Just a little something I was thinking about. My plot bunny was demanding that I upload this.

Sherlock sat on the couch quietly, his eyes downcast. He didn't even know why he bothered to go on cases anymore, most of them ended in eternal mocking. He didn't mean to say anything offensive or rude, these things just kind of happened. The consulting detective had tried to delete the disbelieving looks and eventual laughs by his coworkers, but he couldn't shake it.

John walked into the room and looked at Sherlock in concern. "You alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine, John."

The good doctor sat in his chair and studied Sherlock. He could have been mistaken for a child, an extremely tall child, but a child nonetheless. John knew the words that Donovan carelessly spat at him had hurt. He knew that their eternal laughing was haunting him. It really had been an accident. Sherlock had something insensitive to a victim's family member. There were looks of shock and almost horror. Donovan made a ridiculous joke and they laughed.

They all laughed.

It made John feel sick. Sherlock was not as emotionless as he led people to believe, he was genuinely bothered by their words. He could only imagine the consulting detective's school life; they must have been hell to say the least. Sherlock had mentioned it once, in passing, just saying that the other children came up with unoriginal insults.

John's thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock got up off the couch.

"Where are you off to?" John asked curiously, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.

"My bedroom," was the curt response he got in return.

Sherlock stalked off to his room and the door was forcefully closed.

The doctor sighed slightly. Without thinking, he got up and went off in the direction of Sherlock's room. John stood in front of the door for a moment, attempted to gather his thoughts, and then softly knocked on the door.

There was no answer, unsurprisingly.

He turned the doorknob to find Sherlock sitting on the edge, possibly in his mind palace, or maybe just simply lost in past memories.

"I told you I was fine," said the familiar baritone voice. Something in it was different though, there was a guarded tone to it, a tone that quite clearly meant Sherlock did not want to talk. His eyes flicked over to John, but he quickly dropped his gaze to the floor.

"None of that is true, you know," he tried gently.

Sherlock remained silent.

"I could tell it bothered-"

"Nothing bothers me, John. I can deal with petty, little insults," there was a sharp tone to his voice.

"I never said you couldn't. All I'm saying is that it must hurt-"

"Oh, please. Spare me the comforting words. I have no interest in your boringly dull sentiments."

John ran a hand over his face tiredly. "Okay, fine. None of that bothered the great Sherlock Holmes at all. That's why you left the crime scene today and didn't say a word the whole ride home. That's why you're sitting alone in your room staring at the floor. Obviously, you're beyond having emotions."

"Their comments were unnecessary." Sherlock said quietly, almost as if he were embarrassed.

"Very unnecessary." John agreed, not sure where the conversation was going.

"I may have felt some emotion at what they said," Sherlock admitted, something unreadable glimmering in his eyes.

John looked over at his best friend, thinking back to earlier that day. "You're not a freak, Sherlock."

The consulting detective flinched slightly at the word.

"I'm not like other people." Sherlock stated.

"It's not a bad thing."

"If it wasn't a bad thing, I wouldn't have been mocked my whole life," he spat.

John didn't know how to react. So, he repeated his original thought. "You're not a freak."

"I know."

Well, there you have it, folks. I was having some trouble with the ending, let me know how you liked it. OOC? I'd love your feedbackl