Sherlock Holmes was scared. His father had done this many times before, but this time it was different. Usually Nathanael Holmes was sober, and had a reason to be angry. This time he was drunk, blind, roaring drunk, and Sherlock had done nothing wrong.
"Don't you dare look at me like that, boy! You're an embarrassment, to me and to your Mother! Why couldn't you be like Mycroft? You were a mistake!" Nathanael screamed at him. Sherlock screwed up his face and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable slap.
"Father? What are you doing?..." It was Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, home from school. "Father! He's five years old! Get… Get off him!" Sherlock couldn't see what was happening, but he understood. The sounds, the noises, so loud, so loud… Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Even Mycroft. He was trying to help, but Sherlock was fine on his own. He was used to pain. Why did everyone have to make so much noise?
Suddenly, there was silence. Mycroft stopped shouting. His father stopped yelling. Confused, Sherlock opened his eyes.
Mycroft was standing there above the body of their father.
His mother was leading him by the hand, towards the big building. Mycroft walked ahead. Usually Sherlock's father would be around, but he was in the Hospital. Sherlock knew Mycroft had done something, but he didn't know what. No one had told him anything. No one ever told him anything.
As the group walked into the building, Sherlock decided that it must have been some sort of Medical centre, or a Psychologist's practice or something of the sort. The marks on the ground were a child, making pictures in the dust, but they weren't ordinary pictures. They were terrible pictures, of scenes a five year old should never see, and Sherlock remembered briefly admiring their intricacy before being ushered into a quiet room. His mother sat down opposite a solemn looking man behind a desk.
"Sit down, Sherlock." The man said, in a way that one might, well, talk to a five year old. But even then Sherlock knew that he was no ordinary five year old.
"Don't patronise me."
"Sorry, what?"
"You heard me. I may be only five, but I'm about six times smarter than you."
"Sherlock!" Hissed his mother.
"No, let the boy speak. If he thinks he's so intelligent, let him tell me something I don't know. How about that, eh?"
Sherlock's mother sighed, but didn't stop him.
Sherlock glared at the man. "You've been married for- fifteen, sixteen years. Your wife used to be an actress but she gave that up shortly after she met you. She's now a stay-at-home mother. No- no kids, she looks after other people's children. She had considered going back to school to learn a profession, but she knew she didn't need to- your job pays quite enough. You travelled here by bus this morning because your car is at the garage having it's MOT. You drive a Renault Scenic. You earn considerably less money than your wife thinks you do. You are here to tell me that there's something wrong with me, which simply isn't the case. I'm just smart."
The man was flabbergasted. " How… how did you know all that?"
"I told you. I'm smart. I observe. I look for the little things. I deduce."