Sherlock raised his head to look up when a shadow darkened his view. Mycroft was there, arms crossed, frown set deep on his face, eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock said nothing; he just looked away. Mycroft pushed dark hair away from Sherlock's face and sighed. The dark ring around Sherlock's right eye, the bright red on his cheek, the crusted blood on his split lip, as well as the way he frowned, the way he didn't look at Mycroft and the way he sat, slumped over in the chair, said it all. Mycroft lifted Sherlock's black locks a little higher to see scrapes on his forehead, and a deep gash just over his right eyebrow. Sherlock shoved Mycroft's hand away.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked.

"He started it," Sherlock growled.

"I don't care who started it," Mycroft replied. "But you should've stopped it."

"I did!" Sherlock straightened a little. "Right after the other guy stopped moving."

"You've got the power of words, Sherlock. There is no reason for you to resort to your fists!" Mycroft scolded. "You're better than that. You're smarter than that. Why would you feel you need to use violence?"

"Because my words didn't do anything useful!" Sherlock shouted, looking up at Mycroft. And then his face fell, and he turned his head away. "They just made it worse. Like they usually do."

Mycroft sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, you're fifteen. You can't keep doing this. I can't always come and pick you up from school. I have a life other than you."

Sherlock snorted. "Some life it is."

Mycroft unfolded his arms so he could put his hands on his hips. He stared down at the ground, contemplating something. Sherlock looked up at his brother. He could see how Mycroft's eyes had a distant look, and were moving left to right every so slightly, and very rapidly. Deep thought then. The hands on the hips suggest a serious thought, and the tension in the arms suggested it was recent, though it wasn't difficult to really deduce what Mycroft was contemplating. The fact that he kept his gaze at the ground, or more specifically away from Sherlock, indicated that it had to do with his kid brother. Big shock there.

Mycroft pulled out of his thoughts a moment later. He turned to the office aid.

"I'll take Sherlock home," he told her. "Thank you for calling me."

She nodded, giving him a small smile. "Of course. Take care. Hope to see you soon."

"What an awful thing to say," Sherlock glared straight at her. "Just because you fancy my brother doesn't mean you should want to see him again considering the only time he's ever in this office is when I get into trouble and our father is out of town. Which is often, granted but—"

"Sherlock," Mycroft reprimanded sharply. "That's enough. Let's go."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft for a moment and, after deciding that his brother was in a humorless mood, judging by the rigidity of his stance, stood up, grabbed his bag, and followed silently.

"It was pretty obvious," Sherlock muttered when they got outside the building.

"I know it was," Mycroft stated, still walking towards the car. "I could tell. But it doesn't mean it needs to be said."

"I thought people liked the truth," Sherlock replied.

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. He stopped and turned sharply on his heels to look his little brother straight in the eye. "They don't like the truth. They like tact. Something you lack and desperately need."

"Why? What's the point of that?" Sherlock challenged, though he took a step back.

"The point, Sherlock? The point?" Mycroft chuckled bitterly. "The point is that you will never have a good job unless you learn it. No one will put up with you. You will live as a poor man unless you learn to have some tact and manners. Then, you can have a good job."

"What? Like you?" Sherlock sneered, looking at Mycroft from head to toe. "In a pressed suit and tie every day, reporting to people much dumber than you? People that can't understand half the things they see before lunch, much less truly understand how the world really works? Why would I want that?"

"No, you're the one that doesn't seem to understand the world," Mycroft pointed a long finger at Sherlock. "If you want to live on your own, and be independent, you're going to need money. And you get money by getting a job. And as it stands right now, you'll never get one. You have less tact than an English Bulldog around females in heat."

Sherlock snorted. "That was tactful."

"Don't get lippy with me," Mycroft growled. "Mom isn't here to hide you from the big bad world anymore. And I won't always be around to bail you out. You can't live like this forever Sherlock. So don't you dare talk back to me."

