Mycroft had finished his essay on the different hunting techniques of African spiders, and was just about to enter the kitchen to prove to his mother that he could indeed write 3,000 words on a topic of her choice in under an hour.
He may only be 8, but he had already had access to the whole of the non-fiction section of his local library. All he had to do was close his eyes and bring up the relevant data.
He had borrowed the odd phrase from a few of the books, it felt like cheating, but his mother would never know. And it was a nice change to not have to reword an explanation purely because it lacked directness. Some encyclopaedia authors longed too much to be fiction writers.
Mycroft reached for the kitchen door handle when he overheard his father.
"We should send the boy to school. He would benefit from the company of children his own age."
Mycroft paused. This did not sound good. He'd heard about the school his father wished to send him to. It was a boarding school quite some distance away, and not that he was sentimental, but he could hardly leave his brother here, alone, with these people. They might try to send him to the local primary school. And that would just be a disaster for everyone.
The young boy was drawn out of his thoughts when he heard his mother argue.
"In a couple of years he'll be old enough to sit the 11+. It makes no sense to send him away now, it would be better if we introduce him to schooling that way."
Finally, someone was making some sense. A few years would give him enough time to prove to his parents once and for all that he did not need to go to school.
But wait something about that counter argument was unusual. He played it back in his mind, mouthing along with the words.
"11+" In his excitement over locating the confusion he'd accidentally spoken out loud.
He quickly covered his mouth, a strange habit that he had picked up from his father, and tiptoed back upstairs to do some research.
Given the context of the conversation in the kitchen, Mycroft could conclude that an '11+' was something to do with schooling, so he closed his eyes and called up a handful of school text books that would relate to a child who would be a few years older than himself, factoring in the brain capacity of a 'normal' child. "Nothing."
He called up some text books that were aimed at a high age range. "Nothing." A lower age range? "Nothing."
He tried searching around a bit, in the sections related to the text books, to see if there was something he had missed. And that's when he found it. A small revision booklet, half the size of a regular school exercise book. It had somehow fallen down the back of one of the shelves.
He made a mental note to do a stock count of his mental library before he fell asleep.
'How to pass your 11+' read the cover. Mycroft scolded himself for missing such a glaringly obvious title.
He flicked open to the introduction and began to read. 'Your 11+ is an important exam. The key is to closely read each and every question.' Mycroft squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and tried to ignore all the primitive grammar mistakes. This was research, research that will help him stay out of school for a few more years.
He massaged his temples, sighed and then forced himself to read on. 'This will guarantee that you will answer all questions to your best ability and therefore be placed in the school which is best suited to you.'
Well that was clear enough. It seemed that the 11+ was merely a form of entrance exam for 11 year olds.
"Finally, a chance to see how I compare to the 'normal' children." He flicked through the rest of the book, passed long division and homophones until he got almost to the end and found a practice paper. Or rather three practice papers.
Mycroft cleared a space on his desk, turned to the next blank page in his note book, and began to write down the questions.
At first he planned to write the questions down in blue, leaving a line under each for the answer to be inserted in black. But by the time he got to the third question, he found he had worked out the answer before even writing the question number.
He ended up just writing down a list of answers.
'180. 643' There that was the last one.
He checked his watch. 4 minutes and 43 seconds. He checked the book. "1 hour and 17 seconds to go."
He was surprised to find himself feeling upset. Not because he thought he could complete the test faster, because he could, there was no doubt about that. But because for the first time in his life he has solid evidence that he was different.
He had known that he was smarter than all that adults he has ever encountered, and so therefore it was logical that he was smarter than any child.
He was above average, yes. But until now it had never occurred to him quite how far above average he was.
The test had been too easy. Even a three year old could pass it.
He paused and replayed that last thought. 'Even a three year old could pass it.' He had a three year old test subject.
Sherlock.
The boy creped to his bedroom door and listened for a moment. There were muffled voices in the living room, the coast was clear.
