As my first Sherlock story, I can only hope that I will be able to keep the magnificent characters of Sherlock's BBC in character.

For Fiona, my little ray of sunshine. May this story be as pure as your soul (which means there will be lots of smut but not really too bad for you).

Please Enjoy.

"Sherlock. Sherlock."

A curly mop of black hair disappeared under the blankets as a tiny form wriggled deeper down into the cocoon of covers. Two hands plunged into the abyss, fingers tightening as they wrapped around a pair of underarms. They heaved up a lashing creature, the critter flopping about like a fish out of water and emitting growls from its lips.

"Honestly, Sherlock, will we have to go through this every morning?"

The beast called Sherlock attempted to stow away back under the quilts but the eldest of the two boys heaved him up into the air and set his feet on the ground.

"Mycroft I want to go back to bed!" the boy wailed, his locks bouncing as he fought to escape from his brother's clasp. "I don't want to-"

Mycroft ignored his cries and hauled the child out of his room and to the kitchen. He sat boy in a chair and released him, Sherlock thrusting his shoulders forward as if he had managed to finally elude his brother's grasp.

"For goodness sake you're six now. Six, Sherlock. You shouldn't be throwing fits and making me drag you out of bed," Mycroft reprimanded. He set a plate down before his younger sibling with two slices of toast and jam perched neatly in the dish. Sherlock took a surly bite of his breakfast as his bleary eyes glared at Mycroft.

"It's the first day of school and you certainly do not want to be late," the teenager went on. "It would be a shame not to be punctual."

"I don't want to go, Mycroft," Sherlock grumbled as he gave his last piece of toast a final chomp. He rubbed his eyes, got up, and started to head back toward his bedroom. "You can't make me!"

Mycroft seized the back of his brother's shirt and dragged him in the direction of the bathroom. Sherlock kicked his feet and yelled at the top of his lungs but Mycroft, who was used to his brother's antics, was unfazed. While he still had a hold of the unruly child, Mycroft readied Sherlock's toothbrush and shoved it in his sibling's mouth.

"Ughhffgh! Mycroffft gerroff!" Sherlock spat as he foamed at the mouth and resentment rolled off him in waves.

Mycroft scrubbed Sherlock's teeth more vigorously to get him to shut up. As Sherlock rinsed Mycroft picked up the brush and started running it through his brother's hair.

Sherlock pivoted sharply to face Mycroft and looked him in the eye. As Sherlock opened his mouth there was a faint numbness in the recesses of his mind.

"Mycroft-"

Mycroft slapped his hand over Sherlock's mouth and blinked hard, the tingles that had shot up his spine falling still and the fog in his brain evaporating. "Don't even think about using that on me."

Sherlock frowned and stuck his lip out. He continued his pout as Mycroft lifted him up and folded him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Sherlock shot daggers at the ground with his arms crossed as Mycroft carried him back to his room.

"Don't even think about doing that either!" Mycroft chastised when Sherlock tried to duck back into his bed. The six year old groaned.

Mycroft began unbuttoning his brother's night shirt when Sherlock yelped out again.

"Myyyycrrroofffttt!" Sherlock protested. "I don't need your help." He smacked his brother's fingers away and ripped his shirt off of his head and kicked off his bottoms. Sherlock then reached into his dresser to retrieve a pair of socks and his school uniform. When he small hands fumbled poorly with the button's on his shirt he agitatedly accepted

Mycroft's assistance. As soon as Mycroft finished buttoning up his shirt and Sherlock had pulled his socks on, he bolted.

"Sherlock put some trousers on!" Mycroft shouted as he chased after him.

"What for?" Sherlock inquired with the best snark he could muster.

Mycroft ushered Sherlock back into his room and wrestled his brother into his trousers and blazer. Once he was done he ironed out the newly made wrinkles in his own uniform with his palms. He then observed his latest accomplishment which consisted of wrangling a grouchy six year old into a pristine uniform. Sherlock stared up at Mycroft with contempt in his sea blue gaze, forehead creased in utter dislike and attitude.

"Mycroft, please don't make me go," Sherlock pleaded when Mycroft slid Sherlock's knapsack over the little one's shoulders. Mycroft tugged on his own bag and took Sherlock's hand as they exited through the front door.

"You have to go, Sherlock," Mycroft told him for the hundredth time that week. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock contorted his face up in a scowl as they followed the sidewalk to the private school Mycroft attended. The blustery morning was as crisp as a golden apple, leaves crunching under their feet as they strode on and other school attendees traveling around them.

