There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

The Category of Outcasts

"How did you get that cut?" she wondered, glancing up at Sherlock's mangled cheek as if she had to make sure it was still there before asking about it.
"Oh you know, flying aluminum cans can be sharp." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"Who threw it at you?" Dr. Thompson wondered, sounding less sympathetic and more critical in the face of Sherlock's sarcasm, as if she were trying to blame him for this whole ordeal.
"Some boys with some very vulgar language and very opinionated views of me." Sherlock admitted between gritted teeth, remembering the titles those barbarians had placed on him.
"And they threw it at you why?" Dr. Thompson wondered, looking up at Sherlock and waiting for his response. Sherlock, however, responded only with a rather exasperated look, as if wondering why she would ask such a ridiculous question if she knew he couldn't answer.
"I don't know, I can't read their ridiculous minds!" Sherlock defended with a scowl.
"Well why might you think?" Dr. Thompson asked. Sherlock sighed heavily, tapping his feet against the hardwood floors and rolling his eyes around the room, trying to look as if he were thinking when in reality was he was really just taking a moment for silence. He liked the silence, and as it was so rare in this stuffy office he was happy to have a moment to breathe.
"Probably because they're scared of me, and yet they want to make me scared of them instead. Maybe they don't like to feel as though I'm somehow...above them." Sherlock guessed. Dr. Thompson didn't answer; she simply wrote something down and looked upon her tragic patient with an extremely pitiful look, as if she saw Sherlock as nothing more than a miserable, wasted existence.
"School is hard Sherlock, it was hard for me, and it's even harder for you. But you've only got another year to go, and maybe this year can be different. Whatever you do Sherlock; it will only follow you for another year. Whatever happens you know that it can be wiped away as soon as you get that diploma." Dr. Thompson insisted, as if she were promoting bad behavior instead of good.
"Honestly Doctor, my twisted homosexual mind takes that as more of an encouragement to hook up with half the rugby team, but I suppose you mean it as...making friends." Sherlock muttered with a rather disappointed tone, sitting back in his chair and tapping his long fingers against the sides. Dr. Thompson breathed an extremely exasperated sigh, as if he were simply a lost cause from the start.
"Yes Sherlock, making friends. That's your goal for this week, interact with a girl, make friends. I'm not saying you have to go out with her and date her or anything like that, simple friendship will do. You're a very likable person Sherlock, in your own sarcastic way, and I'm sure kids your age will find your personality to be compatible to their own. You're only excluded if you make a point to be." Dr. Thompson insisted with an air of intelligence that was rather exclusive to her. Sherlock sighed heavily, but nodded his head in agreement. Little did she know he had already made a friend, not a girl of course, but the most beautiful boy in the world. If only she knew how happy Sherlock was inside, for once in his life the mask he wore was one of disinterest and disgust! How little she knew of the bright beauty he saw in this world, now that he knew John Watson was a part of it!
"That's...I suppose that's manageable. To avoid a lobotomy, well, everything's manageable." Sherlock muttered with a shiver.
"Lobotomies would be the worst case scenario Sherlock, and even though you're not making much progress you're not going backwards either, and I see no reason to prescribe one unless you prove to us that therapy and medicine isn't helping." Dr. Thompson assured, as if that would in some way ease Sherlock's mind.
"What do you consider going backwards?" Sherlock wondered curiously, his eyebrows rising in anticipation.
"Well, I'd say if you have another incident, involving another boy." Dr. Thompson decided.
"Something innocent, like hand holding, or something horrible like rape, or somewhere in between?" Sherlock wondered.
"I'd recommend, to be safe, that you do nothing of the sort, and you should be fine. A lobotomy would most likely be a matter of opinion between your parents and I, should an incident occur. I'm sure, Sherlock, that you'll be extra careful not to stray off the path we have been blazing." Dr. Thompson guessed. Sherlock just smiled, however he thought back to John Watson, and had to wonder if a simple kiss from that boy would be worth a needle in the eye. Well, it depends on the circumstances I suppose. If Sherlock had the opportunity, and there were no witnesses, how would anyone know? And a simple kiss...well maybe that didn't deserve a lobotomy, maybe that would just be a little tap on the wrists with a ruler or something mild like that.
"Will do Doc, thanks, I guess." Sherlock agreed, getting up from his chair with a smile. She didn't give him his folder, so thankfully he didn't have any sort of paper homework he had to deal with.
