When Sherlock was three years old, he could tell from his mother's parfume she is going out with his father. At age four, he read Aghata Christie's novels, and told who the murderer was at page twenty. After his seventh birthday he went to his brother and asked about the planets in the solar system. Mycroft frowned at him.
'Why do you ask?'
'Just tell me which is Neptun and I'll leave you alone with your stupid political sciences.' he begged.
'It's the eighth, the greenish one with the vertical ring.' he said annoyed.
'Thanks.' the little one said and ran off with a pack of astronomy books.
'Do you really need those?' called out Mycroft after him.
'Give me something better and I'll leave them.' the boy shouted back.
The elder pulled his eyebrows.
'What about Poirot?' he smiled challengingly. Sherlock stopped.
'What's that?' he asked.
'An Aghata Christie you probably don't know. Detective stories.'
The younger made a dissapointed face.
'I thought you would offer something interesting.'
'I thought you liked detective stories.'
Sherlock shrugged.
'I did. But now they are boring. I can tell you who the killer was after the first appearance.'
Mycroft grimaced.
'What if they tell you in the beginning?'
Sherlock watched him suspiciously.
'Why would they? What's the point in that? It takes the fun.'
Mycroft laughed.
'You said it's boring – so what's the fun in not telling who it was? If you know who was the murderer, you can examine his moves.'
The younger paced back to him and looked up him.
'Does a novel exists like that?' he asked interested.
'Well, yes. I won't say it's for seven years old, but yes, there exists one or two.'
The little boy made a mouth but then shrugged.
'Alright. Give it to me.'
The elder grinned and paced back in his room. He grabbed a thick book and walked back to him.
'Here, Crime and Punishment. Take care of it, it's from Mummy's library.'
The little one grabbed it from his brother's hand and ran away. Mycroft looked after him and sighed. I hope it will take down him for a while, and he won't ask me about everything he reads about... he thought and shook his head. He took his political science book and faced to the library.
Two short hours later Sherlock walked in the silence of the room. Mycroft sighed and closed his book. No personal space here at home, he thought.
'Yes, brother?' he forced a polite smile on his face. The younger walked to him and looked serious.
'You was right. I find it interesting. The mind of the murderer is quite exciting.' he said and paced out of the room. Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows and took down his coursebook and walked after his brother. He found him in the small sitting room lying on the ground on his belly and swinging his legs. He was deep lost in the book. Mycroft cleaned his troath to catch his attention.
'Hm?' was the only answer he got.
'How do you like it?' he asked calmly.
'I told you: I found it interesting.' the little one said.
'Yes, you did. However, isn't it scary? Rogya is distracted.'
'Yes, he is. Now leave me, I want to read.'
Sherlock did not even looked up from the text while the whole conversation. Mycroft pulled his eyebrows and turned and paced out from the room. Maybe it wasn't such a stupid idea to give him that book, he thought.
At seven twelve in the evening the housekeeper walked into the room and paced to the reading Sherlock.
'I'm sorry for disturbing you m'lord but the dinner is served. Your lord father and lady mother and lordling Mycroft are waiting for you only.'
She stood over the little boy and looked down upon him. He seemed not to hear her. She rolled her eyes and sat on her heels beside him.
'What are you reading, m'lord?' she asked kindly.
'Dostoevsky.'
The housekeeper frowned and stood up.
'Maybe I shall report to your lady mother.' she said waiting for reaction but when she didn't get one she paced out of the room. Moments later Sherlock's mother fetched up in the door. She crossed her arms and looked down on her son.
'Sherlock, everyone is waiting for you at the table. Daddy starts to think you refuse to come to dinner. I don't want to tell him he's right.' she said calmly but emphatically.
'I'm reading Mummy.'
'Yes, I see that. Dostoevsky, Mrs. Lowbrown told me. Who did you get that book from?' she asked more fretfully.
'From My. He said I could study the mind of a murderer and here I do it.'
'Alright, I take that book and you are coming to dinner. Give it to me.' she said frustrated. 'I'll have a word or two with your brother.' she added and took the book from Sherlock. He made an agry face but did not say anything. He'd learned for a time he couldn't argue with her mother when she was cross at him. So he stood up and followed her sulkingly.
When they reached the dining hall his father was out of patient already.
'Where have you been?!' he asked his son irately.
'I've been reading, sorry for being late.' he said on his childish tiny voice and sat down. He'd learned to answer his father, too, when he asks.