"Do you honestly have to hold me hand?" Sherlock moaned. "I'm not three anymore."

"If I let go you're going to run home and make us late," Mycroft said. Sherlock let out a huff. Mycroft had foiled his brilliant plan.

As they approached the school, a brick castle of spires, stairs and buttresses, Sherlock's sour mood turned into anxiety. He tugged on Mycroft's hand with uttered apologies and propositions but his older brother shook his head and kept his feet on the track to the academy.

The two brothers ascended the marble steps, Sherlock's eyes flitting over every detail of his surroundings. He observed the children his age scurrying about, the older kids plotting what adventures they had planned once they were free from the academy. Teenagers were making out and hold hands on the steps, heads bowed and gossiping about the latest impending dramas.

"Oi, Holmes!" an older boy called to the teenager. Mycroft waved with his free hand when others hooted greetings.
Sherlock's heart accelerated faster with every step nearer to his classroom. His breathing picked up and the back of his neck itched with sweat. They approached the door and Sherlock canted his head to his brother.

"Mycroft, I want to go home." The little boy seemed to have shrunk, his fingers twitching nervously as they intertwined with one another, eyes wide with apprehension, and voice soft with fear.

Mycroft crouched down with an assuring beam. "I know, I know. But you know you have to go to school. It's your first day ever. If you return home you're going to miss out on so many wonderful experiences. Don't look so dismal, Sherlock. Keep your chin up. I'll be waiting right here when school gets out."

"You promise?" Sherlock questioned hopefully.

Mycroft smoothed out Sherlock's blazer, straightening his collar and ruffling his ringlets. "I promise. Now you have to promise me something, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, his hair bouncing and observant eyes fluttering.

"Promise me that there will be no funny business. None whatsoever! I know you can do things your peers won't be able to do so don't be using that to your advantage. If I hear you've been manipulating people-"

"I won't! I promise!" Sherlock interjected.

"And don't get sharp with the others just because you're more advanced than they are. You may be a genius but don't be rubbing it around in their faces."

Sherlock made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. "I can promise I won't be bragging but it's going to be difficult putting up with them if they're all idiots."

Mycroft couldn't help but let his lips twitch upward in a smirk. He stood up an said, "That's all I can ask of you."

Sherlock hesitated as Mycroft started to stride away. He stood there stewing and fighting off impulses but the urge was much to strong.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. He sprinted down the hall, feet pattering over the tile. Mycroft swiveled around just as his younger brother threw himself around his legs. Mycroft beamed at the rush of affection. As troublesome as his little brother could be, he certainly had his moments of sincerity.

"Keep your promise!" Sherlock demanded as he ran back to his classroom. He paused in the door frame, his eyes whizzing about as he took in the inside of the classroom. There were only a few students, a very used but freshly washed chalkboard (apparently cleaned by a sponge due to the spotty and swiped residue), rows of desks neatly aligned (he assumed the janitor was either elderly or terribly lethargic due to the fact that there was still dust lurking under the teacher's desk, the top of the cabinets, and everywhere but the edges and the front of the books on the shelves), and only one or two of the children already in the classroom appeared as nervous as he felt under his calm and well collected façade Sherlock had donned like a mask. The teacher was female with a pointed nose like a beak and was obviously dressed to impress (there was extra color in her cheeks that was not due to fantastic circulation, lips shiny with gloss, her flower dress flowing and freshly dry cleaned, shoes polished along with her finger nails, and hair in a perfectly styled bun) by the way her chest pushed out when a male teacher from down the hallway shoved past Sherlock as if he wasn't even there.

"Good morning, Miss Bond," the male greeted.

"Please, Michael, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times; call me Ingrid," Sherlock's teacher replied.

"I must keep up with the formalities once in awhile for a beautiful gal like you," Michael complimented. Miss Bond's fake cheeks flushed.

"You'll be the death of me," Miss Bond twittered.

Sherlock gagged, his head shooting up when a loud bell rung above him. Children were suddenly rushing past him, jostling Sherlock violently as the surge continued and causing him to topple over. In the aftershock Sherlock struggled to his feet, brushed the dust from his pants, and held his chin high.

'Remember what Mycroft said,' Sherlock told himself. 'Chin up. Keep your chin up.'

Sherlock made his way down the aisles and slid into a seat next to a girl with dark red hair neatly braided down her back. She was scribbling on a piece of paper with no attention whatsoever focused on the teacher or her peers. She was sketching out a bizarre series of drawings that resembled letters with extra tails or conjoined series of what appeared to be q's and d's.

