A/N: So this is the first time I've tried writing Mycroft's character so I decided to go easy on myself and make him younger. I'm using him in the story I'm working on now so I decided to test the waters first. This is also my first kidfic, so feedback is very much appreciated. :) Also, I would just like to say that this goes out to all the badass teachers out there (mine especially) who've realized over the years that not all of us can be normal. Without you, we'd have crashed and burned. Rock on, y'all. ^-^
His parents had tried everything to get Sherlock to be normal; from the moment he was born, it was apparent that there was something… off about his behavior. Even as an infant he had acted and reacted differently to things than other children, but nobody could explain what was going wrong. His family was bemused by not by his extraordinary intelligence (their older son had well prepared them for that) but by his extreme reactions to being touched or hearing loud noises. They tried (at three) sending him to a psychologist, changing their discipline (it wasn't that), and simply finding ways to avoid him having to come into contact with people.
They had even tried medications, which failed miserably, while his father muttered about the pills "not doing a damned thing". Nothing worked, and answer after answer was found wrong. Nothing could seem to get rid of Sherlock's 'differences', as the school psychologist called them. School was a misery for him. The other children avoided him, or launched insults toward him. He steadfastly returned the favor and by the time he entered primary school, he still had yet to make a single friend. The teachers tolerated his unusual behavior, by and large, but were always distinctly wary of him, never knowing what he would do next. He was hyperactive, impulsive, and seemed to have no concept of appropriate social behavior.
Despite that, he was frighteningly intelligent, and even as a five year old could speak formally to adults ten times his age, even though he never made eye contact and stood rigidly apart from occasional bursts of erratic movement. It was the movement that caused trouble with his teachers. He seemed incapable of being still. His fingers always tapped on the desk, his feet tapped on the floor, and at least once a class he would get up half-run, half-hop from one wall to another, often slamming into them at full speed just for the fun of it. Most of his teachers snapped at him for that, doing their best to keep him still and in his seat, but the issue persisted.
Mr. Davison was a good teacher, tolerating all of Sherlock's issues and eccentricities, even his penchant for running into walls. He had spent the last ten years of his life trying to get roomfuls of five year olds to recognize colors and learn their numbers, so by and large he liked to think he'd seen if not all, then at least a lot, of what they had in store. But Sherlock was a whole new challenge for him. The boy was gifted, that much was clear, but he had a baffling set of problems that no one could seem to explain. Mr. Davison was no psychologist, just a teacher, but it was clear enough to him that Sherlock couldn't help his behavior, and whatever was causing it was something far beyond his control.
So he did what any good teacher would do: he adapted. So long as Sherlock had finished his work, which he always did far quicker than any of the other children, and showed it to him to verify that it was complete, he was allowed to go to the back of the classroom and move until his heart's content. Even though he had the alphabet memorized frontwards and back, his handwriting was illegible even by 5 year old standards and he held the pencil so hard it made his hand hurt. Fortunately, the only written assignments were spelling tests, so when one of them cropped up, Mr. Davison would give it to the rest of the class, then sit with Sherlock in the hall and have him spell out the words verbally.
Five year olds learned good by seeing, so Mr. Davison would come up with projects and activities for them to watch, things like baking soda volcanoes and a substance he called 'sticky goop', laying out the ingredients on the table. While the other children watched attentively, Sherlock fidgeted, reaching out and grabbing things off of the table. He didn't mean to be rude; he just wanted to know what it was and how it worked. So Mr. Davison made him his 'assistant' and had him grab things to hand to him and check the steps off on the checklist.
However, Sherlock's sensory seeking was nothing compared to his hypersensitivity. Five year olds were a loud bunch, and rambunctious, but every time they made noise, Sherlock would flinch visibly. The louder they got, the more he winced, until finally he would clap his hands over his ears and spend the rest of the day unable to focus. When the noise got too much for him, Mr. Davison gave him a pair of ear plugs to put in, since he could hear and carry on a normal conversation just as well as anyone else with them in. He disliked being touched on a level the teacher had never seen before, and even his shoes and socks caused him trouble, so the teacher would let him take them off when he would be required to stay in his seat for long periods of time. Also, when the children were 'let loose' for a few minutes of free time between activities, he would allow Sherlock to sit behind his desk and read a book or straighten the papers and equipment on his desktop.
Still, for all Mr. Davison's adaptations, there were times when it all just became too much for Sherlock, and he would either melt down or seize up completely. When that happened Mr. Davison couldn't do anything but let him sit in the corner and wait for it to pass. One memorable time, Sherlock had almost gotten himself suspended after trying to shatter a classroom light that wouldn't stop buzzing. The light had broken the previous day and until they bought a replacement bulb they had to use that one; its perpetual buzzing had irritated even the other students, and sent Sherlock into overdrive. He had tried to break it by throwing his shoe at it, and had accidentally hit another student.
It was in one of these melt down times that Mycroft came to pick him up after school one day. The other students were being particularly loud, and had bumped into Sherlock several times, which had only exacerbated the fact that he was having a bad day all around. He hadn't gotten a minute of sleep since the night before last, and Mr. Davison could see the perfect storm brewing. He did his best to avoid it, but the fates had conspired against him. There was a fire drill that day.
