***A/N: Writer's block for me means I get a bunch of ideas and have to write them all out before I can continue writing what I originally wanted. Usually I don't continue the other ideas unless people want me to, so if you'd like this to be continued please tell me and I will:) Reviews are love and happiness, please review! :D Thanks!

"You aren't evil," they all claimed when it first started to show, "just… OverBalanced." Their carefully constructed non-insults disgusted Sherlock. Why wouldn't they just come out and say it for what it was?

"It's not your fault," they told him. "You aren't to blame," they assured. But Sherlock saw them glaring; he heard their whispered accusations and cruel words when they thought he wasn't around. He knew what they thought of him. They might smile and say they were trying to help, but they lied. He couldn't trust them- not one of them was sincere, not one of them had his welfare in mind. Even his own brother only wanted him to get help so he wouldn't get in trouble with Mummy or, worse, embarrass him.

They tried to help him, he'd give them that. They took him to get Balanced as often as the laws allowed it (and even a bit more than that due to Mycroft's influence.) It just wasn't enough. He OverBalanced again much, much too fast and there were so few Balancers in the world that even with all of Mycroft's power he couldn't get Sherlock all the help he needed.

So Sherlock withdrew. He kept himself self-contained. He didn't allow his emotions to show. (And all those idiots who thought he had none- didn't they know that was impossible? Even sociopaths felt something- just not like how normal people did. And he wasn't even a sociopath; he was just hurt and scared and closed off. Couldn't they tell? Couldn't their funny little brains see that all he needed was for someone to truly care? Obviously not. People were just so stupid and he couldn't stand it sometimes, so he'd try to get away from them but that didn't help. Then he was even more lonely and more hurt and needy and he hated it.)

Years went by. He tried everything. For a time, drugs seemed to help. But then he began to lose control (did he ever have any to begin with?) and people started to notice. It took them long enough; it's not like the drugs were slowly killing him or anything- oh wait, yes they were. (Idiots.) Then they became concerned. What would Lestrade do without his help- but conversely, what would happen if his bosses found out they were employing a druggie? Something had to be done. And Mycroft- god, that had been a nightmare. Sherlock had never seen Mycroft so angry- so undignified and flustered. He threw a fit in the hospital room, practically in the middle of public. Normally Mycroft would call it shameful- showing emotions (weaknesses) like that. The hypocrite.

From there he was forced to go through rehabilitation (painful, humiliating, soul-sucking) and then he was clean. Back on cases, the only thing that made him feel like he was doing any good in the world. The only time he felt like he was worth something, worth keeping alive. That joy of solving a puzzle, the pure happiness of figuring out a mystery that he'd had since he was young was now backed by the reassuring notion that he wasn't all bad. He couldn't be, not when he was helping- right?

He wasn't evil… just… OverBalanced. All he needed was something to Balance him out. (Or, as he was soon to find out, someone.)