Sherlock huffed, and threw yet another large volume aside. His eyes were aching from reading small print for hours, and he was nearly to the bottom of what had been a daunting stack.

He still hadn't found what he was looking for. (False. He found things that could be what he was looking for, but didn't like them. They were discarded.) He was running out of options and patience.

The books were too old, he decided. Outdated. They were dusty with thin pages that threatened to tear if he impatiently flicked through them.

He needed more.

More data. More books. MORE.

And apparently this stupid public library was not the place he was going to find the answers he was looking for.

Mycroft found him shortly after that, Sherlock remembered, and took him home. He still hadn't found the answers he was looking for, and even though his brother asked if he could help, Sherlock could tell he was being nosy, and not actually being helpful.

Mycroft told Mother where he'd been, and what he'd done, and he was punished by having his chemistry set taken away for a week.

He didn't speak to Mycroft for a month.

Years later, he found what he was looking for. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't find it before, because his research skills were nearly as good at eight as they were at thirty, but because of the years.

Not until 1992 for the ICD-10, and 1994 for the DSM-IV.

He took little comfort in that fact.

He could still remember the harsh disappointment of returning home with no answers, and the added sting of a week with no experiments.