A week passed uneventfully, everyone trying to adjust to the still-new living arrangements and come to terms with a cure being impossible. The boys still shared a room and a bed, but Sherlock was starting to have problems. It was the middle of the night when the younger boy woke up sweating and thrashing, his eyes wild and heart racing. He checked to make sure Mycroft was still beside him and sighed when he saw his brother's chest rising and falling. He couldn't believe he was actually thinking of clutching onto his arm, but he felt he really had no choice. Tentatively, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Mycroft's arm, holding on tight and snuggling beneath it so he was pressed close against his side. Mycroft twitched in his sleep but didn't wake.
His dream had truly frightened him, but he wasn't going to say a word. Mycroft would eventually wake to a trembling brother at his side, but still Sherlock would refuse to say what had scared him so. He swore it, under his breath, that he wouldn't say a word. This was a weakness, a stupid, childish fear that the doctor would return, do more terrible things to them, take them away. He couldn't bear having to voice his insane fears, so he kept quiet and waited for the sun to rise and stream in through the window shades.
Mycroft finally woke at seven and looked down at what was causing the pressure on his arm. Sherlock was there, holding tight, looking exhausted and jumpy, twitching slightly and fidgiting.
"Sherlock?" he asked, rubbing his eyes to see his brother better. Sherlock sat up with him and let go of his arm, but refused to meet his eyes. Mycroft lifted his chin up and inspected his brother's face, noting the slight purple coloring beneath his eyes, how pale he seemed, how sweaty. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked quietly, checking Sherlock's pulse as he asked the question. He heart rate picked up quickly, but his face never changed as he brought glassy eyes up to meet Mycroft's.
Sighing, Mycroft nodded and stood, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. He followed suit and Mycroft led him out of the room, his long fingered hand around Sherlock's tiny fist. John was already in the kitchen, puttering around making breakfast. He looked up and smiled at their entrance, but then seemed to really see them and became worried.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He knelt down in front of his friend and ran medically trained hands over important areas, looking for injuries. "Are you alright? You look like death."
Mycroft moved his hand to Sherlock's shoulder and gripped it lightly. "I believe he had a bad dream and is refusing to talk about it." Sherlock turned and looked up at his brother, a scowl set on his face. Mycroft just rolled his eyes and turned back to John. "He used to do this all the time. He was afraid bad dreams were seen as him being stupid, childish, even though he had every right to be frightened. This began when he was merely four."
John nodded and turned back to Sherlock, holding his forearms and rubbing up and down, giving him a warm smile. "Sherlock, I asked if you would tell me if something was wrong. Can you tell me now? What's wrong?"
Sherlock's face scrunched up in a scowl and he spoke his first words of the morning. "I am fine. Mycroft seems to think I am not, but I am. Simply tired because I did not sleep well, that's all."
John rose a knowing eyebrow but allowed the statement to pass, hoping that this might actually help him spring the news he had been dreading all morning. "Actually, I've got something to tell you two. Well, two things, really."
He herded them toward the table and set breakfast out for them before taking a seat himself, sipping at his tea before jumping into the conversation. Both boys were staring at him, half-eaten food still sitting before them, Sherlock with a piece of toast in his fist and Mycroft with a mug of tea raised to his lips.
"Well, I'll tell you the less-explosive piece of the news first. I thought since this is permanent and that I really can't keep you both occupied at all hours of the day, every day, forever, that I would enroll you both in school." The affronted looks he was given almost made him start giggling, but he held it back. "I've explained I have two brilliant boys and they are prepared for your biting tongues and massive intellects. So don't worry about having to deal with idiots all the time, I'm sure it will be fine."
Sherlock was glaring at John and Mycroft was simply openly gawping at him. "Well, after that bombshell, what the hell could be the other news? The more-explosive news?" Sherlock bit out, throwing his toast down on his plate.
"Calm down, Sherlock. You'll be fine. But, I, uh, got appointments for you two for therapy." Again the angry glares were back, and Sherlock seemed to be literally fuming now. "Now, stop that," John admonished. "I've seen how you both are handling this, and it is a massive change, and I thought that if you won't talk to me about the important stuff, such as bad dreams," he said, glancing down at Sherlock, who looked duly chastised, "then you might talk to someone else. They've agreed to meet with you two seperately every Tuesday. First appointment is this week."
