Eight-year-old Sherlock Holmes cowered at the center of a daunting crowd consisting of third-graders, fourth-graders, and even a few fifth-graders. This was not, however, a delighted group of impressed children praising the young Sherlock. This was a sinister, ridiculing bunch. Every child was chanting something in unison. It sounded like a horrible creature whose harsh voice spoke out in many tones and pitches. The judgmental cacophony pressed in on the young Holmes as he backed into a corner.
"STUTTERLOCK, STUTTERLOCK!" Was the tormenting name emitting from the mass of children.
"Y-yo-you guys are mah-mean!" Sherlock struggled to shout over the chanting, his mouth repeatedly opening and closing, the words only coming out broken and sparse. His attempt to defend himself had only caused a wave of laughter to erupt from the children.
"Whatcha gonna do, Stutterlock?" One chided above the din. "G-g-gape at us?" More laughter.
It was too much. Sherlock ran for it. He knocked over a small sandy-haired kid in his hurry but didn't bother to apologize. He knew it would take too long, and the kid would probably just make fun of him, too. Everyone did.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••
It had been four years since that circle of vulture-like children had tormented him, and the teasing hadn't relented. At home, Sherlock was very cordial and excited to share his knowledge with the family. He was very interested in science and fighting crime. He seemed to think they went hand in hand. He spent the majority of his free time exploring the woods behind his big, old house.
At school, his only goal apart from his work was to not exist. To never be noticed. To never speak and sit at the back of all his classes and never raise his hand to ask questions or to read aloud to the class. Everyone hated him. Everyone. Well, except for that weird kid who never said anything either. Sherlock's personality completely changed from an open and enthusiastic child who spoke often despite his rather bad stutter, to a completely antisocial, depressed little creature. Never venturing from under the little dark rock that was his slightly suicidal life. Instead of school teaching him to be a positive person, it taught him that the only good he could do was keep his mouth shut and not hinder normal people with his annoying stutter. Despite his efforts to stay unnoticed, however, there was the occasional jock that came and slammed him into a locker, even though Sherlock was very fit and larger than most of his bullies. He simply didn't feel like making the effort to stand up to them. it wasn't like ha actually cared.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Sherlock was now twenty years of age and in the middle of his third year at uni. Here, he was still the same inward, shy boy from primary school. It's not that people genuinely hated him as they had when he was young, it was just that being quiet and hiding in the shadows had become part of his personality in public. When he was with someone who liked him, he was a talkative ball of energy and ideas. He was constantly following mysteries he heard about in the news and had a bad habit of saying what was on his mind without thinking.
Sherlock felt that he would have to start to open up a little more if he was going to live on his own after uni, and was gradually coming out of his shell (he still was very socially awkward and mostly silent). He even asked out a boy he fancied once. It went very awry, but Sherlock, surprisingly, did not fall back into his previous depressed state. He graduated uni as a more positive-however completely oblivious to social cues and generally just bad in social situations-person.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••
It was only when "Stutterlock" Holmes was twenty nine and working at Bart's one day when his entire life changed. He was closely examining a fleck of nail polish under a microscope for his latest case with Scotland Yard, when he received a text from Mike Stanford, an annoying older man who worked in one of the departments at Bart's.
Hi, Sherlock. I'm going to pay you a little visit this afternoon. I've got someone you might be interested in meeting. -MIKE
Sherlock didn't take this into consideration much. Whoever mike thought Sherlock would be "interested in meeting" would probably end up being mind-numbingly boring. And Sherlock really didn't think he wanted to deal with his stutter.
When afternoon came round, the door to the lab where Sherlock was working swung open without a knock, and in came Mike. Behind him was a sandy haired man Sherlock vaguely recognized, sporting gauze around his left shoulder. (Army doctor. Discharged because of injury.) Sherlock's mind was working ten times faster than his eyes which flashed up and down his acquaintance for mere seconds.
"Hello," The man said tentatively. His voice was pleasant, but It dripped with worry and uncertainty of his situation.
"Yes, hello...?" He was pleased that he'd managed his first sentence without a stutter and waited for the man to tell him his name.
"John. He said holding out his hand. "John Watson." Sherlock glanced at John's hand but did not shake it. He noticed John's eyebrows knit slightly as he let his arm fall, but his smile did not fade. "So um, Mike here said he knew a guy looking for a flat share when I said I needed a place to stay so I guess, here I am." He s rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his shoes. Sherlock was entirely unresponsive. "I mean if you don't want to- I mean if you don't think. We don't have to y'know." John just wanted to put that out there in case Sherlock decided he utterly detested John. He had been afraid of that and Sherlock's somehow judgmental silence seemed to be confirming his fears.
"Can ah-I borrow y-your ph-pho-one? Sherlock suddenly asked.
"Sure." John seemed not to notice or care about Sherlock's stutter and simply held out his phone, a kind smile once again playing on his lips. (Interesting. No response to stutter. We'll give him a try)
"Well," Sherlock clapped his hands together and went to put on his long coat. "I'll see y-you at s-seve-seven to look at th-the flat."Sherlock made for the door and was halfway out when John called after him.
"Wait! I don't know the address! I don't even know your name." John waved his hands expressively as Sherlock hung on the door.
"The names Sherlock Holmes the address is 221B Baker Street. He winked and swept out of the room, his coat whipping theatrically around the door after him.
And boy, was Sherlock happy. That was the longest sentence he had aver said without stuttering. Something about John made him feel sure. Everything from John's posture to the way he pronounced his letter 's' made Sherlock feel like his jaw was sturdy, made his rubbery, useless tongue feel agile and deft. Which was saying something. For someone with a stutter as sever as Sherlock's, agility was a difficult thing to grasp.