He picked up his notebook and pen, before slipping out the door and into the next room, where a three year old Sherlock was just waking from his nap.
The older boy smiled, this would be fun.
Mycroft had deduced from the way his mother would proudly tell her friends that a three year old should not be able to speak as eloquently as Sherlock did. Though he gain pleasure in the comments which followed that indicated that he had shown more eloquence and at a much earlier age.
This meant that even though Sherlock may not be able to read and write. He would be able to verbally answer the questions Mycroft dictated to him.
Their mother also refused to start lessons with Sherlock until he was at least four years old. Luckily for Sherlock he had a marvellous older brother who was willing to take time out of his busy schedule to teach him the basics in math and English, even branching out into a little science on particularly slow days.
This '11+' exam would also be a great way to test his own teaching abilities thought Mycroft as a brief and unexpected wave of apprehension passed over him.
"Sherlock." The small boy looked up at his older brother with still sleepy but alert eyes, hungry for another lesson.
"I have a few questions for you to warm up that dull little brain of yours. If you answer them correctly I'll read you the paper on human blood flow that I found this morning."
Sherlock's ears seemed to prick up when he heard the mention of Mycroft reading him a paper.
"But first you must get the questions correct" Repeated the older boy. "Number 1. Correctly punctuate the following sentences; jane asked why is the light on"
"173. Not bad brother dear, but also not full marks." Mycroft let himself conclude that the English section of the paper is a lot easier when seen written down, but he wasn't going to mention that to Sherlock.
He look over at the smaller boy, who was now looking up at him with big expectant eyes. Mycroft sighed, it wasn't full marks but he decided that his brother had done well enough to hear the promised paper, but as punishment for the loss of 27 marks he would leave out the bibliography, which was at the moment Sherlock favourite part.
"I'll read it to you later" he promised , "I have to do something first." And with that he crept back into his own room.
Once there he began the long a tedious task of writing out the questions and answers to both his and Sherlock's tests.
That done he made his way down to the living room. Making sure to step on all the creaky steps.
This time he wanted to be heard.
He entered the room with both hands behind his back, and stood himself in front of the sofa, using the coffee table as a barrier between himself and his parents, who stopped what they were saying and turned their attention to their son.
Mycroft cleared his throat. For effect. "I may not be 11" He began as he brought his left hand out from behind his back. "But I am capable of sitting the 11+" He set down his test paper on the table.
There was a pause before his father reached over and picked up the note paper, but before he could read it Mycroft add "And so is Sherlock" as he pulled his right hand out from behind his back and set the second test paper down on the table.
His father froze, his mother grabs the paper and begins to analyse the answers.
After a minute his father begins to look through his eldest son's paper. Still impress by the unnecessary level of detail his was used to expecting.
Mycroft smiled slightly to himself as he watched his parents look over the test. But after a few minutes he grew impatient, and he decided that he needed to make his intentions clearer.
He cleared his throat. This time to get attention.
"Does this mean that when I do have to go to school, Sherlock can come too?"
His mother looked up at him. With That look. Not good.
"Oh sweetie" She began; this was not going to end the way he planned. Mycroft's mind went into over drive trying to think of exit strategies.
"That's not how it works" She was still talking. He had to back track quickly, he realised that he may have in fact succeeded in speeding up the process of being sent off to school, rather than delaying it. A stupid mistake, one that he knew would cost him dearly.
He had to fix this. But the evidence was still there. In their hands. It had to be destroyed.
He made the decision and formulated a plan. It was rash, but given the circumstances he was left with little choice, and given how out of character it was he would at least have the element of surprise.
With that Mycroft launched himself across the coffee table and snatched the papers from his parent's hands. Then, while they were still working out what had just happened, he jumped neatly back over the table and dropped the evidence into the open fire.
Not really knowing what one does next after such an action, he simply left the room and returned to his desk, where he proceeded to sort and recategorise his mental library, making sure to throw out the condemned book that had caused so much trouble.
Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock