Chapter Text
The push comes when he least expects it. A rough shove between his shoulder blades as he is running to get the ball he kicked too far. His knees hit the grass before his hands do, just stopping his face from slapping into the damp blades.
“Jeez Donny, careful not to rip the trousers. It’s his only pair.”
John pushes himself up onto his knees as the snickers of the older boys sound around him. “He should be thanking me” comes the taunting voice of Donald Willis. “At least then he will have an excuse not to wear girls trousers.”
John gets to his feet and turns around, facing his tormentors. “They’re not girls trousers” he yells, tears prickling in his eyes, his small, now dirty fists clenched at his sides. They’re really not and they’re not his only pair either.
“Course they are Johnny Boy. I saw your sister wearing them a couple of years ago, just exactly the same ones. Or maybe she wears boys trousers. Would make sense I suppose, being as she…”
Donny never gets any further as John hurls his little body straight at the older boys stomach, knocking him to the ground.
“Get off me, you little shit” Donny grunts as he tries to stop the smaller fists from raining down on his face.
“They are not girls clothes” John yells as he hits out at stupid Donald Willis, the tears now streaming down his face as Donny’s friends laugh and goad him in the background. “And they weren’t Harry’s. They are MINE” he roars as he lands another blow to the larger boy below him, making contact with his nose causing blood to spurt out of the right nostril. John doesn’t get another hit in as suddenly he is air born being pulled off of the now crying Donald Willis.
“John Watson” comes the stern voice of Mrs Forrester, the schools deputy principal. “What is the meaning of this?” She demands, placing John back on the ground and turning him to face her. The scowl on her face has caused many kids to cringe or cry, or on the odd occasion, both, but John is already worked up, therefore her formidable gaze has no effect on him.
“He pushed me” John yells pointing to Donny who is now being helped up by one of his mates. “And they said my trousers were girls trouser. They’re NOT.” John declares scrubbing at his eyes and then his running nose with the sleeve of his jumper, trying to erase all traces of the tears that had been trailing down his cheeks.
“Right” Mrs Forrester says straightening up. “You…” and she points at John, “…and you…” and she points at Donny, who is now pushing away the friend who had helped him up and is now trying to wipe the blood off of his face, “…Office, now!”
John turns and stomp off towards the main building, the football he had been playing with long forgotten, as he mutters about stupid Donny Willis and cursing (as well as a seven year old knows how to curse) his parents for being poor and having to wear hand-me-down clothes from his cousin Rodney. (NOT his sister, Harriet!)
Not far behind him John can hear Donny cursing (which is far more impressive coming from a twelve year old) about stupid little shits who didn’t know they had it coming. No one bloodied up his nose.
Little did either of them know that Donny Willis lost his reputation of being the bad boy of the school that day, but John Watson had just earned himself a reputation, that would see him all through his schooling years, of being the one small kid who could bring down other kids twice his height.
No one paid him out about his trousers ever again.
~o~
Not too terribly far away, in the office of one of London’s most reputable paediatrician Two parents sit with their young son waiting patiently for the doctor to get around to his diagnosis of their youngest child.
The doctor shuffles the papers in front of him, pulling his glasses down to almost the tip of his nose and angling his head down a bit to read through the report on the top of the file.
With a small cough to clear his throat the doctor, an older man in his late forties, begins to speak. “Mr and Mrs Holmes. As you are well aware there have been many test carried out on young William here. We have had him to various specialists and I too have run my own tests and formulated my own diagnosis.”
Mrs Holmes shifts uncomfortably on her seat as her son wriggles around a bit, although not nearly as much as a two year old normally would.
“Physically there is nothing wrong with your son. His hearing and eyesight are perfect for a child of two. He has the same physical strength as any normal toddler and I can gladly give him a clean bill of health.
“Unfortunately the same cannot be said of his mental state.”
Mr Holmes reaches out and grabs his wife’s hand as a small sob leaves her mouth.
The doctor continues. “Your son does not speak, although it does appear he understands basic words. He is unable to carry out simple instructions that other two year olds are able to carry out. His coordination is far behind a child of his age should be.”
There is silence in the room as the parents process the information they have just been given.
“What exactly is wrong with our son, Doctor Rutherford?” Mr Holmes asks after a few moments. With a deep breath the doctor looks to Mr Holmes and answers his question, speaking slowly.
“We strongly believe that your son has a condition known as Dyspraxia, although without further test it is not a completely accurate diagnosis.”
“But what does that mean?” Mrs Holmes asks, holding her wriggling son closer to her chest.
“Essentially” the doctor begins “The neurons in your sons brain have not developed properly. Messages in his brain are not being carried out correctly. This is effecting Williams gross and fine motor skills. This would explain the lack of grace and co-ordination when it comes to Williams movement and also his lack of speech.
“He will, eventually be able to carry out these tasks but it will take a lot longer than normal. But it is not only his physical abilities that would be limited by this condition. His ability to learn what the other children around him will also be hampered. It will be slower and he may not be able to grasp what the other children learn, which will lead to frustration and anxiety.”
Mrs Holmes is no longer looking at the doctor. If she does she will get angry and she doesn’t want to do that, because if William sees her upset, he himself will become upset and no mother likes to see her children upset, so instead, she looks out the window to the park across the street as Doctor Rutherford continues to tell her all about how he believes her son will struggle to lead a normal life.
“What about treatment?” She hears her husband ask.
“There really isn’t much that we can do for William’s condition.”
Mrs Holmes frown’s at that. It isn’t his condition. He never asked for this, he didn’t bring it upon himself. This belonged to someone else long before it belonged to her son. She isn’t even sure she believes it is what is affecting her son.
“Constant repetitive actions and patience and understanding is really all we can offer at this time” the doctor tells them.
Again, silence descends upon the room.
“I understand your oldest son is somewhat of a genius?” The doctor asks quietly. Mrs Holmes nods as she thinks of Mycroft, seven years older than his brother, whom he dotes on.
“Then I beg that you do not seek to compare the two of them, for I assure you that young William here will not reach his level and trying to see that he does will only be setting him up for failure and disappointment.”
At this Mrs Holmes stands up so abruptly that she startles a small cry out of her usually silent son. “Thank you Doctor Rutherford, this information has certainly given us much to think about. We will be in contact. Oliver” and she turns to her husband, who has a slight bewildered look on his face, before she turns to leave the doctors office.
Quietly Oliver Holmes stands up, thanks the doctor and shakes his hand and then follows his wife out to the car.
“The man is a moron” Abigail Holmes declares as she straps her son into the car.
With a small smile Oliver slides into the drivers seat, secretly happy that his wife came to the same conclusion that he did. There was no such thing wrong with their son.
A second opinion would be had before the week was out.