'You should learn not to be late at any circumstances.' he preached the little boy.
'Yes, father.' he said and began to eat.
The dinner was silent, as ever. After the beginning of the process of the divorce the parents did not speak to each other just in a presence of a lawyer. Sherlock hated it – not because his parents did not communicate, but because her mother did not protect him anymore from his father when he corroded him. It was always her, who stopped his father but not anymore. At least it does not leasts far till Daddy moves, Sherlock used to think those weeks.
After dinner George Holmes retired to rest and the two boys and their mother was left alone in the sitting room. The woman sighed and looked at her elder.
'Mycroft, why did you give your brother a Dostoevky?' she asked emphatically.
'I thought it would be interesting to him.' he said with a hint of guilt.
'It's a psychological novel; how did you think it would suit your seven years old brother?!' she asked again.
'He used to get bored on detective stories, but loved the murders – I thought it would be a new angle on the problem.' he explained.
'You are almost a man grown, Mycroft, and you now how reactive Sherlock is to people's moves. Didn't you think he could come round to that man's way of thinking?!' she said angrily and apprehensively. The boy frowned and blinked at his brother who sat leg-swinging in the other corner of the room sipping his chocolate milk.
'No, I did not.' he admitted a bit confused. Could Sherlock react on a character like this? he wondered.
'You should've.' his mother said seriously and stood and paced to her younger.
'Darling, it's time to shower. Go and I'll send Mrs. Lowbrown after you.' she said warmly.
'I don't need her, I can take a shower by myself.' he shrugged and walked out of the room. His mother sighed and squeezed her brow. Mycroft stood and walked to her – they watched after the seven years old genious. He made a mouth.
'I think he'll be alright. He's not average, but no psychopat at least.' he shrugged.
'I hope so. I really does.' his mother sighed. 'You know what the school terapist said?' she halted a moment to strenghten herself. 'She said there's a chance Sherlock suffers autism spectrum disorder or – God be merciful – sociopatism.' she turned to her son. 'Mycroft, when did you see him feel guilt about anything?' she asked alarmed. Her son frowned and sank into his deep memories about his brother.
'About a year ago, when he used my microscope without permission. Then Daddy made fun of his research and he went serious and quiet after it.' he halted a moment and glanzed at his mother. 'Maybe it's just a trauma he have to get over and he'll be himself again. After the divorce, maybe.'
His mother sighed desperately.
'I hope you are right, dear.' she whispered.
'He'll be alright.' said Mycroft and turned to the door. 'I'm sorry Mummy I have to learn macroeconomy.'
'F'course.' she forced a smile on her face and waved to her son. 'Go and study. Good night.'
'Good night, Mummy.' he said and walked to the stairs and up to his room. His mother was left alone in the warm room with her desperate thoughts and sat down on the sofa. What would I do if the terapist is right?... she asked herself and wiped a rolling tear off her face. Whatever happens, he's my son. My sweet little Sherlock. My dear boy.
At nine Sherlock opened his brother's door and let himself in his room. Mycroft was sitting at his desk leaning upon a thick book. He looked up when he heard his brother entering.
'You should be in bed, Sherlock.' he said impassively. The younger climbed up on his bed and sat down comfortably.
'Why does Sonya read the Bible to Rogya?' he asked wondered. Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows and sighed.
'I guess because she wants to bring home to him that there's forgiving and mercy in the world whatever you've done before.' he said calmly. The little face went thinking.
'What does it matter to her? Rogya is a killer and have to be punished. However, there's no forgiving in the world.'
Mycroft sighed.
'It matters to her because she cares about him.' he explained. The younger frowned harder.
'Why? What's the point in caring, My?' he asked.
'Look, Sherlock.' he began 'Mummy cares about us. She cares about my studies and your health. There's no why – she loves us, like Sonya loves Rogya. That's all.'
'But there's no point in it. If you care, you got hurt, like Daddy hurts Mummy.'
'And you...' Mycroft said quietly. The little one frowned again.
'He can't hurt me 'cause I don't care about him. I don't care about anyone except you and Mummy.'
Mycroft smiled a bit.
'You're right, Sherlock, there's no point in caring. But that's what people do – they care. I can't say why, it's just their nature.'
'Not my.' Sherlock shrugged and got down on the bed. 'Good night, My.' he said and paced out of the room.
