Warnings: Angsty Anderson, suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide, and a happy ending.
Jonathan Anderson wasn't sure why people despised him. He was a normal kid, wasn't he? He wore normal clothes, did normal things. He made sure he didn't act too smart. He wasn't a jerk…much.
But, if people didn't like him, he knew there was something wrong with him. After years of people not liking him, he had become self-conscious. He thought himself stupid, ugly, so many other things. Nobody was his friend, so he guessed it all had to be true. Recently, when being mostly friendless took a much larger toll on him, he started to try and fix himself.
He studied much harder, trying to be smarter than Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't even close, and he thought himself even more idiotic. He got a haircut and better clothes, so that he looked cleaner and hopefully better-looking. Still, nobody but Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan spoke to him. And Anderson knew that they only spoke to him out of pity.
By his seventeenth birthday, he was on anti-depressants that didn't work. He barely ate, barely slept. He hardly ever spoke, scared that he would seem even lower in the eyes of everyone. He still lounged around at his lunch table with Lestrade and Sally and occasionally some random friend of Greg's, or one of Sally's. In any case, there was a different one each week, and Anderson never bothered to learn their names.
Greg and Sally never noticed that, though. They didn't notice how quiet he had gotten, or how his grades had dropped from A's down to C's and D's. They didn't notice the pill he had to take at lunch. They just didn't notice him. So, he had made a decision.
He was standing on the roof of the building he lived in, ten stories from the ground. Cars were going by on the street below. People, who were so tiny from where Anderson stood, were milling around. They were talking, joking, smoking. Being normal, which Anderson could never be.
The black-haired boy sighed and bit the inside of his lip. He could feel blood, but that didn't matter. Nothing would once he followed through with his morbid plan. If he could even summon the courage to even off himself.
"Stop being pathetic," he whispered to himself. "Being pathetic is why you're here in the first place."
Anderson looked down at the street again. There were still so many normal people down there. And not one of them noticed him. Just like usual.
"Do it, you coward," he growled.
But his brain was at war with itself and his body could do nothing. He just stood there, on the edge of the room, warring with himself. That was how someone managed to get a hold on his arm.
"Anderson," said a very familiar voice. "Step back."
Anderson looked back to see a very concerned-looking Greg Lestrade.
"Why should I?" he replied, turning away with a clenched jaw.
"Because it isn't worth it," said Lestrade, tugging on Anderson's arm.
"It is to me."
"Your mum will miss you."
"My mum doesn't give a fuck."
"Me and Sally do."
"How'd you even know I was up here?" asked Anderson, quickly switching subjects.
"Sherlock told me."
"He isn't even here!"
"He didn't need to be. He-"
"Was being a genius and 'deduced' it, right?" finished Anderson with venom. "He's half of the reasons I'm up here."
"What's the other one?"
"I'm worthless," said Anderson, voice cracking as he tried to stop tears from springing to his eyes.
Greg managed to pull the now crying Anderson away from the roof's edge. The skinny teen was shaking like a leaf in a tornado, but his sobs made no sound. Which just made Greg feel worse.
"Anderson, please calm down," said Greg softly, trying to look into Anderson's eyes. "You aren't worthless."
"I am, though. That's why nobody likes me."
Greg frowned. "So, Sally and I don't like you?"
Anderson looked at him pathetically. "It's just pity…isn't it?"
"No, Anderson, it isn't."
For a moment, Anderson looked uncharacteristically like a very confused kicked puppy. Then, he did something else very against his usual character. He lunged forward and clung onto Greg like his life depended on the fact that someone was finally near him. Which it probably did, guessed Greg.
"Alright, Anderson. Let's go back in, okay?"
Anderson detached himself quickly. "Sorry."
"It doesn't matter. Now c'mon."
The two walked inside in silence. As soon as they were on the stairwell, relief washed over them. Anderson was just happy that someone counted him as their actual friend, and that someone wouldn't have to clean his brains from the sidewalk. Greg was relieved that he hadn't seen someone kill themselves.
Though they were both less than happy that some of the credit went to Sherlock.
Ah, first Sherlock fic and it's about Anderson. Dunno if that's good or not. Eh, better to start off with someone who people don't like than go straight to Johnlock or Mystrade.