Warnings: mentions of violence/bullying, drugs use.
Spoilers: Up to 2x01 for a particular reference.
A/N: Inspired by this Sherlock/John vid http : / / hitlikehammers . livejournal . com / 165282 . html and the song it uses, though this ended up Sherlock only. Betaread by the fab fififolle.
When he was a boy he dreamed of being a pirate, sailing the seven seas; quickly learning there were more than seven and actually only one great big one, all interconnected. You could sail anywhere, he thought, find anything you wanted.
Pirates yearned for treasures and Sherlock knew he'd be the best there ever was because there was no treasure that could elude him. The problem with the pirates that adorned the glossy kids interest books, or even the ones that appeared in proper reference books, was that they had not dreamt as big as they should. Pirates traditionally had small minds and large egos, pissing their time away on inconsequential plundering, nothing more than thievery, yields wasted on whores and drink.
If Sherlock were a pirate...but Sherlock grows up. He never buys a boat. About the most piratical connection to his education turns out to be fencing and a side of illegal brawling to test out his fighting skills. The latter is to prevent getting his arse kicked to Sunday when people take a dislike, and they always do, to him. He will jump this hurdle and hit them hard in every possible manner, swift and efficient, time taken simply to get by. There are more important things awaiting him.
Life is about protection now and he protects his body only because it houses his mind and his mind is to him the singular treasure he has found in the world. Everything else he had thought to find turns out to be fool's gold, hopes dashed at the glint and he will not let himself hope anymore.
Life is dull now. People say the same things over and over. They expect him to want things he does not want – girls, boys, sex, jobs, money, power– and they watch him closely, with hints of what he is doing wrong evident on their faces when they think themselves neutral. A decade or more ago he didn't know how to lie. Truth was what you made and when reality and hard facts became a concept he understood, he was taught not to lie. These days they do not say it but he can sense their pleading, do not speak the truth – because as an adult you are expected to lie, by omission and by degrees. Little lies are fine, little lies show you care, to spare feelings.
Sherlock hates the contradiction. It's all about what you want and self-preservation, another type of protection and he can play into that, just a bit, when he remembers to. He makes his own rules though, utilises lies for his benefit, doesn't follow societal standards. Society has done nothing for him, except expect and demand. People say the same things over and over. Genius, exceptional mind. You must come and work for us, you must put your talent to good use, you must do your bit for the country. They want help, predictions, explanations – greedy lazy beings and they want answers to a million things. Answers he will give them, evermore, and he predicts there's answers they will deplore and deny and shoot him down.
No one wants him when it comes down to it. They stare at the visage before them and then they blink in fright at what he presents, and they turn away, move on to another less glaring, more promising, canvas they can fill with what they need most. Sherlock is filled to the brim with brilliance, splashed across haphazardly, and it is too much, too much for everyone, too much for him at times. Life is dull because it never changes; no hope, no wants, nothing particularly new, old dreams, old tears in the fabric, old memories haunting without solution.
Sherlock grows up, most definitely. Taller, sharper, drawn out. Develops a taste for more modern inconsequential squandering he would once have hated, but it works now, because life is dull and people say the same things over and over. Git, shut your mouth, piss off, what are you looking at, freak, no one asked your opinion, liar. Escape comes in bubbling light liquids and powder, and sometimes pills he can bite with a wonderful crunch under his teeth, crumbling on his tongue. Forever and a day he is hands and fingertips touching, sensation, the truth melting to slippery meaningless mush. He is softened, pliable, and heightened. He looks in the mirror and thinks he is art, a masterpiece realised for his eyes only, for once. He finds there is no protection from himself.
When he was a boy he dreamed of being a pirate - you could sail anywhere, find anything you wanted - adrift in a vast ocean. Closing his eyes on his boat he would find he wanted for nothing. Adrift in a vast ocean. Free.