'Good night, Sherlock.' Mycroft said and shook his head. He's clever enough to see the way of the world – he should be clever enough to act as if he would like to be the part of it, he thought and went back to his studies.
Next morning Sherlock was late from breakfast. His all family was sitting and eating in the dining room, when he arrived at last. His father grimaced at him.
'Ah, good morning Sleeping Beauty. Good to see you did not forgot to visit your family occasionally.' he said sarcastically. His mother rolled her eyes and cleaned her troath.
'Sherlock, you have to go to school, remember? You mustn't be late.' she warned him.
'Know.' he answered curtly and sat down and bit his toast. His mother watched him.
'You know Mycroft goes back to Eton today, don't you?' she asked wearily. Sherlock frowned and looked at his brother. He pulled up his eyebrows and sighed.
'Yes, Sherlock, it's twenty-second of May.'
'Twenty-second?' he hummed.
'And Monday. Yes. 8 am. Anything else in connection with the date?' their father said annoyed.
'Hurry up, the school starts at 8:30. Don't annoy your teacher too much, Sherlock.' Mycroft said and stood. 'Mummy, Daddy, I ask for permission to leave, I have to pack my goods.'
'Go, dear.' his mother said while his father hummed and nodded. Mycroft left the room.
'Sweetheart, go and pack in your books and parts. The car will be here in any moment.' his mother told him, and Sherlock did not waste a moment. He hated to be left alone with his parents. That was why he hated when Mycroft was in the college. The dinings. He hated to behave like a good boy, he hated her mother's looks when he made a bungle, he hated his father's comments on every deed of his. He hated it the most of all.
At 8:15 a shiny black car stopped in front of the house and a man in an expensive suit got out of it. He paced to the front door and rang the bell. Mrs. Lowbrown opened the door and let the man in. He stopped in the hall and waited. Sherlock knew the process without looking out of his window. He hated it too. The school mornings, the all system he had to live in. He learned it not to say anything about it to his mother or anyone else, although he hated it from all his heart. Once he asked for privat-docent, but after the first lesson the teacher gave up and reported to his mother that it was beyond possibility to handle him and she decided the school was still the better option. So he got back to his class and no one ever mentioned privat-docents anymore. He got used to it – the class –, however he never understood why the others behaved so childish. He and Mycroft were so different: they never wanted to play hide-and-seek or hare-and-hounds on the court, they never giggled at the other's falls or ran after balls like puppies. He sat down on a band and watched the others. This happened every day.
This day was sunny and warm more than before and the form teacher decided to take the children down on the court and let them play for a few hours. He gave the boys a football and devided them in two groups. When he finished, the boys ran out to play, and he caught sight of the skinny curly on the band. He frowned and paced to him.
'Mr. Holmes, I missed your absence by creating the teams. Would you like to join the game?' he asked him gently.
'No, sir.' the kid answered not looking at him. The form teacher frowned.
'Would you mind if I sit down beside you?' he asked. Sherlock lifted his eyes up at him and frowned. He hesitated for a moment and answered cautiously.
'No, sir.'
The man sat down beside him on the band and sighed.
'Could I ask you why don't you want to play with the other boys? Did they hurt you?'
'No, sir.' the child answered his eyes fixed on the distance.
'Then, would you be so kind to explain to me?' he asked.
'No, sir.' Sherlock replied coldly.
'Mr. Holmes, your teacher asked you. Be bright and answer him.' he said more darkly. The lad looked at him in the eyes.
'You take care of fourteen pupils, a dog – sorry, a dog and a cat –, a wife and two children. You do not need to take care of me, sir.' Sherlock said without flinching. The teacher looked horrored.
'How... Where do you know about my family and pets? Who told this all to you?!' he said astonished.
'There are animal-hairs on your jacket and a family picture in your office which I saw for a moment when my mother brought me to you when she put me to school. Nobody told me about them, only you.' he shrugged. The man stood up and cleaned his troath to collect himself.
'With me, Mr. Holmes, now.' he said coldly and started to pace towards the building. Sherlock sighed and followed him in quiet. Why they always took me to the principal when I tell them things? he wondered while pacing after the form teacher. He knew the way exactly, so he was surprised when they turned a corner which lent to the infirmary. He frowned but followed the teacher. He stopped before a door which was somehow familiar to Sherlock.
'Now, you'll talk to Miss Roseberg for a couple of hours, Mr. Holmes. Please be honest.' he knocked on the door and when he got the permission he entered.
