Sherlock POV: It was a waste of time, surely a waste of a paycheck, and most definitely a waste of education to have a review day in class. Every day was a review day for a intellectual superior like Sherlock, however today it was coupled with in class jeopardy. It was the most public school game that had ever crossed the tile halls and similarly painted lockers of Lauriston school, and of course all teachers had the same little board they made and they all had different point values projected up on the screen...it was ever so tedious. Today's game was about the French revolution, a topic Sherlock had gone over plenty in his own leisure and even touched upon at Wisteria one time. Of course he was an invaluable member to any team who was out to win, however, much like gym class; it would seem that he was going to be the last one picked again. They all sat in their desks while three of the popular kids stood up in front of the class and picked all their friends to be on their team, not taking any notice to the class freak who probably knew more about this pathetic revolution than the teacher did. He sat in his seat in the back of the room patiently, crossing his legs and hitting his knee painfully on the attached desk to his dreadfully uncomfortable plastic chair. As the captains picked their team members the crowd got thinner and thinner, and slowly Sherlock was smirking, laughing to himself about how uncomfortable everyone was around him. They treated him as something of a disease, as if they got anywhere close to his presence they would suddenly turn into a homosexual and start...
"Sherlock." called a voice from the front of the class. Sherlock blinked, looking around him to see that there were still some nerds sitting around in their desks, waiting to be called. Surely that had been the teacher then, yelling at him for zoning out again. However when he looked up at the front of the room, seeing Molly Hooper and her pack of giggling girls all staring at him expectantly. Sherlock straightened up uncomfortably, looking around once more to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
"Me?" he wondered in a careful voice, looking upon Molly Hooper to make sure she wasn't going crazy.
"Yes you, don't act surprised." Molly agreed in a bit of a meek voice, trailing off in embarrassment. "He's smart you know." She muttered to her team, who were all giggling some more and poking her, as if accusing her of something. Sherlock cleared his throat, getting to his feet and pulling his jacket sharply down around his shoulders before walking up to the front of the room to stand with his team, something he rarely ever did with an audience still in the crowd. He huddled towards the back of the group, pressing his back up against the blackboard and glancing to his left, where he saw a cluster of boys all shuffling uncomfortably to get as far away from him as possible. Sherlock just sighed, rolling his eyes at the idiocy of today's society. Leave it to Molly Hooper to try to include him, in turn only bringing more attention to the fact that he was the biggest outcast in the school. However the girls in his group kept looking back, smiling at him as if trying to make him feel welcome. Of course this was all just a show, they either wanted to know more about his love life or become part of his love life themselves, both options which were virtually impossible. He clenched his shaking hands, shoving them into the pocket of his jacket to try to suppress the side effects of the medication as finally the teams moved away to their corners of the room. The teacher had the projector set up with a board, displaying onto the blackboard where she had written all sorts of categories pertaining to the topic at hand. Then they had the typical jeopardy numbers lined up as they went down the column, and Sherlock could only assume that the teacher would read it aloud to the whole class. They all had little hand held chalk boards, probably to answer on, and the team with the highest points won. Sherlock slunk back in yet another uncomfortable chair, finding himself surround by giggling girls and Molly Hooper, who had somehow managed to stay calm and collective, as if she thought she had something to prove by being captain of this makeshift team. Sherlock noticed painfully that there were no boys in their group, well other than him of course, and that showed once more just how considerate Molly was. Honestly that girl should get a medal, not only did she pick Sherlock out of the crowd in an attempt to make him feel special, but she had been good enough not to force any boy to have to sit within a five seat radius of Sherlock, in turn making everyone, including Sherlock, feel comfortable and safe. She was so nice it was almost hateful. The game started off just fine, one of the groups picked the question, Sherlock answered the question, Molly scribbled it down on the chalkboard, and they got the points. It was almost too easy; they were up by six hundred points before the ten minute mark, only reminding the class how invaluable Sherlock was as a teammate.
