Chapter Text
1.
“It’s like you’re not even really looking at me”, his mother hisses, her anger and fury piercing the air, “you’re off somewhere else and you’re not paying attention. That is rude. You are rude. Rude. Do you understand that? Sherlock?”
Sherlock is eight years old and given the many he heard the word “understand” he’s no longer sure what the word means. Coming out of his mother’s mouth it sounds like “I’m disappointed with you”, a feeling curled up tightly inside of him, a black hole with teeth. Sherlock, you need to talk to other people. Do you understand? Sherlock, you need to use your words. Do you understand? When his father yells at him, “is this so hard to understand, Sherlock”, the disappointment turns into anger, red and blinding, the tiny teeth of the black hole gnawing at the insides of his racing heart. I want you to use your words, your pointing and grunting will get you nothing. Focus, Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock! Focus! I don’t get it. There has to be something wrong. I don’t get it.
“Wrong” is another word Sherlock notices a lot, mentioned by professional medical people. They are kind enough not to use the word directly; they come up with a variety of phrases and term to help everyone understand. The terms are everywhere, in case meetings and discussions, therapy sessions and appointments, making his parents’ voices angry and distant and the hours thick and still. Sherlock keeps tracing the lines on the faded yellow case file paper with his thumb. Name … Date of Assessment … Date of Birth … Outcome and Evaluation Summary … Upon reading the words and not being able to feel them Sherlock smudges the ink and adds his fingerprint to signatures, diagnoses and referrals to make it all official and in good order. Surely he’s to keep a copy for himself, now that there’s not only his name but also his fingerprint on it? His stomach jumps a little at the thought of keeping copies of case files and diagnostic sheets at home, in his room, lined up. Maybe the words will come out then. “He’s quite the little detective, isn’t he”, his therapists would smile wearily in return, seeing Sherlock tampering with the files and flapping his hands in excitement while his mother is busy trying to get the ink off her dress.
“Sherlock…”
The prescription for Applied Behavioural Analysis crumbles in his father’s hand as the three of them hurry out of the room. Sherlock, forced to leave without his files, traces the rough and bumpy texture of the wall with his index finger, dreaming of spaces whitewashed with ink.