'Music notes. By the rate she's writing them out like that she's rather familiar with them, excelled for her age. Her fingers are coiled and spasming as she's writing. She's a piano player. She's plucking out the notes she's writing down,' Sherlock deducted. He was about to go on when Miss Bond's voice yanked him out of his reasoning.

"Welcome class! Welcome to your first year of schooling. I'm Miss Bond and I'll be your teacher this year. Right now, why don't we all go around the class and introduce ourselves? Give us your name and an appropriate nickname if you have one, something you like, and something you're looking forward to this year, okay? We'll start with you here in the front," Miss Bond said.

"I'm Samson Aarren and I traveling around the world! Um I'm looking forward to show and tell," the boy she had pointed to introduced. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Well kept, white teeth, hair freshly washed, uniform ironed, pressed, and shoes polished. Too proud for his own good. Well cared for, over loved by an overbearing mother. That's why he smells faintly of women's perfume. The father is rich.'

The class went on like that, children introducing themselves and Sherlock quickly concluding who they were and their social status. A chubby girl who wanted to go home to her mother's cooking and constant feeding so she wouldn't have to do anything. A bloke called Anderson didn't receive a lot of affection and would be prone to bursting out in class in search of the attention he so desperately needed. Another boy who was made timid by his alcoholic father (the stench of liquor was rolling off of him in waves).

"I'm Amelia Johnson. I like playing the piano. I'm looking forward to music class," the redheaded girl beside Sherlock said aloud with a small shrug. Sherlock froze and inwardly groaned when he realized it was his turn.

"What about you?" Miss Bond asked, directing her question to Sherlock. "You're turn."

Sherlock sighed. "My name is Sherlock. I like science and I'm looking forward to returning home."

His answer stirred a few nervous titters.

"Really?" Miss Bond's eyebrows flew up. "You would rather be home than with all of your new friends in this class?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a deadpan.

Miss Bond droned on in her high, over excited voice to the class. A girl named Heather but preferred to be called Hootie was picking her nose. Samson was starting out the window at the playground longingly. Miss Bond was causing chalk to squeal as she wrote on the board. Amelia was still working on her music notes.

"Class, I want you to repeat these words back to me after I've read them to you, understand?"

'What do you think we are, four? You haven't figured out how to talk to kids because you don't have any.'

"What does repeat mean?" A boy in the front only busted Sherlock's case.

'Blimey am I the only one with a sound mind here?'

"The!" Miss Bond chirruped.

"'The,'" Sherlock's peers echoed. He kept his lips locked and sealed tight in a line of disapproval.

"He!"

"'He.'"

"She!"

"'She.'"

Boredom that resolved into anger brewed inside of Sherlock, agitation evident in his pores.

"Sherlock! I don't see your lips moving!" Miss Bond chirped.

"Because this is stupid!" Sherlock blurted out furiously. "I'm bored out of my mind back here!"

Miss Bond's dark eyes narrowed. "That's not very nice to say. I'm trying to teach you how to read and pronounce these difficult words."

"Difficult?!" Sherlock spluttered.

Miss Bond crossed her arms. "Holmes, if you think this is so easy, why don't you stand up and read these words off to the class. I'll even add some other words to the list and see how you fare with them."

"Gladly." Sherlock thrust his chair back as Miss Bond tacked other words onto the end of the list. Sherlock rolled his eyes when he saw them. He then cleared his throat and began.

"'The, he, she, it, its, it's, that, there, their, they're, bat, cat, sat, fat, fly, lie, sigh, house, mouse, grouse, louse', a blood sucking parasite, 'chair, chalk, board,'" Sherlock rattled off as he neared the new list. "'Bored, school'-two words that go together. Hmmm I wonder if that is a coincidence or a hidden statement on your opinion of your job. 'August, September, October, fortissimo' and that means loud in music standards which Amelia should know due to the fact she plays the piano. 'Difficult, easy, nauseous, sucking, several, louvered, museum, bombard, egret' a white breed of heron, 'literary, aurora borealis' which are the aurora of lights of the northern hemisphere, 'America, Caaba' oh that's a black stone building in Mecca that's shaped like a cube Muslims on pilgrimage pay homage to. Then we have 'a capella' which is to sing without instrumental accompaniment, 'fortiori' which should be written as a fortioti. That's a common mistake for a teacher as yourself, and 'pabulum'. That's any substance that can be used as food which brings us to our last word 'edible'." Sherlock cocked a sassy eyebrow. "Need I go on, Miss Bond?"

