Sherlock Holmes had always been a little bit strange. He was a fussy baby, but he didn’t seem inclined to do much of anything other than cry if he didn’t get his way.
He didn’t seem interested in learning to walk, or speak.
“Mycroft was speaking before he was two years old,” Viola Holmes whispered to Siger. “And Sherlock won’t even stand up.”
Three doctors later, and all they knew was that there was nothing obviously wrong with their child. He’d talk and walk when he was good and ready, said their family physician.
“Don’t worry about Mr Holmes,” he said. “There is nothing physically wrong with him. Just give him time.”
Mycroft was interested in just how his baby brother worked. He was seven, he was interested in how everything worked.
He had already learned how to take apart and reassemble the family television. The picture worked better now too.
He read to Sherlock all the time, tried to coerce him into speaking or walking. Sherlock seemed perfectly content to let things carry on as they were.
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