Disclaimer: Still not mine. And now the Easter Bunny is no longer returning my calls. Jerk. Someday I'll own Sherlock and Co. but today is not that day.

A/N: I'm still working on the Sally meets John story but this little idea was rattling around in my head insisting on being written first. Hope you like it. Let me know.

Asperger's

Seven year old Sherlock Holmes, all knobby knees, big gray eyes and floppy black hair, sprawled on his back one of the sofas in one of the family parlours. The fire in the fireplace warmed one side of his body while the back of the sofa warmed the other. Hands tucked up on his chest and fingertips resting just under his chin he contemplated the ceiling.

What did it mean? Sherlock wondered. What those idiot doctors his father had taken him too had said? Asperger's Syndrome. He'd never heard of it before. His father's face had said that it wasn't too bad but not good either. What was it? What did it mean? He'd looked it up in the library but could find nothing. His father had taken the pamphlets that the doctors had given him and Sherlock hadn't been able to get to them yet.

Sometimes his father was infuriating. Maybe John would help him steal the pamphlets so they could find out what it meant to have Asperger's.

"Sherlock?" Uncle Hamish's voice came from the doorway to the parlour and his footsteps followed it into the room. They were muffled by the rugs in some spots and Sherlock liked the tap, tap for Uncle Hamish's soles on the hardwood floor.

Sherlock made an inquiring sound but didn't remove his full attention from the ceiling or the questions in his head.

"What are you doing up, child?" Hamish asked as he lowered himself into an armchair to the side of the sofa. He studied the small form before him in concern. It was after midnight, Sherlock should have been tucked up in bed.

Sherlock shot him one bored look and then shifted his eyes back to the ceiling. Really it was a stupid question. He'd never slept much. Sherlock hated to sleep; it was boring and too many things happened while he slept. Uncle Hamish should have known that.

Hamish sighed; maybe he should have left this conversation to John. His son seemed to be the only person that could get through to Sherlock when he was in this mood. John seemed to be the only person who ever understood Sherlock, actually. John could calm Sherlock when he was upset faster than anyone else in the house. Mycroft was the only other person that even came close. Even Viola and Sherringford had difficulties understanding Sherlock no matter how much they loved him.

"What's it mean?" Sherlock voice whipped out and Hamish started. He had been lost in his thoughts and not paying attention to the small boy.

"Your diagnosis, you mean?" Hamish asked already knowing that it would cause Sherlock to glare at him. Hamish smiled softly when the child did exactly that. "What do you think it means?" There was no way he was going to be caught up in an argument with Sherlock when the child refuted his explanation. He wasn't that stupid and no matter what answer he gave Sherlock would find a hole in it.

Sherlock's glare only got fiercer. "I wouldn't ask you if I already knew the answer," he bit out.

Hamish's smile never slipped. "Yes you would, Sherlock." He told the boy knowingly. "However I didn't ask if you knew the answer; I asked what you thought it was."

Sherlock frowned in thought and then turned his head back towards the ceiling. "Mother cried when Father told her," he said out of the blue. "Mycroft nodded and sighed. Harriet laughed. Aunt Cece cried too. You just shrugged. Why?"

Hamish ignored the question in favor of one of his own. "What did John do?"

"He rolled his eyes and huffed at Father. I don't understand either of you," he sounded frustrated.

"Elaborate, if you would," Hamish smirked, using one of his son's phrases for dealing with the dark haired boy.

When John said that phrase it always made Sherlock smile but now when his father said it he only rolled his eyes with a huff. "Everyone else's reactions made sense," Sherlock nearly pouted. "Father accepted it and moved on. Mother and Aunt Cece cried because they were relieved it wasn't something worse and worried about how to act now. Mycroft already suspected the diagnosis so he wasn't surprised and probably already has plans on what to do. Harriet laughed because she's never liked me and it amuses her to think that I'm damaged. You and John though," Sherlock swung his already too long legs over the side of the sofa and sat up to look Hamish in the eye. "Uncle Hamish, you and John didn't react at all how I thought you would."

Hamish smiled into the grey eyes before him. "We never do, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "True, neither of you do. You're not like everyone else." Then he frowned. "But I don't know why."

Hamish chuckled. "Neither do I, child, neither do I. But you're avoiding the question."

Sherlock huffed and flung himself back down on the sofa. "It doesn't mean anything," he snarled. "I'm still me. People are stupid. Borderline Asperger's Syndrome. Nearly normal. Boring."

Hamish couldn't stop himself and he laughed. "There is nothing that has ever been normal about you, Sherlock, my boy. And we wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock huffed again, ignoring Hamish. "It's not my fault everyone is stupid. I bet I don't even have Asperger's anyway. It's a stupid diagnosis. There's nothing anyone can do, it's incurable and there are no medical treatments so it's stupid. Idiotic." He continued to ramble to himself as Hamish stood up.

"Go to bed, Sherlock," he told the child already knowing the boy wouldn't. More than likely Sherlock would seek John out and the two of them would stay up for a while whispering to each other about any number of things before John finally told Sherlock that he needed to sleep. The boys had been found huddled together in John's bed more often than not since Sherlock learned how to walk. Before that John had been found on Sherlock's floor five mornings out of seven.

"I'm not tired." Sherlock said immediately.

"You will be if you don't get some sleep." Hamish warned.

Sherlock huffed and turned his back on his uncle. Hamish suppressed a laugh and left the child to his thoughts.