Miss Bond was very red in the face from embarrassment from being outwitted by what she had thought was another measly child. The entire class was gawking at him as Sherlock sat down, Amelia beside him trying to fight back a grin.

Sherlock glanced up from his lunch Mycroft had packed him, chomping down on his apple as his gaze traveled around the cafeteria. Amelia Johnson was sitting nearby in the mess hall, her hand still scrawling out notes for something she was working on for her piano. Aarren and Anderson were sitting together at a table surrounded by other boys, and group of girls at another table with their heads pressed together and lunches close as they exchanged snacks and secrets.

Over his shoulder he tossed the remains of his apple into the bin behind him and headed outside for recess.
Perched on a swing at the swing set with the scents of mildew and the oncoming winter intruding into his nostrils, Sherlock poked his nose into The Hobbit. Even though Mycroft had advised him against bringing his eldest and most favorite book to school, Sherlock did anyway. He found comfort in browsing through the familiar pages, rereading his favorite parts, trailing his fingers down the spine of the book and over the edges of the overused cover, and in taking the smell of ancient parchment.

The playground swarmed with an ocean of children, feet stomping through the food chips, squelching through the sand, trampling the green blades, and their footsteps rolling over the jungle gym. Sherlock's hearing stretched out to the farthest reaches of the playground, the golden glow of the sun washing over his face and bathing him in contentment even though the outside was anything but tranquil.

"Oi! Amelia!"

Sherlock paid no attention, his ears tuned in case there was any trouble. There was some muttering and grumbling, the words incoherent slurs. Sherlock's eyes followed the words on the page his was at, his mind unable to process the words while his mind was elsewhere.

"Weirdo!"

There was scuffling, a cry of pain, and then the thump of a small being forced to the ground. Sherlock's eyes immediately swung up to see Samson and a few of his gremlin companions surrounding the girl, his body shooting up like a rocket when he saw Samson about to wail on her.

"Leave her alone!" Sherlock hollered, his book tucked under his arm and eyes narrowed.

"It's the smart freak," Samson yapped. "The brown nose even has a book under his arm!"

"I hardly recognize that as some sort of taunt," Sherlock growled. "It's not my fault you encephalon is gray matter mush and you're forced to inflict pain upon others because you feel an animalistic instinct to attack others."

The boys stared at him dumbly. Sherlock spat out an annoyed hiss.

"Oh I can only wonder what it's like in those stupid little brains of yours," Sherlock snapped. "Now get lost before I make you."

Sherlock locked eyes with Samson, sea blue on hazel. The group glowered at him and shuffled awkwardly away, Samson hanging back for a minute before slithering off.

"Thanks," Amelia grumbled from behind him. Sherlock turned around and held out a hand, helping her to her feet. As she brushed the dirt off her uniform, Sherlock took in her full appearance. Her long, dark red hair was braided down her back by expert fingers, the strands loose enough to tell him it was with the strength of a child. Her attire was poorly cared for, skirt wrinkled, shoes scuffed, blazer creased as if it had been improperly folded, and the slack bow tie around her neck crooked unlike Sherlock's straight and appropriate tie the boys had to wear. She had a cat, a tabby, for there was some hair on her stockings. Amelia's parents were there to do the laundry and feed her now and again, but they did not look after their daughter.

"What you did in class today was...was really cool," Amelia admitted.

A slow smile spread over Sherlock's face. "You think?"

Amelia inclined her head. "Yes. Miss Bond is a real witch. My brother had her a year or so ago and she may seem all nice and pleasant now, but wait until we start to get farther into the year. It's all an act during inspection time this week. Then she transforms. Doing what you did in class today is only going to make her dislike you."

"It's not like I can help that our class is filled with simpletons," Sherlock told her. "You would think they would be able to read by now."

Amelia gave an hesitant huff and blush of agreement.

"I saw you, though," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Writing music."

Amelia's face only reddened further. "It's nothing, really. Simple stuff."

Sherlock studied her face, his brow elevated in disbelief. Amelia's shoulders bobbed. He untucked his book from his arm, spun on his heel, and made to march off when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Would you like to hang out some time?" Amelia inquired. "I can show you what those music notes mean."

Sherlock's head drifted slightly to the left as he took a minute to answer. "I would like that."