Mycroft then turned away without giving Sherlock a chance to respond. Sherlock lowered his head and walked behind Mycroft, following him to the car. The pair was silent while they sat in their seats, Mycroft in the driver's side and Sherlock in the passenger's side. They didn't even speak as Mycroft waited to pull out of the parking lot, and they were on the road a couple of miles away before either of them spoke.

"What really happened then?" Mycroft asked as he pulled up to a red light.

"Why do you think there was more?" Sherlock glared out the window.

"Because I know you, and I know you wouldn't just get into fights for no reason," Mycroft answered in an even tone. "So, what was it?"

Sherlock rested his elbow on the door's arm rest and rested his cheek on his fist.

"Don't be like that," Mycroft coaxed, turning right onto another street.

Sherlock's eyes shifted to stare at his brother for a second before going back to look outside the window. Mycroft let the silence persist for a few moments. He wanted to give Sherlock a chance.

"If you don't tell me why you were in the fight, I will tell dad what you've been up to," Mycroft stated. "The fights, the investigating, everything. And you know how he'll feel about that."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock straightened, whipping his head around to look at Mycroft.

"I would," Mycroft replied. "You know how he feels about that after what happened last time."

Sherlock contemplated the situation. The tone in Mycroft's voice was even. It wasn't raised, but it wasn't soft either. It was his medium, negotiator's voice. Or at least, that's what Sherlock called it. It was soothing, almost like a hypnotist, but it had force to it. The low, rumbling tone to his speech gave it a sense of calm, but the force indicated that he really wasn't kidding. But Sherlock didn't need to analyze Mycroft's speech pattern to know that. He could just look at him to know what he was thinking. The intent stare, even if it wasn't directed at him, the firm grip on the steering wheel, the upright position he held himself in the seat. That usually indicated anyone meant business. It probably helped that Sherlock just knew his brother, and knew he wouldn't kid about that sort of thing.

"Truth is…" Sherlock sighed, "I threw the first punch, but he really did start it." He added the last statement on hastily.

Mycroft hazarded a glance in Sherlock's direction. "You did what?"

"That's bad…isn't it?" Sherlock looked at his brother.

"Yes, very," Mycroft's voice was becoming agitated. "Why did you do that?"
"Can't you guess?" Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock," Mycroft drawled, his tone taking a harsh edge.

Sherlock sighed and looked to the floor. He was quiet before continuing softer than before. "One of my classmates came up to me today. He said he had a new girlfriend. They had been dating for a month, but he thought she was cheating on him. She had never really said anything to make him think that, nor had he really found any evidence to support his claim, but he felt something was just…off. He had heard about how I liked to solve things like this from other students, so he thought I would help. "

"Sounds like something you would do," Mycroft stated, making a left turn. "Nothing unusual there."

"Well, my client took me to the lunch table, where he usually sat," Sherlock continued. "His girlfriend and two other couples were already there. It only took me a second, but I could tell that she had been cheating. So, I told them as much."

"Them?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, the whole table," Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft before shifting his eyes back to the floor. "I said that she had been with every guy there. And of course, they all wanted to know why, so I told them that they all had traces of her exact shade of lipstick, which was a distinct shade of red that no other girl in the school wore, on their cheeks and lips. There was a faint hint of her facial powder on their hands, where she touched each of them after applying her make-up before seeing each one. And then, for the final touch, they all smelled of sweat and her perfume, meaning they had all, most likely, recently shagged her. Probably all before lunch. I told them that I applauded her stamina."

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft groaned.

"Did I do something wrong?" Sherlock looked back up at him.

"It's that whole tact thing I mentioned earlier," Mycroft stated. "That still doesn't explain why you threw the first punch."

"Well, of course all the guys except my client got really mad at me," Sherlock continued. "My client, naturally, just got mad at the others, and his girlfriend. But he was trying to defend me. One of them came at me, to punch me, but my client stopped him. And then, one of the other asked 'Why would you ask that freak for help?' And I…" Sherlock paused, taking a deep, shaking breath. He closed his eyes. "…I just lost it. I hate that word! I hate it! Freak…why do they call me that Mycroft? I just…I don't understand."

