Tales from the Multiverse

Lessons - Sherlock

A small, thin child sat on the hardwood floor of the old toy shop, playing quietly with an army man figure. His long black curls spilled across the back of the crisp white collar of his dress shirt. He is arguably the most well-dressed child that the employees have ever seen.

The boy's mother, a slender, nervous-looking woman with long, brown hair, had no qualms about leaving him to play while she browsed the store, Christmas shopping list in hand. Trailing about behind her was a tall, pale man with severe features and a permanently irritated expression. Every so often, the woman would ask him a question, and the man would simply roll his eyes. It was plain to see that the man was the child's father; the boy was an infantile copy of the older man.

The clerk, a young girl of about eighteen, had been watching the boy play out of the corner of her eye, a small smile on her face. Business was slow, and, after glancing into the back room to ensure that her boss wasn't watching, the clerk left her post and went to kneel on the floor next to the boy.

His eyes flicked up from his play for a millisecond, taking her in with a single flash of startling blue irises.

"Hello," the girl said softly. The boy didn't reply.

"What are you playing?" she asked, trying once more. Again, no answer. She frowned briefly, and then quickly smiled. "Do you like army men?"

The boy nodded.

Encouraged, the girl pressed further, "You know, my gramps was in the army." The boy didn't respond. "What's your name, sweetheart?" Nothing. "Well, I'm Emily." Silence. "I like your shirt. My boyfriend - "

"Drunkard," the boy said quietly without looking up from his play.

The clerk rocked back on her heels, eyes wide in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"He's a drunkard. He's lying about looking for work, too," the boy repeated as his slim fingers gingerly twisted the army man's foot back into the appropriate position.

The girl gaped for a few moments, mouth flapping open and closed. "How... how... what?!"

The boy rolled his eyes, looking exactly like his father, and opened his mouth.

~

"Sorry, again! Kids, you know..." Molly apologised, smiling ruefully at the sobbing clerk as she hastily ushered her family out of the toy shop.

Outside, the trio hurried down the street, coat collars upturned against the biting winter air. Molly held her son's hand tightly, pulling him along at a half-run.

"Have I done something wrong, Mum?" the curly-haired boy inquired innocently of Molly.

She sighed and looked heavenward, as if pleading for mercy. "Hamish, sweetheart, you know what I've told you about deducing in public. People, they... Well, it can be offensive, dear," she sighed with the air of someone who'd explained this many times.

Hamish pouted. "Yes, but why, Mother?"

Molly bit her lip and sighed again. "Sherlock... you wanna take this one?" she asked hopefully, looking at her companion.

The man didn't even acknowledge her plea for help. He dipped his chin, hiding his face deeper in the twists of his red scarf. The sharp eyes flicked back and forth, observing everything.

Molly scratched her head with her free hand. "Well, Hamish... You already know that most people aren't like you. In fact, in the whole world, there are only a handful of individuals who can... read like you can. Among that handful are yourself, your father, and your Uncle Mycroft. That being said, even fewer people understand those who can deduce and make observations like you. Knowledge is power, Hamish, and the fact that you can look at a complete stranger and know things about their private lives without even asking scares those people. They don't like the power that you have over them."

Behind the red fabric, Sherlock's bow-shaped lips quirked up in a tiny smirk.

"The point, love, is that normal people are intimidated by your talent, and it is very wrong to purposefully use your skills to frighten or suppress others. I know it's hard, dear, but you must try to hold in your observations whilst in public. Okay?" Molly finished. She squeezed her son's hand and smiled at him.

Hamish's mouth was still twisted in an unhappy shape, but he nodded obediently, albeit skeptically. After his mother looked away, he snuck a shy glance behind her back at his father. Sherlock remained cold and detached from his family's interactions, refusing to meet his son's eyes.

Yet, when the trio paused at the stoplight, he stealthily slipped his gloved hand into Molly's, pressed it, and just as quickly returned his hand to his pocket.