'Good morning, Miss Roseberg.' he greeted the young woman with an official smile.
'Morning, Mr. Dairmoore. How can I help you?' she smiled at him.
'I brought up Mr. Holmes, who wants to speak to you about his talent.' he pressed the last word. The woman pulled up her eyebrows.
'Well, then lead him in, sir.' she said philosophically. The man pushed Sherlock in and closed the door behind him. He recalled some memories about this place, and about this woman, but he decided he probably managed to forget it.
'Please, sit down, Sherlock.' the woman's friendly voice invited him. He paced to the sofa and sat down cautiously, never letting the woman's eyes go, searching her face.
'How do you do, Sherlock?' she asked. Sherlock. No one called him at his forename in the school.
'Thank you, ma'am.' he answered cautiously. She laughed a bit.
'It was a question, Sherlock, you should answer, not thank it. But never mind, here you can say whatever you want.' she leaned back in her armchair.
'So, why are you here? What's your talent? she turned to the case. Sherlock frowned and looked at her again. Back from childbirth recently, has a small dog, maybe two. Never worked in office, her skirt is not made for it. From her makeup, she likes to go out in the evening, though she can't because of the baby. Loves her boyfriend.
'Why don't you wed?' he asked suddenly. She staggered.
'Sorry, what?' she bopped out.
'Your boyfriend and you. It would be better for the baby. Leastwise Mummy always tells me.' he wondered. The woman gawped without a sound. After a moment she shook her head and blinked at the boy.
'I understand now why Mr. Daimoore turned to me.' she faltered out. Sherlock shrugged.
'Let's see.' the woman cleared her troath. 'Sherlock, what did you say to your form teacher?'
'I asked him not to waste his time on caring me.'
'Why did you say that to him?' she asked. Sherlock shrugged.
'He didn't want to let me be.' he replied dryly.
'Do you want him to let you be alone?'
Sherlock frowned.
'Yes.' he answered coldly.
'Why?' she asked.
Sherlock frowned harder, and searched the woman. What does she want from me? he wondered, and did not answered the question, but leaned his head at one side.
'How old is she?' he narrowed his childy eyes. The woman smiled confused.
'Sorry, who?' she blinked blankly.
'The baby. What age is she?' asked the child again. The woman shook her head and sighed.
'She's ten months. Back to you, please.' she said with a painted smile. Sherlock shrugged.
'I don't want to talk.' The psychologist sighed.
'Sherlock, you have to understand, it is important you to speak. It is important to me, your form teacher, your mother. Do you understand this?' she tried to reach him from emotional side. The boy looked at her and searched her face. What does she want?
'Yes.' he nodded after a minuit. The psychologist sighed relieved, and sat back in her chair.
'Alright then. So let's begin it again. Where do you know about me, or your form teacher?' she asked seriously. Sherlock shrugged.
'I see.'
The woman bent her brows and searched him closer.
'What do you see?' she asked cautiously. The boy sighed wearied and rolled his eyes.
'Your breasts are bigger than necessary, but from their shape it is not silicone, so a baby then, but I do not see ring on your finger, so the father is your boyfriend, not your husband, but you love him if you kept the baby, that's why I don't understand why don't you marry, Miss.' he deduced. The woman sat astonished, unable to say a word, goggling her eyes at him, cannot decide to be furious or amazed. Sherlock looked at her and saw the sympthoms, and exhaled annoyed. An other person he scorched.
After a minuit the woman came to sense, and shook her head.
'Alright, Sherlock, I'll speak to your mother again. Maybe she can exhort on you.'
Again? Sherlock narrowed his eyes but did not react.
'You may leave now.' the woman waved him out. 'Go back to your class, and do not provoke Mr. Daimoore again.' she thumbed her notes. Sherlock left without a word. He wasn't in tune for going back down the yard, so he wandered a bit on the empty corridors of the school – he did not noticed it was nearly an hour till he got back to his own classroom. He entered it, and realized he missed a lesson.
'Where've you been, Holmes?! Back to the shrink?' a fat boy with an american accent flouted. Sherlock gave him a cutting glance but otherwise cheeked him. The others laughed at him laudly, while he paced to his seat and sat down with self-esteem. He started to compose a piece for piano trio in G-minor. He was deep in his thoughts when the teacher stepped in, and was still composing when the lesson ended. The bell waked him from his thoughts, and that the others were packing.
