There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

Any Less Of Anything

Finally he felt her attention divert away to the ham, so he slowly sat back in his chair and watched dully as his mother carved into the ham. She gave her husband the biggest piece, of course, and yet she gave Sherlock the second biggest piece, a big chunk of meat that was almost the size of his plate, with an extra big smile on her face. Sherlock forced a smile, however he really wasn't feeling hungry, so he doubted any of this ham would be eaten. She pitied him, now it was increasingly obvious that this meal was a poor attempt to lift his spirits only a little bit out of the abyss they have fallen into the night the school nurse had burst into Victor's room unannounced.
"So, how was everyone's day?" Mrs. Holmes asked casually, finally seating herself down when all of the plates were filled with reasonably sized chunks of ham.
"Oh it was wonderful, I helped the governor make an important decision, he consulted me specially." Mycroft declared importantly, holding himself up in his chair so that he looked even more important.
"And what was the decision on?" Mrs. Holmes wondered, trying to float the scarce conversation as far as it would go. She hated silence, and was willing to sacrifice her precious oxygen to fill up the room with even the most useless excuses for conversation. Mycroft stirred rather uncomfortably, as though he wasn't so keen on admitting this very 'important' decision.
"Whether the um...the break room chairs should be reorganized." Mycroft admitted in a small voice. Sherlock stifled a laugh behind his napkin, pretended to wipe his mouth when in reality he was cackling away. He wasn't allowed to openly mock his brother, especially at the table, however sometimes the opportunities just flung themselves into his face and he had to do everything he could to hide his amusement.
"Well um...good for you Mikey." Mrs. Holmes managed, obviously doing her best to stuff her cheeks with food to avoid bursting out into laughter. Mycroft seemed undeniably embarrassed, so embarrassed in fact that he had forgotten to correct his name. He never was satisfied with the name Mikey, and usually refused to answer to such an atrocity, however tonight he was glowing so red that he didn't want to bring any extra attention to himself.
"And you Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes asked once she had managed to force down the mouthful of potato salad.
"Oh, I um...I went to school." Sherlock said weakly, shrugging his shoulders and poking his fork around his plate without much of an appetite.
"Do anything interesting there?" Mrs. Holmes wondered, obviously getting a bit nervous as to how she could possibly stretch this into a topic of rigorous conversation. Sherlock shrugged again, making a little hum of disagreement.
"Answer your mother when she asks you something." Mr. Holmes demanded in a stern voice, and Sherlock perked up immediately, straightening his spine and looking his mother fully in the eye.
"No mother, nothing interesting." He said flatly, glancing over at Mr. Holmes, who seemed to have forgotten all about the issue at hand when he realized there was still some bacon left in his potato salad.
"Did you do your assignment yet?" Mr. Holmes asked roughly once the silence had overtaken the table once more. Sherlock cleared his throat, his mind going up the stairs to where the pictures lay on his desk.
"Yes sir, just about finished." Sherlock agreed in a weak, croaky voice. He didn't sound all too convincing, but his father seemed satisfied, for he gave a grunt of satisfaction, leaned back in his chair, and began to spear some more ham on his plate with his large fork.
"Notice anything different yet? Any sudden changes that you feel that we should know about?" Mr. Holmes wondered in a blatantly hopeful voice, looking at his son with a raise of his eyebrow. It was obvious what he was alluding to, he was asking if Sherlock loved women yet, and obviously the answer to that was...
"Well, maybe a little." Sherlock lied quickly. Mrs. Holmes beamed, and yet Mr. Holmes didn't seem overly satisfied. Mycroft was very still and very quiet, as if hoping that if he didn't move they wouldn't notice him sitting there very still, as if too nervous to put in his opinion.
"I'm not paying for just a little, I want results Sherlock, it's been almost a year and I've seen no change!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed. Sherlock winced, but he couldn't do anything or say anything to defend himself. His father was right of course, there hadn't been any change at all.
"You wouldn't notice the change honey, it would come internally!" Mrs. Holmes defended.
"I should like to see some muscle build up, maybe some color in the face, facial hair even! I don't want to look across my table and mistake my youngest son for a thin woman!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed. Sherlock slunk even farther down into his chair, his face heating up in shame as he realized what a disappointment he was to his overly judgmental father.
"I'm sorry father, it doesn't work like that. It's supposed to make me attracted to women, not become a man." Sherlock whispered in an almost broken voice.
"It disgusts me that this is even a topic of conversation, at my own table! What kind of man isn't attracted to women, what kind of child could even consider there being another option?" Mr. Holmes roared, obviously becoming very angry very quickly.
