A/N

What can I say, inspiration hit me. Obviously, the title came from Hounds of Baskerville, which I'm sure you all remember. This little bit is inspired solely from Sherlock's little outburst, so obviously kinda angst-y. I've literally been obsessed with Sherlock, and this one line was some of the most emotion we've seen Sherlock display, and this just came pouring out...

Warnings: Nothing worse then what's in the show, but nonetheless, I figured I'd give you a warning.

Disclaimer: Dude, as if! I wish tho...

Enjoy!

There's nothing wrong with me

From the outside, the Holmes family was, as most families went, quite normal. Mrs. Holmes, a brilliant mathematician, had married Mr. Holmes, who was taken the moment he'd set eyes on her, and soon little Mycroft was born. And that is where our little family became the outlier.

From the start the two Holmes' could tell that Mycroft was different-his interest was rarely in the average baby toy, and he'd started walking ages before the other babies could crawl. The Holmes' had agreed that it was probably best to keep young Mycroft out of daycare, as the first and only time they'd put him there he'd found a way to pull the teachers political advisory off her shelf and slowly flip through the pages. Several years passed in this fashion, Mrs. Holmes having quit her job to take care of Mycroft, who taught himself Latin before going to bed each night.

But that's quite enough about Mycroft, don't you think? This story is about Sherlock, after all.

The Holmes' moved to a nice little place near London, in a nice cozy house perfect for a child to grow up comfortably in. Not long after that, Mrs. Holmes had proudly announced that she was having a second child. Having already worked with Mycroft for 7 years, the Holmes' felt more prepared for having little Sherlock. But they didn't realize how wrong they were.

Sherlock Holmes was the center of chaos. His brain seemed to develop twice as fast as Mycroft's, quite a feat when his brother was already working his way through high school course work, though several doctors found his sometimes vacant gaze disturbing as he sunk into his thoughts a million miles away. His mind seemed to work differently as well. Where as Mycroft had quickly adapted to the ways of common courtesy, always complimenting this and that and being the perfect little gentlemen (although he privately confided in Sherlock he thought they were all idiots), Sherlock found little appeal in such an act and took to analyzing people out loud instead. The small nail filer in that man's left pocket was a murder weapon, judging by his missing wedding ring (the tan line was rather obvious), the small hole in his shoe over his right pinky toe, and the unused umbrella stuffed in his pocket. The scruff of the women's sleeve and slight smudge of her makeup suggested that she was a serial killer, and the crooked spectacles coupled with a slight limp suggested that child was training for the M16. So, naturally, Sherlock was to stay home as well and be homeschooled.

As time progressed, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes noticed that Sherlock had taken a kind of shining to Mycroft. His older brother could weasel his way out of every mess with his silver tongue, and his deductions were always quicker than Sherlock's. He took to following his brother around like he was God, doing what he did, eating this and that, solving this puzzle and that one, his piercing blue eyes beholding his brother with reverence; to which Mycroft would scoff and roll his eyes, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed his actual feelings.

But, more often than not, there were feuds.

Having never met other children, the Holmes boys didn't actually know what was considered 'normalcy' (films and fantasy books were never in their realm of interest). Mycroft would sometimes call Sherlock 'the stupid one' when he felt bored, and Sherlock would rearrange Mycroft's meticulously arranged political notes in return. Mycroft would explain to Sherlock just what was wrong with his analysis of the Prime Minister's primary school friend and why he was actually a terrorist and not just a hitman. Sherlock would explain the finer points of the next door neighbor's teapot and her obvious involvement in the Cuban missile crisis.

And then Sherlock turned 5 and Mycroft turned 12; it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the boys lack of communication skills. Although Mycroft's courtesy act often kept him out of trouble, Sherlock still saw nothing wrong with explaining to a grown woman why her sister was a member of the crime syndicate and her obvious plan of kidnapping her daughter. Finally, the day came when the boy's doctor privately recommended to Mrs. Holmes that she enroll her boys in some form of public or private schooling after seeing a girl run away crying that her cousin killed her fish 2 years ago.

Sherlock Holmes had always been told he was a brilliant child. The doctors were astounded by his incredible retention rate, intelligence, and maturity. A prodigy, they told his parents. He'd never really forgotten that moment, what with his mind palace, but it hadn't really mattered to him until he was put in primary school.

