Everyone and their mother knows that Sherlock Holmes is unlike any other at St. Bart's University. In fact, Sherlock Holmes was unlike any other anywhere. The only problem with being Sherlock Holmes was having a massive intellect which most people deem…well, annoying to put it delicately.

If I were to be in-delicate I'd say they all believed him to be a "freak" or "creep" because of his abnormal and amazingly rare amount of intellect. Well, this is his story.

This isn't just any story of a "rising from the ashes hero" that was "bullied into suicidal thoughts" then "pulled out of the darkness by love"

That's not this story.

This story is about Sherlock Holmes and his life; his sad, twisted, amazing life.

And this is how it begins.

It all started on one particularly ordinary day. Overly ordinary, actually. Dull. Boring. Typical. Tedious.

Those are words used my Sherlock Holmes at the precise moment he pulls into the long winding driveway of St. Bart's University. Mycroft Holmes, his elder brother sat next to him in the back of the sleek black car, Sherlock's suitcases in the trunk, and a simple shoulder bag next to the boy in between himself and his brother.

The car pulled up to the drop-off section of the parking lot. The Holmes boys looked at the families hugging and crying about letting their child leave home, and go to college. This was Sherlock's second year in this University and he hated it. He hated coming back. He wanted to leave and never return and never look back. This was a large university with Dorms A & B for male students and Dorms C & D for female students, located on opposite ends of the property. Clever decision. This University was top ranked athletically and academically. It had some of the toughest classes and elite students interested in many different careers.

Sherlock sulked the entire way there, dreading his return. Last year, his roommate actually refused to live with him in room 134 dorm A. The room was ideal. Close to all his classes according to Sherlock and he'd get there perfectly on time. Fred Bigby decided he'd room with two of his mates after one night in the room. His mates' room was in Dorm B, further from his classes and he was constantly late. Sherlock scoffed at his illogical decision at first. Then, Fred Bigby made it clear to Sherlock as to WHY he refused to live with him.

Sherlock had a bruised cheek and rib for a month, the words "freak" echoing in his ears whenever he touched the wounds.

Yes, Sherlock was un-feeling and cold-hearted, but it didn't mean that he wouldn't remember that day for the rest of the year. The day he was beaten. Sherlock sighed to himself.

"No reason to dwell in the past, Sherlock" Mycroft sighed next to him. Sherlock turned his icy glare from the window to Mycroft. "It'll be better this year."

The car came to a halt and Sherlock gave his brother one last quick glare before hurriedly getting out of the car and collecting his things.

We'll know if you try to escape like last time. Do try to stay here this year.

-MH

Sherlock glared at his phone as the black car drove away, glancing up when it had disappeared from sight. He shouldered his bags and carried them to the check-in desk.

"Hello again, Sherlock. I was afraid you'd have picked another school. Glad to see you're back." The older woman smiled at him as she looked for his room assignment.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson, how's the hip?" Sherlock looked her over "Seems as though the surgery went alright."

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'm feeling much better. Your room is 221 in Dorm B this year dear. Try not to get your experiments everywhere this year, though. I'm not your housekeeper." She smiled fondly then added. "Oh, Sherlock, your roommate has already arrived. He got here quite early. Try to be nice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up his bags, giving Mrs. Hudson a quick goodbye and set off for 221B.

Do I want to know what my roommate will be like? Probably not. Going to be dull. He came here early. SO he must be punctual. Could be clever, or he could be a scholarship student. More likely the scholarship, this IS a very prestigious and elite school. Sherlock thought to himself. He looked around as he got to dorm B.

Anderson was in 232B with Lestrade. Sherlock sighed. Anderson was the one to put the idea of him being a creepy freak in everyone's head.

As Sherlock walked down the hallways to get to 221B, he saw people tense when he walked by. Sherlock knew it was because nobody wants to room with him, they all would move out. All of them. Nobody wanted to stay with the freak.

