The announcement of the Sports Festival had set Class 1-A on fire, but for Sherlock, the two weeks of preparation felt like a slow walk to a guillotine. While his classmates were training until their muscles screamed, pushing their bodies to the brink of physiological collapse, Sherlock was busy calculating the most efficient way to lose without looking like a coward.
"Two weeks," Sherlock muttered, leaning against the cold glass of the UA hallway. The condensation from his breath blurred the view of the training grounds below. "Two weeks of 'Plus Ultra' nonsense before I can finally go back to being a ghost."
To Sherlock, the atmosphere in the school was a pollutant. Everywhere he went, he smelled the scent of overtaxed adrenal glands and the metallic tang of sweat. It was irrational. It was messy. It was everything he was trying to leave behind.
● The Sanctuary of Miyuri
While his classmates occupied the gyms, Sherlock found himself drawn to the one place in the Sheets estate he usually avoided: his mother's old office. The room had been preserved like a vacuum-sealed specimen. It smelled of cedar, old blueprints, and a lingering scent of ozone—the calling card of a high-frequency Quirk that had once vibrated through these very walls.
He ran a finger along the mahogany desk, tracing the faint indents where her fountain pen had pressed too hard during late-night design sessions. On the wall hung a framed schematic of her most famous support gear—the Pulpless Weave. It was a masterpiece of molecular engineering, designed to turn paper into a shield capable of stopping tank shells.
"The world is a confusing, dark place… be the one who organizes the light," she had told him when he was barely seven.
Sherlock looked at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. To him, the room wasn't an inspiration; it was a museum of a life cut short by the very "heroism" UA was currently peddling. He saw the cost of her success in the silence of the house. He wasn't training to be like her; he was studying her failures to ensure he didn't end up as a photo on a mantel. He opened her drawer and found a stack of high-density fiber paper. He pocketed them. If he was forced to perform, he would use the best tools available, even if he intended to fail.
● The Silence Group's Sanctuary
Sherlock spent his afternoons in the quietest corner of the library with the "Silence Group." This table had become a sanctuary for those who found the class's newfound "hype" exhausting. Tokoyami sat in the shadows, his Dark Shadow seemingly heavier, more somber after the USJ encounter. Shoji sat like a living monolith, his dupli-arms occasionally shifting to hold three different textbooks.
And then there was Momo Yaoyorozu. She had become a permanent fixture, her desk cluttered with encyclopedias on thermodynamics and polymer chains.
"You aren't training your output, Sherlock-san," Momo noted, her voice a soft ripple in the library's hush. "Everyone is pushing their limits. Even Tokoyami-san has increased his Dark Shadow's density by 12% this week. But you're… stagnant."
"I'm training my 'Exit Strategy,' Momo," Sherlock replied. His hands were a blur as he folded a piece of high-density fiber paper into a complex crane. "If I can analyze the first event's layout, I can find the exact moment to slip into the bottom 20%. My goal isn't the podium; it's the front door."
Momo looked at the paper crane. It was perfect. "You say that, but you're still folding that paper with 0.1-millimeter precision. You're using the Molecular Glaze just to keep the edges crisp. You can't turn off the part of you that cares about excellence, Sherlock. You're a master of hiding, but even a hidden blade is still sharp."
Sherlock paused, his fingers hovering over the paper. "It's just a habit, Momo. A machine doesn't stop being precise just because it wants to be decommissioned."
● The VIP Box: A Meeting of Titans
High above the roaring stadium, the VIP sections were divided into two worlds: the blazing intensity of the Heroes and the cold, calculated silence of the Industrialists.
In the Hero Box, the air was physically distorted. Endeavor sat at the front, his literal flames licking the reinforced glass. He didn't look like a spectator; he looked like a predator evaluating a herd. Beside him, the atmosphere was lighter but no less tense. All Might, in his yellow suit, sat with a forced smile, his eyes constantly darting toward Midoriya. Nearby, Best Jeanist and Mt. Lady discussed "marketability" and "brand potential" as if they were picking out fabrics.
To them, this was a draft. A meat market for the future of the peace industry.
Across the hall, in the "Sheets Industries" private suite, the vibe was different. Arthur Sheets sat in a high-backed leather chair, his suit worth more than most hero agencies. Beside him sat Mr. Yaoyorozu, a man whose influence over the chemical and shipping industries was absolute.
"It's a fine crop this year, Arthur," Mr. Yaoyorozu remarked, nodding toward the field. "My Momo is quite determined. And your Sherlock... he seems remarkably calm for a boy in the center of a storm."
