A Mad World

Growing up Sherlock had often wondered if there was something wrong with him.

He would often see the familiar faces around him, at school, at home, and at one of mummy's many social functions – which she'd once seemed to hold on an almost weekly basis – but faces had never really been of any great importance to him. He much preferred to 'observe'.

By the time he was a teenager Sherlock prided himself on the fact that he could walk into a room anywhere in the world and deduce anything about the last person who'd been there just by observing the smallest of details, and trusting the evidence of his own eyes.

It had been a brilliant party trick – at least it would have been if Sherlock had of had any friend's to share it with. Mycroft had always been the most sort after of the two brothers, although he too had had his own issues and had suffered his fair share of abuse at the hands of school bullies, he was the oldest and at least he had friends.

Sherlock had learnt very early on that age seemed to command respect – not clever conjuring tricks, which weren't even magic at all. He'd never quite felt as though he fitted in with the rest of society. People were stupid, always seeing but never observing.

Sherlock had always hated school, he could learn pretty much everything his teachers had to teach him from his books at home, if he knew where to look. The other students just seemed to look right through him, they didn't care about one more lonely boy, and he found the whole set up quite pointless and a waste of his valuable time.

His was a world of infinite knowledge and possibility.

There's was one of monotonous nothingness, the same old unchanging routine day in day out. He would rather be alone, no matter how lonely being alone sometimes felt. He'd rather have his brilliant mind than be surrounded by a room full of stupid people.

They always seemed so sad anyway – their ignorance bore them no happiness like the saying said it was supposed to.

As the years went by Sherlock began to realise that he didn't want anything to do with this strange world of theirs where nothing seemed to make any sense to him, and so he shut people out from his, afraid to get too close because of the ridicule – and he began to wonder if there was something wrong with him.

It was only as he got older that he realised it was because he was brilliant, not because of anything wrong, or because of anything he'd done, that people disliked him. He couldn't help that, he couldn't help the person he was, but his brilliance intimidated them – and so he learnt that if he couldn't earn their love, then at least he might earn their respect.

He isolated himself from society, focusing all of his energies into honing his skills. He kept his emotions caged, distancing himself from affection and sentiment, and eventually Sherlock forgot how to care. People sort him out for his skill, but failed to see the man behind the cleverly constructed mask – and eventually Sherlock ceased to be human in the eyes of those whose respect and admiration he craved. He became a machine, robotic, superhuman in their eyes – a reputation Sherlock Holmes felt the constant pressure to live up to.

Until he forgot what it felt like to be human too.