So I wrote this one is about two hours. If you see any problems with it... I'm going to fix them! I swear!

And the next authors note will have thank yous to everyone who reviewed as well as answers to questions that were asked! So no, I swear, not ignoring you! I will be making sure to get back to each and every one of you by tomorrow or by the next update.

Next update... well... it's right now between Sherman discovers he has asthma (hard for dog who runs everywhere and drags his son along... yeah... not fun) and possibly the beginning of a 2/3 part series with more angst and fluff than I think you're ready for. So, we'll see!

Warning: This is far from my best one. But I tried! So enjoy it or not, know that some effort was put into this for your entertainment and also know that a better one will be coming shortly!

This update brought to you by too little sleep and corn chips!

~Gal


o0o

"Don't stand unmoving outside the door of a crying baby whose only desire is to touch you. Go to your baby. Go to your baby a million times. Demonstrate that people can be trusted, that the environment can be trusted, that we live in a benign universe."

~Peggy O'Mara

o0o


When Sherman was two years old his father had taken him to meet Sigmund Freud. The two of them had been welcomed with open arms and a silver platter laden with teas and pastries. Sherman, at the age where sugar was, in his mind, the only real form of nutrition that ones body needed dove for the sweets. His father, at an age where getting three hours of sleep a night because of a child on a permanent sugar rush, stopped him quickly. But, in the end, the three sat in the office together, Peabody drinking black tea and thanking some deity for giving him the idea of going back to a time where caffeine was present and Sherman thinking about not much at all, a single parent approved cupcake in his hand.

The office was a lovely one. Small, but homey. One wall was completely covered in bookshelves, each jammed with far too many literary works than anyone could count (unless you asked Peabody, who would humbly say 677.5), busts of other famous psychologists and a few knick knacks that seemed to be doing nothing more than collecting dust. Mr. Peabody and the renowned psychologist both sat in rich brown high back chairs, while Sherman squirmed happily on a chaise draped like a roman god in persian carpets and blankets.

"I 'ave to say, Peabody, j'you 'ave a lovely boy."

"Thank you, Dr. Freud. He is a rather pleasing subject, is he not."

"Indeed," the doctor frowned at the use of word choice, but didn't delve deeper. Instead he scratched a bit of chin that hid under his beard, taking a long sip of his own tea. "An' you bring him to my office why? He not plagued psychologically, no? Relatively normal child, yes?" As if to answer his question, Sherman looked up from his treat, face covered in pink frosting, and kicked his feet happily. Mr. Peabody sighed, reaching for a napkin.

"Yes, he's normal, I suppose. A little smarter of course-"

"Bah! Smartness. What you know about children and brain, Peabody? No'ting, dat ees vhat."

Peabody didn't respond, trying to keep Sherman still enough to actually wipe frosting off his face. Sherman wiggled, trying to move away from the offending cleaning device. "No!" He said, "No! Want fro'ting!"

"Yes, I know you like frosting but- how did you get it in your hair?- I'd rather you didn't bathe in it, Sherman."

"No! Want fro'ting! My fro'ting!" In protest of the act of ridding him of his now favorite facial accessory, Sherman smeared frosting across his fathers face to his nose. Peabody backed away, smell of strawberry and sugar filling his nasal passages. He sneezed, growled slightly, and proceeded to wipe his own face off to the sound of Sherman's giggles.

"You see, Peabody, normal child."

"I didn't say he wasn't normal," the dog said around another napkin, glaring at the child who proceeded to lick frosting off his fingers, getting more of it in his hair than in his mouth. "Just superior in intelligence when compared to others his age range."

A snort from the psychologist. "Please. Sie sind verrückt, Peabody. Crazy! Children are children. The child prodigy, they are no different than the normal child. A kinder intelligence is in it's imagination and dreams. Has Sherman's dreams been fairly normal?"

The child bounced happily. "I dream I was a dinosaur!" Followed by what Peabody could only assume to be a T-Rex roar. Peabody rolled his eyes, but smirked.

"I do not know if that is normal, but I'm going to assume that it is."

"Of course!" The white beard bobbed happily. "Dreams are all different, but all symbolize different things."

"Fascinating, Mr. Freud." The dog mused, finally getting his son still enough to weed pink goop from his red hair. "I have heard of your dream theories and I find them all incredible."

