The next morning was rather dull. The entirety of it was spent waiting around, Sherlock bored out of his mind. His mother didnt want him outside. She insisted he would mess his clothes with dirt somehow, and also wanted him to be able to come meet his and Mycrofts tutor quickly.
The two Holmes boy's were in the parlor. Mycrofts sat in one of the chairs, indulged in some heavy textbook, obviously for pleasurable reading. Sherlock meanwhile was in the chair opposite, his legs swinging back and forth against the cloth as he sat there silently with no other thing to do. He needn't have worried, for soon came at ring from the door. Mary stepped out from the kitchen and greeted the guest, then showed him into the room the two boys occupied.
He was a young man, tall and thin. He bore a blue suit, with similar coloured trousers. A brown tie occupied the space around his neck. His hair was darker brown, and short, sticking up in some parts, but it was obvious where he had tried to comb it down. He had a pair of black, square glasses on as well, and on his feet, nicer leather shoes. He first turned to the older brother, who had set his book down on the armrest, standing up to greet the new guest, presumably, the new tutor. Mycroft held out his and in welcome, shaking it with the older man.
"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself. "And, was it Mr. Richard?" he confirmed.
"Yes, that would be correct. Very astute," the man congratulated. There was a hint of Scottish in his voice. He released Mycrofts hand and came over to the other chair where Sherlock hands bothered to stand up. "Then you must be young Sherlock," he concluded, holding out his hand. From behind him, Mycroft made a motion for his younger brother to stand and greet Mr. Richard respectfully. Sherlock did so, letting his hand take the much larger and rougher one, shaking it quickly before letting go.
"Are you a professor?" Sherlock asked softly.
"A professor?" Mr. Richard repeated.
"Sherlock, don't ask ignorant questions," Mycroft told the younger boy.
"It's not ignorant," Sherlock returned with a glare to his brother. His attention went back to the tutor. "So are you, then?"
"Yes, in fact I am." Mr. Richards nodded. "At Oxfored University, if, you care to know," he told him. "How did you know that, may I ask?" The man question more in fascination.
"You just look like a professor," Sherlock told him quietly. Mr. Richards deemed that satisfactory and the eight-year-old went quiet again. The man went over at sat in the third chair. Mycroft followed suit and sat back down again, Sherlock doing the same. Mr. Richards leaned forwards on his knees, his hands folded in front of him.
"So, as I understand it, you're eight?" He clarified, turning his attention to Sherlock, who nodded silently. "And then, Mycroft, you're sixteen, is that correct?"
"Yes, I'll be seventeen in a few months. And Sherlock nine in January." The older boy nodded.
"Excellent. So, what do you boys do for fun, then?" Mr. Richards asked, sitting back up in the chair and adjusting his glasses in front of his eyes.
"I spend my time reading, research books mainly, quiet a bit," Mycroft answered.
"Good, good. Reading is very good. And you Sherlock?" The man turned to the younger boy. "What do you like doing?"
"I like reading," he replied softly.
"Oh? Reading what?" Mr. Richard was obviously very good with young kids, showing his apparent interest in what the younger boy did, even though it didnt matter as a whole.
"Everything,"
"Everything! Well, good for you, good for you," The tutor nodded with a smile. He opened his mouth to ask another question when the door opened and Mary came in with a tray for tea. "Ah, excellent, just what we need," Mr. Richard thanked Mary before she left. The three remaining occupants of the room served their tea before continuing.
"Well, I have quite a few interesting lessons planned, more on theories and studies of habit rather than your average school lessons," Mr. Richard began explaining.
"Like what?" Sherlock piped in, curious.
"Ah, see, what's the fun in knowing ahead of time, when we haven't even started yet?" The man returned. "Dont worry, all in good time,"
Another hour or to was spent with the boys getting to know their soon to be tutor. They talked a little more about the boys interests, what they saw in their future, though only Mycroft really knew. For most of the time, Sherlock allowed the conversation to go on between his brother and the professor, himself not knowing how he would answer the questions brought up, but also not feeling the mood to partake in the conversation anyways. He should be outside, running in the field and forest, finding his way back to the little house at the edge of the trees.
But when Mr. Richard had finally left, with the promise that he would return the next day, and they would get to know each other more, Sherlock was given the opportunity that he wanted. He had followed his mother to her room, standing in the doorway as she fixed up her hair in a side table mirror.
"Can I go explore outside again?" He inquired softly, leaning against the door frame as he watched his mother.
"I don't see why not. Just be careful and don't hurt yourself." His mother told him. "Also, I'd much rather you changed clothes, just so you don't get those ones dirty." She didnt even bother asking where Sherlock planned on going, the eight-year-old assuming the 'no-forest' rule was taken away. "And be back by five, alright?" She added.
