John groaned as he picked up a shirt, his shirt that was covered in a weird, sticky, slimy residue. John hesitated at first. Did he want to smell it? Did he even want to know what was once on this? From what it looked like, Sherlock tried to clean it off but he gave up half-way through. He was probably bored and wanted to find something interesting to do. Even though they've been living together for close to a year, the amount of the experiments he had never ceased to amaze John. Not really wanting the soiled shirt to make contact with his clean jumper, folded it ever so carefully and then placed it on top of their already cluttered table. John wonders how Mrs. Hudson does it every day! With a deep sigh, he took a stack of Sherlock's papers off of the table and placed it in a very convenient box and then carried it to the living room. He found Sherlock lying on his couch in his usual position.

"Sherlock, what do you want me to do with this?" He asked the younger man.

There was no response. John was confused; the man was just running his mouth a mile a minute not even ten minutes ago.

"Sherlock, didn't you hear me? I asked you what you wanted me to do with these papers."

This was odd, even by Sherlock standards. If he was in one of his usual black moods, then he would respond with a groan, or something that would resemble a growl. John raised an eyebrow and walked over to the detective.

"Sherlock?"

He bent a little to get a look at Sherlock's face. The man was sleeping. John couldn't help but smirk at his sleeping form.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, knocked out on the couch. Unbelievable."

He still had to do something with the box of papers. He figured it couldn't hurt to go through them himself. He could actually put this little catnap to use. It was quiet in the flat and he had some time to himself. With a shrug, he sat down in his armchair and started fussing around with the box's contents.

"Let's see what we have in here."

At first it was nothing but paper with Sherlock's experiment results scribbled on them. It wasn't until he got to the bottom of the box that he found a blue journal. A very worn blue journal. The cover of the book was coming off the rings slowly, and the rings that was keeping the journal together wasn't in too great a shape either. The cover of the spiral notebook looked like it has been around for decades (and it probably was. There was a name on the label. The name was none other than Sherlock Holmes, though the handwriting looked even messier, childish even. The cover had little illustrations on it. Some were little test tubes, others were of goggles, and another was a magnifying glass and footprints. He even saw what looked like an eye patch next to a sword. Sometimes John forgets that Sherlock is human and once had a childhood, albeit a different one, but a childhood nonetheless. Sometimes John wondered what was like for Sherlock as a kid. He could see a smaller version of the detective holed up in his room/lab conducting experiments on anything he could get his hands on. He could also imagine a little Sherlock walking down his school hallway, books clutched to his chest as if he was trying to protect himself from the other students. He could imagine him getting pushed around by the bigger kids, getting exploited for his amazing ability. John could actually picture things that he didn't really want to. In order to push those nasty thoughts from his head he looked back down at the journal.

"Right."

He opened the cover carefully so it wouldn't break. He gave the sleeping Sherlock one more glance before he started reading.

Sept. 9

Today is the day I start Primary school. Mummy is walking around the house like this is a thing to be excited about. Mycroft told me to brace myself because I'm going to be swimming in the goldfish pond from now on and goldfish aren't that smart. I don't understand what either of them are getting on about but I will soon, it seems. Mummy also told me to behave myself; she doesn't want anyone to get the wrong impression of me. What does that mean?

Anyway, it seems the perfect time to start a new experiment. She confiscated my last one; she said that it gave my room a "funny smell". If she would listen to me she would see that was supposed to happen and that it meant my results were going to be brilliant. Since there's so much commotion about my going to school, why not record the events? I don't mean like a diary, I mean like an experiment. I can record what goes on at school and what reactions it sparks out of me or out of my peers. I'll call it "The Social Experiment" and it'll last for however long I want it to. I don't think I need to catalogue every day as I'm sure my classmates aren't that interesting in those little shells they call heads.

Well I suppose I should wrap this up and get dressed before Mummy throws yet another fit. She always has to have a plan.

John couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. Even as a kid he was the same antisocial, mad genius that he knew now. As Sherlock wrote in the entry he didn't write in it every day because the day's events weren't up to Sherlockian standards. He did find another entry that was written a good week after the last one was written.

Sept.12

The Social Experiment

So today this girl, I forgot her name since it means so little to me. I'm sure it's Susan or Kate or something boring like that but that's beside the point. She was crying at her desk. I sit right next to her and I seemed to be the only one who noticed her crying, or the only one who didn't ignore it. The teacher was done with her lessons for the day so she gave us the last fifteen minutes of class to do whatever we pleased as long as it wasn't disruptive. I took that time to read a book that I found in the school library. Her crying was irritating me and Mummy always said that you should never let a girl cry. Why not? What if it had nothing to do with me? I decided to do the right thing this time and started talking to her.

I asked her why she was crying. She was too much of a blubbering, mucus-covered mess. I didn't have the patience to sit there and watch her cry her eyes out and so I did what I did best. I deduced the source of her crying.

Since she was turned to face me and not to the boy she was enamored in. She also had her collar opened a little to show her neck that many of the other boys thought to be "attractive". The boy sitting next to her was smiling and talking with his other friends and tuning out her tears. She was even wearing her mother's lipstick to entice him further. This boy obviously turned her down because he wasn't attracted to her. I decided to tell her that, along with how I found out.

She wasn't as happy as I thought she would be.

She yelled at the top of her lungs and made a big scene. I would write down what she said but she was talking too fast and crying too much. She started calling me names, and among those insults was a word.

Freak.

I've never been called that before. I wasn't sure how to react to that. Why did she get so angry when all I did was try and help her? I tried to tell her why she was crying. Why did she call me a freak? Isn't that what people do? What did I do wrong?