The children there were utterly drab, in his opinion, whining about their mothers going away for the day, or pulling the girl's pigtails and crying when they didn't get to play with that lego piece. His teacher was incredibly stupid, as well. Her teaching methods were the most ineffective thing he'd had the displeasure of encountering since learning the Earth went around the Sun. (Who cared what way the bloody thing went? They were still alive, weren't they? The Sun could go around the Earth and it still wouldn't matter. That knowledge was utterly useless, a waste of memory space. He'd deleted it the first chance he got) He'd told her such, then proceeded to explain that her husband of 7 years was cheating on her with her brothers ex and that she was likely to soon lose her job, looking at her recent demotion and mind numbing personality. She'd run out of the room in tears, and Sherlock had been called into the principal's office not long after that.

The other children thought him odd as well. Sherlock tried to make due, he really did, but there primal urges of 'making friends' and 'playing in the sandbox' were so dull he'd had to read one of Mycroft's government analysis books and make fun of the books absolutely inaccurate conclusions to make his brain stop hurting.

They called him names as well. It really shouldn't have mattered to him, but when the only acknowledgment he ever got was 'freak', it started to pick away at him. His mind rationally told him that they were feeling an emotion he'd read about, 'jealousy', but he had no idea what that meant. He'd never really listened to his emotions before, finding them essentially useless in his younger life and promptly deleting as much about them as he could.

The teacher read books to them, sometimes. The most simplistic of stories, of course, but they talked about things like 'kindness' and 'friendship', and he honestly couldn't understand. He'd even sunken low enough to ask Mycroft, firmly ignoring the smirk playing about his older brother's lips; but Mycroft had felt the same as him.

"Emotions, little brother, attachment," Mycroft said, "are useless. They are weaknesses, and we are better off than any of them because we have none."

"But what are they, why can't I feel them," Sherlock had asked, a tad bit desperately.

Mycroft let out a small sigh, patting Sherlock's shoulder hesitantly in a rare moment of brotherly companionship. "That I do not know. We are special, Sherlock. No one sees the world we do."

When he was around 4 years old, Mrs. Holmes walked into Sherlock's room to see him composing music. He'd never set finger on an instrument in his life, yet there he was, plucking melodies from his mind like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers would sometimes twitch, like trying to play an imaginary string, and he was so wrapped up in his own mind that he didn't notice his mother until she came over and gave him a quick hug.

The next day, Sherlock was the proud owner of a violin, and proceeded to play at every ungodly hour of the night, partially when his mind was too busy analyzing to let him sleep, and partially because his room was adjacent to Mycroft's, and the elder tended to get irritated rather quickly with the bored screeching of Sherlock's violin.

It became a sort of tick for him. His mind was always too busy, and the soothing plucks of the strings were one of the only things that put him at ease on the slow days. Boredom was also a stimulus, and the Holmes' quickly adjusted to Sherlock's violin screeching angrily and purposefully bad on the days where he felt like he was going out of his mind. Mycroft had similar problems, the only one in the Holmes' house hold (and almost the entire world) that understood Sherlock, but he dealt with it by slipping his way into CIA security and anticipating the newest political debates. Sherlock found that boring-much like Mycroft found his playing annoying-so he stuck with his little salvation.

That wasn't the only use of his new toy. For some idiotic reason, the school had a regulation that required two years of fine arts, so Sherlock had forgone the over-picked photography class and joined the small orchestra. The orchestra director was astounded by Sherlock's ability, and gave him a free class pass when he noticed he was bored. He was possibly the only teacher Sherlock had ever tolerated.

The teasing, however, was an annoying side effect. The boys would jostle him in the hallways, laughing as he stumbled and flailed a bit with his annoyingly disproportionate limbs, and the girls took to giggling and/or smirking at him and ask how his newest Sonata was going. He would cooly reply in his usual fashion, comment on so and so's newest relationship scandal that would come out in the next week, and leaving them gaping after him like the brainless goldfishes they were.

Of course, he obtained several contacts in the musical world as well, particularly when he had attended a convention in London one week and impressed the professors so much that they'd invited him to attend their colleges later that year. He'd politely declined-mummy wanted him and Mycroft to spend at least 6 years in normal schooling before flying off to college and the British government and what not-but created a rather intricate web within the span of two days.

The violin, like himself, wasn't a one trick pony.

The new insult was heartless.

Maggie Adams had asked him out the previous day, fidgeting in her brand new pink sundress with her hair done in an unnecessarily complicated braid her mother had likely spent several hours on. Sherlock had been disappointed; he'd known for weeks that Adams had been harboring what they called a 'crush' on him. He'd noticed that she was actually rather clever, seeing things a little bit clearer than his idiot peers-he'd actual thought she would surprise him, as in notice his obvious disinterest and not make a fool of herself.

