CHAPTER 10: The Symbol vs. The Science
The arrival of All Might did more than just bolster morale; it fundamentally altered the barometric pressure within the Unforeseen Simulation Joint. To Sherlock, the shift was quantifiable. The air, previously stagnant and heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the dry, chemical odor of Shigaraki's decaying presence, was suddenly shoved aside by a massive displacement of volume.
Velocity: Mach 1.1 at ground level. Displacement: 800 kilograms of atmospheric mass per second. Sherlock watched through narrowed eyes as the "Symbol of Peace" stood at the top of the stairs. The silhouette was familiar, but the "Killing Intent" radiating from the man was a new variable. It was an equal and opposite force to the villains' malice—a crushing, righteous weight that made Sherlock's lungs feel small.
"He's not smiling," Midoriya whispered, his voice trembling as he watched the massive silhouette. "I've never seen him like this."
Sherlock didn't answer. His internal HUD was fixed on the Nomu. Even as All Might blurred into motion—systematically neutralizing the lower-level thugs in a sequence of kinetic strikes too fast for the human retina to process—the creature remained an immobile monolith. It didn't react to the screams or the shockwaves. It was a biological damping system waiting for its specific frequency to be struck.
"Go to the entrance," All Might commanded, his voice a low-frequency rumble that vibrated in Sherlock's sternum. "I'll handle this."
The Perimeter: A Study in Attrition
While the giants prepared to clash in the central plaza, the rest of Class 1-A were discovering the brutal reality of their own metabolic ceilings. To Sherlock, who could hear the distant echoes of their struggles, the USJ had become a massive laboratory of human limits.
The Downpour Zone In the constant, artificial deluge, Tokoyami Fumikage was losing a war of light and shadow. Sherlock had previously categorized Dark Shadow as a sentient energy construct that fed on ambient photon deficiency, but here, the "Aura of Death" from the plaza was acting as a catalyst.
The rain was not mere water; it was a sensory dampener. Dark Shadow wasn't just growing; it was becoming jagged, its claws lengthening into obsidian scythes that carved through the concrete of the ruins. "Control it, Tokoyami!" Koda cried out, his voice cracking. Koda was struggling to find purchase in the chaos; he was trying to command the local insect life, but the flood had drowned the hives and the cold had slowed the pheromone receptors of the survivors. It was a failure of biological communication—the insects were in survival mode, and Koda's quirk was being drowned out by the sheer "noise" of the storm.
The Mountain Zone Across the dome, Bakugo and Kirishima were engaged in a struggle of pure physical degradation. Bakugo was a whirlwind of nitroglycerin-fueled rage, but even he was hitting a limit. Every explosion created a mini-vacuum that sucked the oxygen away from his own lungs.
Beside him, Kirishima's "Hardening" was showing signs of crystalline fatigue. To an observer, he was just a shield; to Sherlock's distant analysis, Kirishima's skin was a sacrificial layer of high-density cells that were being chipped away like weathered granite. "Bakugo! We need to head to the center!" Kirishima roared, his voice hoarse from the dust. "Shut up! If we leave, these extras swarm the entrance!" Bakugo's rage was a constant, but Sherlock could hear the frantic rhythm of his heart in the frequency of the blasts—he was scared, and he was hiding it with fire.
The Fire Zone Momo Yaoyorozu was hitting a more dangerous wall. Sherlock had always categorized her Quirk as the ultimate expression of molecular assembly, but he could see the cost now. As she coordinated a defensive perimeter with Jiro and Kaminari, her movements grew sluggish.
To create the massive, multi-layered insulated sheet for Kaminari's discharge, she was burning through her body's fuel at an unsustainable rate. Sherlock could almost see the caloric deficit in the way her hands shook. She was shivering in a furnace, her internal temperature dropping as she stripped her own lipids to build shields. It was the "Law of Conservation of Mass" turned into a death sentence.
