"What's the matter, Sherlock?" Mrs Beeston, the housekeeper, asked the eleven-year-old as he stomped through the kitchen door.
Sherlock dropped his bag on the table and himself into a chair with a long sigh.
"Oh, nothing." he shrugged, beginning to wish he had headed straight for his room rather than the kitchen at tea time, "Just some kids at school."
Mrs Beeston reached into the fridge and poured Sherlock a large glass of orange juice, placing it down on the table in front of him before pulling out a chair and sitting alongside.
"You shouldn't pay any attention to what they say, you know, Sherlock. Kids can be awfully cruel sometimes."
Sherlock took a long drink of juice before responding. They'd been through this before. Several times since the start of term, Mrs Beeston had found Sherlock sulking in his favourite hiding spot, behind the long curtain in the drawing room. Each time, a result of the children at school calling him names.
The first time she had found him was 18 months ago. Sherlock had clearly been crying and Mrs Beeston had taken a while to get him to share what the problem was.
"Am I a freak?" the ten-year-old had asked, his face streaked and flushed.
Mrs Beeston had gathered him in her arms and told him tales of when Mycroft was his age and the children used to tease him.
"And look at him now." she had continued, pride evident in her voice, "He is doing so well."
She looked at the young boy now sitting next to her at the kitchen table and smiled fondly at how much he had grown up since then.
"I know." Sherlock replied solemnly, "it's bothering me less than it used to anyway. I just ignore them now. I don't need people like that."
Mrs Beeston smiled a bittersweet smile and hoped that someday Sherlock would find somebody to be his friend.