Arthur gripped his crystal glass, the ice clinking. He alone knew that Sherlock was standing on that field with one foot out the door. He alone knew about the resignation letter sitting in a secure digital folder, waiting for a final signature. To the world, Sherlock was the heir to a technological empire; to Arthur, he was a flight risk.
"He's calculating," Arthur said, his voice a low gravel. "He's always been better at finding the exit than the entrance. But today, there is no exit. Only the finish line."
Arthur's gaze shifted to Present Mic in the announcer's booth. They exchanged a brief, unreadable look. Mic and Aizawa were the only others who knew of Sherlock's intent to quit. To the public, Sherlock was the "Golden Technician." To the men in this room, he was a variable that refused to stay in the equation.
● THE AWAKENING: THE UA SPORTS FESTIVAL
"MAKE SOME NOISE, JAPAN!!!" The voice of Present Mic exploded through the stadium speakers, a sonic boom of pure hype that rattled the teeth of every person in the stands. The sky was a piercing, cloudless blue, and the air was charged with a static electricity that had nothing to do with Quirks and everything to do with the raw anticipation of one hundred thousand people.
"Are you ready for the adolescent bloodbath?! The survival of the fittest?! The one event that puts the Olympics to shame?!" Mic's voice soared over a heavy metal riff that shook the stadium foundations. "From the depths of a villain attack that couldn't keep them down... give it up for the golden eggs of UA! The freshman class! CLASS 1-A!"
As the class stepped out from the darkness of the tunnel, the wall of sound hit them like a physical force. It wasn't just noise; to Sherlock, it was a Mathematical Avalanche. He could hear the distinct frequencies—the high-pitched squeals of fans, the low-frequency stomping of feet, the mid-range roar of stadium officials.
115 decibels, he calculated automatically, his hands twitching in his pockets. Sustained exposure will cause temporary threshold shift in the auditory nerves within eight minutes. Probability of total sensory overload: 68%.
He looked around the stadium. It was a colosseum. A spectacle of meat and ego. To his left, Bakugo walked with the gait of a caged tiger, his shoulders hunched. To his right, Midoriya was muttering to himself, his face a mask of terror and resolve.
"The air is saturated with CO2 and adrenaline," Sherlock whispered to himself, trying to ground his mind in chemistry. "It's just a chemical reaction. A mass hallucination of importance."
● The Tunnel: Acoustic Chaos and Declarations
The walk through the tunnel had been a psychological study in pressure. Todoroki had already thrown down the gauntlet to Midoriya, a declaration of war that had sent the class's tension levels off the charts. Sherlock, however, was busy mapping the exit gates.
The R-Rated Hero Midnight stepped onto the podium, her whip snapping with a sound like a gunshot. "Time for the first event! The Obstacle Course Race! A four-kilometer lap around the stadium where anything goes as long as you stay on the track! NOW... ON YOUR MARKS!"
The First Stage: The Physics of Failure
"START!"●
The stampede began. It was a chaotic mess of elbows and frantic Quirks. Sherlock didn't sprint; he moved with a calculated, steady pace, staying toward the outer rim to avoid the high-density bottleneck. As the students jammed into the narrow tunnel, Sherlock began his Narration of Failure.
"Sero is swinging too wide… the centripetal force will drain his stamina. Ashido's acid is lowering the surface tension of the ground, making it harder for her to maintain a sprint. Irrational energy expenditure," Sherlock thought.
Suddenly, a wave of ice surged. Todoroki had frozen the ground, locking dozens of students in place by their feet. Sherlock didn't panic. He had predicted the temperature drop by the way Todoroki's right foot had twitched. He drew a single card, coated it in a Low-Friction Glaze, and slid it under his boot. He glided over the ice with effortless grace, his hands in his pockets, looking more like a skater than a competitor.
● The Robo-Inferno: Mechanical Weakness
As they cleared the tunnel, the Robo-Infernoes loomed. Massive 0-point villains.
"Obstacles," Sherlock sighed. He watched Todoroki freeze them in precarious positions. As they began to topple, the students panicked. Sherlock analyzed the hydraulic leg joints of the lead robot. He noticed a micro-fracture in the piston housing of its left knee. While Bakugo blasted through the chest and Midoriya scrambled for cover, Sherlock flicked a single card.
The card didn't strike with force; it wedged itself into the pressure relief valve. The resulting pressure spike caused the robot's leg to seize, making it collapse away from the path Sherlock intended to take.
Calculated pathing, he thought. Now to find a way to let someone pass me.
● The Saving Grace: The Turning Point
But then, logic failed him.
A student from Class 1-B, a girl Sherlock didn't even know, tripped in the path of a falling metal arm. The torque of the falling robot meant she would be crushed in 1.4 seconds. Sherlock's logic told him to keep running—this was his chance to lose time.
