Hi folks! I am apologizing for the fact this is a week and a day late! I thought I had posted it here, but apparently not, so here it is!

June 18th, 2005
Sherlock's POV
Growing up he only had one friend and that was his brother, until suddenly his brother was gone. Part of him understood that his brother was away at school, but surely they would still be friends? Only that ended up not being the truth of the matter, instead his brother cut him off, left him adrift. He did everything he could think of, anything to make Mycroft want to be around him again, to care. Yet nothing worked.

When he was thirteen Mycroft told him he was too emotional and to grow up, no one liked brats who wore their hearts on their sleeve and bothered everyone. So he tried to stop. He looked up methods of mediation and control, trying and failing to emulate his brother. Maybe if he succeed Mycroft would care about him again.

Instead all it did was start him on a downwards spiral of pain, sadness, longing, and fear. Each and every attempt made him hate himself more than the last until he hit a point where he hated himself as much as he hated everyone else.

When he turned fourteen he started intentionally pushing his limits in hopes of harming himself and maybe not feeling like he was worthless. After all, he was often complimented on his intelligence but everything else was either ignored or treated as wrong.

He can still recall with perfect clarity the time Aunt Maeve and her slimy husband Richard had come to visit. He had hated them on sight, seeing all the little secrets they tried so hard to hide like the fact they were planning on getting a divorce and both of them were having affairs. At dinner he had been stuck beside Richard, who kept staring at him in the most awkward way, making his skin crawl.

So he had disarmed the situation the only way he knew how, "You're not interested in young boys, only young girls. For the last six months you've been having an affair with one of your students."

His uncle's face had turned a rather interesting combination of purple and red as he sputtered for several minutes before managing to spit out, "What would a piece of trash like you know? No one cares about you! You have no friends! You have no accomplishment! You're nothing!" Rising to his feet he nearly snarled, "Come on Maeve, we don't have to sit here and take this!"

A minute later they were leaving and both his parents were glaring at him.

"Elbow's off the table, use the right fork," his mum snapped, something she had said so many times before that he barely even noticed.

"You need to learn to filter yourself Sherlock," his dad chided, and the words that followed hurt far worse than his mum's nastiness. "You shouldn't make up stories about people."

"I didn't!" he replied hotly, "He really is sleeping with one of his students."

"Your uncle's a married man in his thirties, why would he sleep with one of his teenage students? That's just foolishness," his dad responded firmly, "Stop telling tales."

Three weeks later they received a letter from Aunt Maeve, she was divorcing Uncle Richard, and Uncle Richard was up on charges for sleeping with three of his students, all of them sixteen, the last just barely.

His parents had never apologized for implying he was a liar.

The following week he had started music lessons again. He had some as a child but had stopped after breaking a grand piano. This time, he had a different teacher, one who had patience for the music, if not him and he quickly fell in love with music.

It was the only time he got positive attention. Even then, it was only for the music, any time he wanted to talk about something else, anything else, he was told to stop being a bother and to be grateful for his talent.

Music came to be something he both loved and hated as well.

Shaking his head, he tries to force his mind away from those thoughts, onto other topics he needs to think about, like what did Jim mean he's not a sociopath? He has to be one! He doesn't have empathy, or at least it is really skewed. He's never felt remorse for his actions, which has lead to him feeling bad about not feeling bad when parents, teachers, caregivers, anyone and everyone else yelled at, chided, or otherwise told him over and over again how bad he is being. His own brother had a problem with caring about him, so it must be him. After all, Mycroft is the smarter and better suited brother. Right? He was the golden child, everything he did was praised and held up before him as a goal to reach. Not that he ever actually did.

So, if he's not a sociopath, what is he?

He rolls from his back to his side, tucking his head in the crook of his elbow and closing his eyes tightly.

Whatever he is, it's something no one wants to be around. Except, that's not exactly true. John seems to like being around him. It's even sincere. There has been nothing false in his behavior yet. Even odder the fact John seems to be willing to defend him. What would his life have been like had he had someone who cared about him like that when he was younger?

He can still remember the bullies that would shove him for being different, scream and laugh and taunt him with the word freak, make him feel wrong just for being. He can remember the way his parents would tell him it's part of life, distracted and not actually caring. Even the time he ended up with a broken arm, he got blamed when it wasn't his fault. Back then he wanted someone who actually cared more than anything else.

Mycroft had visited from school for two weeks, took one look at his arm in the cast, rolled his eyes and walked away. Every time he tried to talk to his brother, his brother ignored him until he would either give up or their parents would drag him away.

That had hurt more than he wanted to admit, then or now.

