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Rated: E · Chapter · Fanfiction · #1909967
Sherlock fanfiction. Sherlock Holmes wasn't liked in school. But why is that?
Sherlock was five years old, and dead to the world as he slept like a rock.

Mr. Holmes had found Sherlock, his butt sticking up in the air under a pile of blankets driving off the night chill, and laughed, before deciding to let Sherlock sleep in a few minutes. After all, it was Sherlock's first day of school, and he didn't want a crabby Sherlock. He got too...mouthy.
Mycroft had gone upstairs after breakfast, and found Sherlock just waking up, rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes, his mop of black curls mused, and his small frame shivering slightly. Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom, before reemerging, and looking up to find his mother standing in the hallway. Sherlock grinned at her.
“Hi Mummy.”
“Hi, baby.” He held his arms out, and she picked him up. Sherlock was small for his age. He looked a lot younger, and sounded six times older. His pirate footie pajamas had made him look like a toddler. It was absolutely adorable, however, and even Mycroft often caved to his every demand when he was dressed like that. Mrs. Holmes dropped Sherlock in a chair at breakfast, and Mr. Holmes looked up, laughing.
“You finally up, son?”
“Yes, Father.” Sherlock said, grinning. Mrs. Hudson came in and kissed the top of his curly head, before giggling.
“You look so little in those pajamas, Sherlock.” He smiled up at her.
“But they're my favorite Mrs. Hudson.” He had a lisp, so it came out sounding a bit more like “But they're my favorite Mrths Hudthson.” She giggled and rumpled his already messy hair. He bit into a piece of toast, and looked up when Mycroft came in. “Didn't you already have breakfast, Mycroft?”
“Of course, Sherlock. However, I did want to wish everyone good morning.” Mycroft may have been twelve, but he spoke like a thirty year old man. “Good morning, Mummy, Mrs. Hudson, Father.”
“Morning son.” Mr. Holmes said. “I was wondering, would you mind meeting up with Sherlock after school every day? It's an easier pick up.”
“No, I wouldn't. Would it be easier if you dropped me off at Sherlock's school, and I walked from there.” Something in Mycroft had decided Sherlock didn't need to be totally alone for his first day.
“Of course.” Sherlock grinned at his brother. “Why didn't we think of that? I'll drop you two off today, I've got a meeting out that way anyway.” Mr. Holmes said. Sherlock finished off his toast, and ran upstairs to change his clothes. He pulled on his uniform of a tie (which he hated) dress shirt, dress pants, and a blazer. Mycroft dressed similarly, although he was also sporting a pair of dress shoes. In primary school, the school decided that the first years were too young for dress shoes, and would promptly destroy them. They all wore plain black trainers instead. Sherlock pulled on his lighter coat, his backpack, and ran downstairs for his brother, mother, and father.
“By Mummy.” Sherlock said, squeezing her and kissing her.
“Now, Mycroft, I'll be picking you two up, but I'll be late. There's a cafe on Baker street, just a few blocks away. It's called Speedy's. Go to it, and I'll pick you up there.”
“Of course, father.” Mr. Holmes handed Mycroft some money. “I'll take good care of Sherlock, not to worry.” Mr. Holmes nodded, and clapped his son on the shoulder.
“I don't worry about how good you are to your brother.” Sherlock and Mycroft followed their father to his car, and scrambled in. The whole way there, Sherlock asked questions about his new school, and why his favorite cousin Roger couldn't go too.
“Because Roger lives too far away right now.” Sherlock was sad. Roger, so far, had been his only real friend. But, he decided, that was going to change. Sherlock wanted a friend.
When they got to school, Sherlock looked scared. Mycroft knew that Sherlock's Autism would start kicking in the second they left the safety of the car. So, grabbing his brother's hand, they both bravely made their way to the school. Mycroft, a victim of Aspberger's himself, had been just as terrified. In the end, he was now popular, well loved, and top of his year.
“Can you stay?” Sherlock whispered, terrified.
“No, I can't. But I don't have to be there for a little longer.” Mycroft's first day was a later start, so they could prepare more for the upcoming school year. Mycroft took Sherlock's hand, and lead him to the classroom. They went in, and found several parents and children sitting around.
“Hello, Mycroft!” Mrs. Weaver had been the only one to get Mycroft to open up in his first year. “Is this your brother?”
“Yes, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Mrs. Weaver. Why don't you go hang up your stuff?” Sherlock nodded shyly.
“Now, Sherlock, there are hooks with your names on it. If you have any trouble finding it, please feel free to ask.” Sherlock nodded, and ran towards the hooks in the back of the classroom.
