Sherlock's Words
Chapter 1
Sherlock was a clever boy. Sherlock was in fact a genius. Written tests had varified that.
Of course people thought this meant he would excel at everything he did. Exceed all expectations at school. Create, invent, wow and amaze. Bedazzle even.
Sherlock was Deaf, but of course this wasn't what held him back.
Of course it was what the therapists, psychologists, teachers and case workers thought. But Mycroft knew better.
Deaf was what it was. Unfortunately the world was what it was too.
Sherlock was socially inept. Later he would tag himself as a high functioning sociopath. But as a child he was just ended up being strange, difficult and Deaf.
All those clever, immense thoughts whirling around inside. Mycroft sometimes thought that if Sherlock spoke, then people would realise that he was clever, and maybe even admire what he had to contribute. Of course he'd still be socially inept, rude, aggressive, unlikeable even.
Sherlock could, naturally speak English, perfectly well. But that's not how he chose to communicate, however simplier that would have made things. On one hand Mycroft wanted to be infuriated but on the other hand he could hardly fault his brother for choosing to communicate in his first language. Hardly fault Sherlock for wanting to communicate with the language where his receptive skills could match his productive. It was hardly Sherlock's fault that the rest of the world couldn't be bothered to learn. After all Mycroft had learnt.
So Sherlock became just a Deaf child, with the social complications that came from being Deaf. 'Sherlock's anger stems from a lack of communication skills.' 'Sherlock's aggression is rooted in confusion.' Wrong! Mycroft would whisper under his breath. They'd got it all wrong. Sherlock wasn't angry because he didn't understand. He was angry because the world didn't understand him. And Sherlock never did see the point in talking to, in communicating with those he deemed beneath him. Mummy and Daddy barely got a nod on some days.
So it was left to Mycroft alone to tug out ideas from Sherlock's giant, big, stubborn mind.
Explain Sherlock, explain. Write down your ideas. Mycroft bullied Sherlock into writing, into using a computer, into looking at his interpreter rather than ignoring her, into communicating with others. Showing how Sherlock could use what others gave him. Demonstrating to Sherlock the purpose and meaning in communicating. Impressing on him the unfair truth that Sherlock would need to give his world more than he could expect in return. Mycroft did what he could.
Perhaps it was these things that made Sherlock hate his brother. Or maybe it was the grateful look Sherlock could read in Mummy's gaze as Mycroft 'took care' of Sherlock when he was being difficult. Or maybe it was just what little brothers were meant to do. Or maybe it was just Sherlock. Sherlock versus Mycroft. Sherlock versus the world.
Things did not go well when Mycroft left for University.
Eventually Mycroft came back and took Sherlock with him. Mummy did her best to hide her relief as she hugged Sherlock against her to say goodbye, and kissed his cheek, but Sherlock saw it all. But for once he didn't tell her that. Mycroft remembers Mummy pushing Sherlock back. Her fingers insistently telling Sherlock to look at her. She jabbed the index finger of her right hand against her breastbone, before pressing her left hand against her chest, her right palm beating against it 'love', and then the name sign that she used for Sherlock – hands held close to her mouth - an S and a H, and the flick of her bunched fingers away from the corner of the month, the sign for beautiful. Sherlock beautiful. Finally she swiped her right thumb over her left thumb, again and again. Best. Best.
Mycroft had watched on, remembering all those past occasions as Sherlock grew up and Mummy would sign to Sherlock, over and over the same words and demands.
S H beautiful. S H beautiful. Look at Mummy. Look. Look. Copy. Copy. Sherlock Beautiful. S. H. Beautiful. Mummy loves Sherlock. Mummy loves. Mummy loves. Look Sherlock. Mummy loves Sherlock Beautiful. Best.
Sherlock would stare directly back at her. His level of upset indicated by how tightly his fingers gripped his hair. On an average day Sherlock would shake his head back and forth. On a bad day there would be wailing and Sherlock twisting tightly against Mummy as her hands curled around his wrists. On a good day, which was categorised as any day that Sherlock decided he would communicate with the world, in some way, Sherlock would sign back at Mummy. 'No. No. No beautiful. No beautiful. Mycroft best. Mycroft best.' His signs aggressive, angry, sad.
But as they all stood in the hallway of the family home, dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight valiantly trying to light the dark mahogany panelling on the dim corridor walls, Mycroft could remember specifically thinking Bad day. Bad day. According to Mummy there had been little else since Mycroft had left. Bad day. Bad day. And Mycroft summarised that Mummy was thinking the same thing as her hands reached carefully towards Sherlock. Then Sherlock 's fingers relaxed the death grip they had on his hair. Mummy's hands had halted in their movement toward him. And Mycroft's thoughts rapidly flicked to average day. Normal day. Average day. Normal day. As his brain rapidly categorised how everything since Sherlock refused to eat dinner last night until Sherlock threw all his clothes on the floor from his suitcase after Mommy's careful packing just half an hour ago was indicating that this was not a good day this was going to be a bad day. But his brain hiccupped as Sherlock, returning Mummy's stare carefully lifted his hands up to sign.
Sherlock loves Mummy. Loves.
In his odd way, but entirely Sherlock way he finger spelt his first name quickly and precisely, and his sign for love was economical. But the intent was there.
A d Mycroft's brain finally restarted as he processed this new side to his baby brother.
In return Mummy signed her love and her good byes to Mycroft. And let Sherlock see her tell Mycroft to look after his brother and work hard at his studies. And Sherlock had stared at her hands and her face almost as if it were all new. Mycroft summarised that Sherlock hadn't ever seen those words from his mother's hands, though she spoke the words regularly enough. Look after your brother. Look after him well. And no one said a word as Mycroft and Sherlock left the house.