But there they were, standing in the middle of the playground-Sherlock had been testing his new chemical mixture he'd made from swiped lye, NaOH, the chemistry teacher had left sitting on his desk. Honestly, the stupidity of his school was rather disheartening.

Though he supposed since they all claimed he didn't have a heart, it didn't effect him.

The answer was no, obviously, look at the state of her shoes, the left big toe clearly scrubbed against the ground from anxiety, the small twitch in her eye that revealed her boring interest in him (honestly, the general populace judged individuals on their physical appeal and condition-where was the fun in that?), and the last failed physics assignment she obviously wanted him to help her with. The results were glaringly obvious, her interest was mainly a result of infatuation, they would never work, and she was clearly too stupid to keep up with him anyways, so why was she bothering to ask?

Her flight to the lavatory was swift and accompanied by an annoying pitch of crying that grated on his sensitive ears.

Heartless.

Seeing how well his reputation was progressing, he wasn't surprised when they switched to monster.

It was a bad night for Sherlock. His brain was running itself in circles, aching for stimulation of any kind at all, and finding little to no relief in his usually therapeutic compositions. He'd been reduced to ripping out his hair in sheer boredom, his mind uselessly circling the analysis of Ms. Wigg from down the road: the broad strap of her purse, the scratch on her ex-husband's wedding photo, the slight upturn of her nose every time old Mr. McGuppum greeted her good morning.

He lost it at about 3 am, noiselessly sliding open his window and jumping onto the damp grass below, only bothering to grab a scarf and the coat father had given him last year because Sherlock refused to wear the zip-up hoodies his mother insisted on buying.

2 hours late Police authorities showed up on Ms. Wigg's doorstep on account of an anonymous alert, finding her in possession of missing gold that had been stolen from the bank several weeks previous.

Mycroft had noticed immediately the next morning, of course, and delicately chosen to wait until the two of them were barricaded in the attic (spring cleaning) before viciously interrogating his brother.

Sherlock skipped most of high school. It was so dull, so drab, so utterly uninteresting and filled with idiots he couldn't stand to be there longer than mother had asked. There were discoveries to be made, deductions waiting to happen, cases to be solved-why waste time in a place like this?

6 years, on the dot, he filed to skip the rest of his grades and graduate with the senior class. The school had been hesitant, until they saw Sherlock complete the required finals and entrance exams for college, as well as write an thesis paper for his graduate degree he was planning on getting the next year; they'd quickly added him to the roster.

College wasn't much better. Sure, the professors were the most intelligent ordinary people he'd met, but they were so boring. They knew the facts, gained their knowledge from years of study, and Sherlock surpassed them in a fortnight. Disappointing, really.

Mycroft was off somewhere rapidly climbing the ranks of the British government. Sherlock estimated that he'd be in charge in the next 8-11 months, and that was if he took that month vacation he'd been planning since Christmas.

The degree took slightly longer than expected (a lucky criminal clipped Sherlock on the shoulder with his gun and he was out of comission for two months), but soon enough he found himself in Bartholomew's Hospital. No one questioned his unusual methods, odd experiments, or hours on end spent gazing into the distance. It was refreshing, actually, to have some peace of mind and the liberty to conduct his life as he wished.

But soon even that began to lose its appeal, and he began learning judo in his free time. It was a fairly simple concept to learn, and his body was already athletic from years of nighttime crime solving. It made criminals easier to catch, in any case.

But soon that wasn't enough, and his self-made cases were so sparse and few. The Police still hadn't responded to his email about his new job (Consulting Detective-the only one in the world, much like everything else about him). He began learning miscellaneous things: how to handle a gun, how to deal with a hostage situation. His mind palace was expanding by leaps and bounds every day, and it was pleasant to have his mind working like this again.

And then, one day, he's caught. A detective inspector, Lestrade, sees him take down a criminal they'd been trying to apprehend for weeks. He gets an email the following week asking him to come in.

A small smile begins to build.

Donovan doesn't like him-easy enough to tell, what with her calls of 'freak' following him back to his apartment every week-and Anderson seems to like him even less. They're so terribly hard to work with, and his trip through his mind palace is frequently interrupted by one or the other's derogatory comments. Lestrade is alright, often telling them to leave him be when his mind is pounding through a particularly difficult case, but even he eyes Sherlock with suspicion.

