There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

The Truth Must Come Out (And Soon So Must You)

Sherlock was sitting up against his headboard when he heard the front door open. He had skipped dinner, and although he knew that it was somewhere around six o'clock he knew that he couldn't eat anything, not right now. His stomach was still tangled up in knots, he had tissues pressed up against his cheek and an ice pack behind his neck, trying to heal himself back to being the normal level of sickly he had come to expect. There was a sharp knock on his door, however Sherlock didn't have to answer it before they let themselves in. It was his father, of course, opening up the door rather stiffly and staring inside at his disfigured son. Sherlock wasn't delusional enough to expect any sort of sympathy, and so he just tried to rearrange himself to make it seem like he had some sort of dignity left.
"Kids again?" Mr. Holmes wondered in a deep, careless voice. Sherlock nodded slightly, pressing harder down on the lump of bloodstained tissues. Mr. Holmes didn't seem to care, in fact all he did was clear his throat and avert his eyes, as if he didn't want to accept that this weak, scrawny homosexual was actually his son. Sherlock knew that he was ashamed.
"You need to stand up to them Sherlock, even if it means you get hurt in the process, you need to defend your honor, your name." he insisted sharply. Sherlock just shook his head, clearing his throat and trying to think of something to say.
"They're determined to make my name into dirt. If I try to defend it, I'm sure I'll end up buried underneath the dirt sooner than later." Sherlock muttered, looking up at his father with a pitiful gaze. Mr. Holmes sighed, his hand still on the door handle, as if he was expecting this to be a short visit.
"Where has your mother gone?" he wondered, ignoring Sherlock's response all together.
"Out somewhere with Mycroft. I don't know when they'll get back." Sherlock admitted. Mr. Holmes nodded quietly.
"Well, dinner, somehow? Can you cook?" he wondered, looking up at his son hopefully.
"No of course I can't cook." Sherlock admitted with a sort of laugh, and Mr. Holmes nodded once more.
"I expected not. Take away then." He decided, and with that he stepped out of the room, shutting the door sharply. Sherlock sighed heavily, staring at the door for a moment and slouching down into his bed once more, in his usual form of relaxation.
"And don't forget to take your medication!" Mr. Holmes called through the door, banging on it a couple of times just to make sure that Sherlock had heard him. Sherlock sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a moment and debating whether or not he should take it today. He was in such a fragile state already, and he knew that medicine wouldn't do anything to help him. It would only break him farther, until the cracks erupting upon his skin turned into massive canyons, and he shattered where he stood. However it was what the doctor demanded, it was what he deserved. So Sherlock rolled carefully out of his bed, staggering over to the dresser with aching legs and letting the mass of bloodied tissues fall to the carpet beside the bed. Sherlock stepped to the dresser and eased the drawer open silently, staring for a moment at the black zippered pouch that was waiting for him, sitting there so innocently atop his folded shirts. It looked so harmless; it almost seemed irrational that the very sight of it made Sherlock cower in fear. It wasn't necessarily the side effects that made Sherlock so uneasy, not the shaking, or the paleness, or even the depression. It was the purpose; the reason that black pouch was sitting in his dresser. He was terrified not of himself, but of society as a whole, their reaction to what he had been born to be. That medicine wasn't in there to hurt him, it was in there to change him. It sat and waited to be flushed away into his bloodstream, and its job wasn't to heal him, but to rearrange his heart and his desires until they were nearly inexistent. They thought that he was wrong, that he was a mistake. And they claimed that by poisoning himself every day he could make himself better, he could fix himself with every dose until he was...whole. Until he was normal. But by God, they knew nothing! Nothing of him, nothing of his heart or of his treatment! He was lost, lost since the moment his heart was first formed and they think that with a couple of milliliters of medicine they could change that? That they could somehow fix that? You don't medicate a cripple to try to heal their disfigured body, so why did they medicate Sherlock to heal his disfigured heart? His disfigured soul? So what if he was different, so what if he was a freak? What did that change, what did that affect? Their views of him, their safe neighborhood? Did they think his very presence as a homosexual would threaten them, or their sons, or their husbands? Did they think his disease would spread? It wouldn't! It couldn't! Sherlock knew that no matter what he did, he was alone, he knew that no matter who he tried to love, or who he hoped would love him back, they would turn out to be nothing of a disappointment! As a traitor! Lying to protect themselves, lying to hide their heart, their feelings, and subjecting him to a lifelong medically induced torture! If homosexuality was a disease then he would've spread it already, he would've spread it so that he wasn't alone anymore, he would've let someone else bear the burden of being an outcast, so that at least someone would understand! If homosexuality was a disease, then why was he so alone, why was he the only one? If homosexuality was a disease, why had he been born a freak? Why had he always been...wrong? Sherlock took up the case in his trembling hands and slowly unzipped it, pulling the syringe and the bottle of clear medicine out of the pouch. He carefully filled the syringe to the proper dosage, reading off the milliliters as they drowned. Finally, when the dosage was correct, he rolled up one of his sleeves so that his lower arm was revealed, the pale, bony thing revealed to the light after being hidden under his shirt and jacket for so long. There were puncture wounds already, scabs and scars and bruises from uncountable days shoving this needle into his skin. And yet every single time Sherlock went to medicate himself he hesitated he was scared. It hurt him, and he knew that as soon as the simple act of pushing a needle through his skin was over the pain of the medication would last all throughout his life. But what else could he do? Sherlock pushed the needle into his arm, wincing as the sharp pinch drew a tiny drop of blood, and he pushed the medication inside. He watched as the syringe emptied, and he could almost feel his veins inflating as they struggled to hold all the new liquid that was heading directly to his heart. Sherlock's fingers trembled so madly that the syringe slipped from his hand and onto the carpet, lying next to the pile of bloody tissues that lay at his feet. But he couldn't cry, he couldn't give up now because he knew that this was going to be his life. They would never let him off the medication, they would never believe him. He could hope, he could pray, that maybe one day they would trust him enough out on his own in public, but would that day really come? Was freedom even an option at this point? Sherlock tucked his head into his hands, not letting tears flow; however he shut his eyes tightly so that all he could see was darkness. So this was his life, wasn't it? This was his very existence.