The group moved away, Sherlock didn't know why and he didn't care, he lay in the grass, his lips still tingling with the ghost of the kiss and his body aching with the pain of the result. How could have been so stupid! But he knew that soon the crowd would move away, and they would surely see his deformed figure laying there, crying and bleeding. So, with the last shred of will he had, he pulled himself to his feet, not bothering to stop the flow of blood oozing from his nose, not bothering to stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks. He stumbled home, keeping his head low even though there were no people on the streets. He was ashamed to be called Sherlock Holmes; he was ashamed to even be alive, because he wasn't loved by John Watson, the only thing he held on for. When he got home he rushed up the stairs, not answering when his mom asked how the game had gone, he shut and locked his bedroom door but that wasn't enough. Redbeard was lying on the bed, and he looked up with obvious worry, but this wasn't something the dog could help with. Sherlock grabbed the bag from the closet, the one filled with the cigarettes and morphine he needed right now, and shut the bathroom door, blocking out the world and sitting curled up on the floor, leaning against the wall in a ball. Sherlock sat there, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his bloodied, tear streaked face, he had never looked so horrible. Not just because of the blood, but because even the sight of himself made Sherlock cringe. Why couldn't John love him, why couldn't Sherlock just find happiness? He was flung into a fit of fresh, silent sobs, his heart feeling like the most shattered piece of thin glass, it's pieces beyond repair. Sherlock stuck a needle into his arm, letting the morphine flow through his blood, which did little to calm him down. But it made his brain stop working for a little while, and that was just what he needed, a distraction from the world, this horrible, horrible world filled with hate and anger and not a shred of happiness. Sherlock fell asleep on the bathroom floor, and for the first time in what felt like forever he was praying that he wouldn't wake up.

To Sherlock's disappointment though, he did wake up. There was no sunlight, no rooster crowing, but somehow he knew it must be morning. For a second he forgot everything that was making him miserable but then he remembered, remembered everything. He had shattered his own fairy tale, ripped the pages out and burned them, just because he was too impatient, because he couldn't control his weak heart. He soon found out what had woken him, a loud knocking from outside his room, human knocking.

 "Sherlock, are you alright in there?" it was Mycroft. Sherlock crawled to his feet, groaning at his obviously bruised and beaten body.

 "I'm fine!" he lied, throwing the bag of drugs into the bathtub and closing the curtain just in case. Sherlock looked in the mirror, there was dried blood splashed all over his face, his chin, and even on his clothes. It was a shame he didn't just bleed out.

 "We didn't see you come home!" Mycroft said, obviously annoyed at being trapped behind the door.

 "Well, I'm home, leave me alone!" Sherlock growled.

 "Breakfast is ready."

  "I'm not hungry, go away!" Sherlock insisted. He didn't hear Mycroft leave but he also didn't hear any more comments, so either he was standing there silently or he was gone. Sherlock's face was completely pale, he looked like death himself. Sherlock tried to make himself at least acceptable, so that his parents wouldn't suspect anything out of the ordinary had happened. He scrubbed the blood off of his face; he rubbed the tears off of his cheeks and brushed the knots out of his face. There was a terrible aching in his heart, he knew there was no chance now, no chance that he could ever get the great John Watson to look at him anyway other than what he was, a freak. Sherlock unlocked the door and opened it, and to his surprise and somewhat happiness he saw Redbeard was asleep against it, having kept watch all night for some reason. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile, he couldn't think of anything else but John. He still loved him though, his heart still ached to be in his arms, it was so stupid, so hopeless, but apparently there was nothing Sherlock could get right. He would want everything he couldn't have, he would watch with pain as what he wanted was ripped from his grasp, he'd live a cursed life, the life of a lesser than, what he so surely deserved. Sherlock camped in his room for the entire weekend, sleeping the days away and sitting in his bed at night. He sat on the window ledge, letting his feet hang over the edge and staring up into the stars. There was times when he wanted just to jump, maybe by some miracle kill himself with the fall, but he stayed where he was, staring at the ground with envy and wishing it was just that easy. Unfortunately he just didn't have the guts, he was scared, he had to admit that every fiber of him was scared, for when the sun came up he'd have to go to school and face his demons. His parents were worried for him since he hadn't shown up for meals or even come out of his room all weekend, the most he's eaten was a couple of mints and inhaled about twenty cigarettes, but nothing seemed to help. So he stared at the sky, so faraway, so innocent and so free, if only he could join them somehow, and not have to face either death or worse than it.

