anyone." Sherlock admitted finally. Dr. Thompson nodded, not looking too disappointed, as though she knew that there was more she could ask.
"But you talked with Victor, what makes him different from any of the other girls in that dance?" Dr. Thompson wondered. Sherlock groaned once more, letting his head fall back onto the chair and rolling it across the cloth for a moment.
"I didn't talk to Victor, he came to me first. I wasn't looking for a friend...boyfriend...when Victor approached me." Sherlock insisted. She never seemed to grasp the idea that all of this wasn't his idea, it wasn't his fault. She always wanted to blame it on him, and yet he sat trapped in this office, while that miserable Victor walked free.
"Would you say it's easier for you to talk to boys than to girls? Is that why you felt more comfortable around them, more attracted to them?" Dr. Thompson asked.
"No I was attracted to them because I had a serious mental problem, didn't you tell me that?" Sherlock wondered in a sarcastic snap, crossing his arms and deciding that this meeting was bound to go nowhere. He was angry now, he hated when she pried, and he especially hated it when she assumed things that most certainly weren't true. It wasn't easy for him to talk to anyone, especially for him to start conversations; he only liked Victor because Victor seemed to like him back. Victor had been easy to talk to because he started all of the conversations, however if Sherlock had known what a snake he was...
"Sherlock I want you to be mature here, I want to help you." Dr. Thompson insisted once more. Help, yes, let me help you by making you inject this medicine every day, by making you force yourself to pretend to be attracted to girls while your poor, caged heart longed for anything but. This wasn't therapy, this wasn't medication, it was torture!
"Yes, I'm sorry, please continue." Sherlock groaned with a careless swish of his hand.