In all her years teaching Anatomy and Physiology at Eton, Martha Hudson had never seen a pairing quite as contradictory as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. While the two boys were seemingly ignored by the entire student body, neither one appeared to care as long as they were sat close enough to pass each other "secret" notes during her lectures. As if anyone's A&P textbook was ever that funny. From the first day of class, Martha could tell that John had a natural talent for human biology. He volunteered to answer any question she asked, and when he didn't know the answer, would hurriedly open his book and flip through it to find the information. John never complained about having too much homework in her class, and best of all to an anatomy teacher, any time Mrs. Hudson would bring out a specimen for the class to examine, John would be the first to step up and grab a scalpel. Or, at the very least, it would be in unison with the Holmes boy. Where John was the star student in her class, Sherlock was the nightmare. His knowledge of the subject she was supposed to be teaching far surpassed the curriculum for the course, but Sherlock refused to answer any questions unless they were directly asked to him, and then would answer as if he was doing Mrs. Hudson a favor. He never payed attention in class, but still managed to ace every assignment he was given. Most distressing was the way Sherlock's enthusiasm for anatomy and physiology seemed to be specific on the diseases and deaths, rather than the way things were healed. John would look to solve "the mysteries of life", as Martha so often put it, with enthusiasm and hope that one day he would use that knowledge to help people. The teenager's dream was so potent it was almost possible to read it in the gleam of his eyes and the determined smile he always wore while experimenting. Sherlock, however, would look at those same mysteries and see only information to be gleaned and stored. And once that information was obtained, his mind wandered to other, more morbid topics.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock looked up from the goat that lay open in front of him. "If we're supposed to be learning about these systems in the human body, why aren't we using real cadavers?"
Mrs. Hudson was a professional, and she appreciated enthusiasm as much as the next educator, but this was too much. "Sherlock, dear, even you can't expect that I would allow rotting bodies from the morgue into my classroom, infecting my countertops." she teased.
"Honestly Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock, as always, didn't grasp the sarcasm in her voice. "basic systems of the body are different here. Goats are ruminant for god's sake, and this bland domestic variety doesn't even offer any interesting diseases or bacteria." Sherlock was nearly shouting now, and he scrunched his face up into a look of pure exasperation. "I never took you for the blindingly stupid type, but perhaps you haven't noticed, homo sapiens," he grabbed John's wrist and waved it about, sending goat liver flying across the room, "don't have hooves, floppy ears, horns on their head, or hair all over their bodies. Well, most of them anyway." Sherlock let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and turned to John, a self-satisfied grin stretching across his face.
John couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, not caring that they were in the middle of dissecting an animal or that Sherlock had just insulted his favorite teacher. Sherlock, who usually scoffed at what most people call "amusement", couldn't control himself either, and soon the boys were laughing themselves hoarse in the back of the classroom. They continued giggling the entire way to the principal's office.
. . .
Mrs. Hudson enters the flat in her usual manner, bustling about, setting afternoon tea on the counter and heading for the door, when she sees her tennant lying in the same position and wearing the same clothes she had left him in nearly 24 hours ago.
"Really, Sherlock", she complains, "It's been a month since you got back from the hospital, and you haven't even tried to act like a normal human being." Sherlock, who is lying on the sofa with his head crammed into the crease between the cushions and the back, lifts his head and cocks an eyebrow at this, craning his neck and looking rather like a beached seal.
"Normal, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Well, normal for you, dear."
Sherlock turns back into the sofa, "I played the violin last night." comes the muffled reply.
"That was nearly a week ago, and I'd hardly call what you did as 'playing'. More of an auditory execution, actually."
"Mrs. Hudson, I appreciate your concern, but I really do think I can take care of myself. I've done it before." With that, Sherlock hops deftly from the sofa, and in one smooth movement, turns Mrs. Hudson around and ushers her out the door. She stops in the doorway, bracing her arms against the frame.
