The whispers started again. They always started when Sherlock walked by. They thought he couldn't hear them calling him gay or bi or abnormal (in far, far less diplomatic terms), but he could. He tried not to let it get to him. Transport was transport, and he had no interest in anyone's body, regardless of sex. The same was true of romantic entanglements—they were a waste of time, really, distractions from academics and the fascinating nuances of life. They—both sex and romance—removed all possible ability for detached, rational, impartial observation. He never wanted them, and his body followed what his head was thinking.
He was his head. His entire self-perception was based on it. He viewed the rest of him as a mere extension of his brain, something evolution had created to get his brain from A to B. Even if it reacted to sexual stimuli, if he'd ever once felt the urge to procreate, he wouldn't likely indulge it. To date, he'd never had that problem and likely never would.
He had no interest in women. Most people assumed he was gay from this fact. Wrong.
He had no interest in men. Most people assumed he was a closet gay from the two facts put together. Wrong.
Typically it didn't bother him, but this month, the taunting and teasing and insidious rumours had spread even further. His sixteenth birthday had just passed, and because he'd never shown even the slightest interest in romance or sex, that meant he was broken, according to the thinking of the ignorant. He wasn't broken, he was just different.
Asexuality, as far as he understood the term, was a rare phenomenon, with only 1% of the world's population sharing it. That was probably why it was so hard for people to understand. Not enough awareness. According to the statistics, there were likely three other people in his class who were asexual, though they may not be aware of it or try to hide it or confuse it with romantic orientation. So he wasn't alone here.
"You're such a freak, Holmes, get a girlfriend already."
"I don't want one."
"How 'bout a boyfriend?" The other kids snickered. "Bet you'd love one of those, shagging all night, his dick up your ass."
"I don't want one."
"Come on, you've got to at least wank. Everyone does."
"I don't." He started to walk away, but the circle of bullies surrounded him. He rolled his eyes at them. "Typical."
The circle started to close. "Come on, Holmes, you can't tell me that you've never wanted to shag someone."
"Can't I?" Ignorance is obvious. More disturbing is the unwillingness to cure such ignorance.
"If you don't want to shag, or wank, you're either a liar or diseased."
Sherlock's nostrils flared. He was tired of being told he was broken. "Contrary to popular belief, it is actually possible for someone to not have a sex drive without being defective."
"Well, you would say that," the bully said, the circle so tight that Sherlock couldn't have raised his arms if he'd wanted to.
"Yes, because it's a fact." Sherlock didn't back down from this pathetically clueless boy who didn't know a thing about Sherlock, not in reality. And of course, Sherlock was far too used to standing up for himself to want to shrink away into a ball.
"We're not even sure you've got anything down there to wank on." One of the bullies pulled his pants down, but Sherlock just stood defiantly. There were rushed footsteps as the French teacher came around the corner to see the ruckus.
"What's going on here?" Her voice was stern, and most of the bullies scattered, leaving Sherlock to pull up his pants in the hallway, just five of the core bullies left.
"Just trying to figure out if he's a fag or not, teach."
"Leave him alone," the teacher ordered.
"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "The sheer ignorance of some people is extremely disruptive." He glared at the bully, half-daring him to throw a punch, but the larger boy just sneered and walked off to his class, as did Sherlock.
It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.