8.
By the time Sherlock was five years old, he was quite accustomed to being thought odd. It still made a funny tight feeling form in his stomach when he heard his aunt asking if there wasn't something wrong with him.
"Catching frogs is one thing, boys will be boys, goodness knows I understand that," she said in a hushed voice to his mum, "But what he did with them…"
"It's perfectly natural to be curious," his father said, a disapproving tone to his voice, "I had to dissect all sorts of animals at school."
"But he isn't in school," his aunt answered, "And no one made him do it. Torturing animals…"
"They were already dead."
"So he said…" his aunt's voice started to grow louder in her concern, "But I'm telling you, there's something wrong." Sherlock's breath hitched slightly as he sat very still beneath the table.
"I'm sure he's fine," his mum answered, her voice soothing and a bit empty, like it always got when the world was not behaving as it should. When Mycroft got in trouble with the school because he wouldn't do the sports, she had that same tone. Sherlock said once that his mummy's voice felt like a cloud. He had gotten strange looks for that, but mummy had smiled and asked what kind.
"It isn't just the frogs," his aunt continued, her voice like knives more than anything, and a cloud was no protection against knives. "The way he stares at people, just sits still and stares…it isn't natural! At his own birthday party, that little girl got hurt…you remember, Sara scraped her knee up, and the other children were calling for help and patting her hair and trying to make her not sad…and that boy just stared at her, no compassion at all, and asked if he couldn't have more cake!"
Sherlock remembered that as well. He hadn't liked it at all. Sara had been too loud, crying, and he didn't understand the sharp feeling that came, a bit like fear. So he tried to make it go away, back to cake and ice cream and presents where everyone was laughing and happy.
"You know, he was the one closest when it happened. I almost think he might have pushed her!"
"Oh don't be silly, Helen," his mummy answered, her voice still gentle and light, as though she could force the entire unpleasantness away with soft words, "He barely knows Sara."
"You know he stayed to himself all through his own party," his aunt continued, leaping on this new direction, "He doesn't seem to even want friends."
Sherlock told himself he didn't want them, either. He had Mycroft to play with, and mummy, and the world to explore. He didn't know how to talk to the other children and they never wanted to talk to him.
"Enough," his father said abruptly, banging his fist on the table and Sherlock jumped. "There's nothing wrong with Sherlock, or Mycroft." And Sherlock felt a little bit better. Until his father left and his aunt started talking again. And mummy never shouted or banged her fist on tables.
"He doesn't want to see it," his aunt insisted, "But surely you can. Something isn't right. I've heard of this disease, children who are born without a conscience. It isn't anything you did wrong, some children are just…evil." Sherlock waited for his mummy to say he wasn't evil. She was silent for a long time.
"Sherlock does feel," she said at last, and Sherlock had never heard that exact tone before. He had heard his mummy being happy and the soft diplomatic tone she used when people are being disagreeable and she is trying to pretend everything is still pleasant, and he has seen her weepy when Sherlock had disappeared or gotten in a fight or went climbing again. He's never heard her actually angry. Sherlock thinks she might be now.
"But don't you think you ought to test him…just to be sure?"
"Sherlock is a very loving little boy," his mummy answered. And she didn't slam her fist or shout 'enough!' but something about what she said did what his father could not; it silenced his aunt.
Later he asked Mycroft what a conscience was, and why some people had them and some didn't. Mycroft told him the dictionary definition first, showing him the big words all written out. Sherlock recognized the word science in it and the word con and asked if it meant tricking science. Mycroft said it didn't. He looked a bit troubled then about how to explain things.
"A conscience tells you when something is right and when it is wrong," he said at last.
"Isn't that what a mummy and dad does?" Sherlock asked, a bit confused.
"It's like a mummy and dad inside your head," Mycroft answered, "Whenever you get a feeling inside that you shouldn't do something, that's your conscience. And if you feel guilty when you do something wrong, that's it too." Sherlock considered this.
"Are there people who don't have a feeling like that?" he asked.
"I suppose. Bad guys must not have much of a conscience."
"What about people who aren't bad guys? What about little boys? Are there people who are born evil?" Mycroft frowned.
"Did a little boy hurt you, Sherlock?" he demanded, looking closely at his brother for signs of deceit.
"No," Sherlock answered, looking small and concerned, and all at once Mycroft got it.
"You aren't evil," he said, and Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes swimming with unwept tears.
"But how can you know? What if my head was sick, and I didn't have a conscience and turned evil, and hurt someone!"
"Sherlock, you can't be evil and be worried about hurting someone," Mycroft pointed out. Then he pulled his brother into his lap and Sherlock didn't quite cry though there was a hitch in his breathing.
That night, Mycroft suggested a film to watch. Mummy watched too and father said he wasn't going to but he didn't leave either. It was about a puppet who didn't have a conscience. But he had a friend and the friend was a conscience, so the puppet became good and got to be human instead of wood.
Sherlock decided that if he really turned out to be evil like his aunt said, what he needed was to find a friend who was very very good. And maybe a fairy too. If he could find a fairy, a wish granting one, he would wish for a friend. One that never laughed at him or did stupid things, but most importantly, one who was good.