This is another older story of mine that I wrote in response to season one (in particular episode one) of Sherlock. It's essentially a character study of Sherlock as he could be interpreted from a few lines he said in particular. Enough from me, enjoy!
A young boy, a genius by all counts, he spent his childhood alone, captivated by tales of super-powered men and women in brightly colored tights fighting a freak show's assortment of maniacal villains. His older brother, always seven years wiser looked down his nose at the "obsession." He didn't care, those heroes were all the young boy could ever dream to be.
School came in never ending years of boredom and taunting. At first he had loved the pursuit of knowledge, but soon every class was dull. By the time he reached high school, he knew more than most of his teachers and all of his fellow students. The taunting began early. His brother - who sometimes came home battered and bruised himself – said it was because they were smarter. He sometimes wondered if even a superhero could stop them.
Whenever he said he wanted to be a hero – because that was always what he said when they asked – people laughed, they always laughed. At first the laughter was condescending, coming from adults who declared it "cute." But before long the laughter became mean, it led to more beatings that turned into fights that he started to win.
By middle school, he had learned how to fight well enough to keep them at bay. By college he was good at it. He tried a bit of everything, boxing, fencing, several types of martial arts. He spent some time with each, learning as much as he could before moving on to the next, in hopes that it would solve his problem permanently, or at least more so than the last.
But he hated himself for winning. Heroes never hurt the people they fought, not on purpose, at least. They always gave second chances and didn't live little boys lying on concrete with bloody noses and black eyes. They fought for justice not them selves. But still he fought, because there was nothing else he could do.
At first it was only the other students who mocked him. Then the adults' laughter turned to talks about how he needed "realistic" goals because heroes didn't exist. He didn't care. His brother agreed with them. He hated his brother. He refused to listen to any of them.
By the age of sixteen he was a familiar face at the Scotland Yard, pestering the detectives with his observations as he tried to become a hero that way – he had come to the conclusion super powers were unlikely. They hated him there, but he solved more cases than any of them.
He went to University and graduated with a meaningless degree. He became a consulting detective, possibly the only one in the world. He was an addict, he loved the thrill of the chase. He didn't care about the people, lives were the only thing that counted in his game, his little race against the clock. They were the only stakes high enough, the only thing that made the challenge worth it. He didn't care about being a hero anymore.
His name was Sherlock Holmes and he wasn't a hero because heroes didn't exist and even if they did, he wouldn't be one.
He spent his days fighting criminals of the worst kinds, chasing shadows in the night with his extraordinary intelligence. His older brother was his arch-nemesis. He saved more lives than he bothered to count.
But he's not a hero because heroes don't exist and even if they did, he wouldn't be one.
(He has a friend now, his name is John Watson, if heroes existed, he would be one. But John thinks Sherlock's a hero. Silly John, heroes don't exist and even if they did, he wouldn't be one.)