A/N: So, I finally bowed to the inevitable and signed up for Tumblr! I don't really have any idea what to do with it though, so if you have any suggestions for content, know any good blogs to follow, or would like me to follow you, please let me know! You can find me, as always, as WikketKrikket. I'll be the one who doesn't know what she's doing.

That aside, please enjoy the chapter! :)

Twenty-Fifth Cup: Hearing

Mycroft was not prone to dreaming, at night or otherwise. Nor was Edith, as far as he knew; the subject never really came up. However, his wife was very nearly as bad as him at playing pretend games with Rosemary, so that was as good an indication as any that even in her imagination she remained level headed. Mycroft certainly was not one to remember his dreams when he woke up.

That night, however, was different. He woke up with a very clear impression of what had been running through his sleeping mind. It was his son, crying, his strange, staccato sobs that were so different to Rosemary's wails. The house was dark and the hiccupping cry echoed through it, petering into a thin, reedy whine; sometimes loud, sometimes barely enough to drown out a whisper, and Mycroft walked through the house unable to find where the noise was coming from.

The answer, of course, was the cot at the end of their bed. Mycroft woke up properly just as Zachariah drew breath for another cry. It was shortly after three in the morning, and Edith was already slipping out of bed to tend to him. Mycroft turned on the lamp for her.

"Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's just being silly." Edith answered, shushing the child and continuing to rub gentle circles on his back, as he had already stopped crying and was snuffling as he settled back down. "Still, that's the first time in a good ten days, perhaps two weeks. We can probably think about moving him into his own room, he seems to be sleeping through well enough."

"Yes." Mycroft agreed. Their son was certainly less verbose than Rosemary had been at his age. At four months, while not yet making proper babbling sounds that would be the precursor to speech, she had certainly at least begun to master vowels and had oohed and ahhed with the best of them. Zachariah, on the other hand, was relatively silent, though when he did cry he was often much more difficult to calm. The fact tugged awkwardly at the back of Mycroft's brain, reminding him of something from his own childhood.

Of course, he had been so young when Sherlock had been a baby, his perception had probably been exaggerated. But he remembered Sherlock being an odd child, quite content to be left to his own devices even as a baby; and when he did cry, neither soft voices nor gentle cuddles would soothe him any better than just leaving him to get bored of it. He remembered how as a baby Sherlock would never be interested in playing with him or their parents, largely ignoring them. He remembered the first time he overheard his father kicking that ugly word about, arguing with his mother in their bedroom, autism, autism. And then, later, when the term came into wider usage and the condition better known, Sherlock was upgraded to Aspergic, and then, later still, when Sherlock was at the age where he wanted to do nothing else but follow his brother around like a baby chick, he was downgraded to Aspergic tendencies. It was all nonsense. Mycroft had known his whole life it was nonsense. Sherlock had personality quirks- not defects, never defects- and if it was easier to sort his eccentricities, strengths and weaknesses under a certain label, then so be it. But his brother had never really gotten better. He was just smart, a genius. Of course he had learnt to ape social behaviours better than others, of course he could do it well enough to fool his parents and psychologists that he was almost ordinary, just not ordinary enough to be boring. Sherlock still struggled with the same things he always had, he had just become better at hiding it.

And yet it was still such an ugly word, a frightening word. Mycroft could remember going into a room and calling his baby brother's name and getting no response at all, and now the same thing would happen with his son. He could still hear his father's angry voice, shouting it at his mother, who refused to accept it; and even now the shout echoed in his mind, autism, autism.

Mycroft did not sleep easily the rest of that night.

Ooooooooooooo

It was Sunday, their family day; and that gave Mycroft the opportunity to test his theory. Fears in the darkness of night seem very different in the light of day, and he didn't want to worry Edith unnecessarily, not unless he was sure there was a definite need for their son to be tested. The pregnancy had been difficult for her, the labour as well. She had said she did not want to have any more children, and meant it. Mycroft had been concerned, at first, that she'd had a touch of post-natal depression, as she had seemed to find their son so much harder to cope with; but as the exhaustion passed, she had recovered well, ever resilient. Currently, she was in the kitchen making lunch, Rosemary was upstairs (practicing ballet yet again, from the sounds of the thuds. She really would have to learn to be less enthusiastic and more delicate if she wanted to progress), leaving Mycroft alone in the lounge, keeping one eye on his son, running the other down a government report he would need the next day.

