Foreword:
There really aren't many stories like this (for good reasons) but I was really hoping to capture this subject from a different angle. From a viewpoint that we rarely see. In any kind of media, really, do we rarely see someone with Sherlock's condition trying to better themselves and hating what they are.
Every time someone comments I'm half expecting them to release their venom on me (which is completely understandable considering the subject matter) but really, I'm glad to see people support this story and idea so much. It's a really uncomfortable subject for me to write personally, mostly because it's a tender topic and it scares a lot of people (and it really should) but it's also real. It's a real problem in society and it exists whether you want it to or not (and I really hope not). But I think it's important to deal with controversial topics that get a lot of criticism. It gives us a chance to try and understand why people are the way they are without losing sight of our morals.
So I just really want to thank everyone reading who leaves civil comments and sees this story for what it really is. Because at first glance, yes, it's obviously about pedophilia but people often look past the fact that it's really about wanting to be "normal" and the ability to change. I encourage and enthuse people to be disgusted and repulsed but I also urge you to be sympathetic and pity the main character's ordeal and struggle.
There is always someone out there who is sick, but trying to get better.
Sorry for rambling and scaring you away, but I really think it's important to have a foreword (considering the theme) so you can understand and decide for yourselves if you really want to read this. Please proceed at your own volition and thank you for reading...
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Sherlock would never admit to being proud of himself because he isn't. Well, in some ways he had a lot to be proud of, like his job or his gift of observation. But there were certain aspects about himself that were enough to even make him feel a little ashamed about.
He knew he could be selfish at times, only helping others when it suited his fancy and uncaring of how it affected the people around him. Sherlock wasn't the most compassionate or sympathetic person either and it put a heavy strain on his chances of making any friends in the future. But Sherlock wasn't interested in friends or compassion...
Which is why he often found himself sitting alone in a park that was just down the street from his flat. Sherlock came around a lot but no one ever seemed to pay him much attention. No one cared, or noticed for that matter, because it was common to see people sitting by themselves. They usually came around to clear their head or simply relax.
Sherlock never came here for either of those reasons, though he wish he had. It was almost nearly impossible for Sherlock to get clutter-minded with his thoughts, so coming up with a good lie to justify why he came here was rather difficult. He hadn't come for the birds or the air. Air was everywhere so what made it any different over here?
No... Sherlock knows exactly why he always finds himself coming back to this particular bench in this particular park. The reason is young and energetic and running around the jungle gym carelessly. It is clambering up small stairs and giggling as it slides all the way down smooth plastic.
He wants to look away out of shame and guilt but the temptation is too much to tear his eyes from the young boy climbing all over the jungle gym, unaware of the eyes that observe him openly. It's an act that could warrant caution for any passers-by but there's no one else around, save for a few other children and their mothers chatting away at a nearby table. Sherlock can tell that they're not even paying attention.
But they really should, Sherlock muses to himself.
Because there are people like him lurking around. Sherlock's not a predator and he's well aware of what's right and wrong, which is why he never acts upon his urges. He knows watching is no better or acceptable but Sherlock honestly feels like this is doing no harm. Nobody has to know what he's thinking about when he stares at boys and nobody has to get hurt.
Sherlock tries not to be the bad guy but it's rather difficult when he doesn't have any say in the matter. He never asked to be born this way and he's not proud of it, but the fact still remains that this is who he is and this is what he likes. As sick as it sounds. There's just no way of justifying his attraction to younger boys, namely the one he's been watching for some time now.
He's a tiny little thing so it's hard for Sherlock to pinpoint his exact age but if he had to guess he'd say somewhere between ten and thirteen. Somewhere above ten for sure. Sherlock made it a habit to draw the line at that age because he was trying to get better and be normal so he could like adults his own age, but it was rough. His mind wanders off elsewhere before he can distinguish what's good and what's bad.
The boy has big ears that poke out of his mop of blonde hair and a long nose that's big for any boy his age, but Sherlock finds his subtle mousy features all the more adorable. He's sporting a striped jumper with shorts and a rather worn pair of tennis shoes. Sherlock also notices that he's all alone because he never breaks off to play with the other kids and there are only three mothers nearby, assuming each of them has a kid.
It's not really important to Sherlock but he notices it nevertheless. It's not like he's plotting to do something irrational or try to "make a move" so to speak, he just can't get over the fact that this poor boy is by himself. Playing alone, no friends... Much like Sherlock, but this kid is smiling and happy like a hedgehog in a hole. How can he be so happy when he's all alone?
Sherlock is so good at figuring people out but when it comes to emotions he has no clue. But Sherlock decides that children have a lot of silly reasons to be happy. They could see a butterfly and their day would be off to a great start. The promise of ice cream alone is enough to make them hyper, but that's somewhat understandable. Kids want fun and sugar. Plain and simple.
