A Lighter Kind of Loneliness

by J. Baillier for 7PercentSolution

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock often eavesdrops on others, because people are not honest. They smile at him with a waxen stiffness, looking at him like an alien lifeform or a pet who has not been housetrained. When they don't know he's listening in, he finds out things they try to conceal. They smile, to hide their unease, when he sometimes reveals what he's learned.

Today, Mummy's visitor, Marianne, is not even smiling. She's Mummy's best friend – at least that's what she says. She always brings her son, Peter, who is Sherlock's age.

They don't like each other, he and Peter, because Peter is terribly boring.

"You can't possibly think it's normal!" Marianne exclaims, raising her voice. Usually, she's a mild-mannered person, but Sherlock has made a note of the fact that people get really upset when they think there's something wrong with their children. "He told my poor Peter he wants to find a dead person so that he could look inside!"

That isn't what Sherlock had said. He'd said that he'd prefer to look inside a live person, but a dead one would be the next best thing. He couldn't make the cells spark with electricity again, make the blood flow through clicking valves or lungs empty and fill with a humming breath, but he could certainly do other experiments. One only got half the truth by reading about such things in a book. The books never give him the sounds, the smells or show the flow of things. If he imagines really hard, Sherlock can almost taste the metallic aroma of blood on his tongue, see the blood flowing through capillaries, kidney capsules filtering out molecules, brain synapses firing like sparks from a bonfire, flying into the night, making connections.

What's so odd about wanting to see it for himself? The human body has got to be more complex and interesting than any man-made machine. Astronomers still want their own telescopes, even though they can look at much better images in books and television programs than what they could possibly achieve at home.

Mycroft has a small telescope. He never lets Sherlock anywhere near it.

"He's just so interested in natural sciences, Mar," Mummy dismisses but a tinge of hesitation resides in her voice, as though she doubts her own explanation a bit. "He needs practice in what to say to people. That's why it's so nice to have you over," she adds, sugaring her words with overblown gratitude. It must be an attempt at distraction.

People use flattery for such purposes. Adults do it all the time with Sherlock. 'Aren't you a clever one! Now go play with your brother and let the adults talk.'

"Are you sure you wouldn't want him looked at? I'm sure Andrew could make a recommendation. I know you've done an admirable job with him so far, but are you sure he wouldn't benefit from expert help?"

"We're fine, thank you. He has been assessed. He reads well above his age, and he'd likely skip year groups if he went to school."

He'd been five at that time. Frightened by what was referred to as his tantrums, later on referred to as meltdowns by the very people who he saw at the Neurodevelopmental Assessment Service of Great Ormond Street Hospital. He had spent three days there, the purpose of which had been left vague. Mummy and Father had picked him up in the afternoon of the third day, and Mummy had been crying. After that, there was no more talk of proper school, just the one Mummy made for him by herself at home. He doesn't quite understand why Mycroft had to wake up early every weekday morning to go to Forsyth Road School. Sherlock had asked Mummy, and she always told him not to worry about that, because what they had right here at home was much better. That had made Sherlock wonder what terrible thing Mycroft had done wrong to receive such a punishment, especially since he seemed to like going to that place, despite all his grumbling when he wouldn't have wanted to get out of bed at seven in the morning.

Sherlock had never had trouble getting up at seven, because usually he was up by five. And, he always stayed up late reading, even though Father kept coming into his room and telling him to go to sleep because it was already past midnight. He had ever understood the adults' fascination with sleeping. They seemed to need to do it much more than Sherlock did. Mycroft slept like adults.

"Millie-" Marianne starts, and her voice is high and tight. This could be frustration or embarrassment – it's hard to tell without seeing her face from behind the armchair.

Mummy's name is Millicent, but people don't really call her that. Marianne has always called her by a nickname. Sherlock doesn't understand nicknames; he prefers being Sherlock. Mummy and Father sometimes call him Will, but he doesn't like it. William doesn't work, either, because that's Father. People call Mycroft Mikey and he pretends he doesn't mind, even though he does. Why give something a name and then try to make it into something different? That's what people have been trying to do to Sherlock, always. They don't like how he is, so they try to teach him to do things differently, but they never really explain why. Mummy insist there's nothing wrong with him, but if that's true, then why do adults keep having these shushed conversations about him behind his back?

