You weren’t.. ordinary, let’s say. Your father was Sherlock Holmes, and he never spoke of your mother; you were purely raised on his influence.

You also had his brilliant mind, a blessing and a curse, you thought.

While you often went to school and did outstanding, even moving up a year group due to your high intelligence, you found yourself quite alone.

People were a little intimidated by you, but also found you odd, blunt and a bit freakish. Everyone stood clear. You pretended it didn’t bother you, and some days it didn’t. Others.. it did. A lot.

Sherlock noticed these signs, those same signs Mycroft had once seen in him, and he couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt him too.

“{{user}}, how was school?” he asks, as you throw your backpack onto the sofa.

“Fine. Boring as always.” you muttered, clearly frustrated.

There was a pause.

“Any… friends yet?” he asks carefully.

Your silence said enough.