Tedious. Boring. Dull. Just plain stupid… Shut up, Mr Dimmock!

Sherlock was sitting at the back of the Physics classroom, loathing every second. Everything that came out of Mr Dimmock's mouth he either knew, didn't need or the information was wrong. Dimmock was only a supply teacher, but still.

"Sherlock Holmes, pay attention!" Dimmock growled.

"What for?"

"Detention! After school; three o'clock, here!"

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. Stupid, hot-headed Dimmock.

The bell rang and the students basically ran out of the door. Sherlock stood up slowly. When was the last time he ate? He couldn't remember as the hunger pains made themselves known. The room kept spinning and he found himself leaning heavily on his desk to keep himself upright; but it was too late. He felt himself falling as darkness enveloped him.

…

John was walking absentmindedly down the corridor when he heard the announcement, "Could a first aider make their way to classroom 21a, please. Thank you." That was John's next class. What had happened? He unconsciously picked up speed.

There was a crowd around the door when John arrived. "What happened?" he asked a curly haired girl that Sherlock had analysed the day before – Sally, if he remembered rightly.

"The freak's fainted," she answered with a smug smile, "who knows why." John could detect sarcasm in her tone – but didn't know why.

"Don't call him a freak," her instructed her calmly, ignoring her protests as he saw Sherlock being carried out of the room. His friend was pale and limp, he looked dead apart from the brief moments when his eyes fluttered open for a second or two. "Let me through, he's my friend." John pushed his way through the crowd, following the first aider as he carried Sherlock down to the reception.

…

Sherlock was sprawled across several chairs when he came too properly. He felt as though a truck had collided with his head and his limbs were as heavy as lead. His eyes finally focused and revealed John sitting him. "Yeah, low blood sugar will do that to you." John stated. "When was the last time you ate, Sherlock? And don't say this morning or last night if it isn't true. I'm not angry, I just want to know."

"What day is it? I can't really remember…"

"Tuesday."

"Saturday lunch."

"Sherlock!" John had raised his voice. He didn't do so often, as Sherlock had heard, so the young boy decided to venture carefully.

"I had a big assignment due yesterday and I find I can't think as well when I eat, so I often fast for a few days if I have an assignment or test. It's not an eating disorder, do not make that mistake; it's only because eating slows me down."

"You are unbelievable. I'm guessing you didn't eat anything yesterday or today, though. If your assignment finished yesterday, why didn't you eat dinner yesterday or breakfast today?"

"I didn't eat dinner yesterday because I'm a vegetarian and my parents refused to allow me to continue with meat-free meals or allow me ingredients to make one myself. Breakfast today was cancelled because there was no bread or cereal in the house and the only option was a sickly chocolate fudge cake that I really did not want to eat – so I skipped both meals."

"You're vegetarian?"

"Is that so hard to believe? I mean, look at me. My skin's thin and slightly translucent; I have very little weight to me –"

"No, both of those have nothing to do with being a vegetarian – it's mainly a myth. You just need to go outside more and eat regular meals – which brings me back to my point; are you sure you don't have an eating disorder?"

"John, I don't. I don't care about how I look, really. Worrying about it has little point in my opinion…"

"I'm sure you know as well as I do that that is an oversimplification. Come on, Sherlock; I got you something to eat while you were unconscious."

"Please say it doesn't have bits of dead animal flesh in it…"

"Firstly, gross. Secondly, don't worry; I got a cheese sandwich, pasta salad and a triple chocolate cupcake." John handed Sherlock the containers with a slight smile.

"Uh… Thanks, I guess."

"I want to ask you a question, though; how often does this happen?"

"Depends. It averages out to be around twice a month…"

"Sherlock!" John's yell screamed and tore through Sherlock's sore mind palace.

"Please, John. It hurts…"

"Hate to say 'serves you right'; but you shouldn't starve yourself, Sherlock. It isn't healthy."

"Hate to say 'I don't care', but I don't. It's only transport, what matters is it here," Sherlock tapped his temple with his shaking fingers.

"Well, that," John tapped Sherlock's forehead, "doesn't work without fuel, Sherlock. You're smart, you should know that."

"I do know that the theory is true, but I don't find that it applies to me."

"It isn't a theory, Sherlock; it is science and common knowledge. Also, you are human; not an alien or something like that. You aren't that much of a freak." Sherlock scowled at his friend while taking a large bit of the sandwich.

"How do you know?" he asked with his mouth full.

"This isn't a science fiction novel," John shrugged, "They've called you're brother, by the way."

"Oh God…" Sherlock groaned.

"Mycroft's an interesting name…" Sherlock snorted as he watched the door.

Almost on cue, Mycroft burst into the room. "What the hell are you playing at, Sherlock?! I get a call saying that you've fainted from low blood sugar again! You know I am not one to random outbursts of emotion like this; but, dear God, Sherlock Holmes you will be the death of me!" It was like Sherlock's head was going to explode. The pain flared up as Mycroft's rant grew in volume.

"Sir, could you calm down. You are causing your little brother pain and there is nothing about this situation that will be helped by shouting," John calmly informed.

Mycroft was having none of it. He never did this out-loud unless something really angered him. "You're the son of an ex-military man who has the occasional drink; well that's polite; he drinks himself into oblivion when you're gone long enough for him to sober up again, but sometimes he miscalculates; you've walked in on him a few times, haven't you. You're older sister is the same way, though she is less careful. She always leaves you to clean her up and put her to bed when she is completely inebriated. You have a violent streak to you but you cover it up, try to drown it in pacifistic nonsense. Your mother died of a drug overdose, though your father and sister would never tell you this –"

"SHUT UP MYCROFT, NO ONE CARES WHAT YOU SAY!" Sherlock screamed, not caring about the pain. John was crying. Mycroft instantly regretted his deductions.

"You are both the same, aren't you? You saw those things, didn't you Sherlock? Just… Just leave me alone. I don't want to be friends with someone who can tear apart my deepest secrets and know the problems I have at a glance."

"John…"

"Shut up, freak!" John's fist collided with Sherlock's eye, knocking the tall boy down. Sherlock stared at the floor.

"You really think of me like that, don't you," Sherlock asked, only a little above a sad whisper, "I knew it was too good to be true… Why would anyone be friends with me?"

John had to leave. He couldn't deal with this. Mycroft let his mask slip. "Was that –"

"Yes Mycroft. That was John Watson. I hope you're proud of yourself…"

"Sherlock, I'm sorry…"

"No you aren't."

Mycroft knew the signs. He had to try and help while he still could. "Sherlock, look at me. You made too much progress; don't do this."

"Just take me home, Mycroft."

"Sherlock–"

"Just take me home."

...

Hey guys! This has taken ages, so sorry. I've been writing lots of other things. It's painful at the moment, but it will get better; I'm not heartless; it just... might take a chapter or two.

Please review, I really want to know what you think. :)