"I'll walk you out." Dr. Thompson assured with a polite enough smile, however Sherlock knew by 'walk him out' she meant 'gossip with your parents', and that was never a pretty sight. But never the less he followed her out of the lavender smelling room and down the wooden stairs through the offices, where the secretary raised her head inquisitively to see what kind of train wreck was walking over her carpet this time. Sherlock kept his head low, and thankfully he was able to follow Dr. Thompson out of the office without any sort of accident involving too much eye contact and too much judgment from any of the patients in the waiting room. There was a light drizzle coming down from the dark clouds, hanging over the parking lot like a reminder of how miserable this world really was. Sherlock wasn't exactly thrilled to see his father's blue car sitting out in the parking lot, chipped and dented and over all the most unflattering vehicle in the lot. What was even more terrifying was the fact that it was his father, and not his mother, that would have to bear the bad news of Sherlock's stagnant process from the mouth of his therapist, and surely there would be yelling and threats and it would end with a silent car ride home. Sherlock hated it when his father picked him up, and judging by the new sort of timid walk Dr. Thompson had adopted once they reached the sidewalk, he could tell she hated it too. Sherlock simply walked up to the passenger's seat and slid inside, keeping his head down while Mr. Holmes rolled down his window to talk. Dr. Thompson came up around the side so that they could have a conversation, and Sherlock tuned the whole thing out, hearing voices but not words. He simply stared out the window, watching as the rain splattered against the horrible baby blue hood, knowing that whatever words were exchanged certainly weren't positive. He heard his father's voice get louder and louder, only contributing to the aggression, and finally the window rolled up and Dr. Thompson jumped out of the way to avoid getting clipped by the mirror as Mr. Holmes backed up agressivley out of the parking lot. Sherlock was quiet, he knew that when his dad was angry there was nothing he could say or do to convince him that the world was a wonderful place. It only made matters worse that Sherlock was the second hand cause of his father's anger, and he knew that he was only mad at Dr. Thompson because she couldn't do anything to fix his deranged, homosexual son.
"She's useless I tell you, simply collecting our money and doing nothing!" Mr. Holmes roared while they sat at a stop light, the rain getting heavier and heavier atop the roof to add some much needed background noise. Sherlock simply sat still, his seatbelt cutting almost painfully into his exposed neck and yet he didn't dare correct it, should he accidently show his father a sign that he was more than a simple decoration in the car. Mr. Holmes didn't yell at decorations. Mr. Holmes went off on a rant about the uselessness of therapy; going into great detail with what he thought should happen to the 'outcasts of society' and the 'mentally deranged'. Sherlock knew, of course, that while he listed off the various methods he would use to extinguish them from the earth he fully intended Sherlock to fit into the category of the outcasts. Sherlock knew that his father would rather send his homosexual son to the gallows rather than spend money and time to try to 'fix' him. Oh it was just so nice to be loved... When they arrived at the house the rain was falling harder than ever, so hard that Sherlock actually took a certain interest in watching the fat raindrops splatter down into the river that was now their driveway. So he got out of the car and stood under the slight awning that hung over the edge of the garage, pressing his back up against the white garage door and watching as the rain fell in sheets onto the gravel, washing the little pebbles down a makeshift stream through the lowest points in the whole driveway. When the rain finally gave way to thunder Sherlock decided to duck inside once and for all, so he pulled his jacket over his head and rushed through the front door, careful not to let his curls get wet after having brushed them so carefully this morning. When he arrived he found his brother and father in the kitchen, talking in stern voices while Mycroft boiled a pot of tea. He was very domesticated at times, and sometimes Sherlock suspected he took over as the woman of the house when mother was away. It begged the question about Mycroft's sexuality in the end. However Sherlock was sure whatever mutant gene was passed onto his brain wasn't shared by his stuffy little government brother, and so he raced up the stairs before they noticed his presence and hid away in his room. Sherlock was hoping that there would be a letter on his bed, as his mother usually did with whatever mail was addressed to him, and yet nothing of the sort lay on his blankets. He shouldn't be too surprised, he had only met that boy yesterday, and he was sure John wouldn't be so eager to write after the rather awkward encounter they had shared in the street. I mean, Sherlock was sure John wasn't thinking about him now, was he? He wasn't picturing their encounter in his head? Fantasizing about what it might have become if they had been alone? Was he laying in his bed right now, his books open but his eyes unseeing, his Wisteria tie loose around his neck and his roommate jabbering away, unaware that he wasn't listening? Was he daydreaming in class, tapping his pencil against his paper and doodling their initials in little hearts, dreaming of the day when their lips finally met...? Sherlock took a deep breath of delight, throwing his coat off and spinning in a mad circle before falling onto his bed in a sudden attack of love. Oh John Watson, that beautiful, tragically sought after boy, did he know what type of life he gave Sherlock, did he know the hope that flooded his chest at the mere thought of his golden hair and his soft skin? All those nights ago in the darkness of the gymnasium, kissing and touching and breathing and loving, oh it was simply too much! And now he was back, back and more curious than ever, wondering what could become of their relationship, most likely wondering