Sherlock's Memories
It's three days after A Study In Pink, (the idiotic name John created for the whole case, my name for it was so much better in my opinion,) when I caught that moron old maniac serial killer, the same one whom John shot and murdered from a whole different building across from the one I was standing in with the man. Also being when I introduced John to Mycroft.
"It wasn't ME that upset her, Mycroft!" I thought that sentence over and over ever since I said it to my brother. Ever since I said that, memories of my childhood and my mother and Mycroft as an older brother; memories that I thought I had deleted from my thoughts…they flooded back so quickly and they stayed there. Bothersome memories just sat here in my head, waiting until I fully acknowledge them; and they still do. I have not set myself to fully go through them yet. I worry that John might find me in the middle of going through these memories and I might have a full breakdown and take it out on him, which wouldn't be good positively at all since I already yell upon him enough.
I let out a sigh to calm down just a small bit (…as if a small sigh would even help calm down a human being…) and stand up out of my usual chair and I now decide to walk around the flat for a bit: right now will be when I go through my memories so I can delete what I need to.
Well, where shall I begin? I'll start when my own memories did: when I was four years old. My hair was just beginning to become longer and the curls went out and my cheekbones were barley shown at all. From what I can recall my cheeks were extremely chubby and so was my whole body; I was fat to put it down quickly. I was one of the most observant children; no surprise there now is there? No, of course not. I could observe everything around me and make mini-deductions as I do now, but not to the extreme. I figured out why the sky is blue when I was six, whereas most children found out when they were taught it at the age of…ranging most likely from nine to twelve. I found out everything early, to put it short: I could go on, but I should just leave it at the whole…sky being blue and being observant and every other child on the planet being so dumb and plain and boring. What it must be like in their boring minds? What are their thoughts like? Do they delete memories they don't wish to have? Can they remember and observe as easily? Do they even care enough to try to observe? I wonder, I always wonder. But back to the point, surprisingly, I'm getting ahead of myself.
At the ages five to seven I was happy, observant, and excitable. Of course, today I can and do have those traits, but 'happy' and 'excitable' are dull and barley shown in me (unless a double homicide happens…well that's exciting! How can I not freak?). My happy and excitable child traits faded away quickly when Mycroft and I's father left our family when I was only seven and three quarters old. Our mother started drinking heavily and Mycroft, to cope, pinned everything on me and my observant, unnatural traits that I had. Mycroft's blaming me mixed in with my mother's drunkenness only equaled: my mother actually believing him. She became even more unhappy and crazed once she believed I was the reason our father left, believing he left because I was some freak of a child who could do think and think in a different way of every other child. Mycroft finally grew up in personality and realized that now that our mother was a hopeless drunk: he would have to become my mother. I was only nine now, of course, and I couldn't really make myself food; I could drop the milk carton because of the heaviness and since I was small/short as a child I couldn't reach everything. I was very weak by this age, since when I was around seven I lost a ton of weight and every bone in my body started either sticking out or becoming very broad. I was bullied even more for this.
Ah, yes, the subject of bullying and my years before becoming a teenager: well this shall be a mouthful, will it? I was very short and skinny; this resulted in children thinking it was okay to point out every flaw about my looks into their mouths and into the air and they wasted so much oxygen that we should all be dead from suffocation. Hyperbole, yes, but a bit of exaggeration helps my point of just how much they spoke of me. Words like 'freak', 'weirdo', 'ugly'. I never heard one compliment. Not even from my mother or Mycroft. I would be proud of something I did or created and in return it was be either destroyed, laughed at, ignored, or all three. I had no friends. I wanted to die; of course I was only a child, my years of being seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. I was confused of who I was and what I wanted. I shouldn't have thought like that, being a child, but it helped…I suppose. I grew up early. To cope with bullying and no friends I deduced and observed more. To make friends, thinking my ability to just know everything about the person just by looking at them was amazing, I did that thinking it'd gain me a friend. It only drove everyone farther away.
My teenage years: ah, I hated it. Hated it so much…when I turned fourteen I had a major growth spurt: I became very tall and my hair was now longer and I gained more muscle. I felt awkward, but every other teen going into high school was growing up more just like me; although everyone acted like two year olds while I acted mature like a normal human being. I never went to one party. According to many girls, though, I suppose I must've become very attractive at this point in my life, also. When I was fifteen I met a girl named Molly. She had basically fallen in love with me, (which is absolutely an idiotic decision upon someone's life, seeing that they're only fifteen and shouldn't be in love yet), but me being also a moron, never having friends once in my life, and feeling new to actual socialization that was positive: I went along with it. I never actually fell in love, unlike her, but I…I acknowledged her very, very much with affections such as small hugs. I don't remember her giving me compliments-no she did not. She never did. She never hugged back. I tried to give affections and I did so: the most I got to was giving her a hug. She was very nervous, an anxiety disorder, I could tell easily by how she always fidgeted, and cared about reputation a bit too much. I got angry soon at her, with mixed feelings from home, and I was also confused upon the situation of sexuality. Everything about relationships confused me so I ended up classifying myself as asexual and erasing Molly from my memory (although I couldn't completely since she showed up one day in the future. She joined a job that I come to often that helps with my job and has a great deal with; dead bodies of course. Many teenage boys also thought it was a swell idea to beat upon me until I bled or bruised horribly…or both. That's how I learned to fight so well. It only took months to figure out the way to fight correctly and win every fight; being able to deduce all the time whenever and in any situation as well as I could/can helps very much. I wasn't beat on again by them after I was only sixteen and still had a whole year of high school left.
Speaking of beating, though this not being about teenage boys beating me up, my mother started beating Mycroft and I, not too much but to the point where it left bruises and Mycroft arm…well it broke once; her alcoholism became very, very worse and she wanted me to leave the home. Mycroft's lie as a child still rung in her mind, even so many years later. My own mother wanted me gone. I still hold on to the thought of maybe, behind the alcohol…I am not the cause of her drinking or my father leaving or my mother's pain. I wasn't the reason that upset my mother. I didn't want to think like that, I didn't want to think of the possibility that I was. That's why Mycroft is one of my arch enemies, yet he cares so much about me and still looks out for me. It aggravates me. I cannot forgive him for lying to our mum, even if it was so long ago. My own mother had so much pain all because of me and I couldn't do anything to change it, no matter how hard I tried. She was too blinded by the alcohol. I was the reason that upset my mother, and Mycroft is to blame.
I can't think of this anymore. It pains me. I'm deleting those memories. I have better ones right now anyway that can replace it…memories such as John. He actually compliments me, he acknowledges me, he helps me, and he's…he's there. He's just there and he won't betray me. I trust him, and he's the only person out there that I do trust, besides myself and my own instincts and my sights. Mrs. Hudson is there, but she's more like…the mother I never had. Mycroft could never pull off being a grown woman anyway. His singing is dreadful also; I wish I never asked for a lullaby when I had that one nightmare. Molly is out there too, but…not as much. She has work, though…but she's desperately in love with me and sadly, I cannot love her back. Even now I'm confused about what I want; or who I want to be exact. I may be just confused about many things. Either way I trust my own thoughts most of all, and cases and John distract me to the point where I can forget about the things that confuse me, because I hate being confused. Being confused is a bother and doesn't need to be in my life.
For now I'll just sit and reflect and work. Distract myself. Deduce. Deduce and wait for what will come before I predict it myself. I'll be correct if I do so, though. I'm never wrong.