John always hated it when people insulted Sherlock. He hated it when he got called a freak by Sally. It wasn't exactly Sherlock's fault that he had a brilliant mind. He couldn't help it if he didn't understand social norms like everyone else. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a normal person. He knew that their insults got to his friend, even if he won't admit it. If he and Sally, or Anderson got into a shouting match and they went a little too far. John would have to deal with the sulky mess that is Sherlock Holmes. Maybe reading further into the journal would help John learn more about his best friend. He looked over at the couch.

"Sorry Sherlock."

Sept. 24

The Social Experiment

Ever since that outburst SallyKate had in our class, everyone else seemed to jump aboard the wagon. Now I can't walk down the hall without hearing that awful word, freak.

.Freak.

I hear that more than I hear my own name. It's amazing how fast it takes for children to follow other children. That's an observation right there.

-When one kid does something, the others have to follow.

I still don't understand why they all hate me. I only deduced three kids since that outburst and they all seem to want my head on a spike. They told their parents about me, the class freak. Even the teachers are cautious of me. Why? I'm not going to hurt them. I'm not a virus; they don't have to run as soon as they see me walk down the hall. I only do what I am good at. I observe, just like everyone else.

What's so bad about that?

John felt for him. He knew that Sherlock doesn't do what he does because he wanted to. He does it because that's what he sees as normal. He does it because it comes natural to him, just as small-talk is to normal people. In that machine of a mind, Sherlock thinks that he's being normal. He does what his God-given gift allows him to do and then he only gets met with the harsh replies and the put-downs.

John flipped through the book, a lot of blank pages. He finally found an entry.

Nov. 16

(This isn't part of the experiment)

I don't like my classmates. I don't like my teachers, I don't like their parents.

I see them every day after school, rushing their children into their cars when they see me waiting for Mummy. The teachers don't scold the students when they make fun of me. Isn't that their job? It figures that they're failures. One of the teachers is having an affair with the janitor; she reeks of cleaning supplies after recess every day. I don't go outside for recess anymore. All the kids tease me and bother me while I try and read my book in peace. The idiot boys that play football everyday always kick the ball towards me and then act like they didn't mean to.

Idiots.

That's what they all are. Mycroft was right.

I'm swimming in a pond of goldfish and they aren't that smart.

They're all imbeciles who have nothing better to do than mock me. They mock me because they know I'm better than them, and it will always be that way.

"Jesus..."

John didn't know it was this bad. He knew that Sherlock was bullied and he knew that Sherlock didn't have friends because of his deducing and intelligence. But he didn't know that he had to actually convince himself that the only thing that made him superior to the others was his brain. If this is the case then Sherlock's self-worth must be pretty low. He never knew just how lonely and bitter Sherlock was as a child. The journal is pretty much empty after that. He was about to close it when he finally found an entry.

Jan. 6

The Social Experiment

Observation: If no one likes you, no one comes to your birthday party.

Conclusion: Sherlock Holmes is a freak.

There was what looked like a tear-stain on the edge of the paper. He felt for Sherlock, he really did. He looked over at the still sleeping Sherlock and then back at the book. When was the last time Sherlock celebrated his birthday? They didn't celebrate his birthday this year, John knew that much. Did anyone even care about his birthday? Probably not, and Sherlock picked up on it and decided not to tell anybody anymore since John just found out his birth-date. John flipped the page and found another entry. This one looks recent, very recent in fact.

Mar. 8

The Social Experiment (reprise)

It's been quite a few decades since I'd written in this. I suppose the only reason I'm doing this is purely out of scientific reasons, and not sentimental.

My new flat mate, John Watson, is...different from most others I know.

He doesn't patronize me, he doesn't lie to me (though I can't say the same for myself), and he doesn't insult me like everyone else does. When I first met him and deduced his whole life story, he didn't tell me to "piss off" like many others had said to me. He told me that my deductions were "amazing". I thought at first that he was just being sarcastic but then he reaffirmed that he wasn't. And when we looked at the flat together and saw my stuff all tossed about, he didn't criticise me.

He saved me from that hopelessly dull cabbie that tried to make me commit suicide. He called me an idiot that day, but I didn't take offence because oddly enough I knew that he wasn't saying it to be harsh. He was joking.

He doesn't call me a psychopath, he doesn't call me a sociopath (which is insulting to me), and he doesn't call me that word that I hate with every ounce in my being.

He doesn't call me a freak.

He knows that I dabbled in vices, that I enjoy crime-scenes and catching murders. He knows that I'm also dangerous, yet he still remains. Curious.

I do observe him from time-to-time and I can only produce a few observations:

· He likes strawberry jam more than the average person should

· He loves to wear hideous jumpers (except for the oatmeal-coloured one. I rather like it)

· He enjoys sleeping in his armchair

· He suffers from nightmares that can only be soothed by my violin

· Doesn't like it when I shoot holes in the wall

The other observations aren't important but there are a few more.

· He doesn't yell at me

· He doesn't like it when people insult me

· He forces me to eat and sleep even though I tell him I don't need it

· He's still here

· He doesn't mind my experiments (at least I don't think so)

· He helps me whenever I need it

The only conclusion I can make of that is: John Watson doesn't make me feel like a freak. John Watson+Sherlock Holmes=Friends? I need more data first. I wouldn't exactly know if this is the right conclusion.

John's chuckle was a little louder than he wanted it to be. It didn't bother Sherlock in the slightest, if anything he rolled around and then nestled into a comfortable position. The doctor looked over at him with a smile on his face. He gently placed the book back in the box and then walked over to Sherlock. He bent down and whispered in the younger's man ear, "Of course I'm your friend, you dolt." He grabbed the Union Jack throw blanket and draped it over the long body and returned to his cleaning.