Miss Bond's temperament seemed to improve even more so when Sherlock entered the class after break and took a seat at his desk. A man was in the back with a clipboard before him, a pen in his hand as he wrote down some notes. Sherlock paid no attention to him as the class began and Amelia slid in neck to him, Miss Bond writing across the board. Sherlock took out The Hobbit and placed it on his lap, his eyes downcast as he read. The class was buzzing with activity around him as the day was coming to an end, his classmates stirring in their seats as Miss Bond taught. Sherlock could her the nerves in her voice that turned it too candy sweet as the man in the back continued to observe her and write down notes.

They went from spelling to science (Sherlock did not even bother to pay attention for even the science she taught he already knew and he considered far too boring) and eventually ended up on math. Sherlock poured through the pages of his book as he saw himself among the characters as he journeyed with them. What he would have given to actually be with them! He admired Gandalf beyond all compare and belief and he wished he could be in the Shire.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he let out an annoyed sigh, his eyes lethargically sweeping up to Miss Bond.

"What do you think you are doing?" Miss Bond asked. She approached him when his eyes only bore into hers, his lips sealed tight in an urge not to snap anything too unpleasant. Her spindly hands plucked his favorite book from his grasp, her tongue clucking when she skimmed through the book.

"Give that back!" Sherlock cried out indignantly.

"Manners, Mr. Holmes!" Miss Bond corrected, her voice a shrill chirp. "Now, Sherlock, his book is much too hard for you to be able to read. If you wanted a book for your age, why didn't you just ask instead of seeking one out for no reason at all from the library? An older student could be looking for this and now they cannot have it!"

"It's mine," Sherlock snapped, his hands shooting up for his book. Miss Bond held it out of his reach, her eyes taunting. Sherlock winced when her diseased fingers pried open his book to find the note folded neatly on the inside.

"To my dearest Sherlock," Miss Bond read aloud. "May your thoughts sink into the depths of extraordinary literature and your mind soar on wings of the purest imagination."

Sherlock extended his arms in vain for his most precious treasure. "You've lost my page!"

"Sherlock, you know you are not able to read or understand this book," Miss Bond repeated. She then gave the book back to Sherlock and said, "Now put it away in your bag."

As she clicked away in her heels Sherlock leaped to his feet, flipped opened his book, and nearly shrieked as anger and emotion fueled the volume of his voice, "Revenge! Revenge! The King under the Mountain is dead and where are his kin that dare seek revenge? Girion Lord of Dale is dead, and I have eaten his people like wolf among sheep. And where are his sons' sons that dare approach me? I kill where I wish and none dare resist."
Sherlock gave a flourish of his hand a tiny bow as he returned to his seat. Miss Bond was very red in the face, her eyes trained on the judge in the back of the class. He was shaking his head at her, his eyes urging her to lose the attitude and do her job.

"We're going to ignore his little outburst and move on with our math. I'm going to call up a few volunteers to finish these problems I've written down on the board. Let's have Samson, Amelia, Gwen, and Sherlock. Maybe you'll burn off a little energy with these math problems!" Miss Bond told the class.

Sherlock and Amelia rose at the same time, each of their faces contorted in an emotion of opposite sides of the spectrum. Sherlock looked very bored even though his eyes were confident while the red head was crippled with nerves. Samson, on the other hand, was nonchalant about the whole affair. Gwen had tears in her eyes.
Sherlock was the last to the board with his easy stride, taking his time to pick up his chalk. As soon as he glanced up at the numbers he laughed.

'One plus one? Two minus one? Three plus four? Five minute two? You have got to be kidding me,' Sherlock thought as he rolled his eyes. At what seemed to be light speed he stood up on the balls of his feet and wrote in the correct answers. He started to make his way back to his desk, glancing at Amelia once he was back in his seat. She remained up at the board with the others, her handwriting unedigable.

"Miss Bond? You can't take six away from five! That's not possible," Samson started to object.

"Wrong!" Sherlock interjected. "Subtracting six from five would result in an negative number, negative one."

"It's a mistake, Samson. Thank you for pointing it out," Miss Bond cheeped. She shot daggers at a certain curly haired boy. "Sherlock, that will be enough from you, do you understand me?"

Sherlock sighed. Amelia plopped back down, a nervous sweat on her forehead. Sherlock's forehead wrinkled at her disheveled appearance.

"Samson, you've only got one answer wrong. Six minus five is one not two. Gwen, you have them all right and so does Sherlock but Amelia...?"