"Ja, ja! They are new theories that I come up with." The man, practically buzzing with excitement, tea in his cup quivering with his hand. "I try on new patients soon, but first, I tell you."

"I'd be most- Sherman, stop moving- honored, Dr. Freud." The dog licked his thumb, wiping sugar off of Sherman's brow. "But wouldn't you rather discuss them when Sherman isn't here."

"Bah. Sherman ees old enough to hear. You see, I have developed a new theory that all 'umans dream about is s-"

Sherman's ears were clamped shut after that with frantic paws. And when he tried to wriggle away he was reluctantly handed another sugary treat. Anything to keep him from hearing what the doctor was saying in a rather loud voice, arms flying, hands making crude motions in the air. And when Sherman was allowed to hear, the Doctor had moved onto other topics.

"Nightmares, dey are all that really confuse me. I believe them to be remnants of past anxiety, haunting brain like ghost."

"I think most would agree, Dr. Freud."

"J'yes, but from where do nightmares come from eef d'ey are not real dreams. Vhat are dey den."

"Perhaps they are little mysteries."

The bearded man shook his head. "No. Eet weel be discovered. I weel discover. Until then, we just say that nightmares are anxiety, yes? Fear that must be released."

"I don't know. I always thought that when you had a nightmare, you simply had to remind yourself that it's existence wasn't palpable." Mr. Peabody shrugged. He'd had very few nightmares in his life, and whenever he did have one, it always helped him to simply remind himself of the ridiculousness of it all.

"No, Peabody! Nightmares must be discussed! Anxiety must be released."

"I read that when children have nightmares you're supposed to remind them of what is real and what is not. Sherman hasn't had anything too drastic happen in his life, anyhow. So there would be nothing to be afriad of."

"Peabody, Peabody, Peabody! No! 'Specially children! You must comfort. You must talk! The brain is amazing, my friend, and fear can be created from smallest element! We are 'uman! Tragedy, eet ees programmed into your minds already. And children, dey are first to discover this. An' vhen dey do, parent must be ready to help."

Peabody sighed, shrugged. "I'll try it. But I can't guarantee that any nightmares will occur. Sherman is a normal happy boy."

Freud didn't press the matter, but he shook his head enough to send his beard waving, sipping at his tea again, content to watch the now hyperactive child try to jump off the chaise. "Fly! Fly!"

"No, Sherman!"

But it was rare that Doctor Sigmund Freud was wrong. And though Sherman was a "normal child", nightmares did come. His first when he was two and a half, though it had resulted in little more than whimpering lightly, kicking sheets off the bed, and waking with no memory and cold feet. The second had been more memorable, and Peabody had ran into the room of a screaming three year old, consoling him with the calm logic that no, the snails from dinner in France 1920 did not have family that was going to find or harm him, and that he was happy that his son had at least tried new things. The third, when Sherman was five, was a mild one as well. The boy had dreamt of being chased by a pack of howling animals. His father was none the wiser about that one, but did ask why, when going to meet Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he didn't want to hear the tale of the Baskervilles.

It wasn't until Sherman was seven and a half that the dog even understood what the doctor had meant.


"Did you remember to put the permission slip into your bag?" Peabody tucked in his boy, removing the glasses from their place tucked behind his ears, placing them next to his bed.

"Yes!" Sherman's feet kicked happily, disturbing Peabody's smoothing job. The dog sighed, pulling at covers once more and watching new wrinkles vanish. "I can't believe that we're going to see Van Gogh's paintings! Do you think anyone would believe that I helped him paint one!"

"I don't think so, Sherman."

"But you know I did, right. Because he kept my finger painting there."

"Yes, I do remember. Did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes. And they would never ever believe that you have one of his paintings! Can I show my friends when they come over? Can my friends come over? I've never had friends over!"

"That painting is locked away for a reason, Sherman. It's priceless. I have been thinking about donating it lately to the museum."

"But Van Gogh gave it to you!"

"And it was very generous of him," the dog smirked, adjusting himself where he sat on the edge of Sherman's bed. "But there is no place for it in this home. The color scheme hardly matches. And too much exposure to light will ruin it, especially since a good portion of this house is made of windows." A pause. "But yes, you may have your friends over."