'Are you lost in your brain, Holmes?' the fat boy laughed taking on his bag. 'Or you don't want to go home to your wicked daddy?' he continued flouting at him. Sherlock stood up and packed his bag, ignoring the boy's insults. The other sat on the desk and crossed his arms.
'Or is it your mommy you don't want to see? If I had a mother like that I wouldn't either want to see her.' he taunted him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and counted all the points he could hit him to do painful damages but not to hurt him permanently. Once he read a book about the japanese material arts and he practiced on a puppet, and now he was able to do injuries healing above eight days. He tought about to hit the boy, but then he thought about Mycroft and his mother, and he decided to ignore him. He learned it from Mycroft – to ignore people. He'd never been interested in them, but when younger they annoyed him – till his brother told him how to ignore them. It was easy for him, Sherlock thought many times, he was older. Mycroft seemed not to notice people if he didn't want to, there could be anything if he wasn't interested. It was harder to Sherlock, he noticed everything, he couldn't lock it out, it was impossible for him. There were times when he did not see other way but to fly, to go away from the stimuli, when home, to the forest, when at school, to the laboratory. But now it was only a bully. He got used to them.
He took his bag and paced over the boy to the door, ignoring the other's laughter and taunting words. He paced towards the waiting room, and found his driver sitting on a chair, playing with his keys, apparently bored. When he entered the room, the man stood up, paced to him and took the bag from him.
'Bad day, sir?' he asked the little one. He shrugged.
'Not worse than other times.' he said and started towards the gate – and noticed that the driver did not followed.
'What's?' he turned back.
'I'm sorry, sir, but lady Mrs. Holmes ordered me to bring you up to the school therapist.' the man answered, waiting for the boy to follow him. Sherlock frowned thinking at him, but then followed with calm steps.
When they arrived to the infirmary, he found his mother standing in front of the door he was forced to enter in the afternoon. He paced to his mother and looked up to her.
'Why are we here, Mummy?' he asked without interest. Her mother forced a smile on her face and reached to touch his little face.
'Miss Roseberg phoned me a few hours ago, and told me about how you behaved. I thought it would be better if we talked togheter. Do you protest?' she asked her son. Sherlock shrugged and stepped to the door. Her mother sighed and knocked on it.
'Enter, please.' the woman's voice was heard from inside. Violet opened the door and let themselves in.
'Good afternoon, Miss Roseberg.' she smiled politely at the psychologist. She stood up to greet her.
'Good afternoon, Mrs. Holmes. Please, take a seat.' she offered, and sat back too. Violet waved Sherlock to sat down, and she sat down too.
'Well, Miss Roseberg, you turned to me with worrying tidings. I thought it would be better to speak about it with Sherlock in the room.'
'As you wish, Mrs. Holmes.' the woman nodded. 'As you probably know, Sherlock was sent to me by his form teacher, because of an extraordinary behave, one, we don't exactly understand.'
'I guess he told things he's not in reach to know.' Violet cut her off. The psychologist nodded and cleared her troath.
'You may understand, ma'am, that we cannot let our lives spoken out in the school. Mr. Daimoore is afraid that Sherlock sooner or later began to make notes about the children's families. As you know, our pupils are from influential families, it will cause scandal if their secrets reached public.'
'I share your fears, Miss Roseberg, but you have to understand that Sherlock does want to do no harm to the school nor the families. Children speak out their secrets nonetheless, if Sherlock notice them or not. However, I'll ask a specialist to teach Sherlock how to ignore the facts he learns by watching, if it pleases you.' she said with dark face.
'In the name of the principal, I thank you, Mrs. Holmes.' the therapist nodded, and the mother and the boy stood up.
'Have a nice day, Miss Roseberg.' Violet nodded to her.
'Have a nice day, Mrs. Holmes.' the woman told and watched them exit the room. As the door closed behind them, Sherlock turned to his mother with an asking face.
'I cannot ignore the facts, Mummy.' he said.
'Neither I told you have to.' she answered proudly. 'I told I'll ask a specialist to teach you how to pretend you doesn't see them.' she said. Sherlock searched her face and noticed a hint of cunning.
'What specialist?' he asked with narrowed eyes.
'A specialist in you.' she answered with a sly smile. Sherlock bent his brows. 'Your brother.' she winked at him and giggled merrily. She realized she did not have better idea for ages.
'My?' Sherlock asked cagily.
'Yes.' she nodded.
