Pounding heart, quick breaths. Clammy fingers shaking, fluttering, never landing. A name called. Not his, not yet. Sherlock had known all year this day would come, but why now? It's too soon, too soon. His eyes dart this way and that, picking up everything but not seeing. Who was he, what was he? It will determine his fate for the rest of his life. Sherlock felt like he was choking, dying, his life spinning out of control. There were three options, but he couldn't control fate. The long argument of nature and nurture. It all adding up to right here, right now.
Sherlock heard his named called, understandable with a name starting with H. He made his way shakily to the stage, wondering the whole time who he was going to disappoint. All his family were different, his mother a Docile, his father an Oddity and his brother a Herculean. He could be anything. After arriving at the middle of the stage, Sherlock looks out at the crowd. He knew his family was there somewhere but, with the bright lights and the fogginess in his head, he couldn't see a thing.
His legs felt like jelly no matter how hard he tried to keep them firmly planted on the stage. Sherlock barely felt the pinch as the attendant pricked his finger and smeared it across a pad. His blood seeming to check out he was lead to the front of the stage, feet shuffling beneath him.
"Sherlock Holmes. Oddity." A voice announced over the loudspeaker. Applause erupted from the crowd completely overpowered by the loud cheers and roars of excitement from the front left section of the arena. At least some people were happy that Sherlock was an Oddity. Because, no matter what people say, Oddities might as well be the scum of the Earth. Dociles were the cute, soft, small people that everybody cherished. They were the kind of people who seem to love everything and in turn were loved by all. And then there were the Herculeans. Herculeans automatically get brownie points for simply being who they are. Strong, athletic and all around Dominant. They were the classic Disney hero stereotype, saving everybody with no effort at all. It didn't seem to matter that most Herculeans were decidedly average at best. Society still continuously twisted each and every one of them into something amazing.
And that was the problem. Because Sherlock was neither of those. He was an Oddity. Part of the group of people who couldn't fit in either category so they were plonked together to make one huge one. Although, statistically speaking, there was a much lower percentage of Oddities than either Dociles of Herculeans,the world hardly treated them like something rare or to be valued. More like a disease that unfortunately affects a few but something they could ignore and despise all the same. And now, Sherlock was one of them.
He shakingly began to walk across the stage, heading for the stairs leading to the left aisle. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock felt himself hit each step, lowering himself further, stepping closer and closer to his new life. To the person he'd become in the space of two minutes. And as he sat down, he felt every hope he had ever had sunk down with him.
Sherlock spat the remaining blood out of his mouth, watching curiously for a moment as the bold red darkened when it mixed with the layer of grime covering the linoleum of the hallway floors. Hesitantly, he lifted his hand to gently push against his right cheek. He immediately winced, pulling away and trying to control the spark of sharp pain flowing through his head.
Sherlock sighed, hanging his head. His gaze dropped to his knees, watching with fascination as idle droplets of salty water splashed against the denim fabric, soaking small spots into it immediately. God, but he'd been such an idiot. How could he have thought that he'd had even a remote chance? But Victor had been right.
Sherlock was just a freak.
"Hey, I'm Michael, but you can call me Mike." Sherlock looked to his left, scrutinizing this "Mike" idly, discerning what he wanted. Judging by his size, glasses and nervous smile, he was most definitely a virgin, same age as Sherlock. His watch was fairly new but inexpensive, meaning his family was obviously in financial difficult, also apparent by his attire. His hair cut was new, however, perhaps four or five days old? Done specially for this occasion, meaning loving and proud parents. Originally from London but relocated a few years ago, judging by his accent and his shoes.
His gaze dropped to the hand stuck out beneath his nose eagerly. After a moment, Sherlock lifted his own hand, shaking firmly and quickly before dropping it as fast as possible.
"Sherlock Holmes." He replied cooly, continuing his previous scrutiny. Mike huffed a laugh.
"Nice to meet you." He smiled. Sherlock hummed in response, directing his stare back to the stage. "Welcome to the Oddities!" Well at least he was welcome.
"Sherlock!?"
Sherlock dragged his gaze up from his legs, settling on Mike's harried form, concern and fear stricken across his face.
"Ah, Mike. Nice of you to join me." Sherlock answered blearily, Nodding at him before returning his gaze downward.
"W-what… What…?" Mike stammered, arms waving around as he searched for an explanation.