"Okay," Sherlock agreed, eager to head back to his room so he could leave already. His mother turned back to the mirror and Sherlock took that as the sign that they were done. He rushed down the rest of the hall to his room, changing clothes with no hesitation. He really only put on his worn out shorts and a tshirt that wasnt buttoned up. They would have to do as clothes he could get mud on.
Sherlock headed back outside, this time in his hands the pirate sword, stuck once more in his belt loop, and in his back pocket, the treasure map he had made the day before. He was going to go back in the forest, and see if he would see the other boy again.
It didnt take long for Sherlock to get to the middle of the forest, finding what he figured was about halfway, the clearing he had played in the day before. From there he followed the same path as the day before, a few minutes later coming to the edge of the bushes behind the field. He watched the house for a bit, but it showed no signs of life. He was about to turn back and go home, it was getting close to when his mum wanted him to return.
But then there was a click from across the road, as the front door opened. The little boy in the jumper stepped out, standing in the doorway and turning back to face the inside. He stood there a few moments, clearly listening to directions. Then he stepped fully out, pulling the door closed behind him. The boy went around the side of the house to the back, and then Sherlock could see him no longer.
He didnt come out with a football or a stick for a gun like he and the first day Sherlock and seen him. Instead, about five minutes later, the boy in the jumper came back around the side of the house, his hands cupped in front of them, filled as far as possible with small round red objects. Cherry tomatoes, Sherlock concluded. Perhaps from a garden out back. The boy brought them back inside then closed the door again. Sherlock waited a few more minutes, but he never returned.
The eight-year-old decided it might be best if he return to his house once more. It was getting time when his mum would be expecting him back.
It was the next day, in the afternoon, minutes after Mr. Richard had left from coming over again to get to know the boys. Mycroft was in his room. Sherlock was also in his own. He was lying flat on his bed, a book in hand, but he wasnt paying attention to the golden pages in front of him. No. He was thinking about that boy in the jumper. There was something different about the whole situation of the house across the forest, but the eight-year-old didnt know what it was. His only solution, to go ask Mycroft. The older boy always knew what was going on, and most always told Sherlock, even if their parents didnt want something shared with the younger boy. This was one of the few advantages Sherlock found to having his older brother.
The boy set his book down, cover up and the pages forming a tent on his bed. He rolled off the bed to stand up on the floor, quietly exiting his own room, before making his way down the hall to Mycrofts. He knocked softly on the older boys door, his small fist making hardly a sound, but it was good enough.
"Yes?" A call came from inside. Sherlock pushed the door open to find his brother in a similar position to that of the younger boys only moments earlier. Except his brother was sitting up, back leaned against the wall, and knees bent so his legs were brought towards his chest. "What is it you need, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, keeping his eyes on his thick book he had propped up against his legs.
"Can I ask you something?"
"What is it?" Sherlock walked farther into the room, letting the door close except for a small crack between it and the frame.
"I went in the forest today, again," Sherlock started. His brother gave a nod for him to continue, not entirely invested in his brothers story. "Well, at the end of the forest, there's a field. And you know the house we drove past, when we were driving in to this one? Well a little boy lives there, and-" Sherlock was cut off. It didnt matter that he hadnt finished his question. He now had his brothers full attention.
"A boy? Like, your age? Sherlock, I don't think..." Mycroft trailed off, the book tilted down so e could see over it.
"No, there's a boy, and he plays in the yard and he lives in the house, I saw him," Sherlock protested.
"Sherlock, I don't think you should go past the forest," Mycroft gave a warning look.
"Why not, I'm gonna meet him, and we're gonna be friends,"
"No, don't. It's not a good idea."
"Why?" Sherlock inquired, not understanding his brothers disagreement to him going to the edge of the forest.
"Just, you shouldn't be around him,"
"Why?" The younger Holmes repeated.
"He's not the same," Mycroft begin to explain.
"How would you know?"
"I just do. I'm older, I know these things."
"Well he looked like a normal boy,"
"Sherlock, it's not that. I just don't think it's a good idea that you go over there, alright? Don't talk to him, don't associate yourself with him." Mycroft held eye contact with his brother, telling the younger boy to promise to do so.
"Fine, alright. I just don't see why."
"It doesn't matter why," Mycroft told him. "And listen, we didnt have this conversation, and if father asks, you never went to the edge of the field, and you don't know about the people in that house, got it?"
"Er, yeah, sure,"
"Good," Mycroft went back to his book. "Anything else?"
"No. Thanks anyways, Myc," Sherlock turned to leave the room, going back once more, to his own. "Still don't see what so wrong with him," he muttered to himself on the way out.
Back there, he flopped down on his bed once more. He didnt see what was so wrong with the boy in the jumper. And he didnt see why Mycroft, or he assumed his parents, didnt want him to meet him. His one chance at a friend his own age at this new house, and his family, for reasons unknown, wouldn't allow him to do so. Sherlock didnt understand why.