The Physics of Impossibility
The battle in the plaza began not with a sound, but with a vacuum. When All Might and the Nomu collided, the air between them was compressed so violently it superheated for a fraction of a millisecond.
Sherlock watched the exchange with a sense of rising dread. He attempted to calculate the trajectory of the blows, but the math broke. Force = Mass x Acceleration was a law of the universe, but All Might was operating on a curve that defied Euclidean geometry.
Each strike from All Might generated a shockwave that sent shards of the plaza floor flying like shrapnel. The Nomu, however, was a masterclass in bio-engineering. Sherlock noticed the way its flesh rippled upon impact—a non-Newtonian fluid reaction. The monster wasn't "taking" the hits; it was diffusing the kinetic energy across its entire cellular structure.
The rate of shock absorption is staggering, Sherlock thought, his pulse spiking to 140. He's trying to overwhelm a biological damping system that shouldn't have a ceiling. He isn't fighting a villain; he's fighting a counter-equation designed to divide by zero.
The Technician's Intervention: Friction Lock
The situation turned dire with a sickening, wet squelch. The Nomu's claws buried themselves in All Might's side—targeting the specific, scarred weakness Sherlock had noted weeks ago. Kurogiri, the warp villain, began to coil around All Might's legs, a dark nebula intending to close a portal and bifurcate the Symbol of Peace.
"No!" Midoriya surged forward, his movement driven by raw, uncalculated emotion.
Sherlock's brain moved faster. Precision over Power. If the armor is impenetrable, jam the gears. "Midoriya, stay back! You're a variable I can't protect!" Sherlock shouted. He reached into his tactical holster, flicking five cards in a rapid-fire sequence. He didn't use the standard aerodynamic throw; he used his Paper Manipulation to curve them through the air, caught in the slipstream of All Might's own vacuum.
"Static Bind: Friction Lock!"
Sherlock didn't aim for the Nomu's armored chest. He aimed for the exposed, pulsating tissue of the brain and the synovial gaps in its elbow joints. He poured every remaining joule of his metabolic energy into the Molecular Glaze, forcing the paper to achieve a hardness rating of 10 on the Mohs scale.
As the cards bit into the creature's tissue, a high-pitched, mechanical whine filled the air—the sound of paper sliding against muscle fibers at supersonic speeds. The friction generated literal heat; smoke began to curl from the Nomu's joints.
The cards acted like grit in a high-performance engine. They didn't stop the creature, but they created micro-frictions within its muscle fibers, causing its grip on All Might to stutter for exactly 42 milliseconds. Sherlock felt a searing, white-hot pain explode behind his eyes. A capillary in his nose burst, a crimson streak running down his lip. The "Molecular Glaze" was a two-way street; the resistance of the Nomu's muscles was feeding back into Sherlock's own nervous system through the molecular link.
"A clever trick, Young Sherlock!" All Might shouted, feeling the monster's grip stutter. "You've given me exactly what I needed!"
Beyond the Limit: Plus Ultra
The air began to scream. All Might unleashed a barrage of punches—hundreds in a matter of seconds. Each strike was faster than the last, an exponential growth of violence that finally exceeded the Nomu's ability to reset its shock absorption.
"A Hero... can always break through a wall!" All Might's voice wasn't a human sound anymore; it was the roar of a collapsing star. "A hero... goes BEYOND! PLUS... ULTRA!"
With a final blow that sent a shockwave across the entire dome, shattering the remaining glass in the USJ's ceiling, the Nomu was launched. It didn't just fly; it exited the atmosphere of the building, a blurred streak of kinetic energy that became a glint of light against the artificial sky before vanishing into the stratosphere.
A heavy, ringing silence followed. All Might stood in a crater of his own making, steam rising from his skin as his muscles began to atrophy under the strain.
