A.N. I'd like to say sorry to Victor Trevor. Really I am, but still unrepentant. Disclaimer: nothing mine. Conan Doyle and BBC share the rights. From next chapter I'll follow the series adding people's feelings. Just letting you know – hope that's okay.
University is horrible. Everyone hates Sherlock, and he despises everyone in turn. It's not his fault that people can't stand truth. It's totally unreasonable for his peers to get angry at him for outing their actions. They should not do things they're ashamed to admit, instead.
The only boy whom Sherlock grows attached to is Victor Trevor. Victor accosts him first, well...Victor's dog, and while for a moment Sherlock thinks the dog was sicced on him, Victor is so sorry and kind that he discards the hypothesis. Amazingly, Victor never reacts badly to Sherlock being...well, Sherlock. It's so unusual that Sherlock starts to devise ways to know Victor's full name, hoping there might be a John somewhere. The simplest way would be to ask Mycroft, but Mycroft would immediately read Sherlock's silly, fanciful hopes, and try to set his little brother's straight. He's not in the mood for a lecture.
He gets way worse than a lecture, though. He has it so bad (his emotions leak steadily from the door he's closed them behind) that he actually misses Victor every second they aren't together, and searching for him once he stumbles on something. Something he should have deduced long ago, really. But he was too pitifully eager to have someone to question the whys and hows like he should have. And here Victor is, with Mycroft, pocketing money and discussing a pay raise because really, Sherlock is just that unbearable. Sherlock doesn't interrupt them, but when Victor comes by later, he bits out that he hopes Victor saved his income, because Sherlock doesn't want to be a burden anymore, he doesn't want to see Victor – at all – and that means Mycroft won't continue to pay him. Victor – Trevor doesn't try to deny anything, at least. He looks equal parts miffed (for the lack of ulterior money, no doubt) and relieved to have been discovered, actually. He won't need to pretend anymore.
Sherlock dabbled with drugs, but after Victor, he starts using heavily. He needs the distraction (Sherlock can't miss him). Reality is simply too awful to face. He drifts off. Off university. Off everything. He spends awhile on the streets, then Mycroft finds him and packs him to rehab. Sherlock escapes. He's on the streets again, making friends with the other homeless people.
And then, high as a kite, he stumbles on a crime scene, and solves it. It's obvious, really. But solving it – it's a rush. He likes it. He locates Lestrade again. The man, if half-heartedly, drives him away because he can't allow a junkie on a crime scene. Spiteful, Sherlock goes to do more drugs and overdoses (accidentally, he swears). Billy, who likes the boy entirely too much (you simply can't get attached to clients in his line of work), and hears him out when he's raving, manages to contact Mycroft. It saves his life.
Mycroft knows all (of course, the git), and together with Lestrade – who will take all credit for the idea – they arrange for Sherlock to be allowed to consult...as long as he's clean. Sherlock does not escape from the next rehab. As long as his brain is stimulated, he can pretend the rest of him does not exist at all – like he needs. And if he starts a website, it's just so that he can get clients. More cases. Boredom is toxic to him. Not because that way, if John writes 'Sherlock' on Google, he'll get the consulting detective's mobile phone number. Not at all.
When he's at uni, John discovers that Sherlock is not a Scandinavian name. Selda says so, and she should know. She's not just Norwegian, she loves literature, and even in more archaic poems, she's never read the name. She has no reason to lie. She's on holiday in England, John is not her name, so it's not like she wants to keep him. They're still having a great time together. She's a true friend (with definite benefits) and so only half joking John asked her if she had a friend named Sherlock. That aroused her curiosity and ultimately brought John to the revelation. No blonde beauty on sight anymore for John, sadly.
He needs to reevaluate. John ponders about his mysterious name, researches a bit, and comes up with a new hypothesis. (He still finds no trace of such a name anywhere.) Maybe it's Korean. Their names are usually two-sillables long, easily sound strange if one's not used to them, and half the time how to write them in our alphabet is up for debate. Sherlock might very well be a variant of transliteration, and that's why he has never seen the name come up in his searches. Maybe if he searched Ser-look or something of the sort he'd find the name, at least. He doesn't search any variation of it, though. After all, it would only add to his frustration if he didn't find, and he hasn't enough imagination to guess what the correct form might be, or why it's written like this on his wrist. Maybe he'll mishear the name the first time and this is what he'll understand? If he finds her, of course. If she's on the other side of the world, the chances of that are beyond low. Still, John dreams of finding her. He's a romantic. There are worse flaws, if it even is one.
He knows it won't be easy, though, or happen soon – barring lucky serendipity, and he's never been much of a lucky person. Until then, he can have the next best thing. If not his destined romance, adventure. He signs up for the army. He can be useful there. Actually save lives, instead of diagnosing colds.
And it'll put some distance between him and his family. Harry has found Clara – well, a Clara – and has settled down with remarkable swiftness. He's happy for her, really. He wishes nothing more than for her to have really found her soulmate. But knowing that her childish taunts were true – that he's not likely to find his someone – hell, even someone he can pretend is his destined love...It makes her blatant happiness sting. So, if the army brings him away from family dinners, Harry and Clara and dad's pitying looks because no Sherlock is still in sight, it's a bonus. He should pay them to be saved from such awkwardness. From his own fleeting doubts, sometimes, when he's depressed, that he has no soulmate at all and Sherlock is just random gibberish.
He'll work, and fight, and fuck every pretty girl who's not Her – will never be Her – but damn if John isn't going to have as much of a fun time as he can. Until getting shot at becomes being shot, and John's pleading with God to survive, because he hasn't found her yet and he wants to. He doesn't want Sherlock's name to blot and her to know she's now all alone in the world.