September 1st. I would always hate September 1st. It signalled my return to a boarding school full of simple minded people. Even my 14 year old mind could outsmart most of the Professor's. The train ride was silent. I sat in an empty compartment as always, and nobody wanted to sit with me, not that I wanted them to. The small 1st year boys looking for somewhere to sit always scuttled out as soon as I listed my deductions about them. Most of them shared the same, your Mother helped you get dressed this morning, instead of your nanny, as proven by the slightly rumpled clothes, showing someone unfamiliar to helping did it.
Freak. Within the 1st week even the new 1st years were calling me it. It was times like that I was glad I was a sociopath. It just didn't affect me as much as it would someone else. Compliments and critisims, none of them mattered to me. If given in an extremely large portion, they could warrant an emotional reaction. Such as when my collection of poems was released. The wave of compliments from papers warrented joy, which was usually unknown to me.
Genius. That was the teachers preffered name for me. Either that or smart-arse. The ones who called me the latter were scared of me. I could see it in their eyes. They were the ones I had the most on. Scared how by just looking at the person, I could tell almost everything about you. You're having an affair on your wife with another Professor. I can tell because the perfume is that of another Professor, instead of the Chanel one your wife wears, that has always been on your clothes.
Psycopath. It was what I was called after I threated to reveal information about the wrong, or right, depending on how you looked at it, people. They were arrogant enough to assumed I stalked them to get so much blackmail on them. I had better things to do with my time than stalk pathetic little bullies.
Nutter. I was called that when I corrected people when they called me a Psycopath. When I told them I was a high-fuctioning sociopath with enough blackmail material to get them expelled. I was called that I knew they had been smoking, not because I had seen them, because I could smell it on their clothes. That was small in comparison for some of the things people has done, yet even that little bit of information would get them expelled.
Lonely. The teachers assumed I was an outcast, bullied even, because I didn't seem to socialize with anyone besides threating them, not that the Professor's knew that, when they insulted me. They couldn't comprehend that I wanted to be alone. Alone, yes I was. Lonely, no.
Sherlock. The one thing about me nobody cared about. It all came down to labels. Genius, Nutter, Lonely, Freak. Not even Mycroft saw me as Sherlock. He saw as a threat. Someone smarter than him who should be rid of as quickly as possible. Nobody saw past the labels. Nobody truly saw me as just Sherlock Holmes.