"So, you like boys right?" one of the girls whispered to him when the teacher had taken a break from the game to try to stop an eraser battle going on between the two teams of testosterone. Sherlock blinked, looking to the girl who had addressed him and seeing a very pretty yet sneaky looking redhead, with a pointed face and an inquisitive look in her eyes. Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly; staring down at the desk and feeling his face heat up awkwardly.
"I um...I'm on medication. I'm getting better." He muttered, trained to answer this way whenever he was asked that question directly. What else was he supposed to say that wouldn't contradict all the therapy? I mean, it was useless sure, but if he admitted to his homosexuality it would prove that it wasn't working, and in turn land him in a jail cell.
"I don't think it's wrong. In fact, I find it kind of...attractive." She admitted with a smile. Sherlock looked at her very quickly and then looked away, his face getting so hot that he felt that the room temperature had risen to at least one hundred degrees.
"I um...I don't think you quite understand the term homosexual then." He muttered with a shaking voice. Obviously this girl wasn't getting the hint; she just laughed a little bit more, as if she mistook his honesty for flirtation.
"I thought you said you were getting better? Don't you need someone to uh...straighten you out?" the girl wondered in an almost purr. Sherlock winced, and suddenly he felt a hand on his, her disgusting fingers, wrapping around his own... Suddenly a shiver went down his spine, and he jumped out of his chair so agressivley that it toppled to the ground, the chair, attached desk, everything. The crash that followed drew everyone's eyes to him, putting him in the very unwanted spotlight as his entire body gave a great writhe, his hands shaking so badly that he held them up and stared at them in amazement.
"I um...I think I need to go to the nurse." He whispered in a shaking voice, glancing for confirmation at the teacher, who just shook her head without a word. Sherlock walked swiftly out of the classroom, trying to make it look like he wasn't afraid, knowing that all eyes were still on him even as the door closed. However as soon as he was sure he was out of their sight, he broke into a run. He felt weaker than ever and yet he ran through the hallways faster than he's ever gone before, the lockers and the doors flashing by in a blur of dull colors as he raced not to the nurse's office but to the closest bathroom. He didn't need to get patronized; he didn't want to get questioned by that nurse hiding behind those thick cat eyed glasses. She barely understood physical pain, much less psychological trauma; he just needed to be alone. Sherlock rushed to the bathroom, pulling open the door and immediately throwing open every stall, making sure he was alone before he fell against the tiled wall, letting his head fall back and taking deep, drawing breaths. He still shook like a thin blade of grass in a hurricane, shivering from an unknown chill as he drew his thin jacket around himself and huddled into the corner of the bathroom. He could hear his breaths, he could feel them escaping through his lips, however he didn't get any sustenance from them. It seemed as though through every gasp of breath he was only losing air, his lungs weren't filling, he was suffocating on nothing but shock, panic. His face was getting paler by the second, black spots appearing in his vision and the bathroom spinning, the lights blinking in and out of recognition, plunging his world into temporary darkness. Sherlock griped to the walls, his fingers slipping along the tile uselessly, he could do nothing to support himself until finally his legs gave way, and he fell into a clump on the damp floor, his feet splashing through the trails of water from the leaking sink, tunneling between the blue tiled bathroom floor like canals. It was much easier to just give up, to let gravity reclaim him, to let his head fall to the wall and his body shake until it was finally satisfied. He had to tell himself that he was safe, he had to tell himself that it was all okay, nothing was happening to him, nothing was wrong. She had only been joking, she could be sent away with some simple words of denial, she would never touch him unless he permitted it. She was gone. Sherlock took a gasp of breath, his eyes flying open and his body stilling for a moment, and the view of the disgusting bathroom came back into focus. He could see everything, hear anything, the dripping of the sinks, the blinking of the lights; he could even smell the hand soap that was pooling on the edge of the sink, right below the dispenser. He was back, it was okay, he had survived. Sherlock struggled to pull himself to his feet, gripping onto the