"Would you like to throw a punch to?" Sherlock asked, smirking as he watched another drop land on his knee. "This would be the opportune time after all. Like those birds in Africa who feed off a lion's prey after it's done with it. Picking at the carcass scraps. That's what I am now aren't I?" Sherlock swung his head up, staring at Mike and feeling another tear slip from his eye. "Scraps." It came out broken and cracked, and Sherlock finally allowed everything to spill over. Sob after sob racking his body, shaking through his ribs, breaking his Sherlock.
"Oh, Sherlock." Those same words sung in a sing-song voice, echoing round and round his head. Except this time they were filled with genuine pity and that was too much, he couldn't stand it.
"No! You don't get to stand there feeling sorry for me. This -This is nothing. I am Fine! Do you understand? I won't have to live my life stuck next to someone else, hanging off their side like a parasite. I am free. And that is so much better than what he could have given me."
"Yes, but, Sherlock..." Mike started.
"What?! What do you want. You have everything you want. You've got Cassie, who you bloody adore, and you have her." Sherlock spat. "She's pregnant for Christ's sake. And nobody even knows!"
"Sherlock?"
"Well, nobody except me." Sherlock grinned menacingly at Mike. "Now you're saddled with everything I despise and you will learn to hate. And you feel sorry for me? Ridiculous." Sherlock slowly shifted his hands until he was leaning against them, pushing off and using a hand against the locker to bring himself to a standing position. He began to hobble slowly toward the nurse's office, leaning heavily against the wall as he struggled to keep going.
"Sherlock!" Mike protested.
"Don't bother, Mike." Sherlock barked. "Don't bother."
Sherlock was used to rude interruptions during his morning locker run. Even before he was proclaimed an Oddity, Sherlock often couldn't go two mornings in a row without at least a slap to the back of the head or a kick to the shin. But that was nothing compared to what happened during one Monday morning a few weeks into the new term.
Sherlock had been minding his own business, searching through some clutter in order to find his history book which was much too small and always seemed migrate to the absolute worst place in his locker, making it very difficult to find. Out of nowhere, a sharp throbbing pain shot up his leg. Sherlock gasped, eyes shooting down to see a small terrier latched onto his leg and seemingly trying to chew through it. Sherlock immediately began to kick and shake his leg, trying desperately to dislodge it. The dog merely bit harder, swinging with Sherlock's kicks and beginning to draw blood.
"Oh, I am so sorry." Came a voice from beside Sherlock, astonishment and remorse warring through their words. Sherlock looked up to see a young man with Curly brown hair and even browner eyes staring at him. He wore expensive jeans, but not new ones so he was wealthy but not wasteful. His light blue button down shirt was just balancing on the edge of casual and classy, so he was used to dressing to impress.
"Aren't you going to help me?" Sherlock hissed, waving his leg and the dog attached to it at him.
"Oh -oh yes, of course. Sorry. Sorry." The man stammered, bending to gently pry the dog's teeth open and away from Sherlock's smarting leg. Sherlock hissed, bending down to cup the wound and wipe away the small dots of blood that had pricked at the surface.
"Ow!" The two winced together. Sherlock glanced at him to see the man blushing slightly and shrugging his shoulders.
"That looks like it hurts." The man said as some kind of explanation. "I really am very sorry." He repeated.
"Yes, you said that." Sherlock snapped, rubbing at his leg in a way that was no help at all.
"Maybe I could repay you? I could perhaps buy you some lunch or maybe something else. I do apologise." The man continued to stare at him, watching him intently for any sign of distress. "I am Victor, by the way. Victor Trevor."
"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock replied blandly. "And, for the record, Victor, all I require right now is a hand up and some help to the nurse's office."
"I can do that." Victor replied with a nervous smile. Gently, Victor reached out his hand, taking hold of Sherlock's and dragging him up before pausing, both their hands locked together in each other's grasp. Together they stared down at their hands as a thin thread of golden light wove itself around each of their wrists before stringing together and connecting in the middle.
"Victor Trevor, Docile."
"Sherlock Holmes, Oddity." Sherlock grinned at Victor. "And I think I will take you up on that lunch." The two of them stood like that for a while until Sherlock's leg started hurting again and Victor began helping him towards the nurse's office.
"So, Victor," Sherlock rolled the name around his mouth like a boiled sweet. "What's with the dog?" Victor had pulled out a leash and clipped it onto the terrier's collar and it was now trotting along happily beside them as they made their way through the halls.
"Must've snuck into the back seat of my car. Again. He's always doing shit like that. And when I opened the door to get my bag he just jumped out and ran for it. He really is very mischievous. So I followed him as best I could and that's when I found you." Victor smiled at him, continuing with a shrug. "You know the rest.