The adults have a secret about him. At one point, Sherlock had thought that Mycroft probably knew what it was, but that hadn't been much help. 'You're weird, but you're not very stupid so it should all work out,' Mycroft had reasoned, leaving him as baffled as he had been before the conversation.

Children, apart from Mycroft, are a lot more honest. Sherlock might prefer it that way, if they only liked him. They listen to what he says, frowning, squeezing toys in their hands like holding on to the ropes of a life raft. Then, they run to their parents to have hushed conversations that are presumably about him, complete with stolen glances to make sure he isn't approaching. Then, they tell Mummy things about him. Like today.

He doesn't much like other children his age. They're noisy, messy, unorganised. Some of them like playing pirates, but their knowledge of such issues is depressingly limited. Their play is all battles and adventure, when the life of a pirate had been so much more. Their play is simplistic and banal, and they don't seem very interested in all the important things such as how the universe works. They care about things on the television and sweets and many things that make Sherlock feel as though a tidal wave is happening inside his head, like merry-go-rounds and loud birthday parties. These things make Sherlock want to bang his head against things so that the overwhelming sense of losing control would stop. Doing that is another thing that scares the other children. Father says he shouldn't do certain things in front of others, things he does when he needs to do to not lose himself in his own head, but it's not like he has a choice. If he doesn't somehow spend all that energy that gathers like a thunderstorm and makes his heart beat loudly, he's very, very, very certain that bad things will happen.

Other children like Mycroft. Sherlock doesn't know why.

Peter had been sent to the garden, presumably to play with him, but he'd told the boy they were playing hide and seek so he could sneak back into the house.

There's a pause in the conversation. Sherlock hears Mummy stand up from the sofa and go to the window.

"I know you think these playdates benefit Sherlock, but I have to think about Peter. I think he's a little scared, to be honest. I don't want him to get- bad influences," Marianne blurts out and Sherlock hears Mummy quickly turn around on her heels.

Sherlock doesn't think Peter usually looks all that scared, but then again, it's really hard for him to tell how people feel from the way they look. Well, maybe today, Peter had looked a little spooked before he'd run off to find Marianne, but why? They had just been talking. He's never hurt Peter, not to his knowledge.

"He's not a bad influence," Mummy says and now she sounds angry. "He can't help it if he does things that unnerve people. He can't tell the difference between normal and himself. I told you he's been assessed." Mummy pauses, then draws a breath like she's preparing to do something difficult or exhausting. "He's autistic. It's one of the less common subtypes, but the details are hardly relevant."

What does all of that mean? Sherlock memorises as many of those words as he can, but they don't make much sense. It's a disappointment, really – finally finding out a secret and not understanding a word.

At least Mummy doesn't think it's his fault that he can't tell when he's not acting like other people. That's what Mummy and Father want, this much he knows. They want to stop having conversations like this.

"I'm sorry," Marianne says after a while. As far as Sherlock can tell, she really is. Why?

The door suddenly opens, and judging by the swift, small footsteps, it's Peter. "Sherlock left me all alone in the garden!" he complains.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to," Marianne explains quickly and Mummy hums like she agrees.

Sherlock had meant to do exactly that, but he knows better than to reveal himself by correcting them. Why are they pretending like he has no clue about his own actions?

"He's a freak!" Peter yells.

"Shush," Marianne says sharply like she's chastising Peter for something. Why would she, if Peter is just saying what he really thinks? Mummy doesn't do that, when Sherlock voices his disapproval of other children. Is it because the adults think it's pointless, that he can't do the right things, because there's something wrong with him?

What does it matter what the secret means, if the gist of it is this: he's a freak who can't be fixed?

"I want to go home," Peter whines, and anger flares up in Sherlock. He wishes that stupid, loud, annoying boy would be taken away, permanently. Why does Mummy thinks it's good for him to spend time with such a person? So that he could be more like him? Obnoxious, stupid, ignorant?

