There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

A Certain Subdivision of Hell

Sherlock POV: Sherlock was having trouble convincing himself this was all real. He was having trouble imagining the scene in his mind, the entire night that is, without doubting its existence. Had that night with John really happened? Had those words really been spoken, had that kiss really been exchanged? Oh if it was real then it was magical, a gift, a rare beam of radiant hope in this sea of gloom and despair! If it had been a dream, however, then he would be once more subjected to this loneliness, coupled now with the crushing weight of what just might have been. But no, it was real, he knew it was real he could feel it in his heart and soul! Why else would he wake up with a smile on his face, why else would he check the mailbox before he went to school, why else would Molly Hooper and Sarah Sawyer interact with him if not because that night, that beautiful night, had really happened? It had been real, oh it had all be real, he had really sat there in that car, he had really rushed up to John Watson in that darkness, kissed his lips, held his face in his hands, oh what a wonderful world this reality was! It had been the first kiss he had shared in what felt like eternity, the first kiss of a worthy partner that he had ever had at that, and it was every bit as beautiful as he had imagined it. Shock turning to acceptance, acceptance turning to love, love turning to longing and longing into farewell, oh how perfectly that kiss had been performed, like a scene from a play! And yes, yes it had happened, because there was no other earthly explanation for the feeling of complete joy that was bursting in Sherlock's chest every second of every day.
"Did you talk to Molly today?" Mrs. Holmes asked him over breakfast. Well, I call it breakfast, but it was more of Sherlock's morning stroll into the kitchen to grab a granola bar or an orange before running up to his bedroom once more. Mrs. Holmes was sitting at the table, listening intently as her Rice Krispies snapped, crackled, and popped in her bowl. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Sherlock, and he knew immediately that this little breakfast coincidence was planned by his mother as a sort of trap to get him to discuss his new 'girlfriend'. Mrs. Holmes was never in the kitchen at this time unless she precisely meant to be. Sherlock lingered by the cabinets, sighing heavily as he scanned the shelves, looking for something appropriate to munch on before he caught the bus.
"No, not really." He admitted truthfully. He hadn't really gotten the opportunity to talk to Molly, not that there would be anything to talk about. They smiled at each other in the hallways, they waved and were pleasant enough, however they weren't on the level of friends per say, more casual acquaintances that had all been trusted with a secret, the most important secret of all. Mrs. Holmes's disappointment was evident just by her sigh, and Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, wondering just how disappointed she would be if she knew the truth.
"Well why not? She is your girlfriend after all." Mrs. Holmes pointed out, a tone of excitement stressing the syllables as if she was trying to get something through to Sherlock without actually pointing it out.
"She's more of an experiment, if I can be light with the term." Sherlock admitted, grabbing some sort of can of oranges from the cabinet and turning around on his heel. His mother, of course, was facing him with an awestricken if not disappointed face, as if this was news for her.
"What do you mean, experiment?" she wondered in a quivering voice, sounding as though she might cry. Sherlock sighed heavily, but as much as if his mother's disappointment pained him it did nothing to match the annoyance of her excitement. Surely she couldn't have actually believed that, after everything he had gone through with the repulsive female race, that he would try to claim one as his own, romantically? Oh it was nearly laughable! And yet she had believed it, just by the look on her face alone Sherlock realized that his mother had believed every word and every action to be, well, genuine.
"Dr. Thompson insisted that I interact with a girls, and they will only interact if they feel that they're somewhat...special? Molly Hooper was the most tolerant in the grade, one who was very much inclined to giving poor boys a second chance, her heart was in the right place of course but mine, however, was nowhere to be found." Sherlock admitted finally. Mrs. Holmes dropped her spoon back into her bowl and pouted in her chair, not trying to hide any sort of disappointment.
"You mean to say that you had no attraction for that girl at all? She was so nice, and pretty too, and you didn't even...tolerate her?" Mrs. Holmes wondered desperately. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head all the same.
"Hate to break it to you mother. However I've been threatened with more than a date with a girl in a drive in, Dr. Thompson has proposed a lobotomy as a last resort." Sherlock sighed. Mrs. Holmes gasped, stifling her open mouth with her hand as if trying to hide her horror.
"No Sherlock, oh no, my precious boy they cannot ruin you like that!" she exclaimed in disgust.
"Yes well, you can understand why I went out of my way to do what Dr. Thompson says. Oh, and if you happen to talk to her, don't tell her that this was all a big show, surely she'll be happy with me if I come back with some good news." Sherlock added, starting to make his way out of the kitchen.
"Sherlock, is there no chance that you may actually enjoy her company?" Mrs. Holmes wondered quickly, making Sherlock pause as he passed through the doorway.