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Except that it wasn't. That became very clear very quickly to Sherlock as soon as Victor's fist connected to the bone of his cheek, sending the back of his head against the locker door behind him with a sickening crack. But, for the full story, one has to go back a bit.
"Hello, Mike." Sherlock greeted the man as he sat down next to him, setting his history book down on the desk in front of him.
"Sherlock?" Mike asked confusedly.
"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.
"What's going on? You're all…" Mike trailed off with a shrug. "Happy?"
"Happy? Am I not usually happy?" Sherlock speculated.
"No, you're not." Mike stated blandly, ignoring Sherlock's glare in response.
"I've met someone." Sherlock decreed, choosing to ignore Mike's earlier remark.
"Really!" Mike gasped, snapping his mouth shut when the students around them sshed the two angrily. "Who?" He whispered.
"My Pair, Victor Trevor." Sherlock announced with another small smile.
"You met one of your pairs?!" Mike marvelled, followed by hisses all around him and a stern glance from the teacher at the front of the class. "What is he?" He asked, voice lowered to a whisper once more.
"A Docile." Sherlock stated almost curiously. Sherlock hadn't really thought about it but for some reason he had never imagined being paired with a Docile. He supposed it made sense with Sherlock's superior mind but it didn't stop Sherlock from feeling a little uneasy. Some pairings were well known for ending badly due to lack of compatibility. In fact, Sherlock had studied several murder cases from the late eighteenth century that had been the direct cause of bad pairings gone wrong. But, now that he thought about it, those pairings had gone wrong for very different reasons. Victor and Sherlock were definitely very different from that.
"Just be careful, Sherlock." Mike's voice broke through Sherlock's thoughts. "I don't want you getting hurt. You know how fragile some pairings can be."
"Don't worry, we'll be fine." Sherlock lamented. "Absolutely fine."
"You see, Sherlock, it's a matter of principle. My father would just be much happier with his son being paired with a Herculean than an Oddity. I didn't see the harm in it." Victor explained, clicking on the turn signal as the car came to a stop at a traffic light.
"So, you lied to him?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
"Well… yes. I didn't want to go disappointing him." Victor tried to reason.
"That didn't stop me looking like a complete idiot in front of everyone at that party when I told him I'm an Oddity!" Sherlock shouted.
"I admit that that was very unfortunate but how was I supposed to know he was going to bring it up? Besides, I thought that if he did that you'd just say you're a Herculean anyway. Really not my fault when you think about it." Victor pointed out.
"You wanted me to pretend!"Sherlock snarled, watching with satisfaction as Victor visibly flinched at his tone. "You're ashamed of me." Sherlock murmured in shock, tone suddenly quiet in the still silence of the car. "You're ashamed of me, aren't you?!" Sherlock shouted.
"What? Of course not. You're being ridiculous." Victor denied.
"You are, aren't you." When Victor failed to reply, Sherlock huffed, opening his door and stepping out.
"Where are you going?" Victor asked indignantly.
"Anywhere but here!" Sherlock shouted back at him, slamming the door behind him and storming across the road, ignoring the curious glances of the other driver in their cars as the stepped onto the footpath.
Sherlock didn't fully remember everywhere he walked that night but by the time he was back home it was well past twelve o'clock and dipping into the early hours of the morning, just before the break of dawn. But Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to care how long he'd been up. All he could focus on was the horrible feeling in his stomach that sat like a lead weight. Sherlock slowly recognised the feeling as he let it take him over. And, inch by inch, he was filled with harsh, pure dread.
"So, this is me." Victor announced, dropping his keys on the little dish beside the door.
"It's nice." Sherlock remarked. Although, truthfully, nice was going a bit too far for the small bedsit he was standing in. perhaps comfortable or, if you're lucky, homely.
"I'm glad you think so." Victor smirked before stalking towards Sherlock and crashing their lips together. Sherlock failed to close his eyes for a few seconds due to shock but after a bit during which Victor continued to move his lips against his, he finally allowed them to close. That was his first kiss and Sherlock decided it was very different than he'd expected. He didn't quite know what to make of it.
"Is this okay?" Victor asked as he gently guided Sherlock backwards until the back of his kees met the edge of the bed.
"U-Uh, yeah." Sherlock answered wearily, not quite sure what was happening. It became clear quite immediately as he watched Victor lift his shirt up and over his head before flinging it at the ground. Victor began stroking Sherlock hair as he coaxed him into another kiss, beginning to unbutton Sherlock's shirt for him. Sherlock gasped quietly as Victor slowly undid his belt, pulling the zipper of his trousers down too. And, strangely, all Sherlock could think was that this was definitely not the kind of homework he'd imagined doing when Victor had invited him over.
