Hey, this chapter has some slightly darker themes to it, I know. It's a one-off, really. The rest of the story will be considerably lighter (although I will, of course, often mention the darker side of Sherlock), but I wanted to show their weaknesses from very early on. After this chapter, Sherlock shall immediately return to his snide and smirk-y character, but I just really wanted to establish just how fundamentally weak he was from the start.

Sorry, I hope it doesn't put you off! Please don't give up on the story immediately! There is a lot to come!

I'll try to update soon, definitely a new chapter by Thursday!

Enjoy!

It was Thursday; Sherlock's first day back at school all week (not that his family knew -or cared- about that). For all they knew, he'd been to school every day since the beginning of term, but if they had taken the to time to read the letters sent home or picked up any of the calls -Mother had Caller ID and did not have time for anything even vaguely relating to Sherlock- they would have realized that from September to late November, Sherlock had only attended school 25 times.

Sherlock's depression had hit an all-time-low. He'd stay awake for days on end and then sleep until he thought he'd finally reached death. His Father and Mother would wake up as the sun rose and would return as it set, so they were completely unaware of his activities -or lack of them. His brother, Mycroft, was currently climbing his way up the political ladder, very successfully, and had seemingly forgotten about his younger.

Sherlock didn't eat unless he was about to pass out (often not even then), food had no appeal to him so he didn't waste time with it. But the less he ate, the more sickening the notion of actually devouring became and the cycle just got worse.

Sometimes Sherlock didn't even have the willpower to read; he'd slam his fits into a thick textbook repeatedly until his hands were bruised and the book bashed in with small splotches of blood seeping through the pages. Then Sherlock would lie there, for an immeasurable amount of time, shaking, sobbing, retching or, worst of all, completely paralyzed.

He would often wonder why he bothered with being clever; all it did was bring him into this cycle of self-destruction and torture. Of course, he adored being better than everyone else, he lived off the thrill of knowing and the pure ecstasy of being right made him happy, but only to an extent. He was young and vulnerable, and he despised himself so much for it. He couldn't stop the self-hatred that boiled his core into a roaring mass of lava that fueled his incredible passion for knowledge, burning his heart as it went. But occasionally, Sherlock needed a break for his staggering intellect, and thus he began to "dabble" in heroin.

Sherlock had been clean since Monday, and luckily his habit wasn't so far out of control that he was suffering withdrawal, so a cigarette out of an abandoned classroom window would calm his nerves. He stared out over the unattractive 1960's building and up into the sky, watching the clouds darken and a light drizzle begin. He stubbed his cigarette out on the window sill and then hurled it as far as he could, watching it plummet to it's fate before closing the window and pulling the blinds down so he could sulk in the darkness.

A few minutes later, the door was shoved open and Sherlock spun to see the silhouette of John Watson enter the rather dark room, oblivious of his presence, and collapsed onto a chair, dropping his face into his hands and sighing in defeat. Sherlock watched in silence for a while, interested, as his eyes adjusted to the figure that slowly rocked back and forth, murmuring something about being "fucking pathetic".

"If you think that you and your life are so 'fucking pathetic', why don't you go back to university and complete your training as a doctor?" Sherlock said uninspiringly.

John's head shot up instantly, scanning the room for the person who'd been spying on him. His eyes locked onto the gaunt boy leaning into the corner of the wall, blending into the darkness; he could only make out, from a sliver of muggy daylight, tall, spidery limbs, a tangle of curly hair and wild, manic eyes that sliced through the darkness. But he recognized the voice and remark instantly, knowing exactly who it was.

"Ah, Sherlock… Er, how did yo- No, forget that. Why are you here? You should be at lunch. Why don't you get going…" John spewed nervously, he hadn't expected anyone to be in here and he was deeply embarrassed that someone knew just how pathetic he was; he hadn't even told Sarah to just what extend he hated himself.

Sherlock silently pulled up the blinds up so he could get a better look at the man: he was wearing a large beige knitted jumper and well worn black trousers, his hair was messy, his cheeks pink with embarrassment and he looked very tired. John hissed at the light and shielded his eyes before saying again "Sherlock, go to lunch." His attempt at dominance was feeble and he looked on the verge of begging.

"No, John. I got here before you so this is now my classroom. Besides, I'm not hungry." Sherlock stated calmly with his arms crossed and a disapproving look. John gasped as he got his first proper look at the boy in weeks. Sherlock had lost a lot of weight; his once-well-fitted suit now hung loosely, his thighs had a painfully large gap between them, his arms looked as breakable as twigs, those cheekbones were even more prominent, the skin around his chin threatened to tear, his complexion was so pale and waxy that John easily compared him to a corpse, the whites of his eyes were now red and sore, his pupils large and hollow, his focus glassy and distant and John almost cried at the raw desolation of the young man.

"Oh my Go- Sherlock, what happened to you? When did you last eat?" John stuttered, mouth gaping and one hand slightly outstretched, as if trying to grasp the boy, but as soon as Sherlock looked at it questioningly, he dropped it and coughed awkwardly.

"It isn't relevant." Sherlock dismissed, tossing his gaze to the side. Although he had desperately wanted someone to help him, now that he was finally noticed by someone and all attention was on him, he felt very uncomfortable indeed.

"Sherlock Holmes, it is extremely relevant! How long ago?" John demanded, all uncertainty had disappeared from his voice and he sounded very much like a brave soldier or a normal mother.

Sherlock locked his eyes with his teacher's and straightened his posture in an attempt to intimidate the short man away, "I cannot remember." Sherlock half-spat, half-shamefully-admitted.

John saw a flash of despair in the boy's eyes, so his softened his glare and spoke pleadingly, "Sherlock," he sighed, "please eat something."

"I am not hungry, John. I have already told you this." Sherlock stated emotionlessly, staring cold and blank into John's eyes. He really was a brilliant actor when he wanted to be, but he genuinely was confused at why John was making such a big deal over a little weight loss. He obviously hadn't noticed the tell-tale signs of heroin; Sherlock hadn't expected him too.

John shook his head and rummaged through his satchel, proceeding to remove a squashed sandwich wrapped messily in cling-film and held it out in offering, "Please."

"I cannot keep down carbohydrates." Sherlock said confidently, but John noticed a tiny flicker of shame in his eyes. Sherlock quickly broke his gaze from the worried man stood only a few feet away, and stuffed his purple-blue-green painted hands deep into his pockets.

John swallowed loudly; he did not know Sherlock at all -they had only spoken briefly before and always on work related matters- but John had completely forgotten how he was expected to act, professionally, in shock at just how ill the boy was. John's medical side instantly kicked in; he couldn't just ignore Sherlock's serious health troubles. But there was something else, something even more serious and John couldn't quite put his finger on it…

They stood there in silence for a minute or so, John was mortified, holding back the urge to break his professional boundaries and shove food down Sherlock's throat and force him to gain weight, he also desperately wanted to take the boy's vitals and check him for any mysterious scars, cuts, bruises or abrasions that could give a vague insight as to why the boy was as he was. Sherlock stared back, his expression unreadable and deceptively calm, but his head was battling to remain conscious.

The bell rang and Sherlock ran from the room before John could stop him, scratching the inner side of his left forearm nervously.