Amelia's numbers seemed to be twisted and warped, so small it was hard to read them. Sherlock was rather bemused at the odd sight.

"I'm sorry, Amelia, but it seems to me we are going to have to work on our penmanship!" Miss Bond chirped in an attempt to sound friendly. Amelia cringed.

"We're going to finish up the day with reading our daily book! Everyone get a copy from the back with the dog on the front, okay?"

The students did as they were told, gathering up a copy and then sliding back into their chairs. Miss Bond smiled at the lot of them and began.

"This story is a very easy book that all of you should be able to read. It's made four three to four year-olds so we'll be good, right?"

Sherlock heaved a long, drawn out sigh.

"Heather! You read the first page."

They went on like that, each student taking a turn to read a sentence or so.

"'Once t-t-there w-was a dog.'"

"'The d-oh-gah li-ved awhn a lane.'"

"'The lah-ay-ne was made of sah-tah-oh-ne.'"

"'The dog see a bird.'"

"'The dog wagged his tail," Sherlock read. "'He was happy.'"

Amelia gulped and attempted to read. "The uhmm...the dig bog m-malked ah domn...the..thum...um...the...uhmm..."

"Road," Sherlock whispered. 'Something isn't right with her letter processing. She's mixing up letters as if they're being switched around.'

"Road," Amelia echoed.

"That was not right at all, Miss Johnson," Miss Bond announced. "I repeat: this is a book for toddlers. Please try again."

Amelia's face darkened with color and tears sprung up in her eyes.

"'The...the dig-'"

"Big dog walked," Sherlock hissed.

"'The big dog malked...ah walked dohm-"

"Down."

"'Down the road,'" Amelia finished.

"Read another sentence without Mr. Holmes help," Miss Bond commanded.

Nervous tears leaked down Amelia's crimson face. "T-T-T-The buh-bog ment to...to...to..."

Sherlock, who's face had been becoming as red as Amelia's for an entire different reason felt his fury overwhelm him and propel his voice forward. "Let her be! I know you are just trying to compensate for an unpleasant childhood so you feel the need to take your inner hate out on others, but move on! Amelia obviously is having trouble and instead of degrading her for it you should be trying to help!" he crowed.

"Sherlock Holmes you will be spending time with me after class!" Miss Bond screeched in appall. "How dare you make such accusations!"

"They are simple deductions," Sherlock raged.

"Deductions?" the male in the back quizzed. "What do you know about deductions?"

Sherlock's eyes whizzed about as they examined the adult for a brief few seconds before he rapidly listed off, "You visited a house that is under work due to the sawdust in your hair and on your clothes even though you've freshly showered with women's shampoo in a haste this morning during one of your latest affairs when you quickly left her house, afraid to be caught in the act. Your wedding band is on the wrong hand, very sloppy, and I can tell by the markings upon it is removed often. The women is a younger woman, maybe even in her late teens how naughty of you. I can tell this easily just because that's just the type of person you are. But what I find stranger is that the lip stick on your collar matches Miss Bond's. Not only are you cheating on your wife but you are cheating on the girl you are cheating with. You reek of hope, desperation, and the infamous five or seven year itch, like I try to keep up with these matters. You're left handed, you have one-two-three-four-five cats that are not yours but your wife's and she keeps adopting them out of a lack of affection from you. I can tell by the five different cat hairs on your suit that you've got three tabbies, a Persian, and a Siamese and you also have one small breed dog, a white one, from the hair on your sock. You wanted to be a lawyer but your parents wanted you to become a teacher, how very odd. Shall I go on?"

After that demonstration, the class learned unusually fast not to bother Sherlock Holmes.

The bell rang and Sherlock was excused from his "holding back", grabbing his book, tucking it away in his knapsack, and shouldering his bag as he rushed out the door.

As promised, Mycroft was waiting there for him.

"How was your first day, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a smile.

"Mildly entertaining," Sherlock replied as he slipped his hand into Mycroft's and they headed out of the school. "The scorer is having an affair with my teacher."

Mycroft sighed. "I suppose you attempted to keep my promise."

"I didn't control anyone if that's what you're getting at."

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Let's go home."

"You should be more relieved. It was rather difficult, Mycroft," Sherlock went on. "Oh! When we get home there's this science experiment I've been wanting to try."

"That's fine."

"I need some of your hair though."

"Why not some of your curls? I've been meaning to trim them," the eldest teased.

"Myyyycrrroofffttt!"

~Illumini