He could no longer feel his face. All the pain he had endured hours earlier had disappeared, leaving what felt like a dozen holes covering his face. The beating Sherlock Holmes had endured this time was completely irrational. Sure he had said some things in the past to this particular group of boys, but today he had just been walking to class.

Sherlock was walking home faster than usual. His feet almost couldn't keep up with his legs as they moved. Every now and then he would rub his hand against his face. He could feel the bruises that were starting to inflame along his cheekbones. He was having trouble seeing through his right eye now too. A sting shot across his eyelid when he tried to touch it so he decided to just let the bruise do the damage it needed to. Sherlock clutched the straps of his backpack tightly, which felt as if it was filled with bricks.

He had been walking from his English Literature class when it had happened. Ross was fourteen, so he only a year older than Sherlock. Ross however, looked more like a nineteen year old, with huge arms and a face that looked as if he was permanently glaring at everything. The three other boys with him looked no different. Sherlock couldn't remember their names. Or didn't care, he wasn't quite sure. Ross and the others had come out of nowhere when they crossed Sherlock's path in the hallway. Ross stopped right in front of Sherlock, who in turn also stopped. Ross towered over him like a skyscraper. Sherlock looked up at him, making sure to stay completely calm. Never show weakness, Mycroft always said to him. Sherlock knew exactly what was going to happen next. And like the other times it had happened, he just took it. Never sink to their levels, brother mine.

Thinking about it as he walked home, Sherlock realized how utterly useless some of Mycroft's advise was. What a rubbish big brother he was. Sherlock walked slowly up the porch stairs of his house. He was starting to feel light headed, so he held onto the railing until he reached the door. He opened his bag to search for his keys, when the front door opened. Mycroft was standing in the doorway. His cold eyes scanned his little brother, then he shook his head. "Oh Sherlock."

Sherlock couldn't hold the tears back any longer. He crumbled to the porch floor and cried until his face stung. This had never happened before. Sherlock had always tried to keep it straight when Mycroft was around. He wasn't exactly the empathetic type. But today Mycroft came over to Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked up at his older brother, his blue eyes barely visible under the purple lumps on his face. In that moment, Sherlock wanted to tell him how much it hurt. Not just the bruises, but the pain he felt in his heart. Despite what Mycroft usually said to him, Sherlock was fairly certain he still had one.

Sherlock was tired of the beatings, and being called "freak" whenever he walked the school halls. He knew he shouldn't care, but it just hurt so much sometimes. Its not that he wanted to fit in or have friends. He was above all that. He just wanted to be left alone, with his thoughts. In silence, without other people bothering him.

Mycroft started to help Sherlock off the porch and into the house. "Now haven't we learned something today, brother?" Sherlock hated the way Mycroft talked to him. Like a five year old, for god's sake! But he nodded, because he knew what Mycroft was about to say, and as usual Mycroft was right.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Sherlock sat on one of the sofas in the lounge room, and stared straight up at his big brother as he spoke. "Never forget that."