"Cool! You'll like them! Rajit wants to be a scientist and Carl wants to work for NASA one day, and you've already met Penny. She used to hate them, but now she actually likes them." He took a breath. "She wanted to cut hair, which is okay, I guess. But now she wants to be a historian! Isn't that cool, Mr. Peabody!"

"Quite interesting, Sherman. And I am sure I will like all your friends in due course. But for now," and he stroked back his sons hair, "get some sleep, alright? You have school tomorrow."

"Okay." The boy shuffled down into sheets, yawning. "G'night Mr. Peabody."

"Goodnight, Sherman."

"I love you, Mr. Peabody."

The dog stalled, smiled, turned back at the door, glasses gleaming under the hallways halogens. "I love you as well, Sherman." Because it was hard to say. But he was saying it, words long ago caught in throats finally allowed to be released, the hidden keys discovered and broken.

Sherman turned over in his bed and yawned once again, jaw clapping shut. There were sounds from the other side of his door- Mr. Peabody navigating through the apartment, cleaning the already near spotless kitchen, picking up and shuffling papers. Outside the city buzzed with cars, a few stray cats yowled, honking from busses and a short rumble as a train passed somewhere far below. Sounds he knew, was familiar with.

His eyes finally drifted closed, and he fell into a deep...

deep...

sl-


"Come, Sherman," the large woman grabbed his hand, pulling her to the beat up purple car that sat nearby. "No child belongs with a dog, anyway. We're going to find you a new home. A better home."

"No! Let me go!" He was tugged, his shoulder popping at the movement. "Ow! You're hurting me!" But she continued to pull him away. "Mr. Peabody! Mr. Peabody, help!" But this time his words reached no one, echoing off of empty walls made from city skyscrapers and stars. "Please! Let me go!"

But she didn't. Her hands were freezing cold and her nails dug into his wrist, drawing blood. The more he squirmed the tighter she gripped, and everything she said came out in cobra like hisses. "Don't struggle. You'll only make this harder on yourself. And you should be thanking me. For all you know one day that dog have lashed out and bitten you again."

"That dog," he tried to pull away. His arm was on fire, "that dog is my dad! He'd never hurt me! He-"

"Loves you?" She scoffed. Her tiny feet clipped the ground, slicing into gravel, digging miniature graves with her heels. "Don't make up stories, Sherman. Lying boys don't get adopted."

"Stop it!" But they were still walking, and he was useless to do much else. Just watch as the atmosphere changed, the land around him shifting from city landscape to the penthouse to his own room. Memories of his life there flashing- he and his father sitting at the table together for dinner, being tucked in as if it had taken place mere hours prior, saying i love you in lit doorways. Each time, he called out to his father, who seemed to not hear him. Or maybe, just maybe, he truly didn't care. And after that he was dragged on through tunnels too dark to see through.

The woman finally stopped, Sherman following suit, hanging from her grip like a puppet whose strings had been taken hold of by a new master, handling scissors too close to their shimmering tangles. In front of them was a gaping maw of a tube made from blue waves that pulsed and beat and whooshed and made the ground below his feet shiver. The two stood, staring for a long while. Sherman's hair tickled with each breeze that came from the aura's, and he swallowed.

"Why are you doing this?" Because that was all he could ask. All he could think to ask. "Tears pricked at his eyes and he scrubbed them away with his free hand. "I just want to go home," he choked, "I just want my dad."

Slowly, as if peeling back a candy bar, the womans fingers lifted from his secured wrist. "Look," she pointed. "Do you see why I'm taking you away."

On his wrist, a half moon of shimmering flesh and punctured stars, was a bite mark.

Sherman found he couldn't breathe. "Why… who…"

"Oh Sherman," and the voice shifted, changed, turned into millions of other voices taunting him on cafeteria floors, the smell of tuna taking over every sense he had. "Don't you know what happens to dogs that bite?"

And he was pushed down the time tube. Screaming as he fell, trying to catch hold of anything that would keep his steady, greedy fingers needing to grab something, hold something. But there was nothing, and he continued to fall, all the while voices plagued his mind, filling his pores with lava and venomous intent.

You're dads a dog, so you're a dog too.

Say it, Sherman. Say you're a dog.

I'm not a dog…

I'm not a dog!

Sit

Stay

Heel

Come

And then;

Watch...