As the adrenaline began to clear, the entrance doors exploded once more. The rest of the Pro Heroes arrived in a flurry of tactical precision. Snipe began picking off villains with pinpoint accuracy, his bullets following impossible curves. Nezu, riding on the shoulder of a giant, began coordinating the rescue efforts with the cold efficiency of a chess master.
The Realization
As paramedics arrived, they administered a stabilizing glucose agent to Sherlock. The world felt muted, cold, and distant—a medicated fog. He watched the Pro Heroes move with practiced ease, and he realized with a sinking heart that this was their "normal."
He looked at his hands; they were shaking, not just from the metabolic strain, but from the visceral horror of what he had just witnessed. He had seen the Symbol of Peace nearly broken. He had seen a creature designed solely for murder. He looked at Midoriya, who was already crying with relief, and he realized he didn't feel that same spark.
Sherlock slumped against a jagged rock, his cards falling limply from his fingers, scattered like autumn leaves across the cracked concrete. He watched Shigaraki screaming in frustration, the madness of the man radiating even from a distance as Kurogiri pulled him into the safety of the mist.
I am a technician in a world of gods, Sherlock thought, the realization settling in his chest like lead. Logic is a secondary language here. I spent my energy calculating the friction of a muscle fiber, while All Might simply decided that the laws of physics no longer applied to him.
He realized then that the world wasn't built on the "Calculated Risk" he practiced. It was built on the backs of monsters and the irrational, terrifying luck of heroes. He looked at his shaking hands once more and understood a bitter truth: in a world of "Plus Ultra," his math would never be enough. He wasn't a hero; he was just an observer with a front-row seat to the impossible.
The Bus Ride Back
The bus ride back from the USJ was not a journey; it was a transition between two different realities. The interior of the vehicle smelled of ozone, burnt fabric, and the medicinal tang of the first-aid kits that had been distributed to nearly every student.
Sherlock sat in the back, his head resting against the cold glass of the window. The vibration of the engine hummed through his skull, a low-frequency reminder of the physical world that felt increasingly alien to him.
The bus ride back from the USJ was not a journey; it was a transition between two different realities. The interior of the vehicle smelled of ozone, burnt fabric, and the medicinal tang of the first-aid kits that had been distributed to nearly every student.
Sherlock sat in the back, his head resting against the cold glass of the window. The vibration of the engine hummed through his skull, a low-frequency reminder of the physical world that felt increasingly alien to him.
The Anatomy of Silence
He watched the others through the reflection in the glass. Asui Tsuyu sat with her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the floor; her breathing was rhythmic, but shallow—a sign of lingering cold-stress from the Water Zone. Beside her, Midoriya was a wreck of twitching nerves and muttered half-sentences. His eyes were wide, replaying the moment All Might had nearly been bifurcated.
Near the front of the bus, Midoriya, Tsuyu, and Mineta sat in a small cluster, their voices barely rising above the engine's drone.
"Did you see him?" Mineta whispered, his voice still trembling. He was hugging his knees, looking smaller than usual. "When that... that thing was right in front of us. Sherlock didn't even blink. He was just throwing cards like he was playing a game in a parlor. I thought I was going to die, and he looked like he was doing a math test."
Tsuyu placed a finger to her chin, her large eyes drifting back toward Sherlock's motionless form. "It wasn't just that he was brave, ribbit. It was his pulse. I was close to him in the water zone. He was breathing like he was solving a crossword puzzle, not fighting for his life. It was almost... unsettling."
"He was calculating," Midoriya added, his notebook open on his lap, though his hands shook too much to write. "I watched him during the All Might fight. He wasn't just reacting; he was looking for a mechanical failure in the Nomu. He found a way to use friction as a weapon. While everyone else was screaming, he was the only one who realized the monster wasn't invincible—it just had a different set of physics."
"And All Might..." Mineta gulped. "He looked like he was from another planet. The way he hit that thing... the air just vanished."
"We're alive," Kirishima said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement. He was rubbing a patch of skin on his arm where his Hardening had finally given way, leaving the flesh raw and sensitive. "If the teachers hadn't shown up when they did..."
