When child psychologist Dr Carol Fitzgerald has a new patient referred to her, it soon becomes clear he is not like other children.
Inspired by and using some adapted lyrics from the song "Quiet" by Tim Minchin from Matilda the Musical.
Dr Carol Fitzgerald regarded the child sat In front of her with an unusual amount of fascination. Where other children in her consultations would sit fidgeting, or pacing the outside of the room, or playing with the toys that were usually strewn around the floor, this boy simply sat, quietly straightening the crayons on the table so that they were perfectly aligned. No childish objects lay around the room. In fact, the boy's room resembled more of a study than a child's room. Maps of the world covered the walls. The bookcases were filled with Encyclopaedias and foreign dictionaries, rather that Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl books. Now and then he glanced up to the compass on the wall, adjusting the angle of the brightly coloured objects so that their sharpened tips were pointing north.
Dark unruly curls tumbled over his pale forehead, the tips just about brushing against his eyelashes. As he finished his straightening he sat up straight, posture clearly influenced by correction from his public school teachers. His pale green eyes pierced into Carol's, holding within them an almost unsettling amount of perception.
"Do you know why we're having this little chat today?"
The boy rolled his eyes a little.
"Mummy says it's necessary, but it's nothing to worry about. She said it's just a normal chat that most kids my age have. Mycroft had to do it. But I'm not stupid. You think I'm ill."
"Why would you think that, dear?"
"Why else would I be sent to a child psychologist? Also, I can read upside down. I've been given the label #106221b. And you've written that I'm displaying signs of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder."
Carol looked down at her clipboard, smiling a little. The boy most certainly wasn't stupid. And it was true. He was being considered by others mentally…abnormal. But Dr Fitzgerald thought differently. Sure, there was something different about this kid, but he wasn't ill. There was something intriguing. She set aside the clipboard.
"Ok then. Let's just have a normal chat. Off the record."
The boy sat up even straighter, If that was at all possible, legs crossed and fingers steepled against his chin.
"Let's." He said, his voice almost void of emotion. Unusual in a child this age.
"Let's start with you. Tell me about yourself."
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm the youngest son of Sherrinford and Claudette Holmes. I have a brother fifteen years my senior. I live in St John's Wood, Hampstead. I am 8 years old. My blood type is A-…." He trailed off, clearly reluctant to carry on. "This isn't what you want to hear."
Dr Fitzgerald leant forward a little. "Well it's still about you. But they are just facts. Tell me about what you like and dislike. Your hobbies. Your pets. You favourite colour."
Sherlock smirked. "Favourite colour? Really? You think such mundane facts are really that relevant? And they'll really show that much of an insight into my 'acting out' as father put it?" He stood up and walked to the bay window, leaning against the sill, looking out over the grounds of the large Victorian house. Dr Fitzgerald sighed, removing her reading glasses and placing them carefully on top of her discarded clipboard.
"How about if I start? My name is Carol Fitzgerald. I like dogs, and I have a Labrador called Rascal. I play the piano, badly. My favourite book is Jane Eyre, my favourite singer is George Michael and my favourite colour is blue."
Sherlock was listening, she could tell, but whether he was interested or even willing to comply was unclear for that moment in time. Slowly he turned to face her, eyes flitting around the room. Slowly he inhaled to speak.
"I play the violin, and I'm good at it, but I won't take my Grade tests. They aren't important. I don't have any pets – Mycroft is allergic to cats and dogs. But I like horses. Sometimes I sneak out of the gate and go to the stables and ride one of the horses there. My favourite book is Great Expectations, even though it's not very well written."
"Not well written? It's a Dickens! One of the most famous ones."
Sherlock shrugged. "Mr Dickens clearly wants the reader to believe the benefactor is Miss Havisham. It was obvious that…never mind. Just me." He muttered under his breath. "Why don't people see stuff?"
The doctor cast aside his murmuring. "Go on then. What's your favourite colour?"
Sherlock's eyes flitted over the rainbow of colours aligned on the desk, finally settling on a crimson crayon.
"Red."
"You don't sound sure."
"Well it's an answer isn't it?"
"Is it the truth though?"
"Do you want the truth? Can you cope with truth? Can any of us cope with truth? Because truth is all around us, but if you can really see it, no, more than that, observe it, your brain might explode!"
Suddenly, the child seemed almost…angry. It was like watching a simmering heat building up inside him. The stillness had dissipated, a fidgeting had started. He paced, energy building inside him. This was why Dr Fitzgerald had been called to the Holmes residence. This child was unusually bright for his age. No. Not bright. That wasn't quite right. He was…well…a genius. None of his peers could compare, in fact most adults couldn't. He had astounding retention and observational skills, an aptitude for language and literature not seen until college level in most individuals.
"Have you ever wondered, well I have, about how when I say, say, red, for example there's no way of knowing if red means the same thing in your head as red means in my head when someone says red."
The doctor was perplexed.
"What do you mean, Sherlock?"
The boy kicked over a wastepaper basket.
"I mean how do we know if we're seeing the same thing? It's all down to individual perception! I see things that mummy and daddy and Mycroft can't see! No, not people, not pictures that aren't there. It's like…it's like the dust particles in sunlight. They're there all the time. But you don't see them unless you look….this is why they think I'm ill. Because I see things, and I want to know things, and I want other people to want to know."
Dr Fitzgerald leant forward a little, watching the boy as he frantically scrambled around on the floor, picking up the scrunched up pieces of paper that he had sent flying. Subtly, she moved a few of the crayons slightly out of line, making sure she was not in his line of vision as she did so.
"I think it's wonderful Sherlock. Really, I do. What else do you notice or wonder?"
Sherlock's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing over the disturbed cluster of crayons. He stormed over and rearranged them, before sweeping them off the table again, instead slamming a large encyclopaedia onto the table, flicking it open to a page entitled The Basic Theory of Relativity.
"How about, if we are travelling at almost the speed of light and we're holding a light, would light still travel away from us at the full speed of light?"
There was no response.
"Because it seems right in a way, Dr Fitzgerald…and I know…I know I'm not supposed to know this stuff yet….I'm supposed to be climbing trees….like my classmates. Who should be my friends. But I don't have any friends. Because I'm too different."
"I think if you stopped for a moment to listen, and not just correct them, they would want to be your friend. ..though I wonder if inside your head you're not just a bit different from some of your friends. These answers…"
"They come into my mind unbidden. Stories delivered to me fully written. And when everyone shouts the noise in my head is incredibly loud and I just wish they'd stop - my dad and my mum and the telly and stories, wish they'd would stop for just once. And I'm sorry - I'm not quite explaining it right - but this noise becomes anger and the anger is light. And its burning inside me and would usually fade but it isn't today. And there's heat and there's shouting and my heart is pounding and my eyes are burning and suddenly everything….everything is quiet."
He suddenly slams his fist into the wall, shaking the objects on the shelves into tremors. And then he is still. Calm. His breathing slowing.
Tentatively, Dr Fitzgerald cleared her throat a little. "Quiet?"
Sherlock nods, his eyes clenched shut. "Quiet. Like silence…but it's not really silent. Just a nice sort of quiet."
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