He fell hard onto solid concrete, shadows of bars interrupting his vision. Sherman ran forward as soon as he had found his grounding, grasping at cool metal that allowed him not entrance to the other side. The smell was sterile, but not clean. It stung his nose and wrapped him in cool ice. He shook his head, sneezed, rubbed his nose, trying to rid it of the feeling that was tingling along his spine- as if he was under observation, waiting for his turn.

A door slammed open to his right, green light filtering the room. Instruments he hadn't realized were there- scalpels, needles, cruel and sharp edges- winked at him cruelly. There was shouting, pleading, shattering of glass. Two large men stumbled in. Between them, one grabbing an arm each, was Mr. Peabody.

"Please!" The dog was trying to get away, "Please, I have a son! He needs me! You have to understand! Please!"

"Mr. Peabody!" Sherman shook the bars. His vision blurred, tears finally making their way out of his eyes, but he didn't notice. Not even as his small cage began to fill up with water. "Mr. Peabody!" Another shake, rattling filling the already heavy air, transforming from sound into tiny rocks that bounced off the walls. But no one would listen, just dragging the dog to the silver table, strapping him to it's surface.

"You have to understand!" And without his glasses or bowtie, the dog looked more like a dog than Sherman had ever seen. "He needs me! My son needs me! He doesn't know that I love him! Just let me tell him that I love him first, please!"

"Mr. Peabody!" Still, no one would listen. The salty water had reached Sherman's neck.

"Don't worry, Mr. Peabody." The door closed, and the woman from before walked in. She wore a white suit and a nurses cap on top of her huge hair, now wriggling and squirming with snakes. "This will be over quickly. And we'll make sure that Sherman is well taken care of."

The dog struggled, pleaded, called out to no one.

Sherman shook the bars again. "Mr. Peabody!" And then. "Dad!"

But still, no one listened. Not even as the IV was lowered to his father's arm and Sherman, from behind bars, finally drowned in his own tears.


The boy awoke with a gasp, wrenching himself out of covers that had tangled around his body, constricting him in their tight hold. One tendril was around his wrist, and he yanked it off quickly. His body shook, and he couldn't figure out if it was simply because he was cold, or perhaps every moment of what he had imagined had decided to take up residence in his muscles, until there were too many to stay still. He swiped at his eyes, and was not surprised to find tears. Tears that didn't seem to want to stop. A sob ripped through his chest, and he blinked in the dark.

Because the room was just so dark.

Like traveling through tunnels with angry words and IV needles, dark. And the more he thought about it, the more he remembered just how it had all ended. His thumb stroked his wrist which remained unbitten. But marks could heal. And, looking around, the boy couldn't recognize his own room. Ideas of orphanages and foster care struck him. And then the scariest thought of all.

What if that was where he was.

Psychologists often link reality and dreams together with a bridge made from steel, absence of any wires. THe idea that, no matter how strong, the structure, with no way of allowing movement through harsh winds or weather, will break all the same, shatter, and all the occupants will tumble into chasms below. Dreams become reality as quickly as reality becomes dreams. And for a child, sitting in a dark room, dreams confuse themselves in fun houses filled with mirrors- leaving things unrecognizable and confusing.

And Sherman forgot just where he was, who he was, what had happened, in one of those mirrors, staring back at possibilities and alternate universes.

And in that moment, he was a child in an orphanage, and his father was…

Sherman shook his head, another sob tearing away at his organs. With no thoughts about anything, he leapt out of bed. The blankets caught his ankles, and he fell, but was up moments later. The world without glasses was a blurry mess, but the boy didn't seem to notice that behind other veils that plagued him. His door was opened quickly and he ran through memorized darkness into a room not far away. Hands groped for the handle, found it, turned it, and he threw himself into a new kind of darkness.

There was a yelp as the sound of the door slamming awoke the other occupant of the room. Another scrambled, lost balance, and soon the light beside the large bed flicked on. Mr. Peabody searched for his glasses, fumbling to put them properly on his face. "Sherman! What in the galaxy do you think you're" he looked up, blinked. "Sherman!?" Because the one thing he did not expect to see was his son, standing at his door with- his back pressed against the wood, panting and sobbing, face shining with tears "Sherman! What is the matter! Are you alright!"

That was all the invitation the boy needed, running towards the bed and throwing himself on top of it, scrambling to his father as if he had lost all mobile dexterity. The dog grabbed his son to steady him, but soon found the boy clutching at him desperately.