"Sherlock you need to get dressed!" his mother called when the sun had come up. Sherlock knew of course, but he still sat there, having watched the sun rise from behind the buildings. It was time to go, time to see John once again, he deserved this torture yet he didn't want it. He didn't want to see the ones he knew were only going to abuse him like the scum he was made of. Sherlock changed solemnly into his usual outfit, combing his hair and trying to look as if he hadn't spent his days moping around like a sick dog. He grabbed his bag, still sitting on the desk from where he threw it all those days ago, still anticipating what would happen at the match. Sherlock opened the door for the first time in what felt like forever but didn't eat breakfast; he wasn't hungry and was afraid if he did eat something he'd just throw it up. His stomach was twisting nervously, the story would obviously have circulated like wildfire, everyone would know what he had done. When Sherlock left the house he didn't get coffee, he walked with his head down as slowly as possible, hoping that maybe a bus with a drunken driver would just put him out of his misery. But unfortunately nothing happened, he didn't fall into a gutter, an earthquake didn't make a building fall on top of him, a rabid cat didn't eat his face off, he was able to walk safety to the school and walk into its doors unharmed. When he walked in it was like someone had just dropped a bomb, everyone stopped talking, they all turned and stared at him, hundreds of judging eyes staring into his soul.

 "IT'S THE GAY FREAK!" someone called from the crowd, and everyone laughed, even the quietest girls that never talked laughed and jeered in his direction. He had sunk, if possible, even lower. Sherlock walked through the halls, once again avoiding punches and legs stretched to trip him, absorbing the insults thrown at him like a sponge, and they stuck to him as if they were made of glue. He was a freak, he was an outcast of society, he was the lowest of the low, and everyone else knew as well. He went to his locker and noticed that the boys around him fled, as if he carried some type of infectious disease, as if he was going to lose his control and make out with every single one of them. But Sherlock knew they were right to run, he would run as well, heck if it was possible he'd run from himself, maybe he should've jumped. He opened his locker and threw everything inside, carrying what he needed in his bag and getting ready for his own execution. It came sooner than he expected though, a massive hand pushed his head into the thin locker, making his brain rattle around in his skull.

 "I shouldn't get too close; he might kiss me if I'm not careful." Greg laughed above him. Sherlock didn't even respond, he pushed Greg's hand off of him and shut the locker softly, locking it and not bothering with the boys behind him.
 "Where are you going?" Greg hissed. Still, Sherlock didn't respond. Once again there was proof that even the worst of bullies will have no fun when they didn't get a result. It was like a lion getting served its food on a silver platter, after a while it will get bored.

 "Did you really think John would love you? Did you think he was the one? Did you already pick out an engagement ring?" Greg laughed, making Sherlock screw up his face to avoid screaming. Yes he does love him, yes he is the one, and no, why would he waste money on such a pointless gift that John would simply throw away?

 "Please just leave me alone." Sherlock said softly, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

 "Aw, are you going to cry, let it out freak, I'm sure you have tears stored up in there, come on, you can do it. Let it out freak, let your love for John flow, maybe if he sees you in such a mess he'll realize his love." Greg laughed. Sherlock tried to push past, he wasn't crying, not again, but Greg simply blocked his path.