There is a momentary lapse in Sherlock's musings when someone walks by and he pretends to not be gawking towards the playground, but it only makes him more guilty looking. No one seems to notice this, though. Sherlock is quite transparent and he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing. The mothers really should be paying more attention, then again Sherlock shouldn't be here indulging in his illness.
The blonde boy comes trotting around near where Sherlock is sitting, hair bouncing with each heavy footfall, and trips over his goofy feet when a shoelace comes undone. Sherlock watches the kid do a face plant into the concrete walkway, but the kid's face is unharmed and his attention is elsewhere because he's scraped his knee from the fall.
He immediately collects himself to clutch at his knee with a sour looking grimace but despite the obvious pain and sight of blood the kid doesn't whine or shed a tear. Sherlock feels the need to help him, comfort him in some way, but that is wishful thinking. But then the boy pushes out his bottom lip and looks directly over at Sherlock, whether it's on purpose or accident is a whole other story.
Suddenly, Sherlock feels put on the spot since this kid is looking to the first friendly face he sees, asking silently for help, and who is Sherlock to deny him assistance? Without thinking it any further through, Sherlock pushes himself up from the bench and stalks over to where the blonde boy is on the ground, clutching at his wound.
Sherlock's tall and looming figure eclipses the sun to cast his long shadow over the boy. The kid looks up slowly, almost cautiously, and stares at him with puppy eyes that shimmer with a sliver of trust. The man is tall and slender with black hair, a dark coat, and a purple scarf. Sherlock thinks the kid has poor judgment in making allies, but he kneels down beside the kid nevertheless to stoop to his level.
"Nasty little fall you took there," Sherlock observes, clasping his hands together as he looks over to the mothers and other children who remain completely oblivious. "What's your name?"
"John Watson, sir," the boy says respectfully, staring at the adult from under his lashes meekly.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he tells John as he sticks his hand out. John's significantly smaller hand grasps his and they shake awkwardly a few times, but John smiles and laughs a little. "What?"
"You have a silly name," John giggles sweetly and Sherlock should be a little offended but John's face lights up, seeming to forget about the pain in his knee.
"Well, you have a silly nose," Sherlock remarks playfully as he taps the tip of John's long nose.
John doesn't take it to heart but rather giggles even more, which is a good sign because Sherlock meant no offense by it. His nose was adorable. This seems to break the ice a little and John is no longer shy or cautious, letting his smile shine bright.
"Are you alright, John Watson?" Sherlock asks after the laughter dies down a little.
Sherlock reaches out to move one of John's hands out of the way to see how badly skinned his boney knee is. Not too gruesome or bloody but it still looks painful and Sherlock thinks he can see the irritated skin throbbing from here. John lets Sherlock look him over for a for more seconds.
"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asks after his first question goes unanswered, prodding at the area around the wound. John winces slightly when Sherlock prods too close. "Sorry..."
"It's alright, Mr. Holmes. It doesn't hurt too badly," John promises with a small smile.
"Does this happen often then?" Sherlock inquires, observing a week old scab on one of John's pointy elbows.
"Yeah, sometimes on accident. Most of the time on purpose," John admits and Sherlock gives him a funny look. "I want to be a doctor when I grow up so I need all the practice I can get."
Sherlock chuckles deeply at the kid's rather silly logic, but he finds it quite endearing.
"You seem a little young to be making decisions like that," Sherlock eggs on slightly, indirectly asking for John's age, and it works.
"I'm not that young! I'm thirteen!" John protests like the child he is but Sherlock gives him an unconvinced smirk. John sighs, "Alright, I'm eleven..."
"Are you sure?",Sherlock questions, rustling John's blonde hair playfully. "You're rather short for a boy who's almost in secondary."
John swats Sherlock's hand away with a frustrated little giggle, hating being treated like a kid but finding it heart warming that an adult can be so cool and just as playful. And this news makes Sherlock wonder why John is letting a stranger get in his space and talk to him.
"Mum says I just haven't hit my growth spurt yet," John tells Sherlock, crossing his arms across his chest in frustration.
"I'm sure she's right," Sherlock agrees, smiling down at John. "Speaking of your mum, where is she? Shouldn't she be watching you and tending to your boo boos?"
"She works, sir," John mumbles with a forlorn frown, hugging his injured leg. "But I can take care of myself just fine!"
"Oh, yes, of course! You're practically an adult now!" Sherlock is purposefully mocking John but not in a snotty way. He's playing at reverse psychology to peek the kid's interest further.
