Sherlock Holmes really didn't like school. No, don't get me wrong, he loved learning. Absolutely loved it, he would soak up information like a sponge, and was always reading some text or another on his favourite subjects. That was why he was three years ahead of his age group. No, what he didn't like about school was the people. The stupid girls, with their little pigtails and their stupid pink accessories. Always talking about their pet rabbits or how they want a puppy or kitty for Christmas. Fluttering their lashes and giggling high pitched giggles in the hopes of catching one of the boy's attention. It was sickening.
And the boys- my god! They were even worse! Always flexing their weak little muscles, talking about the new bike their dad bought them, or the car they were going to get. Pulling out non-school regulation magazines, with obscene pictures of nearly naked women, sprawled out on top of shiny motorcycles and even shinier cars, wearing string bikinis. And they would stare at the photo's, and point out their favourites, and brag about what they would do to those women if they ever met them, as if they knew how to please a woman, as if they knew anything about sexual activity at all. They bragged about their non-existent sexual exploits, and whistled at the girls in the grades above them, treating all women like they're just objects to use for ones own sexual pleasure.
But that wasn't even the worst of it. In between all the bragging, and the lies, and the attempts at being macho, these same boys would allow their insecurities to come out, and consume them. And it was then, that they would seek out a person who was better than them at something, and they would pummel that person (sometimes alone and sometimes in groups), until they no longer felt insecure. As if beating someone else up could prove that they were somehow superior to that person, as if they became better by instigating violence. And Sherlock was the best at lessons, and more often than not also one of the boys the 'prettiest' girls would try to flirt with. So of course he was also the main punching bag.
Not that he cared. Sherlock was fine with being the other boy's favourite punching bag- he was after all, quite adept at defending himself if he ever truly needed to. Personally, he thought the attacks were fairly pathetic. No, he could handle whatever they threw at him, since he would still be the top student in any academic class he entered. What he couldn't handle, however, was Physical Education.
Sherlock scowled. Physical Education was clearly a class thought up by a sadist, who enjoyed the idea of torturing children. As far as he could see, it served absolutely no purpose, other than to humiliate those who were otherwise completely superior. Because, despite being completely adept on a physical level, and in fact quite a good runner, Sherlock Holmes was absolutely dreadful at sports. Not just average, or even bad; absolutely horrid.
You tossed a ball towards him, and he would do the logical thing and dodge out of the way, instead of catching it and tossing it back. You pitched a baseball to him, and his swing was so wild, that he had more chance of hitting himself than he did of hitting the ball. You served a tennis ball, and instead of lobbing it back across the net, he would end up smacking it so hard it would clear right out of the court.
But the thing he was absolutely the worst at was football. When the teacher split the class into two teams, his teammates would make absolutely sure not to ever pass him the ball. Which was a total relief for Sherlock; it meant he didn’t have to attempt to kick it towards one of his teammates, or heaven forbid, the net. He tried his best to stay out of everyone’s way and stay off to the sidelines. But every now and then, he would get the ball passed to him, and his teammates would look to him to kick it farther up the field.
Now was one of those times. The black and white ball came shooting towards him, and Sherlock had to physically stop himself from dodging out of the way and letting it pass him and go out of bounds.
“Come on, Holmes! Pass it to Wilkes, he’s open!” Victor Trevor’s voice shot through the air towards him just after the ball had rolled to a stop next to his foot, and Sherlock found himself staring up at the blonde hair of one of his most frequent tormentor’s; Sebastian Wilkes. Wilkes was about thirty feet away from him on the field, and Victor was right, there were no obstacles in the way. It would be a clear shot, so long as he didn’t bugger it up. Sherlock took a deep breath and drew his foot back, holding it there a moment, before pushing it forwards and kicking the ball as hard as he could, the mathematic calculations for angle and speed of the kick, weight of the ball and wind resistance running through his mind. The ball went sailing through the air, ten, twenty, thirty feet…
In the completely wrong direction.
“Thanks Holmes! You just gave us the game!” Came the voice of the opposite team’s center forward, Janette Maine. Her teammates laughed as she ran across the field, the ball never far from her feet as she dodged past all of his teams’ defense and kicked the ball towards the goal. Sherlock stood frozen in his spot as he watched the ball sail past the arms of their goalie and into the net. Jeanette’s team cheered loudly as the teacher blew her whistle signaling the end of the game.
“Way to go, Holmes.” Trevor said, his shoulders hunched as he trekked back towards the school. Sherlock scowled in his direction, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.
“Yeah, thanks for nothing, Freak.” Sebastian Wilkes’ voice came up behind him and before he had the chance to turn around, Sherlock found himself sputtering and choking on ice cold liquid. He blinked his eyes quickly, trying to get the water out of them, and raised his hands to push his now sopping curls out of his eyes. He stared into the sneering face Wilkes, and tried to come up with something scathing to say back.
All he could come up with was a half hearted, “Don’t call me that.”
Sebastian laughed darkly and pushed past him, tossing his now empty water bottle down onto the ground. “Whatever, Freak. You totally missed the completely open shot, it was fucking easy, and you missed it. What else should I call you? You’re a freak and you know it. And if you don’t watch it, you’ll find yourself with a black eye before the school day is over.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, picking up the water bottle on his way towards the school (he hated it when people littered; I mean really, how hard was it to just throw it in a trash can?). His steps were slower than the rest of his class, and as a result he arrived at the gym doors after the rest of the students had already gone to the locker rooms and gotten changed. He lingered inside the boy’s locker room, pretending that he was removing clean clothing from his locker, until it was empty. Then he walked over to the sink counter and pulled himself up on the ledge, his long legs dangling down.
He let out a sigh and stared down at his hands. Why couldn’t he just be good at football, just once? Or at least just good enough that Sebastian and Victor would stop picking on him.
He looked up at his reflection in the mirror in front of him, and frowned. He hated what he saw there, underneath the dark messy curls and behind the blue-green-grey eyes. He was useless. So what if he was good at other things? So what if he was smart? People didn’t care about that. People cared if you were big and strong, if you could hit a baseball across the field or throw a ball through a basket. People cared if you were good at sports, and if you owned a fancy car or a bike. People cared if you had a hot girlfriend, and knew a lot about sex.
People cared if you were cool.
He stared at himself in the mirror and his scowl deepened. He wasn’t any of those things. He wasn’t good at sports. He didn’t have a girlfriend, never mind a hot one, and he knew nothing about sex. He didn’t have a nice car (he couldn’t even drive!) and he was terrified of motorcycle’s. He wasn’t cool, he wasn’t even average; he was a geek. A nerd.
His hands balled into fists and he bared his teeth at himself in the mirror. “Fuck.” He hissed through clenched teeth. “I hate you. I hate you so goddamned much.” His eyes scanned his body in the mirror, from his knobby, weak knees to his skinny, too-long arms. They took in his messy hair and his angular face, with it’s dark brows and light eyes and felt like screaming. “I hate you I hate you I hate you!” He yelled, his hands unclenching and grabbing at the sides of his head, his eyes squeezing shut with the force of his outburst. “Why don’t you just die?”