Hooked (teenlock)

Chapter One

I stumbled out of bed, eyes still closed. I didn't dare open them- I knew that as soon as my pupils met light, they would start the deductions.

People call it a gift. They say I'm "special," that people would die to have the talents I have. To me, it isn't a talent. It's a curse. It's brought bullies upon me, taken away some of the greatest things and people in my life- all it has ever caused is pain and hatred- nothing good.

I attempted to walk with my eyes still closed, but my reflexes got the best of me as I stubbed my toe on the end of my bed and they snapped open. Immediately, words clouded my vision as I looked down at my foot.

Not broken. Bedpost made of oak, refinished twice. Antique. Carpet is cream shag, 12 years old. Worn down in a line that shows a routine exit from the room, beginning at the left side of the bed. Routine began 3 years ago. Shoe size 10.5.

I shut my eyes again, falling back onto my bed as a sharp pain shot through my head. It always hurt first thing in the morning, when this thing was awake despite my mind itself still being groggy. It felt like my brain was fighting a war every time I tried to get out of bed, and no matter what, I was losing.

My name is Sherlock Holmes. At the time of this tale, I was 17 years old- though I'll admit that I'm quite a bit older now. Since birth (or, at least, I assume that's when it all started), I've had this... Thing. Some call it a talent; some think I'm possessed by the devil himself. Still others think the whole thing is a load of bullshit that I make up so it seems like I have some competent qualities. Some days I wish that was true. And when I was just 17? Every day was one of those days.

I got up with a heavy breath and began the walk to my wardrobe, trying to ignore the words that popped up in my line of sight, as my eyes were open. I quickly pulled on a pair of dark skinny jeans and a purple long-sleeved tee, blinking long and hard as often as I could.

Fluffing my dark hair a bit as I hurried down the stairs, I heard voices from the kitchen- my mother and father, surely, there to ask unnecessary questions about my plans for the day (I, of course, had nothing planned but the unavoidable- school).

I was correct (of course) in these assumptions. My mother greeted me with a tight hug, which I felt inclined to return, as always. Raising children is a difficult job, especially when one of them was my prissy older brother, Mycroft.

I was reminded of his presence as he coughed from the kitchen table behind us. "Sherlock, shouldn't you be off catching a bus or something?"

We were almost out of sugar, I found, as I added it to my tea. 2 3/4 cups left in the bag. "Mycroft, shouldn't you be applying for some sort of job... or something?"

At 24, seven years older than me, Mycroft was out of university, but still living at home. He hadn't landed a job, and wouldn't dare look at any of the open positions that weren't an extremely important part of the English government. He was a picky boy, and grew up to be an even pickier man.

As much as I hated him to be right, I heard the rumble of the distant bus outside our house in the suburbs. Slamming my tea on the counter, I quickly slipped on my Converse and grabbed my backpack, stopping only to give my mother a quick kiss on the cheek.

The bus was just pulling up when I reached the stop. Thomas Phillips, the only other kid at the stop already stood by the road. He spat at my feet, and I frowned, crinkling my nose at him. Late night. Maybe 3, 4 hours of sleep. Based on the bed head, slept with a pillow over his head. Possibly a bad habit, as he's looked like that for the past week. More likely the fact that his parents are arguing late into the night, forcing him to use a pillow just to drown out the noise.