The Life Autistic: The Story of Sherlock Hunter


Ah, yes, you probably remember inventing an imaginary persona for yourself as a child.

Probably a hero.

Likely someone cool.

My alter ego was Sherlock Hunter.

I’d only had passing familiarity with the character.

I drew myself with a deerstalker hat. Maybe a magnifying glass. I don’t quite recall the particulars as I do the colors.

Purple. Black and tan. Usually checkered.

Always curious.

It was such a prevalent thing of mine, I even remember my first grade teacher using it as an example.

“Some heroes have secret identities, like Sherlock Hunter and Hunter Hansen.”

It had me beaming.

It wasn’t until recently that I’ve sat down and wondered:

Why Sherlock Hunter?

I didn’t read the books. I was no good at mysteries. Didn’t care for hats. Terrible at science.

I was a first grader. Why did I do anything then?

But then, Mrs. H2 and I started rewatching the BBC Sherlock once again.

The first episode remains my favorite, if only because it introduces Sherlock so well. His otherness. His strangeness.

And I watch how he sees the world.


Callous. Cold.

Clued in, but clueless.

Loved or loathed. Nothing else

Hearing the other detectives call him “freak.”

Annoying, yet useful.

Virtually friendless.




That’s probably why it was Sherlock Hunter.



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