A/N:
Sherlock tells John what happened between him and Sebastian Wilkes. Comes with a significant amount of background story.
Constructive criticism is welcome, as well as praise. Please review.
I own nothing. My deepest apologies to ACD and Mofftiss.
John Watson hated Sebastian Wilkes with an indescribable passion from the moment he swaggered into his office and touched his boyfriend.
It wasn't that John was the jealous type per say, although he had had his moments in the past. It was the way that Seb had looked at Sherlock as he shook his hand. He regarded him as if he were someone below him, like someone who wasn't worthy of his attention.
Seb looked at Sherlock as if he were something to use.
Despite this, when Seb turned to John and asked in a shocked voice, "Friend?" John had replied coolly with, "Colleague" because he wasn't comfortable with the newfound twist on his sexuality that he had recently discovered (something that Sherlock was surprisingly understanding of) and wasn't about to come out to this twat before anyone else.
It was a knee jerk reaction. John would never forget the hurt look on Sherlock's face when he said it. In that moment, John felt he was as bad as Sebastian Wilkes. He felt worse when Seb said that everyone hated him while they were there. The way Sherlock's mouth turned down ever so slightly was barely an indication of how it hurt him, but his eyes. Oh God, John would never forget just how sad his eyes got. It broke his heart, and all John Watson knew in that moment was that he never wanted to see Sherlock's eyes look like that ever again.
It took until the end of the case, the night before they went to Seb to collect their check, for John to get Sherlock into bed with him again and for them to talk about what had happened that day. They were both tired, but not to the point where they were falling asleep quite yet. They were enjoying a cuddle in their pants filled with lazy kisses and soft caresses. They hadn't had sex yet due to John's ongoing adjustment to his newly discovered side to his sexuality and Sherlock's skittishness about sex. He hadn't said it outright, but John was fairly certain Sherlock was still a virgin. It was all fine, though. John was willing to wait as long as Sherlock needed, and Sherlock seemed to feel the same way about John's need to take things slowly
"You're awfully quiet tonight," John remarked after a few moments, nuzzling into Sherlock's dark curls and kissing his scalp.
"Just sorting the facts of the case," Sherlock replied, running his hand up and down John's side.
John let out a short hum and was silent again for a few minutes. Finally he spoke.
"That day that we met with Seb for the first time-"
"Honestly, John, why do you feel the need to relive that?" Sherlock huffed.
"I just wanted to apologize." Sherlock turned his head up, stunned. "I shouldn't have said I was just your colleague. I should have been comfortable saying you were my friend."
"I understand. You're still trying to acclimate yourself to being in a sexual relationship with another man and aren't ready to come out. It's perfectly alright."
"That's just the thing. It isn't alright, Sherlock. I might not be ready for everyone to know yet, but I'm proud to be with you. You should know that. I don't know what Seb did to you, but I know something happened there. You don't have to tell me just yet, or ever if you aren't ready, but when I said that I felt as low as he should have. I was just as bad as he was."
Sherlock snorted. "There's no way you could be as bad as he was."
John squeezed him tighter. "When he said everyone at school hated you, my heart broke. You deserve so much better than to feel that you aren't wanted."
"No matter what you may think, that's how I have spent my whole life until I met you."
John grimaced. "I'm sorry I said that."
"Thank you. It did hurt." Sherlock admitted. "I do understand why you said it. I doubt you thought before you said it."
"I didn't. That doesn't mean it wasn't hurtful. If I say something insensitive in the future, please tell me."
Sherlock nodded into John's chest. After a few minutes had passed, he asked, "Would you like to hear about Seb?"
"Only if you want to tell me about it," John lied. He was itching to know.
"Please, John, I can practically feel you vibrating with the need to know. It's only fair, seeing how your life is a fairly open book to me, even though I try to let you have some secrets from me."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yes. It's difficult, and sometimes I can't help but see it, but I do try."
John was stunned. "In that case, I would like to hear about him."
Sherlock sat up against the headboard next to John, with their shoulders touching.
"To understand Seb," he began. "I shall have to tell you a few things about my life before uni…"
Sometimes, when Sherlock was very young, he wondered if he had done something wrong to deserve the life he had. Not his situation, of course. He knew from a very young age that he was incredibly privileged and most children grew up having a mere fraction of what he had. He wondered because of his brain.
He had always known that he was different. It wasn't anything anyone in the house had ever tried to hide. Mycroft was the only one who was remotely understanding about the issue, but he did what he could to shake him off because he didn't want his pity and he was always away at school. What was the use of a protector if they were only home for three months of the year?
He exhausted his parents. On the rare occasion they would eat together, his father would request in that abominable monotone of his that Sherlock didn't speak of such trivial matters such as chemistry and the dissection of a chicken fetus from an egg he'd snuck from a neighboring farm's incubator. Mummy would tilt back in her chair and cover her eyes and forehead delicately with her gorgeously manicured hands and would declare that he wore her out. She bemoaned about how much of a handful he was compared to his brother.