ceramic sinks for support. His knees were wobbling and his legs were numb however he managed to stay upright, leaning heavily against the sinks and staring at himself in the mirror for a moment. He was ghostly pale, there were tears streaking from his eyes yet he didn't remember crying, saliva was dropping from the corners of his mouth, his forehead matted with sticky sweat, he looked like he had just returned from the grave. Sherlock winced, running the cold water for a moment before dipping his hands in it and splashing himself, rubbing his face and forehead and bangs until finally he stood dripping before the mirror, looking as though he had just submerged himself in a pool of water. Sherlock slowly grabbed himself a paper towel, ripping it off of the roll and drying his face the best he could, feeling a little bit more cleanly but no more sane than when he had when he had first stumbled into this bathroom. He dimly remembered hearing the bell ring, however he wasn't sure of it until suddenly the door opened, and two jocks sauntered in, with their varsity jackets and their backpacks swinging off of their shoulders. They took one look at Sherlock, who was still leaning over the sink with sink water dripping down his face, and immediately stopped, their smiles vanishing off of their faces. Sherlock just looked at them shamefully and it took them not ten seconds to run, scrambling over each other in their desperate attempt to escape close quarters with the only homosexual in the school. Well, sometimes the fear factor was helpful, especially when he wanted to be alone. However it only reminded Sherlock just how alienated he was in this world, just how alone he had become. 

 Sherlock sat by the phone, leaning against the wall with the receiver to his ear, praying that the endless ringing would give way to his mother's voice. He had used his last cent to call, and if she didn't answer then he would find himself walking home. It was the end of the day, and Sherlock had conveniently missed the bus by loitering around in the bathroom too long, trying to make himself decent enough to actually go out in public. Sure his reputation was trash, but that didn't mean he had to look like trash. Finally there was commotion on the other end, the sound of the receiver being picked up and then... 

"Who is this?" asked a suspicious voice on the other end of the phone. Sherlock's mother was always careful about using the phone these days, especially when there was an incoming call from an unknown number. Back when the uh...the incident occurred; they had gotten calls from all over the country, shaming them, degrading them, threatening them. It seemed as though somehow every homophobe on this continent (and there were a lot of them, mind you) had obtained the Holmes' phone number, and they were constantly pestered with calls of all sorts.
"Mom, it's me." Sherlock muttered, glancing over at all of the other payphones that were currently in use. The buses had already left so it was only kids who had after school activities who stayed after, which basically meant it was Sherlock, the football, and the rugby players. Brilliant.
"Sherlock honey, where are you?" Mrs. Holmes asked in a soft voice, obviously detecting the troubled tone that Sherlock used. He was still shaking, however he was controlling himself, he felt better, at least for now.
"I'm at school; could you come pick me up? I missed the bus." Sherlock admitted in a small voice.
"Oh honey I would, I really would, however your brother and I are just stepping out." Mrs. Holmes said regretfully. Sherlock sighed, leaning his head against the wall and pressing the grimy receiver closer to his ear.
"Please I can't...I don't think I can walk home." He whispered, almost ashamed of admitting his own weakness. Obviously she could sense the severity in his tone, because she sighed heavily, quiet for a moment as she evaluated her options.
"It's only a couple of blocks honey, and your brother and I..."
"Mother are you coming?" Mycroft's voice asked from somewhere in the house, his voice sounding distant but every bit as annoying.
"One moment Mycroft, it's Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes called back, sounding annoyed at her eldest son's lack of sympathy. Sherlock sighed, scanning the hallways nervously to see that they were beginning to crawl with the jocks and cheerleaders, all flashing him disgusted looks of course, ogling at the freak and wondering what he was still doing here.
"Mom please." He whispered intensely, nearly pressed all the way up against the wall in an attempt to hide behind the phone itself. He knew that he couldn't walk home; he'd pass out on the way there if he didn't get caught by the jocks in the process of his escape. He could barely hobble ten feet much less ten blocks; she had to say yes, she had to.
