A/N: This is the first in a series of one-shots/chapters, going from Sherlock's childhood to adulthood. Per my usual style, it is a bit angsty, but the final chapter will have some redemption and POSSIBLY something of a Sherlollyish nature ;). It always struck me how people like Donovan just throw the word freak around, either unaware of its effect or intentionally trying to hurt. Sherlock may act like he doesn't care, but the fact that he always responds antagonistically shows that it does hurt him on some level. This is me dabbling in explaining that. Enjoy! And Review please! :)
Oh, and bonus Blind Banker reference about watch time and date. See if you catch it!
Sherlock was seven years old when he was called a freak for the first time.
It was May, and he remembered this long afterwards, because he had been counting down the days until his father's visit. Father and Mummy had separated when he was five, and Father's visits straggled fewer and fewer across the months.
Mycroft—seven years Sherlock's senior, and with no love lost for their paternal progenitor—had not regretted Alistair Holmes's increased absence. But Sherlock could not help admiring the tall, broad-shouldered figure of a man with the deep booming voice and a pair of steely blue eyes not unlike his own. Mummy was undeniably sweet and lovable, but she was small and slight and unintimidating; hardly an impressive persona. On the other hand, Father…
Sherlock, with a peculiar preference for respect over affection, even at the age of seven, was eager for his father's arrival. He practiced his new violin studiously, recognizing the importance of musical accomplishment in his father's (a gifted amateur composer) eyes. He read avidly about current events, that their conversation might be diverse, never bored by the complex details that would have confused a normal lad of seven. Then again, Sherlock was already showing signs that he was far from normal.
He didn't know it then, yet. Blissfully unaware, he sat on the broad stones steps of his mother's manor—she had been the one with the "old" money—and wrapped thin arms around thin knees as he stared out at the long graveled drive ahead. A breeze tousled his wavy dark hair, and he squinted in the late spring sunlight.
At long last—but waiting is always forever to a child—the sound of tire treads crunched in the distance and a gleaming automobile pulled towards him. Sherlock surveyed the vehicle and decided that Father had been doing well for himself.
New car…new job? Or perhaps new commission for his old job? Perhaps the car is part of a promotion package, or is a compensation for something difficult he has to do.
His "gift," as Mummy called it, had never seemed particularly unusual or significant to him. From the earliest days of his childhood, seeing meant more for him than it did for others. He did not merely glance over things in a distracted, ineffective way; he looked, really looked. From what he observed he deduced the possible explanations, then he eliminated the least likely and so decided upon a conclusion. It was simple, really, and it was (in his mind) the only rational course of action.
The car ground to a halt and Sherlock hopped off the steps, running forward to meet the man he'd been waiting for. He was pulled into a tight, rather smothering hug—he disliked too much physical contact in general, but would make an exception for this—and was released a moment later to stare up and mirror his own gaze in the blue-gray depths of his father's.
"You've grown, Sherlock! Two inches since I last saw you!" He smiled approvingly. "Now, hop in—we'll go for a jaunt around the countryside. This weather's too nice to be wasted."
"But what about Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. He wanted to add and Mummy, but he had learned to know better than that. His father's string of girlfriends upset him, but he wanted to be on good terms with him so he pretended that it did not.
A little crease appeared between his father's brows. "I'll…catch up with your brother later," he explained quickly, and then turned the subject by telling Sherlock all about the car.
Something's happened that Mycroft won't like, Sherlock realized. Maybe it has to do with the new job development.
He didn't comment on it yet, though, because he had not gathered enough evidence to draw a satisfactory conclusion. For the moment, he put it aside and reveled in the plush seats of the fine auto, and the privilege of being allowed to ride in the front.
They sped along some country roads, as promised, but though Sherlock enjoyed the verdant scenery he was much more interested in observing his father and finagling tidbits of interest.
His father seemed a bit awkward; more than usual. He was obviously trying hard to be jovial and paternal. "Well, my boy, what have you been at lately? Doing well in school, I hope?"
"Yes, sir," Sherlock assented absently. The last piece of the puzzle slid into place and he turned to his father abruptly, eager to impress. "And what about you? Congratulations on the promotion, even though your new girlfriend doesn't like that it means more trips abroad. She may have been mad at breakfast this morning, but maybe she'll come around."
His father, who was not easily surprised, looked astounded. Sherlock had never really believed that people's jaws dropped when they were astonished, but apparently they did.
"How…the hell did you know that? I'm sorry, excuse my language, son. But—I haven't told anyone…"
Sherlock was bouncing up and down in his seat a bit. "Oh, I'll tell you! It's not too hard, really." He ticked off his fingers so he wouldn't miss anything. "New car, which means that you've gotten a bump up in the world although your business cards are the same so it's within the same company. You've just gotten back from an international flight—because not only are there multilingual ticket stubs sticking out of your pocket but you've also forgotten to change the date back on your watch. You went to breakfast this morning with your girlfriend, and you walked together—there's a tiny touch of lipstick on your right cheek and some white hairs from a woman's fur wrap on your right sleeve, meaning that you took her arm. That means that you two were on friendly terms this morning, but then you told her about the upgrade and the increased trips (you've got a thick itinerary tucked next to your seat—and she was mad. She went outside and you went after her, in the rain, because your coat collar is damp. This shows that you were both agitated because although you had an umbrella with you didn't open it because you weren't thinking about it.—also, you left separately since there's no more lipstick or fur. And finally, it's a new girlfriend because you're wearing a different cologne even though you've liked the same one forever. That means that someone, who spends time near you and whose aesthetic approval you desire prefers a different scent and you are accommodating them because the relationship is new and you want it to work."
He finished his narrative—which had been delivered at a rapid-fire pace (he'd been practicing)—and stopped, very short of breath. He was giddy with excitement—he'd gone to great lengths to use all the big words that he'd been studying in Mummy's Oxford dictionary, and he thought that he had sounded very much like a grownup.
He knotted his slim fingers together as he waited, watching his father's face carefully.
The look of blank shock there changed rapidly to something different—something almost…disgusted. Suddenly, Sherlock felt as though a chilly April wind, sneaking into May's territory, had breathed against his neck. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words would come.
His father spoke first. "What are you, some kind of freak?" There was something cold and frightened and ugly in his eyes. "My own son is a freak."
Freak. Sherlock knew that word; he had just read it a couple of weeks ago, when he was trying to find frigate in the dictionary. Noun: a person or animal who is an example of a strange deviation from nature; a monster.
It stung more than if he had been slapped. Sherlock remembered, two days ago, when one of the strings on his violin had snapped. In a second, the strong, taut, purposeful strand of metal had recoiled, curling back in a painful frazzle of curled wire and sharp ends.
That was how he felt now. Broken. Strange. An aberration.
"Father, I…"
"Son, let me tell you something," his father interjected. His voice wasn't hard, but his eyes had not lost that wary, contemptuous look. "You can't go around doing that to people. It's bloody unsettling, alright? It's not normal. What has your mother been teaching you?"
He lapsed into silence, and Sherlock did not speak again.
His soul was raw, and for once his mind could not provide the answers.