It was a quiet day when they found out. Odd really, to his mind – full of drama that he was – that such a monumental happening could occur on such a boring, ordinary day.

He had vexed his friend, on this day. Not unusual, really. He'd forgotten the milk again. He did that a lot. (Honestly, he had to delete something!)
Normally it had no effect save an exasperated, long-suffering sigh, and perhaps a well-aimed newspaper to the back of the head. (Usually when he had just settled down to think in his mind palace. Most displeasing.) Today though – or rather, the previous night – John's most recent girlfriend (Anne? Sarah? Oh – he didn't know!) had left him, having decided that one Dr Watson preferred the company of one Sherlock Holmes, so John wasn't all too fond of him. (But it wasn't his fault! He couldn't help that he was so much more interesting than them.)
In his already soured mood, John had dealt with this slight memory lapse… Inexpertly, we shall say. Sherlock's ears still rang from that confrontation. It was worth it though. The microphones of Mycroft's spy cameras had chosen that particular day to malfunction so spectacularly that they stuck on full recording volume and, five minutes after they'd left, Mycroft had dispatched his people to ensure they were hastily removed. He deserved it for spying on them, really.
(And surely the bleeding ears had to be an exaggeration, didn't it?)

Still pissed off by to the prior milk incident, John walked to Scotland Yard in a fit of pique, refusing to take a taxi and delaying their arrival. Strictly speaking, they shouldn't really have gone – it was barely a 6 – but Sherlock found himself desperate for a case. The boredom was killing him, rotting his finely tuned brain as sugar does a tooth, leaving him wretched and bursting for either the thrill of a triple homicide with no motive (when was Moriarty next free?) or the sweet release of the white powder coursing through his brain, dulling his alert senses, leaving his mind hollow; hushed; stimulated. But, seeing as neither was available, he was stuck with a 6 which was really a 5, and without any sort of a drug. Not even nicotine. (Damn John's infernal… Doctorness).
The arrival at the Yard itself was not very dramatic, save for a few swears that John let out (which really mustn't be put in print; Sherlock had never heard the second one aloud, before) when he hit his 'dodgy' leg on a chair. His plight was, however, ignored (as usual) by his younger, smarter friend, who upon entry marched straight over to the Chief of Police, currently one D.I. Greg Lestrade, and began his deductions.
"So. A person, statistically more likely to be a man, breaks into a house…" He paused and observed Lestrade before correcting himself. (This was practically a 4. He needed to entertain himself.) "Not house, manor. He breaks into a manor and steals the wife's… Late wife's… Late duchess' pearl necklace-"
He was cut off.
"And we found the baron dead in the woods nearby," Lestrade finished with a sigh. He really didn't want to have every detail deduced out to him, and Sally's very audible cry of, "Freak's here!" pretty much described the rest of the force's opinion.
He watched Sherlock's famously ice cold, emotionless face. It remained so, excepting a slight ripple of emotion that marred the pristine vacant indifference of his pale face.
"Any witnesses?"
"One. The gardener, he wrote down all he wanted to tell us. Said the last time he spoke to a tall, thin detective he was ill-treated."
Lestrade looked pointedly at the closest tall, thin detective, who had the decency to redden ever so slightly in the cheeks, before clearing his throat and returning his colouring to the snowy pale normality. He held out his hand to Lestrade, who placed a document in his hands. He then switched angle and held the same document out to his faithful blogger, who looked incredulously at it and then ignored it.
"You want me to read it to you?"
A sigh. Was this man an idiot on purpose? Or did it come naturally? Pity - he'd had such high hopes for him. John knew in an instant what that sigh meant, but instead of taking the note with a slightly exasperated, slightly pained look on his face and reading it, he said: "No!"
The entire force turned round to watch the normally placid man rip their least liked helper to shreds of freakishness, with lashings of the tongue. (And an ex-soldier could surely manage that.)
"I'm not going to read it, Sherlock," he continued. "You're a grown, reasonably responsible man. You can do it yourself."
Sherlock himself only registered one word. No.

Oh, dear.
Oh dear, oh dear.
He was – to put it lightly – screwed.

