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Chapter Six

Standing on the main front steps to the University of Westminster, Arthur checked his watch. He had two hours before his next lecture, for the MSc course in Cognitive Rehabilitation. In seven minutes time, he had a very important appointment – at a bespoke tailor on Savile Row – where he would be having his third and final fitting for his wedding suit. He glanced up at the sky. It was still obscured by a thick blanket of cloud but, for the moment, the persistent drizzle had ceased so no need for a cab. He set off at a jog along Riding House Street.

By mutual agreement, he and Mycroft had chosen different tailors to make their suits. Mycroft's was being made by his regular tailor on Jermyn Street and would reflect his own particular style. Arthur had chosen to have his wedding outfit designed and made by the house of Ozwald Boateng – the youngest and the first black designer to open a store on London's most famous street dedicated to men's fashion.

Just before Christmas, Arthur had attended his first appointment, to be measured for his suit. He had met the tailoring team assigned to him and, working with the team, he had created his own unique design for this very special event, and chosen the fabric - mohair - and the colour - a rich, dark red. He had been both surprised and embarrassed when, during that session, the tailor asked if he had ever considered a career in modelling.

'I bet you say that to all the boys,' Arthur had quipped, in a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment.

But the tailor had assured him, very solemnly, that he most certainly did not.

'Sir has all the necessary attributes,' the man observed. 'Tall, slim, well-proportioned, good bone structure and – most importantly – clothes look very good on sir.

'Well, no, I can't say I ever did consider it,' Arthur replied, still more embarrassed for having been flippant. 'But I'll bear it in mind, if I'm ever in need of the cash.'

'But perhaps sir would consider allowing us to take some publicity shots in the suit, when it's finished?' the tailor persisted.

Arthur agreed to think about it. He wasn't sure how Mycroft would feel about his husband-to-be appearing in fashion magazines in his wedding suit! Prominent diplomat marrying ex-soldier was one thing; marrying male model… well, that was a whole different ball game!

Two weeks later, he had his first fitting or 'skeleton baste', where the pieces of the suit had been sewn together using a white cotton 'basting thread', with a bare minimum of interior construction, such as shoulder pads. This allowed the cutter to check the basic fit of the pattern and perform any necessary minor adjustments.

A week on from that came the "forward", or the second fitting. The suit now had all its major construction, including pockets and facings. The collar was not yet fitted and the sleeves were still at the same stage as the 'skeleton baste' but it was very close to completion. This gave Arthur and the team a true picture of how the suit would look, and he had requested a few minor alterations to the shape and the pattern.

Today was Arthur's third and final fitting or "finish bar finish". At this stage, the suit would be complete except for buttons and buttonholes and any hand sewing that might be required, and this was when any final adjustments would be made. Arthur was looking forward to trying it on so, since he didn't want to turn up all hot and sweaty, he kept his running speed to a gentle jog.

He arrived at the Boateng shop and was invited into the fitting salon where the tailor and his assistant were waiting, and they seemed just as excited about showing him the finished product as he was to see it. The assistant showed him into the changing room, hung the suit – in its bag – on the hanging rail, along with a dress shirt in his size, and left him to get change. Five minutes later, he emerged wearing the creation. There were no mirrors in the changing room but, in the fitting salon, every wall held a mirror so he was surrounded by images of himself.

The tailor positioned Arthur in the middle of the floor and paced around him, running a practiced eye over every detail, darting in to tweak a sleeve, straighten a collar or square a shoulder. Only when he was completely satisfied that the suit was a perfect fit did he stand back, open his arms in an expansive gesture and say,

'If you will pardon me for saying so, sir looks amazing!'

Arthur rolled his eyes to mask his self-consciousness but he had to admit that the suit fitted like a glove and accentuated his broad shoulders, slim waist, narrow hips and long legs. And, yes, he did look amazing!

'Will sir be clean-shaven for the big day?' asked the tailor.

Arthur had grown a sponsored beard to raise money for charity, in the Decembeard Appeal. He had intended to shave on New Year's Day but he had grown rather fond of the facial hair and – more to the point – Mycroft seemed to rather like it, too, so he had left it on. But now he wondered whether the tailor was inferring that perhaps he would look better without.

'Er, I wasn't planning to, no…' he replied, cautiously.

'Oh, that is very good,' the tailor smiled. 'It suits sir very well and it will look excellent for the photo-shoot…should sir decide to do it, of course!'

'I will think about it,' Arthur assured him. All this talk of photo-shoots, modelling and looking amazing could turn a man's head, he thought.

Satisfied that the suit was perfect, he returned to the changing room to disrobe and re-dress in his normal clothes. Vacating the room, he handed the jacket and trousers to the tailor's assistant, who hung them back on the hanger. The buttons would be attached, button holes cut and hand sewn then the suit would be steam pressed, bagged up and delivered to Colbert House, to hang in one of the guest rooms until the 'Big Day'. He and Mycroft had agreed that they would not see each other's outfits until their wedding day so they were both sworn not to peek.