What had he done wrong that his one friend no longer cared about him or wanted to be around him? He can't think of anything he did. At least nothing in particular. He asked after his brother's classes and teachers and if he had made any new friends. He asked about the topics his brother was studying. He told his brother what he was currently working on, tried not to mention any of the bullies or the many ways he felt like shit on a regular bases.

Yet Mycroft still didn't want to be around him.

Only, his mind hesitates for a moment, Jim implied Mycroft was at fault, not him. That it was his brother who was closer to being a sociopath, or mimicking one, than him. Was Jim right? Could he be right? Did that mean all those years he thought he had done something wrong he hadn't? It was Mycroft, not him?

It's confusing.

A part of him wants to confront his brother. Wants to know if Jim is right. Wants to know if he went through years of feeling as if he must be doing something wrong when he wasn't. He wants to know why Mycroft abandoned him to feel that way. Wants to know anything, everything. Part of him wants to scream at his brother. He wants to hate Mycroft for making him hurt so much.

First though, before that could even close to happen, he had to be expressing himself with more than just his instruments.

Getting up, he paces around his room for a few minutes before grabbing his violin to play. Hours are spent with him going through all his favorites, both those by others and those of his own design.

Would John enjoy his violin music? He wonders, then stops, staring at the wall as he remembers that John is deaf. But music is played at the clinic, can John feel it? Does he like music? Is there a particular type he likes more than another? Are any of his instruments the type that John would be able to enjoy? He wants to be able to share this, but how can he share something if he doesn't even know if John can hear or feel it?

Tossing his violin on his bed, he grabs his hair and tugs on the disheveled curls hard. It's not enough to pull them out but it is enough to sting.

John, now there is a topic that confuses him more than anything.

When he was around the person he thought of as a friend he never got the warm fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not once during the six months. When Victor started pressuring him for sex, he had refused, not interested in the person he thought was his friend. As much as he would like to deny it, he can still hear Victor's parting words ringing through his mind.

"You're nothing but a worthless, freak of a cold fish! No one really wants you! You're just a tool!" the dark-haired man had screamed as he walked away, drawing the attention of many students. Embarrassment had streaked through him, making him feel worse though he hadn't shown any of it on the surface.

The next night he had bought as much as he could from Victor's dealer. He had considered using it all at once, but instead ended up stashing most of it. Over the next few months he had done anything he had to on campus to get more money to give the dealer, and to get more. It is just enough to keep him slow and dazed, he still passes his classes and still gets treated like garbage, but it's easier to cope with.

For his eighteenth birthday, his brother sent a car to pick him up. None of his birthdays since Mycroft left for uni had been good. His parents had actually forgot him for two of them, and his mum had spent all of his fifteenth birthday lecturing him on how to have proper table manners. So he still doesn't know why he expected that one to be different. Maybe because it was the first time his brother was going to spend the evening with him voluntarily since Mycroft left for uni.

That was probably his biggest mistake. Thinking Mycroft wanted to be around him.

His dad wished him happy birthday and many happy returns, gave him a card with a small amount of money and a certificate for a new suit. That was the only good thing that happened.

His mum must have been in a mood, because everything he did either earned him disapproving looks or flat out lectures. According to her, he ate his food wrong, didn't sit straight enough, why couldn't he be more like his brother? When she wasn't criticizing him, she was praising his brother. Each word like a knife cutting through him.

The worst was Mycroft. His elder brother sat there so serious and stern, nothing familiar about his posture. Where in the past Mycroft would have defended him, not tonight, this time his brother just sat there sipping at his drink, and occasionally nodding in agreement. When he had finally gotten the nerve up to ask why, Mycroft had cut him off mid sentence, telling him that their mother was right about his behavior, he should try to be a better son.

Three hours after that, he had collected every single stash he owed, and retreated to an old church he had discovered near campus and thought was beautiful. There he had used every bit of the drugs. With each injection he had felt lighter, happier, and sure that he was making the right choice. No one was going to miss him, at least this way he could go out with a smile.

Tugging on his hair a bit harder, he pulls himself out of that memory, not wanting to think about what lead him to spending six months in a rehab. The reason he met John. The reason his brother was pretending to care. The reason he now has a minder.

Spinning around, he grabs the violin off his bed and goes back to playing. It seems to be the most relaxing thing for him to do.

The challenges, he realizes several hours later, his stomach lightly rumbling in hunger. They never did the challenges. Should he still try to remember the information?

Glancing about his room, he notices the laptop in the corner of the desk that he had previously ignored. He could type up all the information on the people he had noticed and what streets they had taken or could take in the future to go to the same places. His focus narrows to completing the task at hand, completely ignoring the fact he is hungry. He can eat when he's done, as a reward for accomplishing what he is doing. Then he can think some more on the confusing topic that is John.

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