Bored. Sherlock Holmes was bored out of his mind. The cases were scarce these last days, and even if he did receive a few clients, begging him to solve their “atrociously horrible and frightening” cases; his only answer was: “Boring!”. He wanted something new, something worth putting his effort and intellect into, yet such case seemed to be extinct at the moment.
That’s why he stood there wandering around in his flat, a cup of coffee in his hands. The only company he seemed to have was his “friend” Billy, a skull he had recovered a few years ago while solving a particularly challenging case involving a serial killer with twisted killing methods. He liked to pretend that Billy was a real friend, keeping him calmly company without bothering him with the absurd and useless thoughts most humans had and loved to express.
He found himself wishing that he had someone like Billy but someone real, in flesh and blood, someone that would actually listen to what he had to say without judging him for his thought process that seemed so out of this world.
More importantly, he wished that he had someone who could understand him.
That kind of people had been inexistent his whole life.
Since his early childhood, people knew him as a “freak”. He had spent countless hours as a child in front of the mirror, his keen eyes trying to understand what was wrong with him, but found nothing. He understood that the problem was not on the outside, but within him. His own mind was his blessing and his curse.
His parents always supported him, but neither of them had his mind or Mycroft’s. His mother would heal his wounds when the bullies at school would get too violent, and his father would play chess with him to distract him from the pain, but there wasn’t much more that they could do for their children.
The only person who could understand him was his older brother Mycroft, who at every possible occasion liked to emphasise how he was the “smart one”. Although Mycroft comprehended him on an intellectual level, he lacked the emotional dimension Sherlock longed for.
Sherlock thought that he had never been good enough: he was too intelligent and unnatural for the “normal” people, but wasn’t as clever as he ought to be compared to his brother. He felt lost, not belonging anywhere.
Buried in his thoughts, he concluded that maybe everyone was right. Maybe he was a freak after all.
Little did he know that his loneliness would soon come to an end. He would have to be patient, it was only a matter of time. He wouldn’t consider himself a freak anymore. Someone would finally understand him.
Someone called John Watson.