Sherlock always knew he was considered 'weird' within his peers. He didn't seem to realise that not everyone could deduce like he and his brother could. He had always taken what his mother had taught him and tried to use it to his advantage. Never once did he ever think about how it would affect his classmates, his teachers, or his family.
It had been another day in his household. Breakfast was eaten in silence, as all their meals were, before he and Mycroft were both sent to their rooms to finish their homework. He had already finished, of course. It gave him more time for his experiments and deductions. Things that his father disapproved of, things that Mycroft decided to hide from the older man.
Sherlock, within the safety of his room, had untucked his shirt from the inside of his pants and his scarf, which had once been carefully placed upon his shoulders, now lay on the carpet near the chair from when he threw it in a rush to get to his experiment.
Mycroft, the golden boy, he was the one that was to follow their father into politics, and continue the name Holmes throughout the government. Whereas Sherlock was just the other one, the one with the freakish ability to tell you what a person had been doing, what they were thinking and how they would react to certain things. According to his father, he was 'the one that brought shame to their family'; he was the one with 'no real direction in life'. There was no such thing as a consulting detective, he was told. But it didn't matter, thousands of years ago there was no such thing as politics.
A knock on his door brought him out of his musings, with a distracted sigh he let the person enter. His brother waddled across the room while wrinkling his nose at the slight smell of his experiments, "Sherlock," he snapped, as he held his breath, "father wants to see you in his study immediately,"
A sigh left his lips. With one last look at his failed experiment he followed his brother out, closing the door behind him. He continued to follow his brother who led him to a well known room, a place he could have gotten to with his eyes shut, why Mycroft insisted on leading him there, he refused to think of reasons. But as soon as the eyes of his father rested on him, he knew.
"Hello father," he replied tersely to his fathers nod.
"Sherlock, I need to speak with you about something very important," his father shot straight to the point from behind his desk. With another nod, Sherlock sat on the chair opposite him. "Sherlock, it has come to my attention that you have not been listening to a word I have said over the past few months, have you?"
Sherlock was confused, a feeling that he wasn't used to, "To what are you referring to?"
"To your magic…" he responded, but continued at his sons questioning look, "your… what is it you call them, deductions? Yes, these deductions of yours, they have to stop," he finished and returned to his paperwork, as if that was all he had to do in order for Sherlock to stop.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" The elder Holmes looked up, shocked that the teenage boy was still there. Anger began to bubble within the boy as he stared at his father in silent rage. "Why should I stop my deductions father? They are a part of who I am,"
The man put his pen down once more to look at the boy, "I received a call from your school the other…-" he was cut off by the enrages son who had stood up and was now pacing the expanse of his study.
"I don't see why you care, father. I don't understand what this has to do with you!" the teenager shouted at the older man sitting behind the desk, his voice echoed throughout the study. His curly hair bounced as he paced the floor rapidly, his shoes scraping the hard floor.
His father sat on his leather clad chair. His face held his usually stony expression that his youngest son continued to ignore. His hair, though curly, like his sons, usually sat still on his head, bathed in gel, but at this particular time, was mussed, as if he had been constantly running his fingers through it, "Sherlock," he said in a strained voice, showing how agitated the older man was, "this… this thing you do, it is pointless and it is only going to get you into trouble."
Sherlock fell onto the sofa in a hopeless heap, why couldn't his father see that this was something he wanted to do, no matter what the risk. "Sherlock," he heard, before the couch dipped with another body, "I just want to see you happy. No one will ever like you if you continue down this path. So just stop it," the man returned to his strict demeanour as he walked away, absently telling his son to close the door on his way out.
Sherlock decided at that moment, it didn't matter if people didn't like it, it didn't matter if his father didn't approve, and it didn't matter if he was going to be alone for the rest of his life. This was one of the only things that he enjoyed in his day to day life, it brought a feeling that no one else could take.
No one could take that away from him.