Sherlock quickly learned not to speak, because if he spoke, he was criticized.
The house staff feared him. They all agreed that Mycroft was a bit strange, but he was docile and had such a good heart that it balanced out. Sherlock, however, didn't have a docile bone in his body. The cook would never forget the day that she went into the kitchen at four in the morning to start preparing food for the day and she found Sherlock standing on a stool dissecting a frog he had caught and killed in the pond on the family estate on her granite countertop. He had been up all night cutting into it and writing observations in a notebook.
He was three.
Sherlock spent most of his early childhood years seeing specialists. His parents wanted to know what was wrong with him. Mycroft usually tried to point out that it wasn't what was wrong with Sherlock, but what was different about him. It was also Mycroft who challenged Sherlock's diagnosis as a sociopath and said he just believed that Sherlock was different. He believed his brother was a genius. He searched for other specialists for Sherlock to see at the tender age of 11 and scheduled appointments without his parent's knowledge. When the diagnosis was corrected on paper and Sherlock was seen as a genius with social anxiety rather than a freak, Sherlock continued to refer to himself as a sociopath because he felt that it would make people pity him less, and hopefully they would be more likely to leave him alone.
At school, Sherlock was a pariah. He was silent yet overconfident, and he wasn't interested in anything that the other boys at school were. Sherlock wanted to be in a lab cutting into things or causing explosions. Everyone else was busy playing rugby and trying to prove how overly masculine they were at the tender age of eight. Most of his schoolmates left him alone, but the first time he was publicly ridiculed was because of this aversion to rugby.
A wispy boy called Percival Hewitt (a name that Sherlock found unfortunate) was bragging in the common area about how massive his muscles were becoming from the extensive amount of time he spent as the dominant force on an intermural rugby squad. Sherlock, who was only there because the time in common area was mandatory, snorted into his book when Percival flexed his barely existent biceps at them.
"What's so amusing, Holmes?" Percival sneered.
"Merely your ridiculous belief that you're the most masculine of a group of adolescents who haven't reached puberty yet," Sherlock replied, never taking his eyes off of his book.
"What would you know about that, seeing how you don't even play rugby?"
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "It doesn't make a difference whether I find it necessary to run around a field getting covered in mud and sweat when we're all going to be equally masculine in about twenty years."
Percival let out a cruel cackle. "You are the biggest pansy I've ever met! I can't believe we all have to go to school with you, you fag."
Sherlock cringed at the slur. Mycroft had recently told him that he was gay, and hearing people throw around that term was one of the few things that made him feel a strong emotion.
Of course, the other boys noticed the cringe, and they hopped on the name-calling bandwagon. They taunted Sherlock while he tried to continue to read his book. Eventually, the noise got to be too much, and Sherlock snapped his book shut and stalked out. He could hear more taunts being thrown at him, but he didn't care. He just needed to get away from them.
Once in the privacy of his room, Sherlock curled up into the fetal position on his bed and trembled. He knew that he didn't have any friends at school. Nobody tried to hide that from him, and without the direct bullying he had been able to ignore it. This was new. He didn't have data on this. He analyzed the new feelings, and then pushed them into the darkest corner of his mind palace. The memories were there so he would never be caught off guard by these feelings again, but they were far enough out of reach that he wouldn't have to face them every day.
Once he had catalogued everything, Sherlock put on his pajamas and curled under his covers. He reached under his bed for his hidden teddy bear and snuggled up to it. He let himself cry silently. As he drifted off, Sherlock's thoughts drifted to the next day and the hope that it would be much better.
Sherlock dreamed of their words. There were no voices or faces, just the letters clouding his mind's eye.
The next morning, he reluctantly dragged himself to breakfast. He had considered staying in his room for the rest of the day, but that was what a coward would do. He wanted to go out and face the bullies with his head held high.
He sat at his usual table, alone as always. Normally he was left alone to do what he pleased, but that day it seemed like everyone wanted his attention so they could say another nasty to them. They threw names at him, which he didn't react to. He continued filing them away in his Mind Palace in that dark corner so they wouldn't bother him as much, but he still cried himself to sleep every night, because suddenly he believed what the therapists said to him. He was alone and friendless, and would always be that way.
A/N: Hello doves! Here's a new story for you! I'll update weekly (every Wednesday) so I can have time to tweak the story as I go along and I can mull over the later chapters so I can give you the best story possible. The whole thing is written, but if there is anything you would like to see let me know and I'll see if I can work it in.
Triggers will be added, and the rating will go up later. I will add those I as I go along to avoid spoilers.
As always, kudos, reviews, and general love are always appreciated!
xoxoxoxo