Fire drills were terrible for him. The incessant, high pitched beeping the alarm made left him unable to take his hands off of his ears, and the anxiety of not knowing when it would start was drawing him on edge. Because he couldn't tolerate the noise, he couldn't remove his hands from his ears to put his shoes on before he left, so he had to leave them on the whole day, and all of that was before the drill even started. Finally, right at the end of the half-day class, the wail of the alarm started up. Ideally, the plan was for the students to be able to go out for the drill and then simply leave for home without a gap in between. It didn't quite work out that way.
Normally, Sherlock didn't do too well with fire drills, but he got through them. This time, though, he was already upset from the shoes and the anxiety and the sleeplessness and the other children's unusual loudness, so when the alarm started up, he froze solid in his chair. No amount of tries could get Mr. Davison to budge him, until finally he had to get an aid to watch the other children and take roll outside while he made sure Sherlock didn't hurt himself. The sound that bothered him so much was also paralyzing him, leaving him unable to get away from it. Finally, blessedly, the alarm was turned off and the drill was over. But the problem had just begun.
Mycroft came looking for him, having been tasked by his parents with picking him up after school because they were both busy, and was concerned when he wasn't outside like the other students. A quick check with the aid told him that Sherlock was still in the classroom; he was refusing to leave, and no one could get him to budge. Mycroft sighed and made his way to the classroom, where Sherlock was raising an unholy terror. The moment the alarm had stopped the first thing he'd done was take off his shoes and socks and throw them as far away from him as he could manage. He looked downright wild, and his behavior had become increasingly violent, until finally Mr. Davison had to restrain him simply to keep him from injuring somebody or hurting himself.
"Let me go!" he bellowed, doing his best to pull away from Mr. Davison, who resolutely withstood him.
"I want to, but I can't let you go until you stop trying to hit me. You need to calm down." Mr. Davison was a strong man, and Sherlock barely weighed anything, but he was putting up such a struggle that the teacher was beginning to lose his grip on him, so Mycroft felt that it was time for him to step in and help. Mr. Davison knew Mycroft, he knew Sherlock's whole family from the number of times the school had called them for some problem or another, so he let him give him a hand.
Calming him down was easier said than done, and it took both Mr. Davison and Mycroft fifteen minutes to get Sherlock under control enough for it to be safe to let him go. Sherlock slumped against the wall, exhausted, and Mycroft and Mr. Davison were not much better. Neither of them would have guessed that the world's smallest five year old could wear them out like that, but there they were. While they caught their breath, Sherlock laid himself flat out on the classroom floor. He looked absolutely tired out, but his limbs refused to stay still or relax and he couldn't get settled. Looking at him, Mycroft had a sudden idea.
"Do you have a book in here? A really, really heavy one?" Mr. Davison nodded; he went and seized the biggest book he could find, the one Sherlock had been reading in his spare time. It was something or other about British birds, and he didn't even know where it had come from. He handed it to Mycroft, who laid it out flat on his little brother's chest, like he was trying to flatten him into the floor. Sherlock's twitching lessened ever so slightly and Mr. Davison caught on to the idea, seizing another book and placing it on top of the first. Eventually, after three books, his restless limbs were still, and he looked at the ceiling, his mind slowly receding from the turmoil into sleep.
Mr. Davison smiled at his half-mast look and breathed a sigh of relief. This had been a particularly bad day, but finally it was over. Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep, still with the books on his chest. Mr. Davison turned to Mycroft.
"What do you want to do with him?" Mycroft thought for a minute.
"I don't want to inconvenience you by leaving him here, but I really don't want to wake him up; he hasn't slept a second since the night before last and I don't know when he will again."
"He can stay here and sleep, it's fine. I have to stay and write paperwork for another two hours anyway, but I can do all that in the main office. I'll turn the lights off and you can stay in here with him. Just come and get me when you're leaving." Mycroft nodded.
"Thanks." Mr. Davison smiled.
"No problem." He left to fill out his forms, snapping the lights off behind him, but he left the door open so some ambient light filtered in from the hallway. Mycroft leaned back against the wall next to his brother. He stared at Sherlock's pale face, outlined in the half-light. Mycroft loved his brother, he really did, but there were times that he wished Sherlock could just stay asleep, and stay protected from the world.
Sherlock slept solidly for three hours before he stirred. "These books are heavy," he muttered, his eyes fluttering open in the darkened classroom. Mycroft smiled at him.
"I know. They're meant to be. I'll take them off for you." He reached over and slid the books off of Sherlock's chest, and the younger boy rolled onto his stomach, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.
"I'm sorry I fell asleep," he said. Mycroft sighed, knowing that he should have been shocked by Sherlock apologizing for being tired after he hadn't slept a minute that night, but it wasn't surprising. Every day of the five years since he'd been born, people had been telling him from all corners that nothing he did was right or normal. Mycroft had known that it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock started to believe it himself. He lay down on the floor next to his little brother and looked straight at him.
"You have nothing to apologize for, and I want you to remember that forever. Now, are you ready to go home or do you want to stay here for a few more minutes?" Sherlock elected to go, and the two boys made their way out into the parking lot. It was a short walk back to their house, but they took it slowly, Sherlock jumping to and fro in pursuit of something or other that had attracted his attention, and Mycroft trying to come up with a suitable explanation for why they were so late getting back. Their parents would be upset, he knew, but he didn't really care all that much; let them be upset. He just wanted his little brother to be happy.