Arthur thanked the tailoring team, took his leave and exited the shop. Respite from rain had been all too brief and the drizzle was back. He pulled up his jacket hood and jogged back to Uni, arriving in good time for his afternoon lecture.

ooOoo

The taxi ride home from St Paul's was little more than a blur. Molly knew that Sherlock was just as upset as she was at the news regarding darling little Freddie but their coping strategies were polar opposites. She felt completely overwhelmed by her emotions and she knew she had to give vent to this inner turmoil or it would consume her completely. So she clung to her husband and simply sobbed her heart out.

Sherlock, on the other hand, turned to cold, hard logic to address the crisis, banishing his emotions to a dark cupboard, in his Mind Palace, with a securely locked door. He wrapped an arm around Molly, aware that the circumstances called for such a gesture, as a stream of consciousness poured from his lips in a torrent of words, about how he would find the best people - top in their field - to take a look at Freddie and determine exactly what was causing this anomaly with his consonants and his balance, and devise a plan to correct the situation. He would start with the Speech Therapist with whom he had worked following the snake venom attack. Surely she would be able to help and, if not, he was sure she would be able to recommend someone who could.

He described how he had been back then, how he'd had to learn to talk and walk all over again - retrain his nerve pathways, re-establish muscle memories, reboot his cerebellum - but he'd done it…and Freddie would, too, with their support and his own tenacity. And he being only three - nearly four - years old, it would be a huge advantage because, at that age, he was in full-on developmental learning mode.

Having run out of things to say, Sherlock rested his cheek on top of Molly's head and closed his eyes, feeling the tension pour out of her with every sob, just like the tears that were soaking into his coat lapel. After a minute or two, the sobbing began to subside and she gave a long, shuddering sigh then pushed herself upright, fishing in her pocket for a tissue to dry her eyes and blow her nose, noisily. Then she plaited her fingers into his and squeezed his hand.

'It's going to be fine,' she said and he could hear the determination in her voice, rising from the ashes of her emotional meltdown.

'Of course it will be fine,' he reassured her. 'We'll make it fine.'

Marie was taken aback when both Sherlock and Molly arrived home unexpectedly but the sight of Molly's red-rimmed eyes and Sherlock's drawn expression was the main source of her alarm. She sat at the kitchen table, holding Molly's hand and listened intently while her employer and friend related what the Headmaster had told them. Sherlock made a pot of tea – the great British panacea – and left it to the nanny to make all the right noises. Marie seemed so much better at this sympathy lark than he was…though, that was probably not saying very much.

He was a study in agitation, pacing around, ruffling his hair, tapping his chin with the knuckles of one hand. He was desperate to 'do something', anything, to solve this puzzle but he felt torn between his need for action and Molly's need for support. So he was greatly relieved when she turned to him and said,

'Sherlock, you go and do whatever you need to do. I'm fine, really I am. Marie is here, if I need another shoulder to blub on. Go on!'

Sherlock swooped in and planted a fat kiss on Molly's cheek then disappeared through the door to the hallway, shortly after which, Molly and Marie heard the front door slam. Molly shook her head, with an affectionate sigh. Life was never dull in the Hooper-Holmes household.

ooOoo

Molly sat in the armchair, in the sitting room at Firs Lodge, with Violet napping in her arms. Marie had gone to collect the boys from school so she had the house – and Violet – to herself.

She stared vacantly into space, absorbed in analysing exactly what it was that she found so upsetting about the day's events. It certainly wasn't that Freddie couldn't say his 'c's or his 'th's. Nor that his physical coordination was apparently not what it should be at his age. They already knew that Freddie had many endearing quirks, for God's sake. And as for him undergoing some sort of 'assessment', well, that wasn't so terrible either. She felt sure that the experience would be made as enjoyable as possible and her youngest son did love to be the centre of attention. And, if they found out exactly what was causing the 'quirks', then surely they would be able to do something about it?

So what was so upsetting?

It was that phrase, 'Freddie may have a problem.' And that 'problem' had a name – Dyspraxia – which made it seem all the more daunting, like an incurable disease. She had read the information that Sherlock had Googled and Freddie did evidence some of the 'signs and symptoms' but not all, by a long stretch.

Yes, he was physically very active, very rarely still, except when asleep or – as William had observed, at the time – floating in water. His voice could be loud and shrill, at times, and he was very enthusiastic about life in general, which some people might call 'excitable'. But he was not easily distressed or prone to temper tantrums – quite the opposite, in fact. He often bumped into objects and fell over and he did tend to flap his hands when he was running but so what? He'd found it difficult to pedal his toddler tricycle, too, which was one reason why they bought him the balance bike – it had no pedals so problem solved!