“Mrs. Weaver, Sherlock is terribly intelligent for his age.”
“Like his brother before him.” Mycroft blushed.
“Thank you. But, he's also Autistic. Father did get early intervention in him quickly enough, but it hasn't seemed entirely enough.” Sherlock was looking at each hook. “He already can read and write, and do basic multiplication, but I worry for his ability to make friends.”
“Don't worry. I helped you, honey.” Mrs. Weaver, who had been young, beautiful, and a brand new teacher when Mycroft had her, was Mycroft's first crush, although he didn't recognize what it was back then. He smiled.
“Thank you.” Sherlock looked to his brother, and tried to reach. He smirked. “I promise, he really is five, he's just...”
“More like microscopic, but small may be less of an esteem cruncher.” Mycroft said, going to pick his brother up, and let him hang up his things by himself.
“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered. “Mycroft, do you have to go?”
“I do. Wait for me here after school, all right?” Sherlock nodded.
“Okay.” They hugged, and Sherlock watched his brother leave. He found his desk, and sat down, looking downcast at his desk. Mrs. Weaver was surprised he didn't go play with the others. She approached, and crouched down in front of his desk.
“Hi. I'm Mrs. Weaver.” Sherlock looked uncertainly at her, not quite meeting her eyes, and unsure of what to say. “Mycroft tells me you can read.” Sherlock nodded. “You must like reading, huh?” Sherlock nodded shyly a second time. “What else do you like?” Sherlock was quiet for a moment.
“I like playing pirates.” He said, his voice higher pitched, and shy. She smiled at him.
“Pirates are fun. Does Mycroft play too?”
“Yeah, and he's good at it too. But...he doesn't tell people that.” Sherlock said bashfully. “So you can't tell him I said anything, all right?”
“All right, sweetheart.” Sherlock liked his new teacher. “What else do you like to do?”
“Um...I like watching science documentaries on the telly.” She wasn't very surprised. Mycroft had said he liked reading political magazines the first time she met him.
“Does your brother help you understand them?”
“No, he's busy with his friends. I ask Mummy, and she'll find me books or magazines on what I don't understand. It's fascinating. My favorite is Chemistry.” She grinned.
“Well, we'll have to hear all about this another day. Soon, though, we have to start class. Okay?” Sherlock nodded eagerly, and sat quietly in his desk. Once the other children got there, class had begun.
“I want all of you to introduce yourselves.” There were several kids Sherlock had watched carefully, and decided that they weren't nice. The first boy was Malcolm Flynn.
“I'm Malcolm Flynn, and I like doing karate.” After a while, Sherlock saw a pretty girl go next.
“I'm Kirsty Jonas, and I like playing with my baby brother.” It was Sherlock's turn soon. He was afraid, but Mrs. Weaver had smiled at him and looked encouraging, so he put on a brave face. He knew Mycroft, and probably Mummy, would be proud.
“I'm Sherlock, and I like to play pirates with my brother Mycroft.” Some of the kids laughed.
“Pirates are cool.” The girl Kirsty said.
“He has a funny name.” Malcolm said.
“Now, children, that's not nice. Maybe Sherlock thinks your name's are funny. Maybe you should ask him why his name is different than other people's names. Or, maybe, leave it alone.” Sherlock blushed.
“My uncle is named Sherlock.” He muttered. She smiled. She had dealt with the same problems with Mycroft, but he wasn't as shy or scared.
“See, he had a perfectly good reason. Now, say your sorry to Sherlock.” They looked at him and muttered their apologies. Kirsty didn't though, but that was okay. Sherlock knew she had said something nice.
After that, they talked about the rules. Like no hitting, and no name calling. Sherlock didn't like that last rule. Pirates was hard to play when you couldn't call people names. Maybe if he stuck with “matey” it would be okay. After that, was math. She decided to test them on their adding. While a lot of them had known the basic adding, very few knew subtracting, Sherlock being one of them.
“Let's try this one. What's eight times eight.” Nobody answered. “Nobody?”
“Sixty four.” Sherlock finally blurted out. The room went quiet.
“Very good, Sherlock! I'm impressed! Come here, you want a sticker?” Sherlock made his way to the front of the room, and she handed him a sheet of stickers. They all had monkeys on them, and one was dressed like a pirate.
“This one!” Sherlock said quietly. She stuck it to his blazer, and he went back to his seat. The others looked mad.
At lunch, Sherlock accidentally sat at a table full of second years, who were polite in their hello's, but ignored him after that. Sherlock didn't mind. He'd rather eat his pizza.
