A/N: Sherlock and his friends are about 12-13 in this. They are mean to be in Year 8. My friend read this and said it was very sad :L I don't know, I'll leave it to you. Enjoy! P.S The bold writing is when they are typing into the computer, the normal writing is when they are thinking aloud ;)
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Oh, this is useless. I could type in a thousand things that are wrong in my life right now but I'd run out of pages to type on. I'm sick to death of everyone labelling me as "weirdo" or "freak" like I have no feelings at all. It's the older kids that get to me the most; the ones who are meant to be setting a good example to their younger's. Ha. They set a good example alright. An example that year tens are nothing but cold hearted, taunting prats.
No one likes me in this school. It's so awful walking in every day, just knowing you're going to get tripped up or laughed at or shoved into a locker. I hate my class. I hate the people in my class. Especially Peter Anderson. He's always horrible to me. Funny, when I first arrived I actually thought he liked me; we'd muck around in PE because we both found out we were both rubbish at football and sometimes we'd just linger around the lockers and talk about stuff that annoyed us, like teachers and girls. But then he went all weird and started avoiding me and began calling me names. I think it's because he's gone all nuts over Sally Donovan.
She hates me too. She always pulls a face, or sighs whenever I start talking. She was the one that made up the nickname "freak" for me and got everyone else to join in. I hate all of my class. Well…except for the new kid, John Watson. He arrived shortly after I did; all shy and nervous as he took the seat next to mine. The seat no one dares to sit in. I expected it to be the same old drill; someone sits beside me, gets freaked out in the first ten minutes then asked to be moved to the furthest side of the classroom possible. I was surprised that five minutes passed and John seemed perfectly relaxed. Ten minutes passed. Not a peep out of him. Twenty minutes. By then I had already named every state in America and corrected my teacher's grammar three times but John seemed unfazed. He just sat there, and every so often he'd smile at me. Not a mocking smile. A genuine, friendly smile.
So we were sort of friends after that, though we never really said anything to each other. Irene Adler is ok too I guess. She sometimes flicks a rubber band at me in the middle of science (she sits behind me) or teases me about my curly hair. But she'd good fun, I enjoy our banter. She doesn't hang around with Sally Donavon like most of the other girls do. She hangs around with John, more than often at lunch time I'd see her sitting on the playground wall reading a horror or mystery book. John would be there as well. He didn't sit on the wall; he did handstands against it. There were times when I would ache to join them, but I was nervous that I'd suddenly start coming out with mouthfuls of scientific nonsense and scare them away.
That's why people don't like me. I have this thing where I can work at people's emotions, personalities or private life just by looking at them. Mycroft calls it "deduction". The kids at school either hate it or are terrified by it. My first conversation with Molly Hooper was me telling her how I knew she owned three cats, her mother played squash on Sundays and the man who stitched the garments on her jumper was a deranged serial killer, just by the way she held her knife and fork. Now whenever I go near her she goes pink and shuffles away from me as if I'm going to attack her.
Dad hates my deducting as well. He's always angry nowadays. He criticizes everything I do and everything I don't do, if that makes any sense. Things weren't so bad when mum was alive; I remember the old dad, who used to laugh and read me stories and put me up on his shoulders and play imaginary games with me and do things a normal dad would do. Now he just shouts all the time and spends our money on alcohol and cigarettes. I used to love my dad but I don't know what to think of him now. Since mum died he's been drinking out of his mind. Then he started hitting us. Me and Mycroft I mean. I still have a scar from the last time he struck me across the face. I just tell people that I fell of my bike. I have to; otherwise they'll take us away and put us in care. And that's the last thing I want.
Dad hits me for almost anything now. For when I forget things, break things, or simply when he feels like he needs a human punch bag. I can deduct when he's going to hit me almost immediately; his pupils dilate, his fists clench, sweat begins to bead his forehead, his voice is a strained growl.
"There you go. Bloody deducting again. I thought by now I'd knocked some sense into you boy. I clearly haven't been knocking hard enough"
He hits Mycroft worse than he hits me. I remember once when I'd come home from John's house I came home and found Mycroft crying. This worried me, as the last time I'd seen Mycroft – my strong fifteen year old brother – cry was at my mother's funeral. He said he'd just banged his arm but there was something else, something he wasn't telling me. I could sense it in his eyes. But I just hugged him and said it was going to be alright. He had hurt the side of his face too, a nasty bruise was already spreading across his left cheekbone but it didn't cross my mind what might be going on until I went to bed. It was just as I fell asleep that I understood that my dad – the same laughing, smiling, imaginary games dad that I had once knew – could be abusing my older brother.
Who was I kidding? He was abusing both of us.
I don't know what I'd do without John. He's the only person that is actually nice to me. He never judges me, never teases me or laughs at me or calls me strange. He seems to be fine with me the way I am. He actually finds my deductions fascinating! Most people tell me to clear off or simply hurry away from me, but he just stands there, eyes twinkling in awe as his lips curl up into an excited smile.
I thought that was it. It was as far as I was concerned. But after that he started following me around like a little dog, asking me all kinds of questions and asking me to deduct more things for him. Whenever I went somewhere boring like the library, he'd trail after me and say he wanted to read as well, though it was obvious that he was lying. I was more than happy for his company but it still puzzled me why he was different from the rest, why he found me interesting and not…well, a freak. I found I actually quite liked him. That was an understatement. I really like him. I was worried he'd be put off being firm friends with me because of Irene but she didn't seem to mind us going around in a little trio. Sally Donavon would sometimes tease us and call us "The Freak Parade" but we'd ignore her. She doesn't seem that important anymore.
So maybe school is looking up a bit. Mycroft says good things come to those who wait. But I've been waiting almost a year for my dad to stop his drinking habits and be a proper dad to us. But nothing seems to have happened. So I'll just have to wait longer. Things have settled down a bit. There are still times when I hear Mycroft crying in his bed but I haven't seen dad drink in a long time and he hasn't shouted in a while.
My deductions don't fail me though. He'll snap any day now.
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I'm starting to get eczema_
There are some things you don't want people to know about...