Zachariah was on the rug on the floor, seemingly quite happy. He was just starting to learn how to sit up on his own and had so far succeeded only in draping himself over Salisbury, curling chubby hands into her fur as he flopped over her back. This did not worry Mycroft; the dog was unerringly calm and gentle around the children, and the baby in particular seemed to adore her. Mycroft set his file aside, the pages rustling as they made contact with the arm of the chair. No reaction from Zachariah, no curiosity as to what this sound outside of his field of vision was. Mycroft leant forward on his chair.

"Zachariah." He said, as clearly as he could. He wasn't quite sure if babies should have been able to recognise their own names by this point, but certainly they were supposed to respond to familiar voices. Not his son, however. His son was still patting down the dog, for a purpose that Mycroft could not understand. Perhaps it was simply because the dog was there, perhaps he was trying to pet her, or perhaps he liked the feel of the skin beneath the fur, to feel the movement of her breath, perhaps even the beat of her heart.

It came to him suddenly then, and surprised him so much he had wanted almost to laugh; though the situation wasn't funny. Usually babies were suspected of hearing problems, then diagnosed as autistic. He had been blinded by his family history, and made the exact opposite assumption. When he thought about it, Zachariah was a sociable child; he would coo delightedly when his mother or sister or father came into the room. Sherlock had never done that, but Zachariah was always pleased to see them- to see them. The only time he was unresponsive was when whatever was happening was outside of his line of vision. It was unlikely his son suffered the same condition as his brother; it was much more likely that his baby was as deaf as a post.

The full implications of this hit him a moment after the relief. He knew nothing about hearing impairment and deafness. There was a whole 'deaf culture' he knew nothing about; whole languages he did not understand. Autism he knew about, Aspergers he could understand, he knew the advantages and limitations that could afflict those on the spectrum. If his son couldn't hear, he had no idea where to begin. He did not know how to give him the best chances in life.

He was getting ahead of himself. Mycroft mentally gave himself a stern look. There were procedures to be gotten through, proper steps to take, tests that would need to be carried out before he sought further information about what to do. First and foremost, he needed to be certain his fears were not carrying him away before he confided in Edith.

"Zachariah." He said again, leaning even more in his chair, reaching out to click his fingers behind his son's head; so close that he could almost feel the soft hairs on the back of them. There was still no reaction. Not from his son, anyway.

"What are you doing?" Edith asked from the doorway. She came in and scooped up her son, who wriggled happily. He clearly had no problems with being held. "Don't click at him, Mycroft, he's not a dog."

For the first time, Mycroft noticed a strand of grey in his wife's hair. She either hadn't noticed it or didn't care enough to mention it, but it made him wonder about his attitude. She had been young when he'd married her, almost eight years ago now; Edith was now some way into her thirties. It probably wasn't entirely fair of him to still think of her as a girl. Some things, the things he loved, hadn't changed, but she was older and wiser, more experienced; somehow cannier now. He often thought that she had grown into herself. Perhaps he was wrong to keep his fears from her, perhaps he ought to have told her immediately. Then again, mothers did tend to have a blind spot when it came to their children and it was somewhat surprising he had noticed the problem first. It was best to be sure there was a problem before trying to force her to see it.

"Edith, I don't think he responds to sounds." He said, as gently as he could. "He may have some sort of hearing problem."

"What?" Edith looked down at their child rather helplessly, holding him closer to herself. "How can you possibly-"

Mycroft clapped his hands suddenly, loudly. The sound echoed around the room, causing Edith to start. Even Rosemary upstairs stilled for a moment before the steady rhythm of steps resumed. Little Zachariah remained largely undisturbed, looking first at his mother, and then cocking his head towards his father, in the direction of her gaze.

Ooooooooooooo

Edith was quiet for the rest of the day and somewhat tearful that night. Mycroft didn't know what to say to her. He couldn't tell her how politically incorrect her worry was; it just wouldn't do to point out that deaf people lead full and happy lives, that they were no different to anyone else. She knew this, just as he knew it. It just wasn't something they would have chosen. That was all.