When Sherlock went outside, he didn't know what to do. While normal children saw the playground as just a playground, it was Sherlock's pirate ship, and the trees were giant waves. The crows and pigeons were seagulls, and the random branches were people falling overboard. Sherlock also had never played with someone his age before. He didn't know how. So, he decided to play by himself. First, he ran up the stairs to get to the slide, and imagined he was being asked to walk the plank. His conversations were in his brain.
After that, he slid down the slide, and ran towards the jungle gym, where he climbed to the top, pretending he'd found a huge pile of gold. He stood on top, triumphant, and looked out. He thought to himself It's all mine, and Mycroft doesn't get any. He dropped down between a set of bars, and landed in a fashion too agile for a five year old to run off to the monkey bars. He swung on them, pretending he was a pirate that was pretending to be a monkey, and swinging from vine to vine. After that...
He was out of ideas. That's why Mycroft needed to be here, he had good ideas. So, he sat down to rest. After all, pirates need a rest too.
“Look, it's the freak!” Malcolm shouted. Sherlock looked behind him, and couldn't figure it out. Where?
“Not behind you stupid. You're the freak.” Another one shouted. Sherlock noticed the boys were circling him.
“You can't answer questions no more. My mummy told me I'm the smartest boy in the whole world, and you can't mess it up for me.” Malcolm said. Sherlock didn't answer, he just stared at Malcolm. He wasn't sure how to reply to that. Sherlock had never been bullied before. “And tomorrow, you're going to answer a question wrong.”
“Just make him sit there like that, she'll notice.” Sherlock was scared. He wanted his mummy, and his favorite teddy bear, that Mycroft had named Captain Rob (so that Smith wasn't murder to the poor boy's lisp) and had given an old bandana and an eye patch.
“He's scared. Look at the little freak!”
“What a freak.” Sherlock wanted Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft. He wanted someone to rescue him. A whistle blew, and the boys ran away Sherlock got up, and went, sadly, to his classroom. He found his seat, and sad there, scared, sad, and alone.
The rest of the day, Sherlock had been called a freak when Mrs. Weaver wasn't paying attention. People laughed at him, and were mean. One boy even tripped him. But Sherlock didn't cry, he just sat there, because he didn't know how to react, to interact. And they laughed and made fun of him harder.
Sherlock had never been so grateful to find Mycroft approaching. He ran and hugged Mycroft tight.
“I missed you too.” He said, chuckling. Sherlock took Mycroft's hand, and they walked the few blocks to the cafe. Something had been bothering Sherlock, but Mycroft didn't ask. He didn't want to force Sherlock. That led to his...fits.
“Sherlock, do you have any homework?” Sherlock shook his head, and sat there. Mycroft pulled out the book he was reading, and started to read. Sherlock didn't mind the silence. The other boys had been so mean to him all day, that no words were all right with him. Sherlock drank his tea and barely touched his muffin. When Mr. Holmes picked them up a little bit later, Sherlock climbed into the back seat, and promptly went silent. Mr. Holmes knew something was seriously wrong with his son. He didn't press it, because he knew Sherlock was stubborn. When Sherlock got home, he went to his room, and stayed there.

It was like that for three weeks, until one day, Sherlock decided he was tired of Malcolm trying to say how smart he was.
“You aren't the smartest person in the world though.” Sherlock said finally. Malcolm stared in shock. “There's someone smarter out there, someone better.” Sherlock was terrified, but stood his ground. “You are smart, but my brother will always be the smartest one I know.” Sherlock thought Mycroft would rather like that.
“You are mean!” Malcolm shouted. He shoved Sherlock, and another boy shoved him back. The pushed him around, and Malcolm punched Sherlock in the face, and pushed him to the ground.
“That'll teach you to be nice to me. I'm the popular one, and you stay away from me. Freak.” He ran off. Sherlock was scared. He went into his classroom, and sat at his desk, his face down.
“Sherlock, you're back from lunch already?” Sherlock didn't say anything. His eye hurt, and he was sure Malcolm had given him a black eye. “What's wrong?” Sherlock looked at her, tears in his eyes. “Sherlock! What happened?” Sherlock burst into tears, and Mrs. Weaver scooped the little boy up, and held him in her arms.
“Nobody likes me.” Sherlock said. “Malcolm hit me.”
“I'm so sorry, Sherlock.” She set him down. “Do you want to go home?” Sherlock shook his head.
“No, I'll be okay. My brother will worry.” She smiled.
“You're such a good brother.” She said, smiling gently. “I hope things get better, Sherlock.” So did he.
After that, Sherlock never spoke a word to anyone. Accept in private to Mrs. Weaver.
© Copyright 2012 Lily Kingsten (thespynovelist at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1909967