The Last Goodbye Part 1
Sherlock felt adolescent again. Like a child. He recalled the painful way that people had talked down to him; as if he wasn't smarter than them, more advanced than them; couldn't tell whose spouse was cheating and with whom... So no, he didn't want to play with the other children at the party.
Sherlock, interlocking his fingers beneath his chin to form a steeple, remembered all too well the disapproving looks and sideways glances that meant he wasn't "behaving" or being "normal". Instead of thanks for bringing intellectual conversation to the proverbial table, he was sent to his room.
Only Mycroft had shared in his pain and only he had smiled and told him what a good job he had done. Of course, his brother had added that they were all just wine-drinking bigots without an original idea between them: the memory made him smile.
Leaning back against the cold concrete, the detective let out a strangled sigh and let his hands fall to his knees. He wished the man who had tackled him would have been less brutal. On the other hand, at least he hadn't been shot - again. This led him back to that shark Magnussen: had he not done Britain, maybe even the world, a favour by shooting that walking encyclopaedia of pressure points and blackmail?
It felt like being wrongfully scolded and sent to his room all over again. Except the higher power was the British Government, not his parents, and he was a grown man and not the misunderstood child he had been.
Would they exile him? Most likely. It would be undoubtedly plastered all over the news by the end of the day, if it wasn't already. He had no real measure of how long he had been sitting on the wooden bench but it felt like all night. His limbs were stiff and tired, and he could feel the soreness emanating from his shoulder from when he had attempted to sleep on his side on the narrow bench.
He heard footsteps approaching the cell.