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WARNING: CHILD ABUSE
Sherlock stares at the kids across the window: they look like they are having fun, playing together in the school's green. He can hear their laughs even from his bedroom. Every afternoon he spends hours hidden behind the curtains studying their behaviour, trying to understand why he is so different from them.
He hasn't still realized why, apparently there is no difference between him and them but he knows that this difference - better, this inequality – exists, that is something he feels everyday even though he can't see it.
He is so concentrated that he doesn't notice the tall figure standing beside him.
"Still trying to understand, boy?"
He turns his head and blinks at his father, uncertain about the correct answer. The man doesn't wait for his son to speak and kneels so that their eyes are at the same level.
"Stop doing this, Sherlock. This is fruitless and stupid. You are not like them, they wouldn't like you. They would hate you. It's better for you to stay here, hidden and safe. I'm not going to let you humiliate yourself and my name by showing the world which kind of beastly creature I've given birth to."
Hours later, when he comes home beaten and bruised, his nose broken and bleeding, his father is waiting for him.
"Come here" he orders from his armchair. "Look at me, boy."
Sherlock does as he is told to; he perfectly knows what's going to happen.
"So" the man starts "who was right?"
"You were right, dad. They hate me." he whispers.
"They hate you, of course they do."
All of a sudden he grips his wrists tightly, deliberately hurting his thin arm. Sherlock can smell the bourbon's acrid scent.
"Of course they do." he repeats. "Tell me boy, who are you?"
He can't stop himself from starting shivering, unable to speak and scared to death.
"Come on." he hisses before slamming his already beaten face. "What are you?"
"I'm a mistake." he stammers. "I'm wrong. I'm worthless."
"Go on."
"I'm a freak. I'm a waste of space. I'm vicious. I'm inhuman."
"Yes." he murmurs, more to himself than to Sherlock. "Yes, try not to forget this again. Now, you know what you deserve. Don't complain, it's your fault."
He gives him the glass that he was holding, the greenish, chemical-smelling liquid threatening to overflow.
Sherlock takes the first sip, the bitter fluid going easily down his throat. He knows he is going to have a horrendous, painful time and that it is entirely his fault.
His father is right. He has been stupid, he should have known better. He is different, he is wrong. He doesn't deserve friends.
Since he became a (the) consultant detective, this is the first time Sherlock is grateful for not having heard anything from Lestrade. At the moment he is barely able to lift himself and to carry his weight to the bathroom and back; the idea of having to get dressed and going out is simply unbearable.
His head turns restlessly on the pillow, as though trying to get away from the heat surrounding his head and body. His eyes are aching, there's a dull pain in his stomach which is getting worse and worse, and he has the sensation that he is going to be sick again. Gingerly he takes the thermometer and puts it under his armpit waiting until it beeps.
Still 38,7.
The previous night his temperature rose 40°; his head was threatening to burst and he was unable to focus enough to do anything – take some paracetamol or have a cold shower or anything else that could break his fever.
He has never felt so miserable before. He is covered in sweat, his hair is moistened and disheveled, his T-shirt studded with brown spots, his eyes circled with red marks. Every single day in his life he makes quite an effort to at least mitigate his obnoxious physical appearance with elegance and allurement, and now that he is incapacitated to do that he knows he must look much worse than disgusting.
He has paid a lot of attention to his flatmate's new habits. John's new schedule includes one night at home every four nights with Mary. Today is the fourth evening, John is supposed to be at home and he would never – never – let John see him like that. John, the kind-hearted, generous, amazing man that still hasn't realized that he could have much better and still allows Sherlock to stay around him, deserves the best he can offer.
He painfully sits down on the bed, the room spinning around him, and the light coming from outside hurting his eyes. He gets up, feeling unsteady and so weak – he has never imagined that it would have been possible to be so exhausted – and slowly makes his way through the bedroom. As soon as he reaches the living room his legs succumb to his weight and he sinks down to the floor.
He wishes he could be different. He wishes he could be normal, he wishes he could be human enough. If he had not been himself, he wouldn't have ended up like that, lying exhausted on the floor, wearing a filthy shirt, his mouth so dry and his tongue so swollen because the water is too far and he hasn't drank anything since the evening before. If he hadn't been himself but someone else, someone that deserves attention and care, there would have been someone with him, but there is no one else. That is exactly what he deserves.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, but eventually he feels strong enough to try to stand and reach the bathroom. He heaves violently, his forehead resting against the cold porcelain, his hands shaking for the effort to lift himself up, to avoid ending up with his face in the toilet.
He eventually manages to take a shower, and if he stumbles here and there, well, this is something he can handle in order to make his appearance tolerable. He dresses up and combs his hair, fighting not to faint and trying desperately to ignore the pain that grips his head and his stomach and that is threatening to overwhelm him. He wonders whether John will notice something; if this would happen, he is determined to deny anything and to lie without regret.
It is 6 o'clock in the evening when he finally sits on the sofa, staring longingly at the door. He is looking forward to his evening with John, even though they are not going to do anything special.
At 8 o'clock he admits it is becoming late; John's shift ended two hours before, he must be on his way, maybe already walking down Baker Street.
He boggles any time he hears footsteps coming closer, waiting hopefully for John to come home.
He doesn't.