 "I said leave me alone!" he yelled, very loudly, making the whole hallway stop what they were doing to watch him once again, but he pushed Greg away and stormed off to first period. Sherlock's mood had sunk even lower now, the minutes seeping away until he'd have to see John again. In his first two classes he was tormented to the point that the teacher really should interfere.The seats around him emptied, every kid asked to get their assigned seats moved so they didn't have to come anywhere close, he was almost quarantined. But both teachers watched him from the corner of their eyes, as if shocked they had such a freak in their presence. When lunch finally came Sherlock escaped the crowds, sinking into the staircase and curling into a ball, not eating a bite. Every second that ticked by was a blow to the head, every minute was a gun shot, he was going to see John, he couldn't avoid it. He'd have to sit next to the very boy that had punched him away, refused his love and burned what shred of hope he had. Sherlock felt like crying, he really did, his eyes were hot and his heart ached like no other, but he stayed strong. He couldn't break down, not in front of the entire school, not again. He needed to pretend he had some pride, he couldn't show them that they had won. When the lunch bell rang it was his funeral bell, but he stood up and walked to the class, as slowly as possible,hoping that maybe he would be sucked into a black hole. The crowd parted around him, the boys flattening against the walls and the girls gave him a wide berth, obviously they thought he was going to go absolutely crazy. Couldn't they see that he was just the same as they were; he had self-control and most certainly didn't have a crush on every boy in this school. When he got to third period he was early, which he didn't know was a good or bad thing. There was no one in the class except for Mrs. Pines, who was wearing school colors, undoubtedly because of the team's victory. Apparently the story had circulated through the staff room as well; she was staring at him like he was an animal in the zoo, with an expression of both pity and fear. Soon the people flowed in, Sherlock saw Greg smirk at him from afar and Anderson watching him murderously. But, like he anticipated, John came in as well. Mary was holding him quite close, as if protectively. Sherlock didn't dare look at him directly; he knew everyone else's eyes were fixed on him as if in a spotlight, they knew he would be watching. John and Mary went up to the teacher's desk, he saw them out of the corner of his eye although he was trying his best to read the book open in front of him. Mrs. Pines said something as well and the two went to the other side of the room, far from Sherlock, like all of the other classes. He didn't know whether to consider this good or bad. He didn't have to sit close to him but then again it also meant John was in no place of forgiveness, he couldn't bear to even sit close to Sherlock. He was probably scared, terrified out of his mind of Sherlock, of course he was. The class was silent and Sherlock felt their eyes on him as well, even Mrs. Pines watched him, but soon the class started up. This time the math didn't come so easily to him since he couldn't concentrate. The numbers blurred on the paper, his brain seemed to shut down every time he tried to solve a problem in his head. But still he wasn't as confused as John, of course. He had dared a look, a quick look when he thought no one would see. John looked pale and almost sickly, as if he was taking his just as bad as Sherlock was. Mary was quite close, but at that moment she was looking at her own paper with confusion. John was obviously stumped, he had no mentor to help him this time, but there was no way he was going to sink to that level once again. Things would never be the same between them again. When the bell rang Sherlock already had his stuff packed, he couldn't wait to get out of that classroom as quickly as possible, but history would provide new challenges. Anderson, of course, would never give up his prized seat next to Sherlock considering it's the only place he can properly torment him in class, but maybe even Anderson found a change of heart. And of course now Sherlock didn't have the advantage of John's football career because he knew now that the whole tutoring thing was down the drain. Sherlock walked quickly out of the classroom to history; if he got there first maybe they'd see that they could move their seats after all. The class was just starting to fill up, a couple of kids dotted here and there; of course their conversations went silent when he walked in. Sherlock sat down, his face getting hot once again for no apparent reason. Why did everyone have to stare at him? Was he really that interesting? If he had been a girl this wouldn't have mattered, that happens all the time, but since it was the atrocity it was, two boys, everyone thought it was the eighth wonder of the world and that was just sad. When the footballers walked in Sherlock kept his head down once again. Mary wasn't in this class so he knew John would be alone, or at least without an overprotective girlfriend clinging to him. Sherlock didn't dare to look up but, as he thought, Anderson took the seat next to him, although he moved his chair as far away as possible. Sherlock sighed, he knew they were watching him, and he just hoped that John was getting the same awful attention he was. When the class started Sherlock dared a look, and to his absolute horror he saw that his hazel eyes were fixed right on him as well. Sherlock quickly looked away, looking at his textbook and flicking his pencil madly on the desk to try to pass it off as looking at the large sign about the taxes hanging above John on the wall. Great, now John was watching him as well. It was obviously disgust; he had shown that earlier, probably just watching in amazement, as if he was still trying to make sure Sherlock was actually a human and not some alien thing. Maybe Sherlock was an alien, cast down from his space ship of genius gay humanoids as well. That seemed about as likely as John liking him. When the worksheets came Sherlock tried to sit as far as possible away from Anderson (his other neighbor had suddenly felt the urge to sit by the window on the other side of the room). But he filled in the answers silently; trying to make sure Anderson wasn't doing anything abnormal and finally went back to reading one of the books he had checked out of the library last Sunday.