'He's in Eton.' Sherlock noted.
'Yes, he is. But the way to Eton is hardly more than an hour, and as Mycroft's weekends are quite free, he'll be glad to see you.' she expounded. 'And, as I can see, there's no one other who you listen. So yes, you'll go and see your brother in weekends.'
Sherlock frowned, but did not look at her face, just paced beside her his head lowered. When they exited the school, the driver opened the car's door to him and his mother, and soon they were driving home to Pulborough Residence. When they arrived, his mother let Sherlock go in to the garden, and she phoned Mycroft in Eton. The boy seemed surprised to get a call.
'Good afternoon, Mummy.' Violet heard her elder's voice in the receiver.
'Mike, dear. We had an accident in the afternoon, and I may need your help. Please, confirm that Sherlock listens to you.' his mother asked excited, and Mycroft frowned on the other end of the line.
'I guess, yes.' he said puzzled.
'I guess, too.' he heard his mother's voice. 'In the school there was a little scandal around your brother, and I would like to ask you to help me with it.' she said more darkly.
'What did he do?' Mycroft asked sighing.
'He told the teachers about their lives, and they're afraid of the secrets of the pupils' families. They don't want Sherlock to speak out slippery things, and I promised I'll find someone who'll teach him how to pretend blindness.' she hold a moment. 'It is you, Mike.' she finished. The elder sighed and rolled his eyes.
'I'm sorry, Mummy, but I have to prepare to my exams, my weekends are occupied. I don't see any possibilities to attend to Sherlock considering our timetables aren't harmozied, therefore we don't have free time in the same hours.' Mycroft explained which sat his mother in thinking.
'Maybe after school. Do you have any free time around two in the afternoon? Any day.' she asked alarmed.
'I've got an hour on Mondays between two and three, but as I recall, Sherlock's got geography at one which he cannot miss for some advise.'
'Leave it to me.' his mother's voice was determined as she hung on. And she was determined. If Sherlock would miss the geography course, let it be. This case was more of importance.
She made two other calls, and it was done: Sherlock would go to Eton on every Monday, to be with his brother, till necessary. She felt satisfied. She paced in the garden to find his youger son. He found him near the bird feeder as he made notes about the birds. He did not look up for her coming, just said
'The titmouses fed calm till a blackbird comes, but then they fly away. If a bigger bird – lets say a jay – comes, every other bird flies.' he looked up at her. 'I make a study on the fear of the animals. It would make easier to understand the humen's.' he explained and turned back to his notebook. His mother smiled, as always when her son made things not common to his age, But now she did not just watch. She stepped closer to gain his attention.
'Sherlock, may we speak?' she asked the boy. He looked up and searched her face frowning.
'What about?'
'About your specialist.'
'I thought we spoke about it. My is occupied, as he always is. I did not want to dissapoint you, but now when you've spoken to him, you know it too.' he shrugged. His mother smiled cagily.
'Yes, I've spoken to him, that's true. But he said he could attend to you.'
'Attend?' Sherlock looked up frowning. He did not liked when people spoke about him like about an object.
'Be.' Violet corrected herself. 'Be with you. I asked him to be with you, on Mondays. You'll be drived to Eton at one and come back at three. You'll be at home for tea.' she smiled at him. Sherlock frowned harder.
'I have geography course at one.' he said cautiously. His mother sighed.
'Yes, I know that. But I thought you'll be better with your brother than to learn about rivers and planets and clima.' she swallowed. Now come the hard part. 'So, what do you say?'
'You're afraid I'll say no?' he blinked at his notebook. 'Your pupils narrowed, your breath halted for a moment. The birds do the same when they notice the bigger coming.' he expounded. His mother did not surprised, she was used to these scenes. She laughed a bit and reached for his shoulder.
'Yes, I'm a bit afraid you'd better be in school than with Mike.'
'Mycroft.' Sherlock turned his face to her. 'He hates Mike.' he told. His mother rolled her eyes.
'Alright. Would you like to see Mycroft at Eton on Mondays?' she asked again. The little one seemed to think, but then shrugged.
'I think so, yes.' he turned back to his notebook. His mother's face lapsed in a merry smile.
'Right.' she cheered, and gave a kiss on the black curls. 'I'm very happy you'll do it for me.' she stood up, and watched her son deepening back in his notes. She was happy, truly. It seemed the problems would be solved for a while. But for what time?... she thought while pacing back to the house. If Sherlock wouldn't know geography, it was not such a big problem. But if he doesn't know life... It was more of importance.
