Sherlock Holmes was not your average 3 year old, while most kids his age were learning how to crawl, Sherlock had mastered the art of walking. While other toddlers were learning how to take the lids off markers, Sherlock was already capable of reading picture books. But while the other kids ran around and played with each other, Sherlock hid behind his mother's skirts and refused to look at any children who came up to him inviting him into their game, and this worried the doctors.
Mummy had said in her calm sweet voice that it was just as normal for Sherlock as it had been with Mycroft before him.
Whispers of 'autistic behaviour' and 'Aspergers syndrome', constantly vibrated the walls of the doctors' office, whenever Adèline Holmes sat in the Doctor's office, gently bounced her baby boy on her knee as she pressed his sleepy head against her chest.
"My eldest son Mycroft also showed these traits as a toddler as you ought to remember doctor. And after all those inconclusive tests the best psychiatrists in the country failed to diagnose him, so we took their advise and waited a couple of years, and now he is 10 and behaving as any intelligent boy would." argued Adèline
"I remember your son clearly, but even you must have noticed that Sherlock is more reclusive and obsessive then Mycroft ever was. This concerns me , we should get him tested and arrange special help accordingly."
The bouncing stopped as listed her doubts and concerns about the effect of putting her 3 year old son through all the appointments and stress that constantly being driven across the country to visit doctors. Mycroft had asked if he was broken, when they left the office of yet another incompetent doctor who after countless questions and numerous tests had also failed to come to a conclusion. It took several weeks to reassure Mycroft that although he wasn't like the other children he was not broken, it had crushed her heart to watch as Mycroft opened up a biology text book from her own university days and compared every inch of his own body to that photograph of a healthy toddler on page 145. He had soon afterwards looked up at her and stated that he must be broken on the inside because his outside was fine, just like the radio he had dropped in the pool last week, it was still glossy and dry on the outside but the insides were destroyed and useless because of water damage.
"Mummy? did I ever fall into the pool?"
They never again took young Mycroft to another psychiatrist.
Sherlock listened with half an ear, he was too busy trying to read the pamphlet about cancer, which had been left open and on the side table by a previous patient. Mycroft had taught him how to read when he turned 15 months. He had shocked his mother by reading out loud the newspaper headline which his father had carelessly left on the dining table. Sherlock had giggled, his chubby features lighting up as he continued to slowly pronounce a smaller headline concerning a burglary. Adèline had questioned him as to how he a 15 month old had managed to read. Sherlock had answered honestly that he had asked Mycroft to teach him, because he wanted to be able to read the poster of different coloured squares that she kept hung up on the wall of the small lab where she occasionally disappeared into emerging hours later beaker in hand and explaining to their father an interesting result during an experiment.
She had laughed incredulously, and asked if he found the poster interesting. Sherlock had answered 'yes' but that he didn't understand the use of all the numbers and signs written in the corner of each square. Adèline had picked him up and making her way across the spacious house, entered her private lab and setting Sherlock on her small filing cabinet explained the different properties of each element and which ones were used in electronics and afterwards she demonstrated the effect that alkaline metals had with water by dropping a sliver of lithium into a flask of water. She had watched the fascinated Sherlock as his eyes followed the little flame as it sped around in circles like a boat on fire, until it eventually extinguished its elf. He had absorbed the information instantaneously, it had left her wishing that the university students she gave lectures to when she was called in as a special guest, we're half as quick as the eager eyed child who was now reaching for her pipette and asking what it was.
Soon afterwards she was forced to lock away her own more explicit biology text books, feeling that it was best if her child didn't learn about the adult anatomy just yet, instead she ordered a large and illustrated 'human body' book for him which was aimed at school children but which he found invaluable. Sherlock often asked to watch her work in her lab, promising not to touch anything and to stay absolutely still. She obliged and while Mycroft was studying at school Sherlock watched tirelessly as his mother prepared calculations and wrote down the growth of the cultured colony of bacteria which she felt would hopefully be more effective then penicillin.
Sherlock never yelled "BANG" as he shot at an invisible enemy, and just like Mycroft he never willingly participated in the group activities designed to socialize young children. He could speak but often chose to point rather then simply open his mouth, but yet was polite and was happy to oblige his mother when a relative came over, he would put up with kisses and embraces and would say all the proper things, just like Mycroft, but only for the few minutes before the relative would prove to be stupid and boring. And once Sherlock lost all hope for that particular person he would become sullen and if Mycroft didn't lead him away he would soon be spouting observations ( a hobby of Mycroft's which he had taught Sherlock.) They had spent countless hours staring out into the street carefully watching every person who walked or drove down their street, Mycroft would roll Sherlock's old crib near the window where they would stand perched watching as lawyers and merchants passed down below, completely unaware that every event of their lives were being deduced by the two brothers.
It was a great way to entertain the inquisitive Sherlock, but it often backfired whenever an elderly relative made a remark on his almost sickly pale skin, then they would be shocked by the glare and sharp question as to why they continued to live a luxury life when they were on the brink of bankruptcy. The relative would never stay quiet enough to listen to how he noticed that their hair dye had gone from professionally done once a month, to done at home with a much cheaper brand. Old aunts would be too insulted to listen how he knew that although their coat was new, they hadn't bought any new broaches to match the dark brown fur. Such obvious signs of declining resources which were invisible to everyone else besides himself and Mycroft.
It was such uncaring, pointless and cruel statements which were made often with only the slightest provocation needed, that had the doctors worried.
" I would highly recommend taking Sherlock to at least two expert psychiatrists and hearing their opinions" said the doctor sternly after Mrs. Holmes finished speaking
" I will consider it, thank you Doctor." Adèline Holmes stated sharply as she grabbed her purse, and carefully balancing her son on her hip, she gracefully strode out of the office, her tall elegant figure sweeping out of the building and into the awaiting dark sleek car which drove smoothly out of sight.