Outside
And then Mycroft remembered what he had always hoped never to remember. Their father, who died when Sherlock was seven, had always favoured him, Mycroft. Mycroft was his perfect child, he said, his perfect son. He never said so, but you could see in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock that his younger son was a cipher—worse, he was alien. Sherlock didn't fit into his view of the world, so he was quietly pushed outside it. Always outside, Sherlock had learned to hide behind a shell of "I don't care" long before the first child called him freak.