"No mother, I'm afraid there's not." Sherlock admitted heavily, and with that he dashed up to his room, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with this can of oranges but deciding flatly that under no circumstances should he return to that kitchen until he was sure his mother was well away. He arrived at school with an empty stomach, after searching his room all morning he had found nothing suitable for opening a can, and so he had simply had a drink of water from his sink before fixing his hair to the best of his ability and dashing off to school. He had no interest in the bus this morning, seeing as though it was a rather muggy day and with the humidity comes mysterious smells from every corner of that metal death trap. And so he donned his trench coat and set out for school on foot, his backpack hanging off his back and a smile tempting to creep onto his lips if he didn't do a better job of containing it. This happiness, this ever so inconvenient happiness, oh it simply couldn't be tamed, could it? His whole bloody secret would leak out simply because the ever depressed Sherlock Holmes was suddenly becoming happy, and there was no other earthly explanation that he should smile, well not to the common eye at least. However the eyes are connected to the brain, and a smile would lead to some gears turning, and some realizations connecting with the stories they had heard about crazy Sherlock Holmes in the past, well let's just say he didn't want to have to go there. Let's just settle on not smiling at all. When Sherlock finally arrived at school the ever present clouds that hung over the small town had begun to dump rain, simple drizzle at first, however as soon as Sherlock ducked into the doors it started to pick up, turning to something of a downpour before the first bell even rang. Another hint of luck, avoiding the storm...what on earth was going on? Sherlock never had good luck, he never had good days, they seemed to get worse and worse until he finally hit rock bottom, and yet ever since John appeared in his life he seemed to have something of a change in altitude. Suddenly his days were getting better and better, and it was just...strange. Unnerving as well, simply because the higher he climbed the farther he had to fall. Sherlock sighed heavily; shaking off his now dripping trench coat and stowing it in his nearly empty locked, shutting the door and nearly jumping in horror when he saw that someone was standing behind it.
"Sherlock!" Molly cried in excitement.
"Molly!" Sherlock muttered rather suspiciously, wondering what on earth she could want him for. Molly didn't answer at first; instead she swung around her backpack and started digging around agressivley, searching on the bottom as if whatever she was looking for could slip down between the books and binders.
"Aha! This came last night." She said proudly, holding out a torn up envelope that was addressed to her. Sherlock raised a confused eyebrow and yet he took the envelope carefully, as if not wanting to rip whatever was left.
"You may want to invest in a letter opener." He suggested with a sort of smile, opening the envelope to see that a single piece of paper lay rather clumsily folded inside. Sherlock pulled it out, handing the envelope back to Molly carelessly and looking up at her for approval.
"Go ahead, it's for you." Molly assured with a wave of her hand. Sherlock nodded, not wanting to mention that it had been delivered to Molly's house, and instead opened the letter. It was indeed addressed to him, and so, as if on instinct, his eyes jumped down to the signature at the bottom.
"From John?" he asked in a relieved breath, looking over the note quickly and excitedly.
"Ya, I suppose it's their new method of communication, rather discrete ya?" Molly wondered with a smile.
"Ya I mean...there's no need for this kind of secrecy is there?" Sherlock wondered in awe, looking up at Molly and back at the note. Here it was then, the final proof that the beautiful night at the drive in had existed. That John actually loved him...
"I suppose they just want to be careful, one little slip could cause an avalanche." Molly warned. Sherlock nodded in agreement, dropping his backpack carelessly to the ground and leaning up against the lockers to read the note more efficiently. Molly simply sighed, seeing obviously that she wasn't wanted and trying to make a silent retreat.
"Thank you Molly." Sherlock said suddenly, stopping her right before she could turn away. Molly just smiled, her cheeks going a little bit red as if she hadn't expected that kind of appreciation from someone so seemingly cold hearted.
"Oh, no problem Sherlock no problem. When you respond just give it to me, okay? I won't look at your letters don't worry Sherlock, I respect people's privacy." Molly added quickly.
"Does Greg as well?" Sherlock asked casually. Molly's smile faded momentarily before appearing with a bit more forced enthusiasm.
"Well what do you plan on writing?" she wondered a bit uneasily. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head with a docile sort of pity.
"Oh you know Molly, planning World War Three already, setting fire to the walls of Wisteria, murdering that scum who had subjected me to this torment. The usual." Sherlock said with a shrug. Molly looked a bit taken aback, stammering and trying to find a decent answer to Sherlock's rather morbid statements.
"I'm kidding Molly, I'm kidding! I just wanted to be sure that Greg wasn't checking my spelling." Sherlock assured in a little mutter. Molly let loose a nervous little laugh, nodding her head slowly as if she still didn't quite know what Sherlock was trying to say.
"He'll be fine...I assume. He seems to be respectful of not only you but John as well, he's a good guy." Molly assured politely.
"I don't doubt that he is. I'll write back to John today, and I'll have the letter to you tomorrow to deliver to him. Like a little carrier pigeon." Sherlock decided with a hint of a sarcastic smile.