"Hey, Sherl." Victor greeted as he walked into the room, closing the bathroom door behind him. Sherlock sighed, having long ago given up on telling Victor that his name was Sherlock and not sherl.
"Morning Victor." He greeted in turn, walking towards the small closet and flicking through until he found one of his dress shirts. Pulling it off the hanger, he regarded Victor questionly as he heard the other man sigh.
"We really need to get you some better clothes." He stated.
"But I like the ones I have." Sherlock said confusedly.
"Yeah, but they're all the same." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest because, in fact, most of his dress shirts were quite different, but was cut off by Victor as he sighed. "You know what I mean." He continued to watch Sherlock silently as he got dressed before seeming to come to a decision. "We can go shopping on Wednesday. My dad has this thing on Saturday and I promised that I'd finally bring you 'round to meet him."
"Okay."
"Wow." Victor breathed. "That was great."
"Was it?" Sherlock asked. IT was strange and very different from the small amount he'd learnt in biology lessons.
"Don't worry, you were brilliant." Victor assured him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "We have to do this more often."
"Okay."
"Victor." Sherlock announced his presence.
"Oh. Hey, Sherl." Victor greeted turning from the small huddle his group of friends had made by the lockers. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "What's wrong, Sherl?"
"Don't 'Sherl ' me!" Sherlock snarled, pushing Victor's hand away when he tried to rest it on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sherlock, relax. What are you so huffed up about?" Victor drawled, chuckling a little at Sherlock's furious expression.
"You see, Victor, as far as I'm concerned I would find it common courtesy to tell your pair that you've found someone else, rather than waiting around and going behind their back." Sherlock fumed.
"What do you mean, Sherl?" Victor asked, slinging his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and leaning in close. "You know that you're the only guy for me."
"Shut up, shut up." Sherlock shouted, drawing the attention of the students around them. "I saw you with her." Sherlock whimpered. "I saw you. And all this time, I thought I was so lucky. But here I am again." Sherlock's sudden sniffing was muffled by the sound of the bell ringing, sending the students around them into a mad dash to their class and leaving only Sherlock, Victor and his friends in the empty hallway.
Sherlock didn't know precisely what tune he was whistling to, only that it was a happy was something positive in the air and Sherlock had the distinct feeling that today was going to be great.
Sherlock walked through the school doors, still whistling his tune. He began the walk through the halls, rounding the corner to the senior section of the lockers. And, all at once, he froze. He couldn't tell if his heart was in his mouth or his feet, everything rose and dropped at the same time. There was a rushing sound in his ears as his blood pounded in his head. Sherlock took the time to blink the sudden moisture from his eyes and focus on the sight before him once more. It was Victor, that much he was sure of. He was wearing the scarf that Sherlock had given him on his birthday a few weeks ago. The woman whose tongue was down his throat, however, wasn't anyone Sherlock knew. She had long blond hair and a skirt that sat much too high. Clear daddy issues, searching desperately for affection. Tried her best to look pretty every morning but ended up putting on way to much makeup and perfume. Of course, pointing out her faults didn't seem to be making anything feel better.
"Oh, Sherlock." Victor admonished, chuckling quietly at him. "What did you think? That we'd 'spend the rest of our lives together '? Were you really that thick?" Sherlock swallowed thickly, resisting the urge to look down at his feet as he shuffled them around. Victor tutted quietly. "Now, now, Sherlock. You know better than that. I deserve much better than you." Sherlock wondered how he could be taller than Victor but at the same time feel so small.
"Why?" He asked struggling to control his vocal cords as they threatened to make his voice fragile and shaky.
"Why?" Victor bellowed out a harsh laugh, looking back at his friends as they snickered with him. "Oh, Sherlock. Don't you see? Are you blind? You're an Oddity. Did you really think you'd be enough? Now, I might just be a Docile but I will always be better than you." Victor ended, his voice rising into a high, sing-song tone.
"I… I don't understand. What… What did I do to you?" Sherlock asked, his breathing becoming more shallow as his brain when into overload, picking up everything. The smell of that woman still lingering on Victor's skin, the friend directly behind Victor cracking his knuckles, the pattern of scars on the hands of the man on the far left, must have a fishmonger for a dad. It flew away very quickly, however, when Victor began to speak.
"Sherlock, It wasn't what you did. It's much easier than that. It's simply who you are. Which is nothing. You couldn't possibly hope to become anything, certainly not anything in comparison to my family's wealth and status. You are simply a poor little shrimp who doesn't understand when I say I don't care. Stop being so miserable, Sherlock. It's much too dramatic for anyone."