His breathing slowed only slightly as he wiped his slightly perspiration covered palms on his trousers, before taking the note back with only a slight shake in his wrist. But – as calm as he looked – his mind was a-whir. He tried to calm himself with what he was assured was humour, imagining lots of mini people rushing around with dictionaries and reading glasses and magnifying glasses, with a loud siren blazing above. It did little to help - he was not amused by a vision of people less panicked than himself.
He closed his eyes (his useless, traitorous eyes) briefly. It was too long to be a blink; too short to be recognised as anything else. His long white fingers traced the paper and he deduced all he could from it.

Paper: A4 refill pad, ripped. Unofficial, written in a hurry. Probably once they realised he was coming.
Ink: Black, standard ballpoint pen. Starting to run out – resources of the force were running out. More funds needed?
Handwriting: Messy. The writer - the witness - was clearly rushing. Traumatised? Yes, but by the murderer or him? Good question.

It was truly terrible though, good Lord. This was going to be murder on his already struggling abilities. All right – he took a breath – here went nothing.

Words: ?

He let out a deep sigh, lamenting his fate, and scanned the paper. Nothing. So, he stopped, tried again – concentrating hard on the first important word.

NMDAYO
Wrong!

MDOAYN
Nay!

MONDAY
Yes!

So far, he had, 'It was Monday.'

He looked at a clock on the far wall. It had been 5 minutes already, and he had 3 words. God damn this infernal note!
He wanted to crumple and sob and howl at the injustice of his pain. Instead, he steeled himself and read his discovery aloud, ignoring the soon to come dubious, incredulous, disbelieving looks. He was afraid, and it was an odd feeling. He'd felt it only once in recent memory, in the hated bar when he realised he could no longer trust his own senses - the only things he had to rely on.
How could this reduce him to such a similar feeling of blind panic?

Ah yes, humiliation. The well-known fiend that reddened the face of a person faster than a blown kiss brought a blush to a young maiden's pale cheeks.
And could it be that he, Sherlock Holmes, was… Afraid, of disapproval? No, not disapproval. Pity.
When they knew his closest secret, one that he'd only ever told Mycroft and Mummy (medical people usually had it on file), there always came the pity. Or the condescending voices.
Like last week! Only a check-up – John had insisted on it after he fell in the Thames during a chase –yet it still left him despondent. The nurse had been reading his file, talking to him normally, until she read that one word. And then… And then…
Well. He may as well have been two.
"I want you to take these every morning. Make sure you tell someone to write it down. I also want you to take these every evening. Make sure you tell someone to write that down, too. Do not forget-"
She stopped talking then. Because he stormed out. He didn't really need a check-up, did he? He could survive the flu; he'd survived a ruddy drugs trip for God's sake. More than one!
He could take the flu. But he could not take this condescending, rude, horrid nurse.

Anyway, continuing the tale of woe. Those dubious, incredulous, disbelieving looks soon came.
It was nasty.
John opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, struggling to find the words. They came out soon enough. "Are… Are you kidding? It's been 5 minutes Sherlock. 5. And you've only read 3 words. Are you doing this on purpose?"
Sherlock looked at him with a world-weary look. "I can't John," he muttered.
"Pardon?"
"I can't!" he yelled. Much louder than intended.
"You can't read? That's impossible. You're a genius – how can you not?"
"It has nothing to do with intelligence, John! You are a doctor. How did you not realise? Did you think I was just too lazy to read things myself? No one is that lazy! I can't read because-"
He stopped, flushing a hot, itchy red. The room was silent in the wake of his outburst.
"Because what?" John asked quietly.
"Dyslexic," Sherlock said in a rush. Then he repeated that blasted word calmly. Not loudly, not quietly. Just said. Why was he ashamed? He shouldn't be ashamed. It wasn't his fault. But all the taunts and insults ran through his mind like fresh wounds.

Idiot.
Stupid.
Lazy.
Freak.

And he wanted to cry, again, like he had so many times when he was a child. Every time he read in class, every time he tried to order food off a menu… He just couldn't.
So, he didn't anymore.
A simple fix.

John was looking at him with pity in his eyes; Sally and Anderson and Lestrade, they all looked down. They felt bad for the insults because now they knew they were true.
He couldn't read a simple note. He was a freak.
He tried to have dignity as he strode out the door, scarf around his neck and coat on his back, but the pearly tear running down his cheek told otherwise. He walked out alone, till someone caught up to him.
"It's alright," they said. "There's nothing to be ashamed of."
They slipped one hand in his and wiped his cheek with the other, caring and soft.

And they walked out together. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

Hi! This is an updated version, made neater and... Better. :)