"Sherman!"

"Don't go!" The boy wailed. "Please don't go! I'm sorry! I'll be good, I promise! Just don't go! Don't let them take me away!"

"Sherman, no one is taking you away!"

"They… they said… th-that do-dogs who b-bite…!" It was all he could get out between hiccups and quick inhales of breath. "Please Mr. Peabody!"

"Sherman! For goodness sake, take a breath!" He held the boy tighter, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Never in his life with the boy had something as drastic as this awoken the red head. He'd always had reality under control, as much as any child could. It was a first, and he wasn't quite sure how to handle any of it. Some part of him wished he had listened more closely to Freud. Perhaps he'd read a book on his theories again later in the week. But for now, he had a still sobbing child with him.

"Sherman, breathe. Take a breath, alright?" The boy obeyed, albeit shakily, finally catching enough air to at least stop the sobs. "Good. Now, what was this dream about? Lets analyze it shall we."

His boy sniffed, nodded, leaned into his fathers touch. "Miss Grunion took me away." Another sniff. A snort.

"Why?" This was how he was supposed to deal with this, wasn't it?

"Because… because you bit me." Oh… well… he hadn't expected that… "But I know you never would, but they still took me! Because they said you weren't a good dad. And then… I was with you at the vet… I was with you… and…. and…" and with that, the boy was back into a fresh bout of tears.

Mr. Peabody's spine crawled. Because that was not something the boy was supposed to be thinking about. Of course he knew. He was an animal, was he not, and he'd heard plenty of stories. But truly, it hadn't been fair. He'd heard what the woman had said to his son over the wails of sirens and the chatter of crowds. Nothing a child should have to hear in any way. And he'd had to listen to every word spill like hot blood from between her teeth.

"Sherman, it's alright. I'm here. I'm still here and I'm physically fine." The boy sniffled. Nodded. Mr. Peabody sighed. "Look." He offered Sherman his paw, and the younger of the two took it gratefully, still avoiding eye contact, but playing with the pads against the white fur. The still warm paws that wiggled and grasped his fingers in his own. There was another nod against his chest. "You had a nightmare. That is all. Just chemicals in your brain reacting and giving you hyperactive images that point towards pact events or grievances. Nothing to worry about." He smoothed the boys hair. "Now, off to bed-"

"No!" He had had him so calm just seconds ago, and now the boy looked about ready to cry again. Grabbing his fathers tighter in his grip he shook his head against the fur, "Please, Mr. Peabody. Please, can I sleep here!?"

"Sherman, you know-"

"Please Mr. Peabody!" Large brown eyes stared up, begged, screamed through pigmentation and watery marks that this was just what he wanted, what he needed. To please not reject him after all of that.

You must comfort. You must talk! The brain is amazing, my friend, and fear can be created from smallest element! We are 'uman! Tragedy, eet ees programmed into your minds already. And children, dey are first to discover this. An' vhen dey do, parent must be ready to help.

Peabody sighed. But he did lift the covers as an invitation. Sherman detached himself long enough to snuggle down until the covers reached his nose, watching as his father reached over and turned out the light once again. "Alright then," said through the darkness. "for tonight. And only for tonight." Sherman nodded. But as soon as Mr. Peabody had settled himself, the child moved to press against his parent, bury his face into his side. Peabody sighed, rolled his eyes, but drifted off.

And it wasn't long before the beagle himself was woken up, gasping. Remnants of dreams stuck to the sheets. Shouting. Watching his boy dragged away with no way to grab him. Watched as the boy was packed into brown boxes, screaming his name to one who could hear. Mr. Peabody, Mr. Peabody! Dad!

And when he did wake up, heartbeat finally slowing, trying to convince himself of the same thing he had told his son so recently, that nightmares weren't real, they weren't real, they weren't real, so there was no need to fear them, he found that he still feared them. But the sound beside him, a child's slowed breathing, fingers still kneading into his fur in sleep, allowed his breath to calm, his swallows and gasps to leave him.

Sigmund Freud had a point. And, though prideful, the dog had to admit it. Especially after sinking back into covers, and pulling his boy close, the smell of his son sinking into the air. It took more than just logic to rid one of fear. Sometimes it took another person to assure you that everything would forever be okay. would forever be okay.