Why do people prefer children like Peter?

He's so lost in thought that it hardly registers that Peter and Marianne do eventually leave.

Sherlock finds a book, returns to sit in the living room because the light under a floor lamp is precisely the sort of warm shade he prefers, and loses himself in learning about praying mantises.

Father comes home a while later. Mummy seems upset with him and Marianne. Sherlock can tell from the way she bangs around things in the kitchen when she cooks.

"That boy is hardly the best model for interacting with others. I wish you'd consider sending Sherlock to school. I'm sure if we explained the situation and some sort of extra support could be arranged, he would manage," Father says.

"Didn't you hear a bloody word they said at the clinic?" Mummy asks, walking restlessly around the kitchen. Sherlock curls up tighter behind the armchair so that they won't notice him – there's a direct line of sight from the kitchen island to the sitting room. "They recommended private tutoring, so that's what I'm doing. That, or a specialised institution." Mummy says the last words a bit like she makes curse words sound – like she's spitting something foul-tasting out of her mouth. "I'm not sending him away, no matter what they think about his abilities and difficulties. Never. I'm giving him the best chance he's got, William, and Lord help whoever tries to stand in my way!" Mummy exclaims and slams the fridge door closed.

"I do remember they said he should interact with others, not just adults. It's the only way he'll learn," Father says, sounding like he's apologising for something.

"He needs a therapist for that. I know Peter's not exactly the sort of a friend he needs, but he needs something, until we can find a specialist who could take him on and see him regularly. It's not like they're lining up by the door in these parts. London would be better, you know it and I know it."

Judging by the sound, Father has sat by the kitchen table and is now reading the newspaper.

"Like I've told you, I grew up in the suburbs and that's not what I want for the two of them," Mummy says. "Sherlock loves it here, can't you tell? He's got the gardens, and we can let him explore on his own. If we took him to London, we'd have to be sending the bloody police after him every night. And it's good for Mikey to get a few quiet years before going off to Eton."

"It's never going to be easy for him, no matter what you do," Father says.

Sherlock feels as though there's something heavy on his chest. Even Father thinks that whatever they think is wrong with him, it can't be fixed.

There's something wrong with him, and apparently, it's called autism.

It's also called 'freak' and 'go away' and 'weirdo'.

People always understand him wrong. He's always doing things wrong. Maybe he should stop trying, so Mummy wouldn't have to try so hard to fix him, if it's impossible anyway.

What's the point of trying, of talking to people, if it's all going to go wrong? What goes on inside his head alarms them, makes Mummy upset and makes other children scared of him. Mummy will probably like him, no matter what he does or says. Father, too. Others hate him, no matter what he does or says. This leads to the realisation that saying or not saying anything doesn't make a difference at all, but opening his mouth always carries a risk of being misunderstood.

Maybe he should keep all the words in his head to himself. It sounds like the safest option.

So, that's what he does.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It turns out to be easy. Too easy. Eventually, the words become lost in his head, and he finds that it's hard to make them come out anymore.

The books Mummy gives him to read are not answering any of his questions, so he stops reading them. Father sits him in front of the television and tries to get him to talk about what goes on in the programs. He's not interested in them.

Mycroft doesn't know what to say to him, so he borrows words. He reads Sherlock things, as though Sherlock had suddenly lost the ability to do so himself.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Weeks pass, and he doesn't say anything. It gets easier and easier, until it's so easy that saying something becomes a thought that practically scares him. It's like standing at the edge of the water, trying to gather courage to jump in. Once in the water, it'll be difficult at first but then habit and skill will kick in. But, why jump in in the first place? What's the use, if it's going to be very unpleasant until it just might get bearable?

There's a blackness in the world, and it feels like it's after him, waiting in the shadows of his room, just out of sight when he moves around the house. He thinks that once, it's been closer, that it has once surrounded him like a suffocating shroud, but he can't remember any details. There are lots of things he can't remember, even though he should. He had once asked Mummy about this, but Mummy had made a strange face and left him alone.