"Don't," Kaminari interrupted, his voice lacking its usual spark. He was still in a "short-circuit" state, his brain struggling to re-establish synaptic connections after his massive discharge. "Just... don't."
Sherlock listened to the cadence of their voices. They were looking for meaning in the chaos. They were trying to forge a narrative of survival and growth. But Sherlock's mind was stuck on the mechanics of the failure. We didn't win because we were better; we won because All Might is a physical anomaly that defies the law of entropy.
The Outburst of the Sidelined
Suddenly, the heavy atmosphere of the bus was shattered.
"DAMN IT!"
Bakugo's voice ripped through the cabin like a physical explosion. He was standing in the aisle, his fists clenched so tightly they were visibly smoking. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury—not directed at the villains, but at the situation itself.
"I was stuck in those ruins! Cleaning up extras!" Bakugo roared, his eyes darting toward the back of the bus where Sherlock and Midoriya were. "While the Symbol of Peace was getting torn apart, I was wasting time on small fry! I should have been there! I should have been the one helping All Might, not some damn extra with a pack of cards!"
"Bakugo, man, sit down," Kirishima said softly, reaching out to grab his arm. "We did what we could—"
"SHUT UP!" Bakugo shoved his hand away. "He was right there! All Might was bleeding, and I was sidelined! That Nomu... that thing was the real target, and I wasn't even in the equation!"
To Bakugo, the fact that Sherlock—a "technician" who fought with paper—had played a pivotal role while he was stuck in the Mountain Zone was an insult he couldn't process. It was a violation of his hierarchy of strength.
A Moment of Shared Weight
Momo Yaoyorozu sat in the seat directly across the aisle from Sherlock, pointedly ignoring Bakugo's shouting. She was still draped in a heavy thermal blanket, her face pale from the massive lipid depletion. Every few minutes, she took a bite of a high-calorie protein bar, her body shivering as it tried to stabilize its internal temperature.
She watched the crimson streak beneath Sherlock's nose—a stubborn remainder of the "Molecular Glaze" strain. She knew that look. It wasn't just fatigue; it was the look of someone who had pushed their own atomic structure to the breaking point.
With a hesitant hand, she reached across the aisle and placed a small, warm packet of glucose biscuits on his lap.
"You did remarkably well today, Sherlock," she said softly, her voice thick with genuine warmth. "I watched the cards. To hold a molecular bond against a creature that could absorb shock... that level of precision is something most of us can't even dream of. We were lucky you were there."
Sherlock didn't move at first. His eyes remained fixed on the sunset, the golden light catching the dust on his uniform.
"You were the one who held the line, Yaoyorozu," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "Your insulated tarp was the only reason the electric discharge didn't neutralize the entire zone. You converted mass under pressure with a 92% success rate. That is... impressive."
Momo felt a small, genuine spark of pride at the compliment. "We make a good team, don't we? Thinking in the same language. I feel like, with your analysis and my creation, there isn't a variable we couldn't—"
She stopped. Sherlock hadn't responded.
Momo leaned in closer, her heartbeat quickening for a different reason. Sherlock's head had slumped slightly against the window. His breathing had finally slowed, becoming deep and heavy. The "Technician" had finally run out of fuel. The metabolic debt he had incurred to save the Symbol of Peace had finally come for its payment.
"Sherlock?" she whispered.
There was no answer. He had fallen into a deep, clinical sleep—the kind that only comes when the brain shuts down to prevent total system failure.
Momo looked at him for a long moment, the protein bar forgotten in her hand. She reached out, gently adjusting the blanket so it covered him as well. Even in sleep, his brow was slightly furrowed, as if he were still trying to solve an equation in his dreams.
The bus pulled through the gates of UA High, the golden hour light stretching the shadows across the pavement. Sherlock remained asleep, a silent ghost in a bus full of children who had just realized they weren't children anymore.