All Anderson ever wanted was to excel. At anything, really. He didn't care. He wanted someone to notice him, to say, "Wow, he knows what he's doing."
His childhood was plain. Nothing extraordinary. His mother was kind to him. His father worked late nights and sometimes when he was tired he would get irritable, but nevertheless the family loved each other. He had no siblings, but sometimes he wished he had a little sister so that he could play the protective brother. So that someone would look up to him.
He had friends in school. Friends in university. Not many, but enough. Sometimes he was a total prat, actually, more than sometimes, but it was okay then, because his friends were, too, and that was just the way they were. They weren't bullies, so nobody minded them. They weren't threatening and so they were content.
He was fascinated with the idea of Forensics. He wanted to help people. He wanted to catch bad guys. He didn't mind the blood or the dead bodies. He was perfectly happy examining murder victims or filling syringes with suspicious liquids. It was a good thing, he told himself. And not only that, but it was a good thing he was good at. Granted, he didn't excel, but he contributed to enough cases that he felt comfortable in his job.
He married. She was alright. She wasn't extraordinary, either. And she was too nice for him, he realized afterwards. Boring. He met a girl at work. Her name was Sally. They didn't fall in love, didn't even fall in lust. They were friends. One night, Sally invited him to the pub. He went, they had a few drinks, and woke up the next morning at Sally's flat with a vague memory of the night before and plans to meet up again the next week.
He liked work. He was happy. He was still a git, still completely arrogant and a total mouth-off, but that was okay because there was no one to stand up to him, no one to tell him to sit the hell down because he was wrong and it was painfully obvious that he was out of his depth. Everybody at NSY knew Anderson's personality. No one cared. They either left him alone, or rolled their eyes and snickered behind his back, or asked him to be quiet and do his job, but politely. Anderson gradually realized that people didn't really like him. Sally told him he shouldn't care.
He just wanted to excel at something.
And then Sherlock bloody Holmes came along. Lestrade had taken a case. He was a bit stumped. Neither Anderson nor Sally could make heads or tails of it, either. Anderson tried, he really tried. He came up with one theory after the next. And one day, a man whisked into the station and started talking. He used hand gestures. He didn't speak loudly, he didn't speak slowly, but at a pace and a tone that suggested he had known what he was now telling them for some time and thought it disappointing that they hadn't figured it out before then.
Lestrade believed the man. He arrested the criminal, after checking to see it was the truth, of course. He offered the man a payment for giving them the information. The man declined. He did, however, leave his number and his name with the instruction to "call if you get stuck. And with this lot as a crew, I expect your call within two weeks."
Anderson was insulted. He was good at his job. Sally was, too! How could this man barge in and insult them like that?
The man, Sherlock, Anderson found out, was right, though. Lestrade called him not six days later.
It became a regular thing. A case would come. The Yard would try to solve it. They wouldn't be able to. Sherlock would show up and look around, notice some minor detail and spout a load of nonsense that would somehow end up being true. Anderson hated him.
Sally did, too. Not at first, though. At first, she was completely taken. She was a bit angry about his frequent insults, but decided that she might be able to live with it if he...
But he didn't. And he made it painfully clear, in front of everyone. Sally couldn't believe it. She complained to Anderson. Anderson complained to Lestrade. Lestrade scolded Sherlock halfheartedly, and Sherlock sniffed but did not apologize.
Deep down, Anderson knew he somewhat respected Sherlock. Sherlock was what Anderson aspired to be. He excelled, at everything and anything he wanted to do. He was an excellent detective. He was a genius scientist. He wasn't bad-looking, either, though Anderson would walk on nails before he would allow himself to admit it. Sherlock was brilliant, and he made no effort to hide that fact.
Anderson respected Sherlock. He would never say it, but now, all he wanted was one compliment from the man. He was sick of the "idiot"s and the "silly little brain"s and the "it was so obvious, how could you not see?"s and he just wanted Sherlock to see that he could do something clever, too. He was good at his job, really, he was, but compared to Sherlock, even he had to admit he felt small.
It was maybe Sherlock's sixth or seventh case for the Yard when he got really into it. He whirled into the crime scene, coat collar turned up and scarf wrapped tightly and turning his head at odd angles to observe the body. Anderson and Donovan stood off to the side, watching curiously and with a minor amount of contempt, and Lestrade tried to hurry Sherlock up with a "I can only spare you five minutes, you're not even allowed here!"
Sherlock said nothing. He ran his hands along the sole of the person's shoes. He flipped the pockets of their windbreaker. He felt their hair. Then he stood.
"It was the father. Arrest him immediately." He said simply.
Lestrade stared. "How could you possibly get that?"
Sherlock sighed, then gave a long and complicated explanation that Anderson frankly didn't listen to a word of. He didn't even remember Lestrade's response. He just snorted and muttered "Freak."
Sherlock paused. He glanced at Anderson, and the man could detect a faint glimmer of hurt in his eyes. In a flash, it was gone, replaced with the usual contempt Sherlock had for everyone, and he said, "Why don't you just go and find out if I'm right. I guarantee, the father will crack under questioning."
Anderson glared and left when Lestrade ordered him to, but he would never forget that he had made Sherlock Holmes feel small. If just for one millisecond, he had the upper hand.
He felt bad, afterwards. He really didn't want his relationship with Sherlock to be this hateful. But if Sherlock wouldn't respect him, wouldn't compliment him, wouldn't even acknowledge that Anderson had been made part of the New Scotland Yard for a reason, then by God, Sherlock would find out that Anderson was someone to be reckoned with.
Except, that's not how it turned out. Anderson would call Sherlock a freak, and Sherlock wouldn't even react. He didn't listen to Anderson's thoughts about whatever case they were working on. He didn't remotely fear Anderson in the slightest, just found him annoying. He never, never, said anything that wasn't insulting to him. Even to Lestrade, Sherlock would be demeaning, but at least to the Detective Inspector he would throw in phrases like, "Well, you weren't as clueless on this case as usual." or "I suppose your input could be taken into account, but probably not." Not once has Sherlock ever said anything like that to Anderson. Anderson was almost impressed with how many different ways Sherlock came up with to insult him.
He supposed it was his own fault. He accepted that he was the git first, though Sherlock was partly to blame. But all he wanted was a nod, a pat on the back, a "Hmm, not completely idiotic."
He hid it well, though he suspected that Sherlock could tell. In actuality, Sherlock had no idea. Not because he couldn't deduce it, but because he honestly didn't care what Anderson thought. This didn't change the fact that Anderson always felt the need to be defensive when Sherlock was concerned.
Once, there was a shining moment in Anderson's career when Sherlock was lost in his thoughts. It was winter. They were outside. Anderson had just come from the Yard and was frustrated that no one had thought to tell him to bring a scarf. He was particularly irritable, and Sherlock absentmindedly told him to go wait in the car, they could handle this. Anderson immediately took it as a dismissal and stated angrily that he had more right to be on this case than Sherlock did. Sherlock didn't look at him, but replied that Anderson's shivering was disrupting his thoughts, and if he was going to stay than he might as well try and keep warm. Anderson had scowled and scoffed, but insisted on sticking around.
The group stood outside for a while, Sherlock running around trying to get a good look at the surrounding building to get an idea of where the actual murder took place. Lestrade was talking quietly to Sally, and Anderson was standing and hating his life. Sherlock walked backwards from one shop, not looking where he was going, and bumped into Anderson.
He had started at the contact, roughly shoving Sherlock away. "Watch it, Freak."
Sherlock had looked at him, then sighed heavily. "As much as it pains me, I really do need you all to focus. So, here. And pull it together. Even you should be able to think in this weather." He had tossed Anderson his scarf, a bored look on his face, then continued pacing up and down the street.
Anderson stared after him, almost glaring, then at the scarf in his hands. He debated whether or not to just leave it on the ground, but then an icy wind blew past and he put it on without a second thought.
It was warmer, he had to admit, and he could think more clearly. He didn't end up making some startling observation, of course, but he felt less irritated. Nobody noticed the scarf, not even Sally, who was too busy trying not to strangle Sherlock to pay attention to him. He felt glad, because he would have been mortified if someone had called him on it.
When they had solved the case, Sherlock making some clever deductions like always, Anderson was still wearing the scarf. He hurriedly took it off, bundling it up into a ball before someone saw it. When Sherlock finished speaking and Lestrade had thanked him, Anderson tossed it at him.
"Thanks." He muttered. Sherlock had nodded, catching it but not putting it back on. Anderson left, before he embarrassed himself further.
(Sherlock washed the scarf as soon as he got home, sterilizing it before he wore it again, but Anderson didn't need to know that.)
The next time, though, was right back to being dicks to each other, but Anderson didn't forget. Sherlock never did that sort of thing again, never complimented him, never thanked him for anything, but nevertheless, Anderson didn't forget.
Whew! Been awhile since I've uploaded anything, huh? I was reading Sherlock Confessions on tumblr, go check them out if you haven't already, and some of them inspired me to write this fic because, let's face it, Anderson gets absolutely no love. Not that I like him as a character or anything, but I think it's kind of unfair how everybody picks on him. I've even done it. But there's my little character study thing for Anderson, hope you enjoyed it, and review please! DFTBA. Blair out.