"Now honey stop it! You know Sherlock's a little bit different from all the rest, and there's no shame in that!" Mrs. Holmes defended, jumping quickly to her poor, defenseless son's aid.
"There's all the shame in the world, there's the shame on me, on our entire family! The whole town laughs at us, mocks us, shames us! And yet we allow this homosexual to live under our roof, and what are we doing to contain him?" Mr. Holmes exclaimed. Sherlock shrunk so lowly into his chair that he could barely see the top of his plate, he had brought his knees to his chest and was hugging them tightly, shaking as if suddenly the room temperature had plummeted. He felt all of their eyes on him, staring at him, staring at the freak, ogling at him like a caged animal! Oh and he could feel their judgment, their shame! His own family, disgusted by the person he had been born to be, the person he had become. They wanted nothing to do with him, he knew that much, he knew that in their eyes he would be nothing but a burden for the rest of his miserable life. The talk of the town, the shame of the country, the freakish homosexual, too deranged and too deformed to so much as think of a woman as attractive. Such a burden.
"You can't say those things, you can't..." Mrs. Holmes's words faltered; for she had nothing to say to even defend poor Sherlock, who was now cowering well under the table.
"I can say whatever I want, and only because he's here to hear them doesn't make them any less true." Mr. Holmes growled sharply, setting down his silverware finally and glancing once more at what little they could see of Sherlock's head peaking above the table. He was shaking with tears that were being to rake against his chest, and yet he somehow managed to contain them, he was able to close his eyes and forget about the words that were penetrating his paper thin skin. Mrs. Holmes got up roughly from her chair, a feat that Sherlock never would've thought possible as it was so disrespectful. She always waited until everyone was done eating before she left, and she was always the one responsible for the clearing the dishes as well, and yet she seemed to find something more important than tradition.
"Sherlock honey, come here." Mrs. Holmes offered, holding out one of her soft hands for Sherlock to take with his own trembling fingers. She gently led him away from his hiding spot under the table, casting one last disapproving glance at her husband before leading Sherlock up the stairs and into his bedroom. Sherlock fell onto the bed almost as if his legs wouldn't allow him to step any farther, and there he cowered, his father's words still echoing in his head as if they were trapped in his skull, permeating his brain and his consciousness, reminding him of what a failure he had become. His mother went to the dresser instead, opening it quietly and pulling out the little zippered pouch of poison. She then sat on the bed, helping Sherlock into a sitting position so that he could dangle his feet onto the carpet and keep his head hanging low. He couldn't bring himself to say anything; he couldn't even remember how to move. He just sat there, staring at his own two knees, and feeling his mother's arms pull him into a rather awkward side hug.
"Don't let him get to you Sherlock; he doesn't know what he's saying half the time." Mrs. Holmes assured in a soft, coaxing voice. Sherlock nodded, trying to open his mouth but hearing only the crackling sounds of a sob creeping up his throat. He knew that if he tried to force out words all he would get were tears, so he stayed silent and decided that listening was probably better any way.
"Just know, Sherlock, that who you love doesn't make you any less of a man, or any less of a human being. Or any less our son." She muttered, and Sherlock felt her soft, ringed hands stroking his head as though he were still a child who needed comforting from load noises or thunderstorms. And for a moment, for a brief, unprecedented moment, Sherlock felt safe. He felt protected in the arms of his mother, surrounded by her optimism and soft words. She appreciated him no matter how disfigured his heart was, and she seemed to be the only person in the world that didn't care about his sexual orientation. She loved him for who he was, not who he loved, and saw the purpose in him as a person, even if he did love men. Sherlock's love for his mother was something that he couldn't even put into words, his appreciation for her constant devotion to making him a better person, to renewing him in the eyes of humanity. But Sherlock knew, that as long as he should live, and whoever he might become along the way, he would always have someone there who would be by his side. And he couldn't do anything to express that, not in a way that she could possibly understand. The moment was broken, however, when his mother untangled him from her caring arms and unzipped the pouch that held the medicine. He heard the fateful clinking of the glass syringe against the bottle of medicine as she filled it to the appropriate amount, concentrating for a moment before setting the pouch aside and holding her son closer than before.
"But right now we have to be strong, and we have to make an effort to be what society needs us to be." Mrs. Holmes whispered. Sherlock shuddered, however he was slowly able to hold out his arm so that his whole upper arm was exposed. Mrs. Holmes winced to see all the needle scars embedded into the skin of her son, and yet it was all she could do but press the needle into his skin once more, squeezing the syringe and letting the 'medicine' soak into his blood stream once more, off to conform him and kill him just a little bit more.