Sherlock didn't want to go home. Then again, he really didn't fancy staying at school, either. Or going anywhere else, for that matter. He felt stuck in a maze of directions that were wrong no matter what path you took, like they all led to the same place either way, and he wasn't sure what that place was. He didn't want to know.
His last class was English, the only other class he had with Greg, therefore the only other class he sometimes talked in. But today he spent it in silence. It didn't really bother him to stay quiet, though. In fact, it felt nice to be able to slip inside yourself and block out everything else, to live in your own world. In his world, it all looked the same as it did in the real world. But it contained important memories, good or bad, which Sherlock stored away for later use. He ruled over the whole thing, what went in, what went out. It was like a palace. A mind palace.
But then the bell rang, and he got a rude awakening to the stark reality of the world he couldn't control again.
Students filed out in clusters and herds, toppling over themselves at the joy of getting to go home, eat dinner, do homework until it's time to go to bed, and then the cycle starts over, day after day, year after year. Sherlock waited until only a few were left before making his way to the door, not wanting to be alone in the room with an adult. Not even for a few seconds.
If the pack of animals leaving the classroom were any inclination as to what the hallway itself would be, Sherlock wanted no part in it. And he was right: The hallway was much worse. If he weren't so tall and didn't have a reputation of hostile behavior, he would have been trampled, surely, by the masses of students overflowing into the slim passage.
"Hey, Sherlock."
Sherlock stopped and wondered if he had started hearing things. The voice drifted by as the person walked by, their voice making it quick and simple. It came from the wolf pack, aka the rugby boys. And the one who'd said it . . . Had he not scared John off? It wasn't like he detached himself from the group to have a good chat with his new best friend, school freak and local joke, Sherlock Holmes. But it meant so much to him, and John had no idea, and he never would.
Too choked up to speak, he waved slightly, his hand only halfway up and his fingers swaying the slightest bit, uncharacteristically awkward. Then he closed his hand, his nails clenched against his palm and his knuckles white, and took off, faster now, getting ahead of the group so quickly that they should have recruited him for the team.
Surprisingly, he didn't hear snickering or whispering behind him. Yet. John would be courteous enough to wait until he left before talking about it. So he did him the favor of leaving as soon as possible.
Pushing the door perhaps too hard, he began his walk home. He didn't want anyone to drive him. Plus, even in the winter, the air felt nice and open, unconstricted and free. The air whipped around him, unabashed, because it apparently had somewhere to be. How must that feel? To have somewhere to be and belong in? This was how he distracted himself from thinking about things like the subject of John: observing. It always helped before, but something about the image and the memory of him that was forever etched into Sherlock's brain overpowered every other thought.
Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him and walked a bit faster, desperate to get home soon, a thought that only went through his mind when it was either too cold, he needed to be completely alone, or if he was unsafe. Right now it balanced between the first two, as his fingers were numbing and he kept, for whatever reason, thinking about a boy who would likely get his friends to attack him if he ever tried something, or worse, he could do it himself. John was small, but Sherlock wouldn't fight him back, regardless. Those were the type of thoughts that required alone time.
The winter only magnified how cold Sherlock's house appeared. Not only was it too big—too big for only three people—but it held a certain dignity to it that could only be described as disconsolate. No kids knocked on the door on Halloween, no new neighbors stopped by to say hello, and no one dared to even come close to the land on which it stayed.
Once upon a time the house had been beautiful, when its freshness and liveliness radiated throughout the town, lighting it up as the lights clicked on for the evening, as closely knitted family members and friends of the family poured in for dinner, a time filled with joy and laughter. His parents hadn't quarreled every day, Sherlock spoke to people, there was love in the house. That didn't exist anymore. It was more like a distant memory, or a dream that Sherlock forgot the details of, so he improvised.
Yet there his parents were, cheerful and clueless. Hopefully they wouldn't be home, and then Sherlock could sneak away before they came back, making it easier for everyone. But they were home. Sherlock mouthed a curse when he saw a full driveway and walked slowly to the door, pausing before opening it, as if he were waiting for something, anything, to come and save him from this. Maybe the world could end or a heavy enough rock could magically fall from the sky onto him.