Both boys looked shaken and mindblown, but also very unhappy. John suddenly felt a gnawing bite in his stomach, feeling he might have made the wrong decisions. "Come on," he said, shakily, "it'll be fine. You'll both do brilliantly. I'm not trying to push you out of the flat or anything, I just thought maybe you needed to get out a bit more. And start talking about what's happened to you with someone trained to help with it." Mycroft looked like he might be sick and Sherlock looked like he was ready to throw himself out of the window.
Before John could get in another word, both boys said at the same time, "May I be excused, John?" and quickly got up after a swift look at each other. They both ran down the stairs and John heard Mrs. Hudson's surprised voice echo up the stairs and then her door quickly shutting.
He sighed but at least he knew where they were. They had found sanctuary in Mrs. Hudson's flat, with her grandmotherly ways and endless supply of cookies and running commentary of helpful or not-so-helpful advice.
"We aren't children! And a doctor? He wants us to see a doctor." Sherlock was fuming in one of the overstuffed chairs in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, jamming cookies in his mouth as his anger grew. "I mean, really, he should know better by now."
Mycroft leveled a look at the cookies quickly disappearing and sighed, kicking his feet up on the table. "He's just doing what he thinks is best. I fear it was inevitable. But I wish he would have asked our opinions, first." Sherlock nodded and demolished another cookie, bitting into it angrily.
"Oh, dear. What's our doctor done now?" They both turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, guilt flashing across their faces as they shifted in their seats.
"He wants to send us to school. And therapy. We don't want to," Sherlock whined, leaning further into his seat.
"I'm sure you'll both have fun at school. And therapy can only help. He's just trying to watch out for you two. Now, I can hear him pacing around up there and I'm sure he's worried you both hate him right now. So why don't you go back on up and make up? Hmm?"
She was very persuasive and sent the boys upstairs after clutching them both to her in tight hugs. The brothers had no choice but to go back upstairs after that, feeling childish and silly for storming out like they had. John looked up from his laptop and slowly smiled when he heard them come back. "What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked, curiosity piqued despite himself as he stepped heavily into the room behind Mycroft.
"The school's website. I thought once you both cooled down that you would like to check it out." He twirled the laptop around to show them and they found themselves being drawn forward. Mycroft studied the glossy pictures and the eloquent wording of the description of the grounds. He was glad it wasn't a boarding school, rather located in central London, quite close to the flat, actually. Sherlock refused to read anything, instead staring at the bright colored pictures of smiling school children and happy teachers.
"It looks nice," Mycroft said slowly, not quite happy that he was forced to admit it. If he had had children himself, this would have been one of his first options. Sherlock glared at him as if he had just abandoned him on the side of the road.
"We don't need school," Sherlock whined, backing away from his brother and John, feeling a sickness pulling at his belly. John turned sympathetic eyes his way, and they only made him feel worse for his reaction. "We don't need therapy, either. There's nothing wrong with us." His bottom lip was wobbling in anger and his eyes were pricking with tears he wouldn't allow to fall. John was quickly becoming just another adult that thought they were oddities, creatures that had just too many problems to care about.
"Sherlock," John whispered, reaching for the little boy and pulling him in close. "I know there's nothing wrong with you two. I never said there was. But you need to talk to someone about what's happened. It will help you later on, I promise." John ran his hand up and down Sherlock's shoulder and sent Mycroft a sympathetic look, as well, when he noticed the teen's awkward shuffling.
Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper and felt like an idiot. If he had just told them about his stupid, illogical dream then they wouldn't have to go to therapy, and they wouldn't have to talk to a stranger about things they could barely talk to John about.
"It's all gonna be okay, boys. I promise. Yeah?" John tugged Mycroft in for a hug as well and crushed Sherlock closer to his chest. Mycroft sighed dramatically but rested his chin on John's other shoulder.
School started the next week, and he needed to prepare them for it.