Perhaps he did seem lacking in a sense of danger, sometimes, but more often than not it was because he was trying to copy William, who was physically more mature and had an extraordinarily good sense of balance and co-ordination. Freddie was a messy eater and still preferred to eat with his fingers rather than use a knife, or spoon, and fork, and he frequently spilled his drinks. OK, he was quite clumsy.

He liked Lego – well, Duplo, actually, which was bigger and easier to handle...and he enjoyed his big, chunky floor puzzles...but not the more fiddly ones. So, was that another tick in the Dyspraxia box?

He had a rather immature way of holding a pencil, in his fist rather than with a typical tripod grip, and he still used his baby scissors, which he only had to squeeze to make them cut, rather than having to use two fingers. He had found a way to cope! That was problem-solving, surely? His drawings didn't appear that immature to Molly. He drew round-shaped heads and put dots for eyes and stick-like limbs. That's what children did, wasn't it!

And he certainly could not be said to lack imaginative play. He loved dressing up and playing 'house' in the Home Corner. And he loved creative play. He was always making up stories in his head and acting them out, or acting out scenes from his favourite Disney films. And he loved to dance. All in all, he was a very creative little chap.

Freddie made friends easily. He had never been ostracised by other children. He was very popular. Everyone wanted to be his friend and he went out of his way to make friends with everyone. Look how he had persevered with Morgan! It had taken a lot of persistence, on Freddie's part, to win the other boy's trust.

He hadn't yet settled on left- or right-handedness, that was true, but he did tend to use different hands for different tasks – left hand for eating, right for drawing, and so on. It would appear, however, that he had a persistent speech difficulty in his lack of mastery of certain consonants. He didn't show limited responses to verbal instructions, neither was he slow to respond to questions, nor have problems understanding what was said to him. Freddie was a born communicator, either speaking or listening.

But did he lack concentration? Did he leave tasks unfinished? No, not really. He would sometimes get distracted and shoot off at a tangent but he was an inquisitive child so that was to be expected.

He was not sensitive to sensory stimulation, such as loud noises, neither was he tactile defensive or funny about wearing new clothes. That sounded more like William… Molly stopped herself right there. If she wasn't careful, she would be seeing 'problems' in all her children, even little Violet, sleeping peacefully in her arms.

That was the thing, though. Sherlock and Molly's expectations of their children were not based on so-called norms. Anything they did was 'normal' for them. This comparison with other children went against their parenting philosophy. Was that so wrong? Perhaps it was. So, it was their fault. They were bad parents. They should have been more aware of what milestones the children were reaching - or not, in Freddie's case...

Violet stirred in Molly's arms and she glanced down to see a cherubic smile appear on those Cupid's Bow lips. Was Violet dreaming? And, if so, what might she be dreaming about? Probably Daddy, judging by the smile, or Freddie, her other favourite person. Now, Violet was a case in point. Bearing in mind the traumatic circumstances of her birth, was it any wonder that both she and Sherlock indulged her? But were they in danger of creating a monster? Violet could be a proper little madam, at times. But as the only girl in a house of boys, she would need to be able to hold her own so maybe that was no bad thing...

Ah, but there was the rub. Progressive parenting was all well and good but the Education System – even in an independent school like St Paul's – was built on the premise that children were expected to meet certain criteria. Maybe that was the real 'problem' – the system itself. It seemed to Molly that schools in the UK were locked into an endless cycle of standardized assessment of the children. Only last year, William had taken part in his first round of public examinations, the Key Stage One Standard Assessment Tests, or SATs, at the tender age of only seven! He had breezed through them, of course, his only problem being that he wasn't allowed to share his answers with some of the other children, who were clearly struggling with the tests.

'It's so unfair, Mummy,' William had complained. 'Some of the children were very sad because they didn't know the answers but the teacher wouldn't let me tell them.'

Schools now-a-days were judged, and rated in so-called 'League Tables', according to how well – or badly – their pupils performed in these tests. It begged the question, who was really being tested, the children or the teachers? Molly rather suspected it was the latter. This was quality control masquerading as Standards of Attainment. Schools had become production lines, the pupils 'the product', like a factory. And by that analogy, Freddie, it would seem, was faulty goods, especially if his lack of attainment dragged down the school's rating in the League! No wonder they were so keen to have him 'diagnosed' and categorised. That would let them off the hook, wouldn't it?

But Molly knew Freddie wasn't the problem. He was just a beautifully crafted round peg being forced to fit into a rigid, unyielding square hole. That was the problem.

Molly heard the sound of her boys' voices passing under the front window, as they ran round to the back garden to check on William's bee hive before coming inside. They sounded happy and excited and full of beans. Whatever anyone else might think, Freddie was and always would be her funny, sweet, loving, darling boy. Composing her features into a smile, she prepared to greet her children and banished all thoughts of diagnoses and assessments from her mind.

ooOoo

I just wish to make it clear that I am employing artistic licence by using St Paul's school in this AU to ground the story in the real world. St Paul's is, in reality, an excellent school and the staff would never DREAM of behaving in the way that I have depicted!