"Sherlock, please. Go on a case at least. I know you've turned down Lestrade again, on a case important enough for him to come calling for, too. Just, go get some work. A double homicide, at least." She turns around, sympathy filling her eyes, "He won't come back simply because you've stopped taking care of yourself."
Sherlock doesn't want to hear any more of this. The pity that covers everyone's features whenever they speak to him, as if he is some broken-hearted teenager is infuriating. Lestrade had come over the other day to say the same thing. Urging him to "rally", or some other similar, idiotic phrase.
He slams the door in Mrs. Hudson's face and, because it seems appropriate, kicks the table next to him that used to hold John's wallet and keys. The table topples to the ground with a crash, and surprisingly, this small act of violence makes Sherlock feel better, so he continues on a rampage throughout the house. Any table, any chair or bookshelf that gets in Sherlock's way is upended. Every bit of furniture, every hole in the wall, every dust bunny that reminds him of John is annihilated.
It's not fair. Everyone sees him as the weak one, the one crippled by emotions, ruined by the mistake he made. To care. Mycroft warned him. Over and over he did. This is why Holmes' don't care. When you're cold and calculating you don't get hurt and weakened by feelings or softened by doctors. Doctors with psychosomatic limps and dirty blonde hair. Who laugh when you sulk and smile exactly when you need it. Doctors who were the first to love you, all of you. Because when you make a mistake, when everything you promised would go right is destroyed, those doctors leave. Leave you alone in a flat too big for one, with broken furniture and upside-down end tables. But it's not fair. Because when doctors leave, they leave to a future, to another life and another love, but they leave you alone. Doctors don't have to hear you scream over and over again for them in your dreams, or see you pour two cups of tea when there's only ever you in the house, and they don't know what it did to you.
It's dark outside by the time Sherlock's tempest is over. When every offending object he can think of has been thrown, beaten, kicked, or ripped open, he curls into a ball against the wall, right underneath the fluorescent yellow smiley face. Hand bleeding from a gash he must have gotten in the midst of his chaos, half-healed stomach wound aching, -and why is he crying? Sherlock falls asleep curled into himself. His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness is that Mrs. Hudson really will have a fit when she sees the state of 221b tomorrow.
. . .
The first time it happened, it was spring, nearly time for Easter break. John, who had managed to wrangle a small band of friends by then, was out on the grounds playing football. Sherlock was sat under a tree, engrossed in his Forensic Science textbook, when he was approached by George Harmond, king brute of Eton, but not incredibly respected as his meek intelligence was far surpassed by his athletic ability.
"What are you doing here, Holmes? No one out here wants to waste their time looking at your ugly mug. Why don't you go crawl back into the test tube you came from? Freak." He spat, knocking the book from Sherlock's hands. The name had been Sherlock's calling card throughout his entire life, and while he'd gotten used to hearing it, John, who happened to be running by to intercept a pass of the ball, had not. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to face George.
"What did you just say?" John whispered, trying his best to keep the venom that had instantly coiled itself in his gut at out of his voice. Harmond was taken aback for a moment before composing himself. He had always taken John to be one of his own.
"Excuse me?" he retorted.
"I said, what did you just say to him?"
"Nothing. I just called him by his name; Freak."
John stepped forward, bringing him almost to eye level with George.
"Right. Well seeing as you've barely evolved past Homo erectus, I'd suggest you stop trying to humiliate Sherlock here. Because if you continue, I'm sure a person of his intelligence could come up with better insults for a creature has idiotic and disgusting as you than the word "freak".
As he said this last word, George looked down at Sherlock by his feet and glared into his eyes, a warning in the least.
"Why would you do that?" Sherlock rounded on John eyes clouded in anger. "I didn't need your help. I'm not a child," he mumbled petulantly.
"No you're not. but you're my friend." John almost sounded like he was asking Sherlock for reassurance that this was true. Sure, the two weren't exactly what you would call "blood brothers", but they were close enough that John could defend Sherlock if he was being attacked. Right?
"I've gotten along well enough my entire life without a protector, John. I don't need friends."
"No. I suppose you don't," John stammered, obviously hurt though Sherlock couldn't fathom why.