Through the week there wasn't more interaction between Sherlock and his teachers, apart from small cases, like he answered their questions in a regard which noone could follow – however, they got used to it along the year the little boy went to the school. At the next Monday he stood up at one pm, and walked out of the classroom: his mates' eyes widened as the teacher stepped in the room and nodded to the boy, not asking a single question, just letting him leave.
'Where's he going?' Sherlock heard the american accent behind him, and his mouth lapsed into a nasty smile: he liked when he stood above others – just like he thought his place was.
He walked along the empty corridors, down the stairs, and out of the main gate, where the black-suited driver waited for him. He noticed mud on his shoes – he was on the racecourse again, Sherlock thought, but did not say a word; he quite of liked the driver: he never spoke more than 'Good morning, sir' or 'Have a nice day, sir', and otherwise let him be. And he always obeyed – well, till he did not asked something opposite of his mother's commands. Time to time he tried to play out the man for his own will, but it didn't worked. Still, he liked his silence.
Mycroft was aware of his arrive, still he waited for him in the front door of the main building of the Eton College. He waited till the driver opened the door of the car and his little brother get off. The two Holmes' stood opposite of each other and searched each other's face: Sherlock with interest what his brother will do to him, and Mycroft with the same question: what will he do to the boy standing in front of him? - only with confuse. Then the elder sighed greeted the younger.
'Good afternoon, Sherlock. How do you do?' he asked with a polite smile.
'Hi, Mycroft.' the little boy answered but did not move. Mycroft grimaced painfully and waved to his brother.
'C'mon, we have things to do.' he said, and turned to pace into the building. Sherlock followed him, still interested in his methods. They paced beside each other for a time, till Mycroft stopped in front of a simple door, and opened it, and waved Sherlock in. The boy obeyed, and stepped into the room: it was a small place with bookshelves and some leader sofas and a coffee table. Mycroft directed Sherlock to the sofa, and sat down next to him. He searched the face of the younger for a minuit, and then sighed.
'I'll be honest, Sherlock, I don't know why you are here, and I don't know what I could do for you. Mummy said you spoke out your teacher's personal life...'
'I just told what I saw.' the little one shrugged. Mycroft sighed, and rubbed his brow.
'Why?' he asked.
'It just happened.'
It was silence for a while as the elder studied his brother, and then sighed again.
'Look, Sherlock, people are different. They are stupid and unimportant, but they think they are the hub of the universe. They protect their little lives as it would be of any importance, and they get scared if it turns out it's not so well hidden as they want it to be.' he sighed again. 'For you and me it is clear as the sky what they do or think, but they think no one knows that. They are all dumb-heads, they don't see through they eyes. You are faster than them, and they can't accept this fact. However, they are more in number than us, so let them be. You don't have to be one of them, just don't bother them. Do not deal with them, and they won't deal with you. You are above them, so why would you care?'
Sherlock frowned at his brother cautiously.
'Shouldn't I do observations?' he asked. Mycroft sighed and leaned forward in the sofa.
'Could you do that?' he asked seriously.
'No.'
'Then why do you ask?' he frowned. He knew it wasn't about will, the observations came like breathing for them. 'I don't say you shouldn't observe, just keep it to yourself. Knowledge is power, remember this. Maybe you won't be in a high place, but if you know things, it would bring you through people, closer to your goals. But if you say what you know, it casts it's power.'
Sherlock remembered the words, and tried to construe them. He knew Mycroft knew more than he, and he respected him for that, but now he couldn't make anything out of his words. He looked at him for help, and Mycroft noticed the confusion on his face. He sighed and forced a smile on his face.
'Look, Sherlock, I simplify it to you: just don't tell out people's personal things. Don't speak about their families, their pets, their stupidity, anything. Don't speak to them at all, if necessary. I'm here if you want to speak to someone. Mummy told you'll be sent here every Monday, so keep your observations to me. Remember them, and tell them to me, and no one else. Right?' he looked deep into the little's blue eyes, and waited, till he nodded. Then he sighed and sat back relieved in the sofa.
'So, what do we do now, as your little problem is solved?' he asked Sherlock, who grimaced and shrugged. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and looked around in the room, and his eyes got caught on the edge of a book. He smiled slied, and turned to his brother.
'Let's tell me what did you read last time from Crime and Punishment.'