Mycroft pulled into their driveway, shut off the car, and turned to look at Sherlock. "The reason is simple, dear brother." He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We are freaks."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion at the hurtful statement. His eyes were starting to well up some with tears, but he was fighting them back. Mycroft knew Sherlock hated to cry in front of anyone.

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock managed to choke out. "You don't seem like a freak anyway."

"But I am," Mycroft stated. "You and I…we see things in a different way. What's obvious to us is hidden from the others. We call ourselves brilliant, but the world calls us freaks. And you know why?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"It's because we a different, superior, and they are frightened of that," Mycroft told him. "People fear what they can't understand while we are intrigued by it. We work to know the unknowable, and we have the ability to do so. And that's a foreign concept to most people. They call us freaks because they will never be able to be like us. We will never be like them, but why would we want to be? Their brains are so tiny, their minds so jumbled and slow, but we are above that. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, wiping at his eye with his sleeve.

"They call you a freak, so own it," Mycroft carried on. "If you accept that, and make it your label, then it can't hurt you. Accept that you are a freak, a title given to you by lesser men fearing the better mind. If you give them a way to harm you, they've won, but if you accept their label, take it and own it, and wear it like a badge, then what do they have then?"

"Nothing," Sherlock spoke, his voice free of trembles.

"Precisely," Mycroft smiled. "Do you see? They only call you names because they are scared of what you are and what you can become. They are scared to see someone be better than they are. So take their names, make them yours, and don't let them get to you anymore. If you take the names they call you and own them, they won't understand what's going on. They'll be even more confused. The way to beat them is to do the unexpected."

Sherlock nodded again, and looked his brother in the eyes. "I'll give them a reason to respect me. One day, they won't call me a freak or a weirdo to harm me. They'll call me that because they know I'm better than them and they're trying to pull me down."
"That's it," Mycroft patted his shoulder. "They just won't know anything better to call you, or how to stop you. So they will call you those things in the hopes their tactics will succeed, but what they won't know is that it won't work. You're going to be so high above them already, that their pitiful stones of insults can't reach you. You'll be the great Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft could tell that Sherlock wasn't completely convinced. He still wouldn't hold his head up.

"You just need to find something to do with that talent," Mycroft stated. He pulled the keys out of the ignition. "You've already started to do something, actually. Solving mysteries and the like. There may be something to that."

"Yeah, sure," Sherlock muttered and rubbed at the gash over his eye.

"Don't rub it, you'll make it worse," Mycroft chided, opening his door to get out of the car.

Sherlock sighed and opened the door, slipping out and standing up on the pavement. Mycroft was talking about something, probably relating what he did that day or thinking aloud what they should eat for dinner, possibly when he expected father to be home, but Sherlock didn't listen. He just walked inside and trudged up to his room. He dropped his bag onto the floor and flopped down on the bed, resting his chin on his arms. The taunting, the boys calling out "Freak, freak," as he and the other squared off in the lunch room, still rang through his head.

Freak. Any abnormal phenomenon or unusual object. An aberration. A person or animal, typically used as an exhibition, that exhibits a strange deviation from nature. Often called a monster. The unusual. The odd. Irregular. Also associated with abnormalities such as deformation. Monstrosity. In more informal terms, a person who acts or dresses in a strikingly unconventional or strange way, or someone obsessed with something specific. Derives from the use in the 1560s in which it was a sudden turn of mind, perhaps related to O.E. frician, meaning "to dance" or M.E. frek, "boldly or quickly." It could possibly be from O.E. frec, meaning "greedy or gluttonous." Later, changed to unusual thing, commonly preceding "freak of nature."

