There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

A Lonely Angel Mistaken For a Devil

Sherlock POV: Sherlock stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a moment, trying his best to clean out his wound with disinfectant before he had to catch the bus. It had only been a day since the wound had been scratched so wickedly into his skin, and yet it hadn't seemed to get any better. In fact it was becoming scabbed and inflamed, as if an infection had somehow worked its way under his skin. It wouldn't be the first time, and to be honest Sherlock didn't know what he was expecting. For something to go his way anymore, well, it was unlikely. All bad luck that could possibly be thrown upon the shoulders of one man somehow had the tendency to end up falling straight down upon him.
"Sherlock honey?" asked a sweet voice at the door, a small knock on the door frame as his mother tried to make her presence known. Sherlock hummed to say that he was listening, all the while trying to push a bandage around his disgusting wound.
"How are you doing?" Mrs. Holmes wondered, a rather useless question to ask a boy whose mood or conditions never faltered. Sherlock was silent for a moment, finally fixing the bandage onto his face and observing himself in the mirror. He looked disproportionate and obviously wounded, and now not even his stunning good looks were obvious to the passerby. It was shame, really, his cheekbones were one of the few things he took pride in, and now one of them was hidden under the ugly brown bandage that covered half of his bleeding cheek.
"I think that's a fairly obvious question mother." Sherlock guessed carelessly, looking over at her with a bit of a frown. Mrs. Holmes sighed, lingering in the doorway despite his obvious efforts to dismiss her and her conversation.
"I've noticed that you've been, well, sad lately." She muttered, trying her best to make it sound like this conversation wasn't scripted, or recommended to her from another source.
"Can't imagine why." Sherlock muttered.
"Your teacher called me, the other day Sherlock, said that you had an incident in class." Mrs. Holmes said quickly, cutting the small talk and getting right to the point. Sherlock was happy that she at least took his own time into consideration, for it was much easier to have an unnecessary conversation when it wasn't poorly hidden behind chatter about the weather or the local rugby teams. Sherlock sighed, setting down the remnants of his bandage and sitting down softly on the edge of his bed. It wasn't an invitation for a seat, of course, but Mrs. Holmes walked quietly over and sat next to him. She seemed tense, awkward of course, but caring all the same. Sherlock was happy that at least one person on this earth tried to help him, even if their attempts were pathetic and basically useless. At least he knew that someone cared enough to try to get into his broken head.
"It was nothing, it was just...school stuff." Sherlock said quickly, shrugging his shoulders and staring fixedly at the carpet below. He felt his cheeks start to heat up because he knew that his mother's gaze was unwavering.
"It's never just school stuff for you Sherlock." She muttered softly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, as if that would in some way soothe him. Quite the opposite, in fact, Sherlock gave a great shutter and quickly shook her off, but he didn't move, he simply couldn't bring himself to leave her comforting presence.
"There was a girl, she um...I think she flirted with me. She took my hand..." Sherlock whispered in a sort of broken, crackling voice. Mrs. Holmes braved a smile, obviously not detecting the fear in her son's expression.
"Well that's great Sherlock, that means..."
"No! It's not...it's not great!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping off of the bed in a sudden flash of anger. That girl, that obscene girl, touching him as if he were hers as soon as she decided it, talking to him as if she suspected he wanted to change, as if he wanted her as well...
"It disgusted me." Sherlock insisted, clenching his fist and looking away from his mother in shame. He heard her sigh, and he understood her pain. Sherlock's disgust of this girl was proof that he hadn't changed, that all the money that went into the medication and the therapy was wasted.
"Sherlock you need to give women a chance, you know that they're not all out to hurt you. There are good women out there; you just need to find them." Mrs. Holmes insisted, as if uttering these words caused her unspeakable pain.
"I cannot do that mother, I'm sorry I just...I can't love them." Sherlock insisted, feeling his heart writhing in his chest, trying to beat but trying not to be recognized, as though his own heartbeat was to be looked at as foul. He knew that he was lost, and he suspected that she knew it as well. His mother was clinging to the hope that medicine and talking might help him, that maybe this was all just a phase, a childish, posttraumatic disorder that would be worked out with just the right amount of money and effort. But it would seem that homosexuality wasn't just written on his skin, it was etched into his soul, and no amount of syringes or soft words was going to change that now.
"You ought to get going Sherlock." Mrs. Holmes uttered in a very soft voice, rising slowly to her feet. "You might miss the bus." She added again, and without a last glance she walked out of Sherlock's room, closing the door softly behind her as if she didn't want him to see her leave.