At least no one stood waiting for him at the door, and Sherlock was able to stop and stay put in his little space of peace before he entered the dining room, where a cold dinner waited for him, a dinner that looked disgusting, and there was no way in hell his parents allowed this from the cook, until Sherlock looked around long enough (six seconds, about) at his mother's gleaming, proud smile and how his dad had none, so he didn't hurt her feelings, probably coming up with some excuse about already eating at work or something that she wouldn't detect as a lie.
"There you are," she said, a nervous look passing over her eyes. "We wanted to wait for you. I figured it's been too long since we had a proper dinner together."
She was the one to blame for the dinner. She hadn't cooked a dinner since Sherlock was seven, and even then, it had been because her sister was visiting, and she wanted to show off skills she clearly didn't have because the food was indiscernible. Sherlock sat down and picked at it. Not even his deduction skills could help him with this one.
"How was school?" his father asked, looking and sounding more nervous than his wife. What were they nervous about? Did they think that today would be different than all others?
Sherlock merely looked at him and tapped his fork against the plate, dragging it a bit, his mother wincing at the sound. His eyes contained pure ice, and that spoke mediums far beyond what his mouth could say.
"Did you have a good day?" his mother asked, a little too loud and monotonous to be considered a sincere question. She just wanted him to speak, and she wanted someone to hear when he did. Not because he would actually be speaking, but so she could take credit for being the one who inspired it, a hero story.
Now he tapped his fingers on the table, drumming each fingernail hitting the wood one right after the other, creating a repetitive rhythm that got annoying almost as soon as it started. His eyes focused on her now, occasionally bouncing back to his father. Their smiles slowly faded, although the trace of them remained, just for a little extra encouragement. God, he hated when they tried to try. The silence lasted for three minutes and nineteen seconds. Twenty seconds, twenty-one seconds, twenty-two seconds, twenty-three seconds . . .
"Uh, Sherlock, we spoke with your school today. And in your classes, you're . . . perfect. Really, I mean, you can get into Oxford. That's where you're going, isn't it? You'd do well there."
Flattery. This was their favorite method. If it worked with their coworkers, they believed it would work on him. But he really did have perfect marks, and he knew it. He wondered how much it pained the administration to admit that.
"However," his mother cut in after hesitating, "we were told that you've missed classes, and I thought that you haven't missed a day yet. Are you cutting classes?"
Silence. Draining, uncomfortable silence that dragged on and on. Now whatever stayed from the smile completely vanished from both of their faces, being replaced by solemn faces, filled with sadness, anger, and maybe even some guilt, if they knew what to be guilty about. They would assume guiltiness to be on account of fact that they failed him. Had they? Should they even be guilty?
"So how was your day?" his mother finally said with a sigh behind her voice to her husband, disregarding Sherlock as even being present, then, on queue, realizing what she was doing, he launched into a tragic story of how stressful his line of work was.
Well, Sherlock was done here. He remained silent even as he pushed back his chair and left, slipping away without notice.
It was routine by now, a show, each with their own lines and acts, repeated every day. Sherlock knew that the story his father had started ended as soon as he left, and now they were talking about him. Probably talking about the Wrong Things, everything that was wrong with him. Where did we go wrong? Why does he hate us? Why won't he talk? Do all teenagers go through this phase? Mycroft never did this.
The sun started to set, the blue sky dressing in its orange pajamas before it completely went to sleep. A few stars began to hang in the darkening sky as light snow fell, like dust from the stars. The thin blanket of snow that lay fresh on the lawn looked peaceful, especially against the light of the battling sun and moon.
Sherlock opened the door all the way and rubbed the wall until he found the light switch and turned it on before entering. His room looked rather plain and bleak, almost, as he figured that no one other than him would be in there. It used to be filled with science equipment and books and life, but now it was all pushed into closets and bags, like he was already packed to leave for university.
