Sherlock sickfics!

The Cost of Self Image

       When everyone thought of Sherlock Holmes, they always thought of the selfish prick who always had to be right. (And almost all the time, was right.) Sure some thought different things than others. His landlady thought he was sweetheart under his cold mask. Even though he shot up her wall too many times to count, and played that violin at ungodly hours of the night. She still loved him, almost like a son she never had. Lestrade always thought of him as his best friend, and to John, the detective was his best friend. But what did Sherlock think about well, Sherlock?

       The question isn't a very difficult question to answer, he's solved way, way worse than this, yet it always was the one that he could never quite figure out. The question somehow was like a train station in his mind, but with tracks twisting and turning, and some that never even connected, leading on to more questions, until he had to stop thinking before his mind exploded. How did Sherlock Holmes think about himself? He wasn't sure, even after all the years of thinking that he did, his answer twisting into an entirely new one, before quickly transforming to another, his answer always changing.

      When the detective was growing up, he never really thought, or cared that much about his self-image. He had more things to plan out and think about. Like school work, and what college he'd go to, what job he'd pursue. Yeah, the kids at school would yell and call him things, but kids are assholes. It's common knowledge, he's not going to let a child get in his way of becoming something, being successful.

       Even though the man wouldn't admit it to this day. The yelling and name-calling got to him worse at night, in his dark childhood room. Like ghosts plaguing his mind, remembering every word that he was taunted by. 

    So he did what he did best, he built around it. He became cold and secluded. Only coming out of his room for dinner when his mother called, but even sometimes skipping that. He had things to learn, and people to prove wrong. Books began pilling up on his desk, paperwork strewn across his room. His handwriting flowing from page after page after page. In primary school, he had the reading level of a secondary schooler and could solve unimaginable equations in a couple of minutes. Yes, he had eye bags that looked like bruises, and he grew skinny from missed meals. But he was a genius, who was going to go to a school full of people like him when he gets older. The children continued to yell at him and belittle him. But he was the genius, and they weren't.

     Then he went to university, one of the hardest ones to get into. All the sleepless nights and hard work paid off. But he quickly realized, it was a mistake. In this school, he wasn't the gifted child, the genius who was going somewhere while the kid in the back picked his nose. No, it wasn't like that at all, everyone in this school was a genius. He was at the top of all his classes for the first semester, but he wasn't the best, wasn't the absolute most he could be. So he studied more. Coffee always was glued to his hand, and a pencil in his other. He studied every night, always did more than was needed of him. If the professor asked for a six paged essay, he wrote a twelve-page one. If there could be extra credit, he'd do it in a heart beat. But still, he wasn't the genius of the school. Was he at the top of his classes? Yes. But people weren't behind him as much as they were in public school, and that affected him deeply, his whole person being centered around something only to find it was fake, something everyone made up. But he had to prove them right. He wanted to be the best, and won't stop until he is.

      The detective has always been full of energy, even baffling John with his sleeping schedules and eating habits. The doctor not knowing how the man still runs. But in university, he reached his limits, and even beyond them. He began to slow. Coffee wasn't enough, he couldn't concentrate and he began to lose hope. He was so tired of school, the whispering following him where ever he went. He knew they probably weren't talking about him, but he felt like they were, talking about how much of a failure he is.  The professors giving him pity looks when he walked into class. He knew he was an idiot, he didn't need their pity to understand that. He hated it when a professor would pull him aside and ask if he was doing alright. He always knew they were hoping something was just wrong with him right now and that that thing would pass, but no, he was just an idiot on his own, nothing affecting his logic, or lack thereof. After the first year, he dropped out and began studying crime on his own.  

      years have passed since his university days. He became something through those years, tried to pretend to be the genius, didn't let those hateful words get to him like they didn't in school, because they didn't, he was gifted, so why would they? He solved the crime and saved lives, besides people he might even admit he loves. So what did Sherlock Holmes see when he looked in the mirror. He saw a lot of things, things he can't even begin to explain, questions popping in his head than answers, problems with no solutions, effects with no cause. But in a weird way, it was beautiful.

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I wrote a few chapters ahead and plan on doing that, so I'm going to update every monday. I can't believe I actually have a schedule.

Also if you like Umbrella Academy then please look at my Ao3, my username is YerAWizardAmanda

I plan on writing an Umbrella Academy story on there, it just might take a month until I actually start posting it though, because man stories are hard to write. But I also will be writing one-shots on there for Sherlock and all the other fandoms I'm in. I also will post the stories I write on here there too.

This is kind of a long one I hope you guys liked it! I'll see you next week!

                                                                                                    -Amanda