When Sherlock was ten years old, he fell out of a tree and broke his ankle. He had cried. And while mummy and daddy had fussed around him, crooning and telling him it would be okay, all Sherlock could think about was his tears. Later that week, Sherlock had gone upstairs into his room, crutches assisting him up the tall stairway. He'd locked his door and grabbed his microscope. Then, quietly, he pressed the heel of his hand against the bruised and splintered bone, the other hand wrapped around his mouth to contain the shout of pain. Tears filled his eyes instantly before slowly dripping down his cheeks. Sherlock had scraped the liquid into a small test tube, pleased with his work.
The following three days were spent running tests and examining compounds under his microscope. He was fascinated by everything, the natural ratio of water to sodium, the salt compound, the reaction to different chemicals. Sherlock had deemed tears extremely interesting, saving every scrap of data to his hard drive.
So when Sherlock felt silent tears slip from his eyes, running down his cheeks and dripping from his chin, he could have explained each detail of them, the make up, the ratio, the acidity, the level of hydroxide. But he didn't. Because no one cared.
"Sherlock, you really need to learn to control your feelings." Victor smiled, the lines of his teeth gleaming menacingly.
Sherlock saw it coming. It was hardly surprising. Yet, when Victor's fist smashed against his cheekbone, his body recoiled in shock. Sherlock's head connected with the locker door first, the smack deafening in the quiet of the hallway. The rest of his body followed soon after, hips and shoulders slamming into the cold metal with equal force.
His ears rang as he slowly pulled his suddenly extremely heavy head up from the locker. His vision was softly blurred, two Victors grinning in front of him before he blinked them into focus.
"Don't bother, Vic. We'll take it from here." The knuckle-cracking friend announced with a growl.
Sherlock chuckled darkly, resting his head against the locker behind him once more. "Trust a Docile like you to get someone else to fight your battles." Sherlock spat.
"Why, you little…" Victor started, taking step closer to him threateningly.
"Easy, easy, Vic." Knuckle-cracker urged, pressing a hand against Victor's chest to pull him back. "We got this."
It took one second to deduce where he was going to aim, another to brace himself and two more to wait for the inevitable impact. The punch to his gut was strong and sharp, Sherlock unable to stop the instinctive cough escaping him. The next was a kick to the back of his knee, another of Victor's mates having circled around and behind him, causing Sherlock to collapse on one knee. The next was one strong, forceful blown to his chin, sending him sprawling onto his back, his head hitting the linoleum floor with a dull thud. Then it was kick after kick, too many to track and way too many to count.
Sherlock entered something like a trance, aware of the pain but so consumed by it that he didn't feel it anymore. It was fascinating, in a way. He couldn't ignore the pain yet, every time he tried to focus on it, his brain went so fuzzy and dim that he couldn't feel it anymore.
Sherlock was so preoccupied with controlling the pain that he didn't notice that the kicks had suddenly stopped.
"That's enough." A voice called, smug but hesitant, verging on afraid. "Sherlock? Sherlock?" The voice called in a sing-song tone, suddenly much closer than before, breath hit sherlock's face and disorientating him further. Sherlock slowly lifted the lids of his eyes, taking a moment to focus on the scene around him and to wonder when he closed them in the first place. "You see, Sherlock" The voice continued, one Sherlock now recognised as Victor's nasally drawl. "Oddity is just a polite word for freak. That's all you are. A freak. And this is just what freaks deserve. You can't blame me for that now can you? Can you?" Victor shouted the last question in his ear, Sherlock wincing in response and shaking his head to clear it. "Thought so." Victor smile, rising from his stoop and beckoning his friends as he walked away.
Sherlock's eyes followed for a moment, watching them round the corner and continue down the hall. Sighing, Sherlock slowly curled his knees into his chest, using a slippery hand against the lockers beside him as leverage to pull himself up. Sherlock settled himself with his back pressed against the lockers, knees still drawn up.
Sherlock spat the remaining blood out of his mouth, watching curiously for a moment as the bold red darkened when it mixed with the layer of grime covering the linoleum of the hallway floors. Hesitantly, he lifted his hand to gently push against his right cheek. He immediately winced, pulling away and trying to control the spark of sharp pain flowing through his head.
Sherlock sighed, hanging his head. His gaze dropped to his knees, watching with fascination as idle droplets of salty water splashed against the denim fabric, soaking small spots into it immediately. God, but he'd been such an idiot. How could he have thought that he'd had even a remote chance? But Victor had been right.
Sherlock was just a freak.