I just got my own Fanfiction account so my friend Magikath1 removed this fic from her account on which I originally posted.
Characters are not mine (oh how I wish they were), they are creations from the brilliant minds of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
It was the first day of school for Sherlock Holmes, and it was already the worst day of his young life. It was so obvious. Why couldn't anyone but a six year old see that Anderson had taken the doughnuts, not him? He didn't even care for the over-sugared treat. Simple deductions, that was all! The last thing Sherlock saw as he was taken out of the room to the headmaster, was a wide and sugar-coated sneer on the face of the thief. He would pay for this humiliation one day.
What a horrible first day. Well, it wasn't as if Sherlock had expected it to go well. His older brother, Mycroft Holmes, had told him it would only be a few weeks before he could move up into the second years. Until then, he would have to deal with simple minded first years such as Anderson. His small hands grabbed at his unruly curls in irritation.
"Sent to the headmaster on the first day little brother? You must step up your performance, or mummy will be quite upset," laughed Mycroft.
Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts. He looked at his brother with annoyance.
"It was Anderson's fault," whined the smaller Holmes brother. "At break time, he took all of the doughnuts set out for snack, ate all but one, and put the last in my desk for the teacher to find. I tried to reason with the teacher, but that seemed to make it worse." Sherlock fell silent in rage. He had wanted to make a good impression on his class and teacher, but that plan had been foiled because of Anderson. Mycroft would know how to help. He always knew what to do.
Mycroft smiled at his younger brother's innocence. "I too suffered from the same afflictions as you, once. Those below our mental brilliance do not understand the daily struggle we have put up with. I will always be there for you brother; I know what it is like. But for now, just try to stay out of the headmaster's office."
Sherlock went over this conversation in his head several times that evening before storing it in the back of his mind. He fell asleep thinking of the numerous nasty comments he could say to Anderson the next day.
…
Sherlock could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He turned his head away from the class and asked if he could be excused to the washroom. As he entered the washroom, the tears began to come full force. He went into a stall and locked the door behind him. "Freak." "Weirdo." "Loser." Those were the only words he could think about. The problem wasn't just Anderson any more, it was the whole class. The teacher had asked the class to explain the life cycle of a bee, and not expecting the first years to know, had started to explain the cycle. At this point, Sherlock had raised his hand. The teacher, looking surprised, called on Sherlock. He then promptly went through each stage, egg to adult perfectly. The room went silent only to be interrupted by Anderson's voice yelling "FREAK!" The whole class joined.
Sherlock shuffled out of the stall and up to the long mirror on the wall behind the sinks. He looked at himself. He wasn't a freak, right? Does being smarter than other people make you a freak? This would be something to experiment with. Sherlock wiped his eyes and unsuccessfully attempted to smooth down his black curls. He slowly left the washroom and silently walked back into his classroom, only to be met with a chorus of "FREAK!"
The day was over, and Sherlock was greeted in the schoolyard by his brother's large, black car. The first year gratefully climbed in behind the tinted windows to escape the mocking sneers of his classmates. With him in the back of the car was his brother. He was surprised, usually Mycroft's assistant drove the car alone to pick up Sherlock. Having Mycroft near him reminded him of the day's earlier experiences and brought back all the tears from before.
"I have been informed about your situation," Mycroft said in a business-like manner. "Under these circumstances, I thought it might be time to give it to you."
Sherlock wiped his nose with his sleeve, "Give what to me?"
"In my line of work, many items come into my possession that would otherwise be destroyed. I wish to give one of the these items to you, dear brother." The elder brother hoped that his brother's age and young imagination would win out in this situation over his brilliant mind, above that of a six year old. He saw instantly that the young boy's imagination had won out.
Sherlock's mind began to race. He thought about what the item may be and what he could do to Anderson with it. He stopped thinking as Mycroft handed him a large coat box. Sherlock hastily opened it. Inside was a long, black Belstaff coat. Stunned, he put it on. It fit perfectly. He turned slowly and gave his brother the biggest hug that his short arms permitted.
Mycroft smiled, "When you wear this coat, it will protect and shield you from the harsh impact of the world."
Sherlock said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He couldn't wait to try it out on Anderson.
Sherlock walked boldly into his first year classroom wearing his new coat. He looked quite dapper in it and Sherlock could almost feel the coat reflecting the thoughts and rude remarks away from him. As he sat down in his seat, Anderson and a crowd of his followers crowded around him. Sherlock sneered up at them.
"Where on earth did you find a coat that ridiculous, FREAK!?" taunted Anderson.
Sherlock said nothing. He hardly even heard the boy because of his coat's powers. The satisfaction of Anderson's obvious irritation from not getting the response he wanted was the only thing he felt.
When the teacher asked the class to be seated, the group of bullies stalked away leaving an unfazed Sherlock warmly snuggled in his coat, shielded from all the missiles the world had to offer.
The long weeks flew by Sherlock in a matter of minutes. Anderson and his friends no longer had any effect on him. Mycroft's gift was protecting him every step of the way. When he was called Freak, the word merely bounced off of him and left no trace of it ever being there. This all was soon to end, however.
It was raining on that fateful day. Sherlock's class had been let out for recess and it was prime hunting time for Anderson and his gang. Their prey: Sherlock. The prey was sitting on the edge of a grove of trees thinking about God knows what. The gang came up behind him and started the session.
Sherlock knew they were coming. He heard them, but he wasn't worried. He knew his coat would protect him. He looked behind him just in time to see a large boy run up and grab him by his wool collar. He felt himself being lifted into the air by the taller boy. His coat was pulled off him, even as he fought with all his strength. He stopped struggling and stopped dead as he heard the sound of cloth ripping. Sherlock shut his eyes and looked over. There on the ground lay what was left of Mycroft's gift. The beautiful Belstaff coat now lay in two halves in the mud, ruined. When the insults started, Sherlock couldn't even feel them. With strength not of his own, he pulled himself free from his captor's hands and ran into the school.
When Sherlock came back to reality, he found himself once again staring into the mirror. He wasn't wearing his coat, why did he feel nothing. He didn't even feel sadness. Why? His shield was gone. He was utterly defenseless, and yet so protected.
The rest of the day was a blur. Nothing could penetrate the emotionless stare of Sherlock's gaze. He barely even acknowledged when his teacher released the class to go home for the weekend. Sherlock silently climbed into his brother's car only to find Mycroft once again in the back seat.
"Why did you lie to me?"
Mycroft was caught off guard for only a second. He realized what had happened after seeing Sherlock without his coat. He took a deep breath, "My dear brother, I did not lie to you. I merely was proving a point. You have discovered that you don't need a coat to protect you, I will protect you."
"You were not here today when my coat was destroyed, and I felt nothing. You did not protect me, alone protected me." muttered Sherlock.
Mycroft did not answer. Sherlock was smart, he would soon figure this out on his own. He was only six years old, he always wanted his older brother beside him. This was only an effect of his shock.
Sherlock lay in his bed with eyes closed, no where near sleep. He now knew what he must do. He must create his own shield. A shield of solitude. He must not rely on people and emotions, such as Mycroft. He only needed himself, forever alone.