Sherlock

Just like every school year, Sherlock sat on the steps at the front of the school. He watched the kids go through the door, chatting about their petty issues or happy little lives. While he simply looked on.

Mycroft, his brother, was off somewhere, with a friend or two of his. They sniveled about and looked down their noses at every single person, even the teachers. If they committed a crime, Sherlock was almost certain they would get away with it, even if they were caught red handed. Simply by staring the teachers down.

The thought made Sherlock smirk but he hid it behind his hands, bowing his head down behind the collars of his coat. He did this often, for it was easier to block people out. And he desperately needed to do so.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut almost painfully, against a headache that was starting. For as long as he could remember, he got headaches. It happened if he fought his gift too long and he always fought it at school. It hurt and he wished he could throw it away just like a piece of trash. But, alas, he was cursed and therefore damned to life with what his parents called a gift.

Because Mycroft Holmes, the big honcho on campus was his older brother, he didn't worry about getting picked on. A few years back, the jocks thought it was the most hilarious thing to take his possessions or clothes and hide them, as well as other stupid, childish pranks. Sherlock never told his brother, but rather Mycroft walked in on a group of three bulky jocks attempting a swirly. A few hard punches and swift kicks ended the torment and he made it very clear that his little brother was untouchable.

Sherlock didn't give half a flying flap, for sure, but he allowed Mycroft to play the overprotective brother simply because it helped with the headaches. Sherlock had honestly been wagering with himself, a type of bet, as to who of the three jocks was the strongest, most mean. He never got the chance due to Mycroft coming in at this point and Sherlock had been right mad at the time but eventually, about 30 seconds, realized it was for the best.

Snapping out of his revere, Sherlock looked up and relaxed his head. It was almost as easy as releasing a pen from your fingers. He didn't want to fight it so early in the day on the first day of school. So he let his eyes roam, let the words of the world passing by spin inside his head. Each word and fact he already knew since he'd been around these people for years. His brain functioned like a computer, analyzing every new book bag, new book, new hairstyle, old friends, abused couples, happy couples, dumped girls or boys, overheated jocks, nerds looking over their schedules and already planning out the whole year by day, if not hour. He saw Gothics hanging out with Gothics, having a smoke before school started.

One of the Gothics had new clothes that went all the way down his arms, when last year he wore short sleeves, which would only suggest he changed his mind about clothes or started cutting. Judging by how the Gothic boy babied the wrists of his hands, Sherlock deduced it was the latter.

He let it all spill into him, filling his brain and then settling into his memory, unable to stop the flow. He looked to the front of the school, saw kids migrating inwards. He figured he might as well start. As he started, he saw Mycroft and immediately looked away. It was a sore spot for his older brother, knowing the intelligence his baby brother had. Sherlock had promised he'd never, ever read Mycroft like he did the other kids.

Honestly, he'd tried his damned hardest to keep his word but every now and then he couldn't, for the life of him, stop it. If Mycroft walked into the kitchen after a long, painful day, Sherlock could see things about him he didn't want to see. It was best to just look away rather than see something that Mycroft would immediately know Sherlock had seen.

When he was possibly five yards away, Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Jocks stood by the doors, pushing each other around. Each face was familiar and all the words or secrets that floated into his head was already known. Except one.

Blond hair, ruffled at the edges but not curly. Sherlock guessed if it grew long enough, it would have a wave. Eyes that reminded him of the clear blue ocean. He was muscular enough to be in sports but not too muscular as to suggest unhealthy means. What had caught Sherlock's eyes most of all was the first ever time he didn't get words. Or phrases. Or pictures. Sure, he could tell the age, that he was in football, that he had friends, that he was new, he knew where he came from and even that he didn't style his hair like that, it just happened.

Aside from those simple, meaningless facts, Sherlock got nothing. He had never in his life or memory gotten so little about someone. The boy wasn't even looking at Sherlock, but was facing him just enough to know lack of vision wasn't the problem. For some reason, this kid was a mystery to the gift Sherlock carried.

He watched as the jocks entered the school, horsing around only enough to not be considered reckless. He stood perfectly still until he heard the first warning bell and then he bolted, running through the doors and down the hall to his locker.

Sherlock Holmes was three minutes late for class.