Sherlock almost missed 221, as he noticed he was walking next to 223, he back peddled to 221.

This is it. This had better be a good room. Sherlock thought. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Sherlock walked in calmly and smoothly and looked around. He heard noises coming from the bathroom and figured his roommate would be pulling his toothbrush and other things in there. Sherlock put his things on he bed without things on it and began to set up his desk.

Footsteps were heard as the other person walked out of the bathroom and started unpacking as well.

"Hello." He stated simply, yet cheerfully. Sherlock turned around to asses this new being in the room. Sherlock looked him up and down, making the other feel vulnerable and self-conscious.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock said quietly. The other man looked up slowly, and narrowed his eyes.

"Excuse me, what?" He replied suspiciously. Sherlock sighed and turned to face the other person fully.

"Your father. Is he in Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated, clearly irritated this time around.

"Afghanistan." He paused "How did you know that?"

"I don't know, I notice."

"How did you notice that?"

"The same way I noticed you have a slight limp on one of your legs, your therapist thinks is psychosomatic and I'm afraid they're correct. You have a brother you won't turn to or come in contact with, probably because they're an alcoholic- or maybe because they recently just walked out on their wife. You also have a slight tremor in your hand."

They stood staring for a while. Sherlock waiting for the word "stalker" to come up and the other waiting for an explanation.

"How…" He was speechless. "How did you know about all of that?"

"Well" Sherlock started. "you show no sign of injury anywhere, in fact, you used to be a rugby player. Oh don't give me that look, your old jersey is sticking out of you bag. Now then, you must have a therapist because anyone with a psychosomatic limp and a tremor in their hand is bound to have a therapist. I knew about your brother from your mobile phone, which I glanced at briefly. The phone is new, very nice, but being a scholarship student with a father on military leave, you wouldn't have that much money to buy a mostly useless luxury, so it was a gift. The engraving on the back says "To Harry from Clara" now Clara, who's Clara? Girlfriend? No, the gift is too extravagant for a girlfriend, wife then. But why would your brother give YOU the present? He must have ended it with Clara, not the other way around because if Clara had divorced him, he would've kept the phone. Sentimental value. But he gave it to you, indicating he wants you to stay in touch."

A pause. "How did you know about the alcoholism?" He inquired quickly.

"A shot in the dark" Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "the charger. The scratches around the edges indicating the drunk trying to get the charger in without much focus. You never see a drunks without them and you never see a sober's with them."

Sherlock's breathing had become a bit faster, waiting for the insults.

"That…was amazing."

Sherlock blinked. "It was?"

The other just nodded awkwardly. "Yup, it was fantastic, it was brilliant, it was…amazing."

Sherlock felt a rush of pride only to be shot down instantly.

"Except, you got something wrong."

Sherlock frowned "What was it? Is your mother the one in Afghanistan?"

"Harry is short for Harriet." The boy looked smug, like he'd just done something great.

"Sister." Sherlock cursed under his breath "Always something."

"John Watson, and you are?" John stated simply, holding out his hand to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock reluctantly shook his hand then pulled back quickly. John made a noise that sounded like a realization. "Oh," John said, "So YOU'RE, Sherlock Holmes. People say some horrid things about you, you know."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I know. I suppose you're going to move out now that you know?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he set up his microscope on the desk, pulling the beakers and beaker holder out carefully.

"Why would I do that? You seem okay to me." John stated confidently. Sherlock's back straightened and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, and I like to play the violin, would that bother you?" Sherlock murmured over his shoulder.

"No, actually, I enjoy the violin and silence isn't always a bad thing." John smiled at him. "I snore slightly and I will probably keep you up while I study for mid-terms and finals until all hours." He laughed a bit as he also continued to unpack.

"That's fine. I don't sleep much either." Sherlock replied, finishing up his desktop lab. He smiled in self-victory and sighed happily.

This could prove to be the greatest year of Sherlock Holmes' life.