His violin, at least, was still perched in the corner, just where it had been left the last time Sherlock played it, which was years ago. Three years, to be exact. He had been good at it, and he still would be if he were to play again, but it was a different time. Music, particularly the violin, in Sherlock's opinion, played to sound beautiful, and although it may not always be happy, beauty intertwined with it, and life lost its beauty in those three years.
Hidden under his mattress was a worn-looking pack of cigarettes that he kept for nights like these, where his day turned odd, and the balance of it all was ultimately thrown off. He grabbed them and headed out to the balcony that attached itself to his room, separated by a glass door that usually stayed covered by a silky black curtain. But tonight the curtain swayed to the side and gave him just enough of a glimpse to entice him to go out, inviting him out.
Sherlock kept his blazer on, but he took off the tie, throwing it on the floor, and untucked his shirt, unbuttoning the top few buttons. Normally he'd lose the jacket, too, but he would need it tonight, if the walk home was any inclination.
Some thought it was strange that Sherlock always carried a lighter with him when he only smoked on certain occasions. It was convenient, though, so he didn't really care. He took it from his pocket and held it up to the cigarette in his hand, igniting it into a tiny flame that emitted patterns of smoke into the air, blending with the breaths created by the cold, like they were made for each other.
Sherlock stayed out for a few minutes with his mind shut off. It was an almost impossible thing to do, that. It stole nearly all of his energy and attention, which helped, but rarely did it ever happen successfully. He didn't know how he even managed this time.
Instead of thinking, he carefully watched from high up. Some kids were outside, laughing too loudly and playing. Sherlock wondered if he was ever like that, if someone like him had ever watched him and became entranced by how happy he was. The mind must have turned back on, then, a short-lived period.
Now the kids' mothers hastened them back inside, claiming that it was getting too dark and cold. One of the mothers, a neighbor that avoided the Holmes family, locked eyes with him for a second, and he didn't take his eyes away, striving to burn his glare into her for focusing on him. She frowned at him and rushed her son in, still staring at Sherlock as she gave her child a gentle push.
Then, once they were all in, silence.
The silence overwhelmed him when he wasn't in control of it. It induced his brain to go into hysterics, thinking about who he was and where he was and what happened. He felt physically ill because of it sometimes. Because it always found its way back to that night. It would always be that night.
The snow was no longer peaceful; now it reminded him of lost innocence as the purity of the white melted into the dirt, white bed sheets that you could drown in as you thrashed in them and tried to get away, death. And between the cigarette smoke, allergies, and the harsh cold in the air, the air now felt suffocating, like someone had their hand over your mouth so you couldn't scream, so no one would hear you scream.
The first time the memories took over like this, Sherlock almost jumped. He was determined to forget it, so determined that the determination claimed his hope for recovery and made him believe that the only way to achieve forgetting is to jump. The height of the fall would be enough to take his life. He had gotten over the balcony and onto the very edge, on the tips of his toes just to stay on, before he climbed back over and went back inside.
Needless to say, he didn't sleep well that night. Part of his mind was shocked that he almost killed himself, while the other had was disappointed that he didn't go through with it. That was also the first night he ever took a razor to his arm. It proved to be a horrible coping mechanism. But he couldn't stop. Those two sides of his mind were battling again, arguing like his parents, one half telling him to stop, the other telling him to keep going.
Sherlock bit his lip as he remembered it. Now it wasn't just that night he had to think about; more bad memories had been added, and since they were a direct cause of that night, those thoughts led back to it. Always.
Slamming the unfinished cigarette down just enough to put the flame out, Sherlock recoiling his hand when it hit the balcony railing, a bruise already forming, he pitched the cigarette into the bed of melting snow. He went back inside quickly tried going to sleep, not even bothering to change clothes. He couldn't sleep. He just lied there. He refused to get up; not even to go to the bathroom to get some water because his mind was at it again, arguing. This time, however, he took his own side in the argument, a third voice that actually sounded like his own, unlike the other two, who sounded familiar, he couldn't tell who. It felt nice to have his own voice for once. Maybe it would last.