But his Conditioning—the ghost of Miyuri's training—took over.
He flicked three cards in a high-frequency vibration. They sliced through the support strut of the falling debris, redirecting the weight just enough to clear the girl. He didn't stop. He didn't look back. He just kept running, cursing himself for the "irrational" act.
● The Fall: The Glitch in the System
As he approached the second obstacle—the "Fall"—Sherlock's heart rate spiked for a reason that had nothing to do with the race. He looked down at the deep pits connected by tightropes.
Depth: 50 meters. Wind speed: 12 knots. Tension of the wire: Optimal.
He stepped onto the wire, his balance perfect, but then it happened. The Glitch.
The sight of the dark abyss below triggered a visual overlay in his mind. The dark pits became the swirling purple void of Kurogiri's warp. The wind whistling through the ropes became the high-pitched screech of the Nomu's vocal cords. For a split second, Sherlock's "Mind Palace" collapsed.
System Error, his brain screamed. Variable 'Death' detected.
His foot slipped. The high-density fiber cards in his pocket spilled out as he stumbled. For a heartbeat, Sherlock was no longer a genius technician; he was a terrified sixteen-year-old boy who had seen a teacher's bones crushed. He almost went over the edge.
"Get a grip, Sheets!" a voice barked.
Iida Tenya zoomed past him on an adjacent wire, his engines roaring. The sound of the engines snapped Sherlock back to reality. He stabilized his center of gravity, his face pale.
Cortisol levels: Critical. Adrenaline: 200% above baseline. Focus!
He forced himself to keep moving, but the "efficient retreat" he had planned was now a battle against his own PTSD. He wasn't trying to lose anymore; he was trying to survive his own mind.
● The Minefield: Navigating the Math
Finally, the minefield. To the others, it was a terrifying explosion of pink smoke. To Sherlock, it was a grid.
"The mines are buried at a depth of 15 centimeters," Sherlock whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Pressure sensitivity: 40 kilograms. Blast radius: 2 meters."
He began to navigate it with a rhythmic, dancing gait. Every step was a calculation. He saw Bakugo and Midoriya flying overhead—a chaotic storm of orange flame and green electricity. They were tearing the field apart.
Behind them, Momo Yaoyorozu was moving steadily. She caught sight of Sherlock. From her perspective, Sherlock wasn't racing; he was performing surgery on the terrain. She saw how his feet landed exactly on the safe zones, how he flicked his cards into the dirt to "disarm" mines before he even reached them.
He's not even trying to win, Momo realized, her heart sinking. He's navigating the most dangerous part of the course as if it's a simple math problem. Why is he so desperate to be mediocre?
Momo pushed herself harder. She created a motorized sled, her brow furrowed in frustration. She wanted to catch him. She wanted to prove to him that this "equation" had more than one answer.
● The Final Sprint: The Error of Efficiency
Sherlock approached the stadium entrance. He could see the finish line. He checked his internal clock.
Current position: 38th. Ideal position: 42nd.
Slow down, he told himself. Add three seconds to the final sprint. Fumble the landing.
But then, a massive explosion rocked the entire minefield. Midoriya Izuku came flying through the air on a piece of robot plating, riding a blast wave that reshaped the entire leaderboard. The force of the explosion sent a cloud of dust and debris over the field.
In the confusion, Sherlock's instinct took over. His body, trained by years of high-speed card-flicking and reflex drills, reacted to the incoming shockwave. He didn't think. He performed a Hydrodynamic Slide, using the remaining Molecular Glaze on his boots to skip over the ground like a stone on water. He cut through the smoke, his movements a blur of perfect efficiency.
He bypassed the bottleneck. He dodged the flailing limbs of the other students. He was a ghost in the machine, moving through the gaps they couldn't see.
He crossed the line.
The roar of the crowd was a physical impact. It was a wall of noise that made his ears bleed.
"AND IN 15TH PLACE, LOOKING LIKE HE JUST TOOK A STROLL IN THE PARK… SHERLOCK SHEETS!" Present Mic's voice boomed.
Sherlock froze. He stared at the giant scoreboard.
Rank: 15.
"No," he whispered, his chest heaving. "The math... the math was wrong."
He looked up at the VIP box. His father, Arthur, was standing up, his hands gripped on the railing. Their eyes met across the vast distance of the stadium. Arthur wasn't angry. He looked triumphant.
Sherlock looked at his hands. They were shaking. By being too good at surviving, he had failed at losing. He was still in the spotlight. The world was watching the "Golden Technician," and the closing ceremony—his exit—was now further away than ever.