"Oh well, a woman's work is never over." Molly agreed with a sigh, and with that she bid Sherlock good morning and made her way down the hallway. Sherlock sighed, reading over the letter one more time before taking John's letter and his love and tucking it away into his pocket. And his luck kept getting better and better, funny how that happens. As school crept on Sherlock tried his best to think of what to write, but with John's vague note it was hard to imagine writing anything other than an hour by hour recap of what happened to him since they had last parted. He had only asked one question, how are you, and that was easily summed up in one word. Marvelous. So not much there, obviously. So what them, what on earth was Sherlock supposed to write about if he had nothing to go on. Rugby, maybe, and his pledge to be there when their first game was being played. Yes that should do. Maybe he could talk about Lauriston and his new sort of friendship with Molly and Sarah, and maybe about his mother's disappointment about his lack of relationship with Molly, yes that would certainly do. Oh he could write about anything, couldn't he, as long as he knew John's eyes were bound to read over the loops of writing he created he could write about anything for hours, days even, about his day, about the weather, small talking in the form of written communication, the possibilities were endless! And yet the words, they would be much better communicated by voice, by speaking to each other. Sherlock wished beyond anything that he could just race down to Wisteria and take John in his arms but that unbelievable fortress wouldn't have it. It was much easier to tell John to come collect him, to take him somewhere, to hold him in his arms and look at the stars...The bell rang loudly and violently, the obscene noise bouncing off of the cement walls and vibrating through Sherlock's poor throbbing skull. Oh well, public school awaits. Thankfully it was lunch time, a perfect seclusion from the mayhem that was unleashed in the classrooms, and so Sherlock trekked down to the cafeteria with the rest of the mournful students, trudging and dragging his polished leather shoes to a secluded table in the back. Everyone knew enough not to disturb him back here, the boys avoided any table within earshot and the girls crept around him as if he held some sort of disease, so it was nice and peaceful, a perfect place to draft a perfect letter. And so Sherlock, ignoring lunch and nutrition entirely, pulled out a notebook from his bag and John's letter from his pocket. He unfolded the letter and read over it one more time, ducking his head so that no one could see the smile that was erupting on his face right now. See that was the thing about John's writing, his voice and his style in general, it sounded like him. That letter was most certainly written by John Watson because only he possessed such a ludicrous and beautiful style of speech. And it was just so accurate, so spot on with the way he talked that simply reading it was enough to convince Sherlock that John was write next to him, talking into his ear instead of writing those words a couple of nights before. Sherlock uncapped a pen and tapped it against the paper for a moment, trying to think of some way to start his letter without sounding too casual or too ungrateful. John's name alone wouldn't cover it, however My Dear John sounded much too stuffy. My dear, my love, My John? All pathetic. John it is. 

John,
I write to you from the school cafeteria, a certain subdivision of hell I hope you never have to step foot in through all your years of life. It's lonely here, but it seems almost as if, by writing to you now, that you're here as well. That's cheesy, but it's true. It's nice to know that I have a friend, or something more than a friend, even if you are a mile or so away, in your own dining hall. Life has been quiet; however it's been lovely now that I know I'm not completely alone in this wasteland I'm forced to call earth. I can't wait to see you, and a rugby game, however violent you describe it, sounds wonderful. Make sure you tell me when the first game is so the three of us can come and support the three of you. I'll bring my pom-poms. I'm sure you're having a lovely time over in Wisteria, and for once I can say I'm thoroughly enjoying my time in Lauriston. Not than anything has changed here, it's the same old prison of ruffians and criminals; however I can't stop smiling, as if I've been infected by something. Love, I think might be the diagnosis, but who am I to tell? Whatever it is, I think you're the cause, because I haven't stopped thinking of you since that night when I watched you race back through the woods. I hope you still think well of me, and you have my apologies for being rather...forward, that night. You know I had the best intentions, but I may have executed them a little bit too agressivley. No harm done? Nevertheless I miss you, and hope to see you soon. Until then, this little system of secrecy seems to be working just fine, as long as your friend Greg keeps his little nose out of my letters. Not that we have anything to hide from him, at least not anymore. Enjoy your day, and I will certainly enjoy mine, until we meet again.
Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock thought that was adequate, the perfect length, it wasn't boring yet not desperate for an audience, just right. Sherlock could only imagine John sitting up at night, reading his letter by the light of a flashlight and smiling at the pathetic jokes Sherlock had thrown into the writing, just to spice it up a little bit. History was next, so Sherlock could very easily slip Molly the note when the class was starting, and it would be on its way to Wisteria by tonight. Sherlock was praying for a quick response, he hated being out of contact with John for long, especially when he was still trying to convince himself that it all hadn't been some wild hallucination.