"Sherlock I'm sorry, but we really have to go." Mrs. Holmes muttered regretfully.
"No mom, please...!" his desperate cries were broken off by the monotone ringing at the other end, telling him very clearly that he had been abandoned by his family as well.
"Please insert fifty pence to continue this call." The operator said as the buzzing continued, and yet Sherlock still held it to his ear, praying that a call would come in, anything to remind him that someone out there still cared. When nothing but the operator spoke, however, Sherlock was forced to hang up, placing the receiver gently on the hook and leaning up against the wall some more. His backpack was laying at his feet, weighed down with books and papers galore, much too much for him to carry by himself, however it seemed like he had no choice. Even in his weakest state, he was forced to go on. So Sherlock grabbed his backpack and slung it onto his back, walking with wobbling legs through the hallway, not unlike a zombie who had just risen from their grave. The kids walking by all gave him very harsh looks, as though his very presence insulted them, but he pushed on, keeping his head low and scuffing his weak feet against the tiles. Thankfully no one dared to speak out against him as he made his way through the hallways, and miraculously he made it out the door unscathed. However already the journey was starting to weigh on him, and he had barely even started. Sherlock scuffled down the sidewalks alone, his head spinning and his legs feeling like lead, his shaking hands hidden in his pockets to make sure that no passerby spotted them. He knew that everyone knew his name, knew his face, and yet he pretended that he was as much a stranger to them as they were to him. He missed being unknown, but now they look at him, pale and sickly, and they were probably just remembering what he was claimed to have done, and they don't bother to help him. They probably think that he deserves it. Sherlock had almost made it through town; he had almost just made it to the backroads and away from the eyes of the public when he heard the screeching of tires, the honking of a horn... A bright orange car zoomed past him, and suddenly he was pelted with aluminum cans, some full, some empty, some torn open so that they cut across his skin in great gashes. Some of his rather rebellious classmates were hanging out of the windows, laughing and jeering, all staring at him and yelling out words to the wind, names for him, it would seem. Freak, fag**t, rapist, their words hurt him more than their pathetic cans ever could, and Sherlock broke into a run, racing once more down the back alley ways that led to his house, running like a criminal, like an outcast. And he didn't stop until he got home, with the weight on his back and the pain in his legs, he just couldn't bring himself to stop, he wanted to be safe, to be protected, he wanted to be alone. When he finally reached the doorway to their little house Sherlock was finally able to fall onto the iron railing, gripping it and clinging to it to prevent himself from falling over once more. Sherlock felt pain on his cheek, a sharp tingling paint hat he hadn't noticed yet. When he reached up to feel it he felt blood, damp blood, dripping down his face in small drops. There was a cut across his face, left there presumably by an aluminum can that had been distorted into something of a projectile weapon. It had done its job, apparently. Sherlock winced, dabbing at the wound with his hand as he fumbled around in his bag for his house key, pulling it out from the mess of crumbled up bills and coins in his pockets, and finally pushed it into the lock. The door swung open and Sherlock dumped all of his things on the floor, he might've left the key in the door had it not threatened his safety, and so he closed the door and locked it tightly before rushing up to his room in a fit of horror, collapsing on the bed and feeling the blood soak out of his cheek, dabbing at the small pool that collected in the rivets of his sunken skin. It was times like these when he missed Victor. After everything that horrible boy had done, after everything he had caused, he had been the first and only companion that Sherlock ever had. Even though this was all his fault, Sherlock couldn't help but look back to those precious couple of days with longing, to a time when he thought that maybe he wasn't alone in this world after all. But now he knew; now he knew the consequences of companionship and of human greed, and it would seem he was bearing the ultimate price for daring to open his disfigured heart. He was beaten, bullied, and stared at, as if he had lost all of his humanity. As if loving another boy made him into a monster, an animal that the humans could kick around and abuse, was that all he was to them anymore? An animal, nothing more than a mindless burden? Was there no one out there, not a single soul, who could care for a boy like him? Was there no one out there that could find it in their heart to love him?