Sherlock - 1; John - 3

A baby boy with jet black hair eyed the sandbox critically. His mother, perched anxiously on the edge of a splintered picnic bench, waited to see if he would play, or if he would shun it, just as he had already shunned the tire swings and teeter-totter.

"Is he yours?" asked a woman, sitting down beside her. She had warm cinnamon eyes and chestnut hair flecked with bits of gray. A boy bounced on her hip, with a thumb in his mouth and a round, questioning gaze.

"He is," his mother confirmed. She gave a poorly-suppressed sigh, ran a hand through her own dark locks. "He's a... well, he's an interesting one."

The other woman smiled and handed her son a graham cracker, which he sucked on eagerly. "How old is he?"

"Fourteen months. Yours?"

"How old are you, Johnny?" his mother cooed. Her son nestled his face into her neck, giggling shyly. "Tell the nice lady how old you are."

"Free," the boy said.

"He's three. I'm Carolyn, by the way. Carolyn Watson." She paused expectantly.

"Violet Holmes. That's Sherlock."

Both mothers looked at him. He was still scrutinizing the sand, then leaned down awkwardly and brushed his index finger across a footprint. Brow furrowed, almost as if he was thinking hard – but infants don't think hard, do they?

"He doesn't really talk," Violet explained. "He doesn't really relate to anyone, in fact. It's... difficult."

Carolyn laid a gentle hand over Violet's. "Johnny, why don't you go play with Sherlock?"

John's face lit up – why he would be excited at the prospect of interacting with a clearly distant child was entirely beyond Violet – and he toddled obligingly over to join the other boy who, predictably, did not so much as stir to indicate that someone outside of himself did indeed exist.

The two women distracted themselves for the next five minutes, making small talk about this and that. John had a sister, Harriet, who was currently in kindergarten; Sherlock's older brother of seven years, Mycroft, was acting out.

"No," John said suddenly. Carolyn and Violet looked up, Violet tensing: what had Sherlock done this time?

To both women's surprise, John was pointing at a hill of red ants, to which Sherlock had been hovering dangerously near.

"No," John repeated.

Sherlock squinted at him, acknowledging the three-year-old's presence for the first time. He took a wobbly step towards the pile, but John grabbed at his hand, tugging him safely out of the way. Carolyn moved to stop him - "John, no, don't touch him, honey" - but Violet, with a sharp intake of breath, pulled her back.

"That's bad," John was saying, shaking his head emphatically. He carefully walked around the hazard and plopped himself down at the center of the box, reaching for a toy truck. "Play with me."

Sherlock stared at him with penetrating verdigris eyes.

"He's not going to do it," murmured Violet. "He won't hurt him, but he won't - he won't do it."

"Just wait," Carolyn said firmly.

Sherlock mumbled something. John tilted his head: what did you say? "...lock." His face was creased, an indication of stress, of confusion.

"He's introducing himself," marveled Violet.

"Johnny, that's Sherlock."

"Sherly," said John, holding the name carefully in his mouth as though it was liable to disappear.

Violet laughed. "Sherlock," she corrected him.

"Sherly," repeated John, beaming at the one-year-old.

Sherlock's face smoothed back out.

"Come play," said John. "Play with me." He motioned to a plastic dinosaur.

"Sherlock never plays," said Violet, expecting the telltale stiffening of her son's back, the blank glare, the inevitable walk-off. She watched the older boy wave his toys about, looking a bit mad even to her. She braced herself as she had ever since the procession of failed daycares, parent groups, and family road trips that Sherlock had already managed to disrupt. She waited, she anticipated, she prepared for the worst.

And then her estranged infant made his way over to John, pursed his lips into a smile – one of the very few she'd ever seen on him – and played.