Chapter 2: I Don't Have Friends

Parties are stupid, Sherlock thought, watching his parents and his aunts and uncles laughing and talking about all the boring minutiae of their lives. There was a dance floor but no one was using it, and besides, the music was out of key.

"I see they spared no expense," Mycroft said, joining his brother at the empty table, which had condescendingly been termed the "kids' table." Both Sherlock and Mycroft had strongly objected to having to sit there, with no success. At sixteen, Mycroft was already in his second year of university, having entered three years ahead of his age group. Sherlock, at nine, was accelerated by two years, a fact that usually led to arguments between them. But at an event like this, Sherlock and Mycroft always banded together in solidarity against their more ordinary cousins.

"You mean the music?" Sherlock asked. "The violins are out of tune and the drummer can't keep time." It had been bothering him all night.

"You really must learn to pick up on sarcasm," Mycroft responded with patient exasperation.

Sherlock threw his brother a dirty look but then sighed and looked at their extended family spread around the room. "Are all people this dull?"

"You're been to school," Mycroft responded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. Going to class each day had quickly become tortuous, not so much because of the constant bullying, but because his mind was aching to move ahead to something interesting, and he was always forced to slow down to the snail's pace of the other students.

"But they're just people. I thought our family would be at least a little more interesting," Sherlock said, gesturing around at their extended family with an air of hopelessness.

Mycroft considered this, until he nodded in understanding. "You're thinking of Mummy's family. This is Dad's family. They can't each have an Uncle Rudy, can they?" Their mother's family was full of eccentrics, although none reached the levels of genius of Mycroft and Sherlock. They rarely saw their father's family, for reasons Mycroft had figured out long ago and Sherlock wasn't interested in. "They're much more ordinary, aren't they?" he added with slight disdain.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and exhaled exasperatedly, "And so boring. Does Aunt Cindy know that Uncle Ralph is cheating on her?"

"I doubt it," Mycroft said. "You could tell her. It would certainly liven things up a bit. What about Cousin Kayla?"

"What about her?" Sherlock asked, scrutinizing his eldest cousin, whose graduation party this was. "She's a football player, she's going to study finance and she's already a little drunk from the alcohol she snuck before the party."

"Yes, you're right, there's nothing else special about her," Mycroft said, sounding disappointed. "Your deductions have improved, however." A small look of triumph crossed Sherlock's face; his dependence on Mycroft's tutoring to hone his observational skills was a sore point and every improvement was cause for celebration.

"Hey, weirdos," their cousin Frank interrupted, arriving back at their table with their seven-year-old cousin William.

"You're weird," Sherlock shot back at him, knowing it was a weak insult, but Frank had hated him ever since Sherlock had skipped to the year ahead of him, despite being a year younger. Sherlock had never understood it; he wouldn't have cared what year any of his cousins, or anyone else, was in. He just wanted them all to leave him alone.

Frank ignored this, instead using his spoon to lob butter pats in Sherlock's direction, giggling with William. At first, it was amusing to see how badly they missed their aim; one of the pats even landed in Great-aunt Millie's bag. But after one hit Mycroft in the eye, they lost their patience.

"Very mature, boys. I'm sure your parents will be thrilled with the waste of food," Mycroft said lazily, wiping the butter off his face. His warning had the desired effect. Mycroft oozed authority, even at sixteen, and both younger boys suddenly shied away from making him angry.

"That's the kids' table; you don't want to sit there. I only just got away from that table," Kayla said with a laugh, coming over with her boyfriend.

"Once you graduate, you're done with the kids' table?" the boyfriend asked.

Mycroft fake smiled, "Not exactly. Otherwise I'd be done with this table too."

"Oh," Kayla said, her expression turning to a sulk. "That's my cousin Mycroft. He's already in his second year of uni. But he's only sixteen so he still has to sit here."

"Oh, so you're a little genius then," Kayla's boyfriend said mockingly, looking down at Mycroft.

"Not so little," Kayla said with a giggle, and now Mycroft flushed red. His weight problems were well known; doctors put it down to a thyroid condition, but he still worked hard to try to lose the weight.

Sherlock stood up to his full height, shaking with anger. He'd never seen anyone make fun of his brother before. "Leave Mycroft alone! Or I'll tell them you have cigarettes in your purse."

Kayla's eyes opened wide in shock, "How do you know about that? Tell me!"

"You've got some ash on your dress," Sherlock said, pointing to the few errant pieces of ash that were caught in the sash around her waist.

"Oh my God, that's never going to come out," Kayla said frantically wiping the ash so it spread all over the front of the dress. "You little brat!" she yelled at Sherlock before dragging her boyfriend away. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction; at least until he saw Kayla's mother heading their way across the unused dance floor.

"What did you say to her to make her that upset at her own party? I won't tolerate this!"

"But Aunt Jodie-" Sherlock started to say before she sighed and turned to Sherlock's mother, who had noticed all the commotion.

"Really, can't you teach them to at least behave as if they were normal?" Aunt Jodie snapped at her before stomping away.

"Boys, what happened?" Mrs. Holmes asked quietly, aware that most of the family was now watching them. Mycroft just shook his head while Sherlock's breathing was fast and heavy with anger.

"Kayla said-" Sherlock started to say, but Mycroft cut him off.

"It was nothing. Can we please just go now? We should never have come in the first place,. Mycroft rarely let any emotion show, but he appeared close to desperate now. Sherlock felt his sympathy rise. His own first reaction to social occasions was to leave as quickly as possible, but now he thought that Mycroft had the better idea in simply not attending at all. Being with people meant, more often than not, that they would be ridiculed for simply being themselves. He already found the world too social for his tastes; this just made it twice as difficult.

Mrs. Holmes smiled sympathetically, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, love. We have to stay at least until the cake is served." Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock sunk into a despondent slouch, watching her leave. They hadn't expected much more. Their mother may have been a genius in her own field, but she was notoriously scatterbrained when it came to everything practical.

"I hate people," Sherlock burst out. "Why do they expect us to be like them? Why can't they be more like us?" People thought he and Mycroft were rude, but really, if they didn't have to constantly try and defend themselves against everyone's made-up rules, they would just leave everyone alone. Couldn't everyone be more like that?

"I don't know, Sherlock," Mycroft said tiredly. "But they're all like that. This is what they want us to be friends with." He spit the word out as if it was poisonous.

"Well, I don't want to be friends with anybody," Sherlock said, crossing his arms and refusing to even look at the cake. "I don't need them. I'll be fine on my own."

Sherlock, Mycroft and their parents started to leave not long after that, and while saying good bye to their aunts and uncles and cousins, Sherlock and Mycroft were astonished to see their mother, approaching Aunt Jodie in the line, reach up and smack her across the face.

Aunt Jodie was clearly just as shocked, holding her cheek and spluttering angrily. Sherlock's mother glared at her said, "If I ever hear you saying anything about my children not being 'normal' ever again, I shall throw you into the nearest rubbish bin." She then smiled sweetly, and the four of them left amid a chorus of "See where they get it from?" Not that it mattered to Sherlock and Mycroft at that moment. They were living in the satisfaction of seeing their mother have one small victory on their behalf. It was only a small thing in the face of the constant pressure of the world telling them they were wrong, but for now, it was enough.