He gave a cry of frustration, burying his head in the pillow. He was doing it again. He couldn't help it. His mind worked like clock, an engine, and he just couldn't stop it. Things just came out of his mouth. He couldn't help it. He understood a lot of things, but this, his unusual behavior and mind, was the one thing he couldn't understand. And he couldn't understand how Mycroft coped. Mycroft was right when he said they were both the same. While he appeared to be normal on the outside, Sherlock's big brother was just a master at manipulating people. Mycroft had learned social graces, and had learned how to fit in. So why couldn't he?

His mind went back to what Mycroft had said in the car. Own the name and it can't hurt you.

Well, technically, he was a freak. He was an unusual phenomenon. There was no denying that, when he actually thought about the meaning of the word. He was unusual. He was an abnormality, irregular, and someone who acts strange. He was unconventional and strange. Maybe there was something to that.

He was an unusual phenomenon. But he was using that now, wasn't he? He was helping people solve their issues. It was fun for him because it was like solving a puzzle. He had to just find all the pieces first.

Sherlock smiled. He was a detective. Yes, he liked that. He was a freak and a detective. A detective because he was a freak. The only called him freak because they were frightened of his powers, after all. Worried about what he would deduce about them, what he would notice about them, what he would say about them. He was consulted by people who needed help. He was obviously needed, but he didn't need anyone. He was superior, and could do his work without others, unless they needed his help. He was a detective people consulted for the solution of crimes.

A consulting detective.

Sherlock smiled. Yes, he liked the sound of that.

He went down stairs when Mycroft called him for dinner. He finished his homework swiftly, as he normally did, and stayed up late reading books and researching various things on the internet, as he always did. The next morning, he went back to school, like always, and went through his classes, all the while mulling over his newly found title. He smiled every time his mind said it. He would be the only one, and people would respect him for it. He would be alone in his chosen path, and that was okay. He didn't need anyone as long as he could solve the puzzle.

As he walked down the hall, one of the boys from his row yesterday came up to him. He was an average sized, stocky male with a short hair cut and a smug expression. He crossed his arm as he stood in front of Sherlock, blocking his way.

"Hey freak," he called.

Sherlock looked up and with a smile, said, "Yes? And what does your puny mind need help with today?"

The boy gave him a bewildered look, and a strange spluttering noise came out of his mouth.

"Go along now," Sherlock shooed him away. "You are dismissed."

When the male didn't move out of the way, Sherlock simply pushed his way through, continuing onto his next class. He was nearly there when he heard someone calling out his name. He turned around to see a small, mousey kid coming up to speak with him.

"I heard you can help people figure out things," the student said.

Sherlock noted the way the kid was just almost out of breath, and how he pushed his large glasses back onto his face. Slightly out of shape, probable video game addict, and from a lower income family, as judging by the thickness of the glasses and largeness. The family probably couldn't afford anything better. The backpack was conservative and traditional, so this was not one who would like to shake convention, if possible. Most likely because if he were to be noticed, he would be taunted. The way he looked up at Sherlock, with a combination of admiration and fear, suggested a younger classman, probably a year or two below him. He held a piece of paper in his hand, most likely pertaining to what the kid wanted his help with.

"I can tell by your physique that you are most likely an avid video game player from a middle class family," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "You like to stay in the shadow, wanting to be unnoticed for fear of bullies. You must be at least a year below me, and yet you've come to be me because there has been a tragedy in your life recently, possibly relating to a friend, more likely relating to a family member, probably a younger sibling. Am I close?"

The kid took a moment to comprehend what Sherlock had just said, and then replied with "Well, yes, actually. It's my sister. She disappeared last night and left this note. But it's unlike her to want to run away. We're happy at home and our parents love us. I can't understand what happened."

He offered the piece of paper to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes shifted back and forth as he read the letter. A smirk came over his face as he looked up at the kid. "You've come to the right man."

"So you'll help me?" the kid perked up, adjusting his glasses again.

"Oh yes," Sherlock smiled. "The game is on."