why he even cared. A boy like Sherlock Holmes certainly shouldn't be a main topic of interest in the mind of a boy like John Watson, and surely he knew that, surely he wondered just why Sherlock wandered through his thoughts and through his dreams. Oh he was in love, he must be in love why else would he spare Sherlock the time and effort? Why would he chase him madly through the streets only to ask him a few pathetic questions, why would he send his friend away if he hadn't intended on saying something that he wanted to be private? He knew that he had a need for secrecy and yet he hadn't figured out why, he hadn't said anything important because there's nothing to say, not yet at least. And yet something inside of him knows that Sherlock Holmes would be a very important factor in his life, yes, Sherlock was certain of that because he was sharing the same feelings. The way they played on each other's minds, the way they tormented the other's unconsciousness, that was love in its earliest stage, and soon, when they meet again and when their eyes meet and finally they realize that there is something to say, there is something to do, well that would be the point when the realize it. Sherlock wasn't going to be alone, not anymore, he would have John Watson to hold, he would have John Watson to love, and they would pretend, they would blend in with the crowd and Sherlock would never make the same mistake he had made not two years ago. He needed to be sure, not only that John's feelings were sincere, but that he would give anything, anything and anyone, to have Sherlock at his side. He wouldn't lie, he wouldn't cheat his way out of the punishment he earned, he wouldn't step on Sherlock while clawing to the top of the pit they had both fallen into. John would love him like no other, and he would treat him like a king! Sherlock took a deep breath, sprawled out upon his blankets and staring up at the ceiling as if he could see the stars. It was an unusual feeling, hope, but it was undeniable. He knew that something was yet to come, something magical, and he knew that all he had to do was to be patient, and to wait for their paths to cross once more. 

 Sherlock was realist enough to keep his daydreams down to a minimum, especially in public places. As much as he would like to take this tedious time before history class to think about John Watson he knew that any sort of sign of his own happiness, such as a small smile on his lips or a hopeful gleam in his eye, would certainly give away any secrets he was trying to hide. Sherlock, it had already been decided, was never going to be happy. And even if that wasn't quite true, the people in his school saw it as gospel, and so a smile on his face meant only disaster and suspicion of the worst sort. So he stayed quiet, propping open a book in front of him and trying his best to concentrate on whatever words were swimming in the air in front of him, trying to follow along with the plot while the obscene shouting of the girls next to him insisted on penetrating his serenity. It wasn't long before he had given up reading entirely, however he kept the book open just to be sure that no one had any idea what he was really up to. There was that smile, poking in at the corners of his lips, betraying his mask of misery, God it was just so hard to contain! And what a wonderful problem that was, to be so happy you couldn't wipe a smile off of your face, why Sherlock hasn't had this problem since Victor. And, incidentally, Victor had also been the cause of the frown that kept appearing on his face for a whole year. Funny how that worked. 

"So tell me again, come on Molly, who are you going with?" one of the girls next to him whined, throwing her blonde hair over her shoulder and pushing closer to Molly Hooper. There was a chorus of giggles, and all the girls poked and prodded Molly to try to get her to confess her boyfriend status. They have probably already heard the name a million times; however they got pleasure in hearing about someone's love life when their own was inexistent.
"Okay, okay, it's Greg Lestrade." Molly whispered, and the giggles broke out once more. Sherlock, however, became increasingly interested in their conversation, and couldn't help but to drop his book to his desk and peer over at the group. What was a nice girl like Molly Hooper doing with a brainless barbarian like Greg Lestrade?
"Oh he's cute; I think..." one of the girls muttered, her excited tone making way to one of confusion.
"I don't think we know him." another girl decided finally, sounding a bit disappointed.
"You do, he was at the dance! He goes to Wisteria, his parents are rich." Molly added with a smirk. The girls giggled again, more excitedly than last time, all asking about his friends and his siblings and if any of them were available. Sherlock couldn't help but smile again, thinking about a particular friend of Greg Lestrade, one that may not be as available as those giggling girls may like.
"He's got a friend coming along, and so do I, it's a double date to the drive in." Molly assured.
"Ooh, separate cars I should hope?" one of the girls giggled. Sherlock's ears perked up once more, almost in a disappointed way. Could it be possible that John was going to the drive in with one of Molly's friends? Oh no...was he heterosexual? Was he taken? Sherlock's heart plummeted for a moment; however he strained his ears, trying with every fiber to listen to what Molly was saying. But unfortunately, as soon as Molly was about to open her mouth to respond, the teacher called order to the class, and the gaggle of girls dismantled and took their seats, falling silent once more. Sherlock glanced over at Molly, who was sitting at her desk with the same sort of love sick smile on her face that Sherlock had been wearing not five minutes ago, before his hopes were shredded by the potential of John's being taken. That would be heart retching to say the least, oh how could he handle a tragedy such as that? Sherlock spent the most miserable of all class periods mourning the loss of his potential love interest, moping over his appears and tuning the teacher out whenever possible. It seemed as though his heart was in the process of breaking, however he needed firm confirmation before he let it shatter all together.