At last! My second Mr. Peabody and Sherman story is here. First off, I wanna thank all you readers who reviewed my first MPAS story, You'll Be in My Heart. It means a lot to me that you guys loved it :)
This idea popped into my head a month ago, and I finally decided to write it. I'd like to give credit to Shanks-kun on Deviantart because one of his MPAS fanarts inspired me for the ending of the story. So, Shanks-kun, if you're reading this, thanks for the brilliant fanart that helped me with the story :)
I hope you guys enjoy!
Mr. Peabody and Sherman is copyright to Dreamworks and I, Dreamcatcher-Megan, will never own it in any way in a million years. (Butagirlcandream...)
Mr. Peabody tapped his fingers against the handle bars of the red motorcycle impatiently as he waited for the glowing red light to turn green. He was twenty minutes late picking up his son from the after school daycare. The presentation he had given an hour ago had already made him late enough.
His son, Sherman, had been diagnosed with autism just a few months after turning three. Before then, Mr. Peabody didn't suspect anything wrong with his boy. He thought it was fairly normal for Sherman to often not make eye contact with him, or to speak much. Sherman wasn't speaking at all, not even before his third birthday. That worried Mr. Peabody, so he did some quick research online, and was shocked with what he found. Sherman was supposed to have starting talking months ago! It was then when Mr. Peabody realized it was time for a trip to the doctor. It was also the day when he was informed that Sherman had autism.
Since that day, Sherman had been receiving weekly therapy sessions, and after school sessions when he began school. He also slowly began talking after speech sessions. It was rare for Sherman to say anything at all, but he would speak on some occasions when asking for things.
When Mr. Peabody arrived at the daycare, he hopped off the motorcycle and went inside. Sherman was waiting in the empty playroom on a red chair, waving his toy rocket in the air in a back and forth motion. He was so entranced by the toy he didn't notice his father coming in.
"Sherman," Mr. Peabody knelt beside his boy. "It's me, Mr. Peabody. Are you ready to go home?"
Sherman nodded, but refused to make eye contact. He got up from the chair, took Mr. Peabody's paw into his hand and they walked outside to the motorcycle. Once Mr. Peabody helped Sherman into the sidecar and put his helmet on, they were off driving down the street at a leisurely pace. When they slowed to a stop at a red light, Mr. Peabody glanced down at Sherman and frowned. Sherman was plucking spitballs from his hair. Mr. Peabody could feel anger in his chest; the kids at Sherman's school were always picking on him, pushing him into the mud and shooting spitballs in his hair. Deep inside, it broke his heart to see his boy going through the torture during school. The school could never catch the kids in act and they couldn't punish them based on Mr. Peabody's complaints alone.
The sun was setting by the time they stepped inside the apartment. While Sherman went into the living room to play with his toy rocket, Mr. Peabody went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. He had come to learn over the years that autistic children tend to be very picky about what they eat, much to his dismay. When he had adopted Sherman, before learning of his autism, he had looked forward to sharing his wonderful dishes and maybe even teaching his son how to cook. But now, Sherman could only eat certain foods that he wouldn't refuse. While Mr. Peabody prepared his own dinner of lasagna, he stuck a chicken nugget Kid Cuisine in the microwave for Sherman.
They later ate in silence at the table. Sherman's eyes were roaming around his plate, not once looking up at his father sitting across from him. Mr. Peabody sighed. He wanted nothing more than to connect and bond with his boy, but for the most part, he didn't know how. All the meals they shared were quiet affairs, where Mr. Peabody would often sit and think. He always feared he was neglecting Sherman not because he didn't know how to connect with him, but also with his work getting in the way. Most of the time Mr. Peabody would hire a babysitter to come and watch Sherman while he worked in his office. On other days when he wasn't busy, Mr. Peabody would try to talk to Sherman, but most of the time they never got passed a small talk.
When Sherman was finished with his dinner, he stood up and went into the hallway to his room, taking his toy rocket with him. He loved the toy rocket; he took it everywhere he went. He really loved rockets and anything to do with outer space. Once Mr. Peabody gave him a small remote control rocket for his birthday; he had never seen Sherman's eyes light up so much.
Mr. Peabody collected the dishes, turned on the kitchen faucet, and began cleaning the plates. He soon became distracted with the sound of the water spraying the plates and the routine of scrubbing them, until an ear splitting wail rang through out the apartment. His heart gave a leap.
"Sherman!" He called. He hurriedly turned off the faucet and ran down the hallway into Sherman's room. "What's wrong?" He turned and saw his son on his knees crying over something in his hands. "Sherman, are you okay?" Mr. Peabody knelt by Sherman, and saw what was wrong. In Sherman's hands were his glasses, only they were twisted and bent in a way that couldn't be fixed by hand. Sherman was desperately trying to twist the glasses back into formation.
"Sherman, stop," Mr. Peabody urged. "You can't fix them. We can get you a new pair." He took his boy into his arms without a second thought. Sherman buried his tear streaked face into his father's warm fur. His loud wails eventually ceased to soft whimpers here and there. "It's alright Sherman, calm down." Mr. Peabody ran his paw through his son's hair in a gentle manner. Sherman finally calmed down after a few minutes of weeping into his father's fur, eventually crying himself to sleep. Mr. Peabody looked down at his sleeping son in his arms. A few wet tears still clung onto his cheeks, which he wiped away gently. He quietly lifted Sherman off the ground and carried him to his bed.
Mr. Peabody pulled the sheets up to Sherman's chin and gently took the broken glasses from Sherman's tight grasp. He sighed as he looked down at the glasses, and then back at Sherman. He let out a weak smile.
No, Sherman isn't the son Mr. Peabody had intended on adopting years ago, but... that will never, not in a million years, stop him from loving him as his son.
*sniffles and wipes away tears* I admit that was hard to write without pausing for a brief moment to grief on what I'm writing. I really hope you guys enjoyed the story as much as I did. Please favorite and review for more stories.
Thanks for reading. Love you guys :)