It's all very annoying, and he loathes to put himself in the presence of these idiots voluntarily, but his mind hasn't been this content since he was a child playing mind games with Mycroft (not that they speak to each other anymore). So he suffers through it with an expressionless facade, like he always does, and allows his mind the brief moments of peace.

John Watson was an interesting character. He fit in so well, integrated so perfectly into the masses-what with his recent wartime discharge-that Sherlock felt a small flutter in his chest he identified as jealousy. What an odd feeling; when was the last time he had felt something so mundane?

But that seemed to be a part of John's charm. He was controversial in so many ways, and Sherlock loved it. Diagnosed with PTSD, yet clearly the opposite as eager as he is to hold a gun. Sprinting after Sherlock with almost no thought at all, diving headfirst into danger with the self preservation of Sherlock (that is to say, very little), and brilliant in social situations; he'd helped Sherlock out a few of his own messes, actually. He'd never had the privilege of studying such an intriguing specimen, and the small hope building in the back of his mind was purely scientific; it had nothing to do with the thought that John hadn't left yet, that he might yet stay.

That still had yet to be seen.

He nearly died. John nearly died, and it was in attempt to save Sherlock's life. Sherlock's.

No one-no one had ever done something like, this, for him before. For him.

He's laughing, and there's a possibility he might go into shock soon.

Good God. John has been a part of his life for so long now that he can read him almost better than himself, and what he sees scares him.

He sees the disbelief from years ago, a hint of the comptent, the hidden 'freak' that so often accompanies Sherlock's presence. The doubt, the trace of uncertainty-

So maybe he analyzes the couple a little more viciously than he intended to, responds a little harsher than intended with an "I'm fine", spits out "There's nothing wrong with me," with more conviction than necessary, but it's to get that look out of his eyes. Because, oh God, if John decides that Sherlock is, is some freak like everyone's always said he is, he doesn't know if he could handle it.

And it's true; he doesn't have friends. He's never had friends, the only person ever close to being one was Mycroft, and he didn't really count because he was his brother. He has a friend; he has John.

It occurs to him later, when the drug wears off, that it was meant to pull out some of your greatest fears. Occurs to him that he maybe didn't know himself as well as he should.

How long had that niggle of doubt been hiding in the back of his mind, hidden from his palace? How long had he ignored it, or denied it, because the Holmes' didn't feel emotion-not like that, anyway. They weren't supposed to feel like that.

It occurs to him to wonder when John Watson had become so important in his life that his opinion was Sherlock's make or break. When had he started relying on that gun to watch his back, the sarcastic comments to keep him grounded, the bits of admiration to keep him going?

If John is confused by Sherlock's sudden babbling about the weather and his offer to pay for dinner next time they go out, he doesn't say anything.

As he looks down at the street below, a phone quavering in his hand that's not just acting, a wobble in his voice that's not just pretending, sees John's moment of understanding as he tosses the phone behind him, his toes lining up against the edge just so, he wonders if this emotion thing is really worth it after all.

John's resounding "SHERLOCK" as he jumps is the last thing he hears from his friend. His heart flutters again, like when they first met, and he supposes it can't be that bad.

It's emotion, something that felt sort of like a heart, a little like compassion and makes him very, very sorry he couldn't clue John in. But he can't risk him getting hurt, dying because of him.

So there, they were wrong-there isn't anything wrong with him, after all; he does have a heart. It's beating and pumping and pounding in his chest as he watches John breakdown at his grave, hears the wretched words he can't respond to, feels a need to give John a reprieve from the obvious pain he's in. It's twisting in ways it never has before, reaches out with a longing to his only friend in the entire world, and for the first time, Sherlock feels lonely.

They were wrong. He is fine, he's more than fine. He's alive, he's real, the face staring back at him in the window is most definitely a reflection. There's emotion on that face, determination, and although it's not totally familiar anymore, it has creases of smile lines that John caused, a sarcastic remark at the edge of his tongue waiting to respond, an uplift of hope that had never been there before.

If anything, he's better than ever. He has John, he has his mind, and he has this mission. 2 years undercover? Guaranteed to provide stimulus for his ever moving mind. It was brilliant, actually.

And to think, he was once so worried by those calls of 'freak'.

A/N

Soooooo ya, I probably should have been working on one of my other stories, but it hit me like a freight train-total and absolute.

See ya'll in a month or so (if I'm still alive by then...slowly suffocating under homework...)

Kisses!

Alyss