Getting out of bed becomes exhausting, so he doesn't. He does very little of anything.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A month later, Mummy and Father take him to new doctors. They try to talk to him in a stupid voice, like addressing a baby. He doesn't want to talk to them, especially because doctors were the ones who gave Mummy a secret about him which she clearly hates, a secret that makes others say sorry like someone has died. Sherlock thinks it's best not to talk to these people – who knows what new bad things they might come up with about him.

He wants to die, but he's learned enough about the world and other people that saying it out loud is probably one of those things that will make people frown and take their children home, away from him.

More time passes. Mummy stops the school she's made for him. Father's lips are a tight line of anger, and there's further talk of therapists and institutions. Sherlock doesn't like those words, but he doesn't know any he could offer to counter them.

Not talking means that people leave him alone. It means that he doesn't get overwhelmed. Everything is quiet, but it's a lonely sort of quiet.

Mycroft sometimes comes and sits in his room, talking about school and things he likes. It's a lighter sort of loneliness when he's present, but loneliness all the same. Even Mycroft eventually gives up and just leaves him lots and lots of books outside the door, probably thinking that Sherlock has simply run out of words and that the books will give him some new ones.

Mummy's friend Callum visits. He plays the violin, and now he's playing a piece he's going to perform at a concert in the evening.

Sherlock has played the piano, attending lessons with Mycroft, who had seemed annoyed when Sherlock had picked up on the basic skills much faster than he had.

The piano was always dull. It always sounded pretty, but boring, because the mechanism of it diluted the touch of the player into a hammer's bang on a string.

The violin is clearly different. He can see the bow moving along the string, producing vibrations in the air which his ears turn into music. He had heard the violin being played before, on the radio and on television, but not like this. Seeing the instrument at work, producing the unrefined, angry notes of some song that doesn't sound sad or happy, but angry and confused instead, is more interesting than anything has felt like for a long time.

Something about it feels familiar in a way that makes his hands shake.

Father compliments Mummy's friend's playing, even though it hadn't sounded pretty like the piano. There had been something honest in it, something raw, something that made Sherlock want to pick up that bow and scrape it on the strings himself until it made the same sort of sound that seemed to have pulled a strange tightness out of his chest and melted it away.

This person had spoken with the bow, saying things out loud Sherlock can't even name. He had communicated things with it without words, and others had understood – much better than they ever do when Sherlock tries to explain what was going on in his thoughts. Maybe his own thoughts wouldn't be bad or ugly, if he dressed them up like this, expressed them in this language that doesn't seem to make people worry even when it doesn't sound simple and nice and fun?

Sherlock has never managed well with words, even though it's something that has always been demanded of him. He never knows how to pick the right ones, but when the man had played he'd instantly recognised those feelings. He'd been astonished that someone else felt like that, too. He had always craved evidence that others felt as dreadful, as filled to the brim with unnamed horror and confusion and sadness as him. He was never 'happy' or 'sad' or 'angry' like the options usually offered by adults – there were so many shades to how he felt that he doubts they could ever be described with vowels and consonants. The music had felt as though it was something inside him laid bare before others, yet somehow shielded and protected at the same time.

Could he take that bow, put it to a string, and talk to people like that, without having to fear being called a freak, or being told what he'd said was wrong, unhealthy, ugly or unnerving?

He watches how the man treats his instrument as he packs it away. Pianos sit in the corners of rooms, but the violin is cradled in arms, carried around, held like a skittish animal, the bow poised inside bent fingers as though shielding something fragile. It's like an equal companion, one that doesn't argue, one that translates what the musician is feeling into something others can understand.

It's a companion. A translator to cut through the veil separating him from others. A light in all the blackness.

"Teach me," he hears himself say to the man, until he had even decided to say the words out loud. It's as though something in him had spoken – someone inside him, who had found their voice for the first time.

Mummy is so surprised at hearing him speak she accidentally knocks over the music stand.

Sherlock laughs.

It's been a long time since he'd last done that.

He laughs, even though he's been told he often laughs at the wrong things, things that others don't find funny.

Right now, he doesn't care, because he has found something more important than what others think about him. Maybe, one day, he could make them understand, without using a single word.

– The End –