Edith worried it was her fault, that she had done something or not done something she should have done during the pregnancy, that it was because she hadn't realised she was in labour and gone to the hospital. Mycroft couldn't reason with her. She just couldn't understand that sometimes these things just happened. That things just happened was easy enough to understand, until they happened to you.

Ooooooooooooo

"He isn't deaf."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. He should have known coming here was a bad idea.

"Sherlock, there's clearly a problem. He doesn't react to noises, that's why we're getting him-"

"Yes, yes, yes. Hard of hearing, maybe, but your son isn't deaf."

"Sherlock."

"Get him tested, then, they'll say the same thing."

Mycroft ran a hand over his eyes. It had already been a terribly long day, and it was barely past ten in the morning. After entrusting Rosemary to one of the neighbours to be taken to school, he and Edith had travelled into London together, to take Zachariah to have his hearing checked. Edith had barely said a word the whole journey, just kept hold of their son, stroking his hair. She'd stopped singing to him the past few weeks. Mycroft found he missed it, strangely.

They had arrived in London far too early for the appointment and so had, in a way that somehow seemed quite natural, drifted into Baker Street. Sherlock had been taking fewer cases recently, slowing down perhaps because of the 'forty' that loomed not too many years away from his horizon, or more likely because John had settled into married life. John came to see Sherlock every Thursday evening, Sherlock had explained with a look of disgust. His visits had become routine. Sherlock despised routine to his very core and would, Mycroft was quite sure, deliberately choose to be out on some Thursday evenings just out of spite. Perhaps there were simply fewer cases coming Sherlock's way nowadays. Whatever the reason, Sherlock seemed much more content in his relative inactivity than he would have been in the past. His reading habit had grown far worse, and he seemed to be devouring text books on obscure subjects for the sheer pleasure of it, without concern about clogging up his brain. His violin was resting on a precarious pile of books, including A Practical Guide to Bee Keeping, The Language of the Fan around the World, A Complete Technical History of Radar, Frank Capra: A Comprehensive Biography and Cosmochemical Evidence for Astrophysical Processes during the Formation of Our Solar System. Clearly his reading had progressed somewhat since John's jibes about the sun all those years ago. The book was dislodged and fell to the floor as Sherlock picked up the violin, knocking over another stack as it went. Sherlock ignored it, picking out a tune on the violin with his fingers, watching the child in Edith's lap intensely.

"Sherlock, stop it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Don't be so childish."

"He isn't deaf."

"And how would you possibly know that? This is only the second time you've seen him."

"He reacted when I fired the pistol last time."

"I don't want to talk about that again, Sherlock."

"He started crying, he must have heard it."

"Babies cry, Sherlock. It's coincidence."

"Fine. Ignore the evidence. It must make a change from covering it up."

They fell into silence for a moment. Sherlock stood, taking up his bow and beginning to play the violin properly. He was still glancing towards Zachariah now and then. Mycroft could see Edith growing tense.

"Stop it." She said, quietly.

Naturally, Sherlock didn't; he just gave up the pretence and came closer, crouching awkwardly to play the instrument closer to the baby. He began working through a scale.

He couldn't see the expression on Edith's face. This was nothing short of cruel.

"Sherlock, that's-" Mycroft began, but another note came out of the violin, and suddenly the child turned to look at it. Sherlock played the note again, and Zachariah reached out, grasping clumsily at the very end of the bow, even though it was now still. Sherlock played the note a third time, and his nephew gurgled cheerfully.

"Your son isn't deaf." Sherlock repeated, tugging the bow out of harm's way before it could be damaged, patting the baby gently on the head instead and withdrawing to the other side of the room, returning to playing one of his beloved Bach melodies. "Get him a hearing aid, he'll be fine."

Mycroft said nothing. It seemed Sherlock was correct, but Edith was smiling, and that was the main thing.

Ooooooooooooo

A/N: I am now open to suggestions for this story! Very open! Most of my ideas after this point are centred on when the children are teenagers/adults, but I'd like to have a few more with them when they're young, too. Also, I don't think our husband and wife duo have been getting much love lately, so any prompts would be much appreciated. 3 Thank you!