At the age of 15, Sherlock was proud to say he had lived his entire life alone. Whether there were people around him or not was irrelevant; in his mind he was separate from the rest of society, keeping in touch with them on occasion out of necessity. This was easier said than done as despite his constant complaints from the age of five; his parents had insisted he finish school and get a good degree somewhere. Sherlock disliked this idea for several reasons – he felt as though he was qualified enough without having to go to university, but he reluctantly accepted that most people wouldn't be bothered hanging around waiting for him to prove it.
He was returning to school in early January after a particularly uneventful Christmas break. His classes were ever so boring as he'd already taught himself the courses over the summer – the ones that he took an interest in at least. Physics and Chemistry were a necessity to Sherlock as science was his chosen field (and his favourite pastime). He also took Modern Studies and Music as he had a mild interest in the law and enjoyed playing the violin. His fifth and Sixth subjects were Maths and English as they were compulsory, much to his distaste. Luckily this was only a three day week – Monday was the 1st of January so they were allowed an extra two days holiday, starting back on the 3rd on Wednesday.
Sherlock unsurprisingly found that school hadn't changed in the two weeks he'd been absent; there was only one small addition. As he walked into his first period class on Wednesday, a boy Sherlock didn't recognise was sitting in the seat next to his. In most classes the seat next to Sherlock remained empty for the year, as he and others preferred.
"Evidently he hasn't been warned", Sherlock thought bitterly, pulling his chair to the opposite side of the desk. Everybody knew to avoid Sherlock Holmes.
As the boy sat there listening intently to the lesson and occasionally glancing at Sherlock with curious eyes, Sherlock began to deduce. The boy came from a poor background; his clothes were old and looked as though they had never even seen an iron, and his shoes were torn and muddy from what looked like years of use. They were quite possibly the only shoes he had. He had been transferred, due to bullying perhaps, as there was definitely something that put this boy on edge – he sat folded in on himself, trying to seem as though he was very small, invisible maybe. Despite this, he had a good built and Sherlock could tell he would probably do well in a fight. Even so, the boy came across to Sherlock as quite shy and timid; it wasn't until the end of class he decided to speak.
"Hello", the boy hesitated. "I'm John Watson". Sherlock looked at the boy, John, with the disinterested expression he always held so well. It masked his shock - people didn't usually speak to him; he was Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock Holmes", he replied, grimacing. Swiftly, before John could try to say anything else, Sherlock flung his bag over his shoulder and hurried along the corridor to his next class. "He obviously hasn't spoken to a soul since he arrived here. Why would the first person he tries to befriend be Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock scoffed. Funnily enough, after Sherlock's ever cold and abrupt manner, they didn't speak again.
Over the course of the week Sherlock kept a wandering eye on the boy called John, who appeared to be in almost every class Sherlock had except Physics. John had started to make friends with a small group of people who were modest, intelligent (though nothing extraordinary next to Sherlock), and liked to keep to themselves. Sherlock was glad he seemed to be fitting in somewhere; he dreaded to think of what his own life would be like if John Watson had decided to be his friend.
Luckily for Sherlock, his life had returned to its dull routine. By day he would attend his classes, spending any free time between the library's limited collection of books and the science department where he had created his own lab space in the corner of the technician's room. The teacher's never bothered him either – the letter from his parents explaining his need for space (and less human interaction) had made it clear to the school that Sherlock was not up for negotiation when it came to his important scientific work. By night, he would stay up far too late reading about the elements, deduction and all things that suited his extraordinary mind. However, he was still human and he learned to regret it the next morning when he groggily pulled himself from bed, vowing to go to sleep earlier that night.
His home life was a similar story; his family were fairly well off and so to stop his near-constant complaining, his parents allowed his bedroom and Mycroft's old room next door to be merged to create a living space with a built in lab. This was all agreed under one important condition; all of his experiments must be carried out in safe conditions. In his earlier years his parents had often worried for his and their safety, reminding him every so often of the time he carelessly left a small assortment of poisons on their kitchen table.
As well as chemistry, Sherlock had more recently developed an affinity for solving crimes. He wasn't trusted to go very far from his home alone, mainly because he had nobody to go anywhere with, but also because he had always been a magnet for danger. As a substitute, he sat in the front room with nothing but the space in his head to solve puzzles and riddles alike, but still nothing interested him more than crimes. At first, his parents had thought it entertaining, but before long it began to consume Sherlock, which worried them more than anything.
Naturally, this made no changes to the way Sherlock behaved as his parents worried as parents do, usually for insignificant reasons in Sherlock's mind, as he had felt almost entirely responsible for himself from the age of eleven. When he was younger he hadn't connected with his peers, which was unsurprising when he regularly reminded them of how stupid they all were. This was a concern to his parents because, although they could tell he was different from other children, they just wanted him to feel as though he was accepted. Despite their best efforts, he never had. He was alone in his world and he had always been okay with that because he was Sherlock Holmes and that's how life was.
The only person he could relate to (and he resented himself for it), was his brother Mycroft. Mycroft was as Sherlock was when it came to intelligence, though Sherlock would never admit it. His parents were proud of his brother, who (at the age of twenty-three) held a 'minor position in the British government' – his and Sherlock's interest clearly lay in different places. Sherlock though of his brother as arrogant, snobby and far too proud, but he refused to call himself a hypocrite, much to Mycroft's annoyance. He was always annoyed about something, so Sherlock didn't see the point in being any nicer to him; it wouldn't make a difference.
His parents gave in to many of his pleas, but they had raised him with a firm hand and he knew when he pushed things too far. They were respectful of the fact that he was 'different', and Sherlock was polite and as courteous as he could be, but he hated the mundane lifestyle his parents held him to, and he made sure they knew that.
"How was your first week back then dear?" his Mother asked warily as they sat round the dinner table that Friday night. She was used to his attitude when it came to school.
"Dull. And unbearably slow".
"Come on now Sherlock, you have to at least try. You won't enjoy anything if you don't put in the effort to", his father objected.
"What is there to enjoy? The same boring routine day in, day out, surrounded by people I don't like, learning things that I already know? There is no point in that." Sherlock folded his arms defensively, glaring at his plate.
"Sherlock, don't speak to your Father like that. You know we only want the best for you."
"Then why don't you let me do what I want?"
"Because you don't always know what's right – you're still our son Sherlock; we need to look after you, no matter how much you disagree." His mother sighed and started to clear the table. "Now, go up to your room and do your homework."
Sherlock glared at his mother in protest from under his thick mop of curly hair.
"Please?" She added.
"Fine" he gave in grumpily. He couldn't be bothered arguing tonight – he had to complete his experiment and he didn't want to waste any energy that could be spent on thinking.
But once he was in his room he couldn't concentrate. His experiment was almost too complicated for him to handle as he'd used up too much blood digesting his dinner; his book wasn't holding his interest; his violin was too loud for night time according to his parents, and he didn't know what to do. It was dark outside, but he turned out all the lights in his room except for the one by his bed and strode to the far side of the room. The city of London was beautiful, and Sherlock wanted to get out there and explore as much of it as he could. Unfortunately he wasn't trusted – his parents spent far too much time worrying about him getting killed. They were awfully dramatic.
He sat down on the windowsill that overlooked the street below, watching the cars drive slowly by. Then he looked up and started at the moon, alone in the sky – it was too cloudy for stars. And at that moment in time Sherlock felt at one with the moon. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was lonely.