"Well, since you're a kid I guess you won't be needing this," Sherlock brushes off with nonchalance as he conveniently hides something colorful and wrapped in plastic.
John's eyebrows quirk and his eyes follow the movement, his curiosity stirring as he tries to get sight of what Sherlock is hiding from him. John reaches out to pull Sherlock's hand out in hopes of seeing what he has but is too late.
"Oi! What have you got?" John moans, put off by the fact he was denied something sweet.
"Oh, it's nothing..." Sherlock assures, tucking away the small object and making the plastic crinkle.
"You've got sweets!" John exclaims as he comes to the realization.
"Just a lolly and it's hardly any good for an adult such as yourself..."
John's lips purse together as he pouts petulantly, showing just how much of a child he still is, and Sherlock chuckles at the notion. Seeming somewhat satisfied with himself Sherlock relents and pulls the lolly out of his coat, handing it over to John who snatches it hastily, afraid that the adult might change his mind. It's a sick game Sherlock plays but he can't help it.
John rips the wrapper off and latches his mouth onto the lollipop like one of those fish that sticks to the walls of a fish tank. Sherlock beams a warm smile as he watches John's face light up with wonder. His mousy features range from wonder to excitement to delight and judging by the faces John makes Sherlock is sure John is happy.
There's a pang in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, a twinge that makes him feel nauseous and guilty all along his body. Too far, Sherlock scolds himself. Too far. He doesn't have any ulterior motives but his intentions aren't precisely pure either. Sherlock is keeping some sort of wall between John and himself and he's trying to limit physical contact.
Sherlock isn't afraid of losing control. He has great impulse control, especially when it comes to matters like this. But he's afraid that someone will mistake his kindness as perversion. He's trying to get better but it doesn't really help that he's still coming around here to watch boys like John play.
"You seem rather anxious to grow up," Sherlock observes, brushing a few strands of blonde hair out of John's face. "Why is that?"
John stops sucking on the lollipop and pulls it out to answer Sherlock.
"This is my last summer before I go off to secondary school," John explains to him almost sadly. John's face takes on a dreadful shade of white, paling at his next words. "My mum's ill and she thinks I don't know... I need to be big for her and hurry up so I can't help her. I can't do that when I'm small..."
Sherlock didn't think it would touch his heart but it did. Here was this kid who was purposely hurting himself and intent on growing up so he can become a doctor to help his ill mum. The same mum that worked for a living and had hardly anytime to spend with her child, from what John had told him.
"It's not that I want to grow up, Mr. Holmes... But I don't have much of a choice anymore..."
John's bottom lip trembled ever so slightly and before Sherlock could think rationally or stop himself, he reached out to wrap his arms around the young boy, adjusting his squatting position to a kneel. He collected John in his arms and let him cling to his shoulders. It was far too intimate and lingered a little too long but Sherlock's mind was clear on this one. He was doing this for John, not himself.
"It's alright now, John. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to be angry or any other feelings you might be experiencing," Sherlock murmurs into the side of John's blonde hair. He rubs a hand up and down John's back, trying his best to sooth the young boy. "We all fall. Sometimes we get back up and dust ourselves off but sometimes we stay down."
Sherlock pulls away from John, letting his hands cup John's face and lingering too long. Sherlock looks directly into John's eyes and shows him something he thought he was never capable of: compassion. John's eyes are icy and frozen over with tears that dare to spill down his cheeks but refrains from letting go, because he NEEDS to be strong.
"The only thing you can do now is dust yourself off and show your mum just how much you love her before she falls, John. Do you understand?" Sherlock asks as his big hands hold up John's head. John nods, letting just a few tears cascade down his rosey cheeks.
"Yes, sir."
"Now run home," Sherlock tells the boy, nodding his head off into a random direction. "When your mum comes home, hug her tight and don't let go. She needs a son now more than ever. Not a doctor."
There is some realization in Sherlock's words that John seems to understand, like reality has finally hit him. His mum can not be saved no matter what doctor she has and the only thing she wants is company before she goes. John sniffles and nods shakily, finding this bitter news hard to swallow but accepting it all the same.
Sherlock lets go of John's face and stands up, looming over John like before, to offer a hand to the boy. John takes Sherlock's hand and lets himself be pulled up onto his shaky feet, feeling the dull ache in his knee when he does. John smoothes out his trousers and looks up to Sherlock to give him a faint smile.
"Thank you, Sherlock," John beams brightly despite the somewhat somber underlining emotions.
"You're welcome, Dr. Watson," Sherlock grins back, rustling the blonde mop of hair one last time before John sticks his lollipop back in his mouth and takes off for his home.
Sherlock would never admit to being proud of himself, but this was a start.