A/N: Please enjoy this chapter! Sherlock is age 13. Sorry if there are many mistakes, point them out to me and I'll fix them. Enjoy! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, it's very sad.
Thomas Holmes paced about the room, agitated. "For the last time, Sherlock, you are not a detective!" Why couldn't at least one of his sons be normal? Mycroft was secretive, always locked up in his room, while Sherlock pretended to be a detective! "Most boys your age have friends!" Sherlock mumbled something. Thomas sighed. "Speak up, boy!"
Sherlock looked up, his green-gray-blue eyes unnerving. "I said, most boys my age aren't freaks! Everyone else is normal! They have normal lives! Everybody calls me a freak, so nobody wants to be friends with me! I bet you can't understand me, though, Professor. Too busy listening to 'great minds' to listen to your own son!" Thomas' eyes grew cold. "How dare you talk to me in that way! I am your father! I deserve respect-no, I demand it!" Without thinking, Thomas slapped the boy. Hard. Sherlock, the spitting image of his mother, had gotten at least one thing from his father. His spirit, his unwillingness to give in. "How dare I? How dare you? You hit me, your own son, and you have the audacity to tell me that you deserve respect?" Sherlock paused for a moment, then continued, his voice mocking. "Oh wait. I forgot. You don't deserve respect, oh no. You demand it. You demand things because you can't ever deserve them!" Sherlock received yet another slap, this time harder, but he didn't stop. "You won't-no, can't-ever deserve things because you never work for them! You just sit around demanding things, acting like a king, with one difference. Kings make their subjects feel loyal. I bet every single one of your students loathes you!"
His speech done, Sherlock waited. He didn't have to wait long. There was a beat pulsing in Thomas' ear, a beat that signified his anger. Soon Sherlock was on the floor, his hands over his head as blows rained down on him. He protected himself as his father dealt justice.
The next day, Sherlock woke up and grimaced. He had bruises covering him from his collarbone to his toes. Luckily, his head was spared. He dressed in a long sleeved shirt (a dress shirt) and jeans despite the heat of the day. He could take no chances. That had been the first time that his father had beaten him, and even though they often butted heads, Sherlock loved his father, and would not allow him to be taken away.
Sherlock entered the kitchen quietly, but it did no good. His mother saw that he was moving stiffly, and she had heard the yelling the past night. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. She glanced at him, then looked away, worried. "Sherlock, do you want to stay home from school today?" she asked. He shook his head, curls bouncing every which way. "No, Mother. I'll be fine." She sighed, still worried, then put breakfast, burnt toast, onto a plate for the boys. Mycroft and Sherlock ate fast, then hurried out the door so they wouldn't miss the bus to that miserable place called school.
A/N: I think that this is the longest chapter I have ever written. Thanks for reading this, guys. It already has 14 views, which I think is amazing since I uploaded a short prologue earlier today. Review please!