A tiny, messy haired boy was building a city with wooden blocks, although he would probably tell you he was constructing a bustling city with a rather large population and a booming industry of entirely based upon socks. Sherlock Holmes was known to have quite the imagination.

So when five-year-old Thomas Crutener stuck his tennis-shoed foot into the makings of his fantastic, thriving metropolitan area, Sherlock became angry very quickly.

"You imbecile!" he sputtered as the blocks flew in every direction. "That was not your city to destroy!"

"What's an ibisel?" Thomas asked menacingly. "I don't like your stupid city or your weird hair. You're a freak."

Filled with rage, the small child lunged at Thomas. "Well, your thin hair doesn't agree with me either!"

The blond boy let out a screech as Sherlock's tiny fists pulled on the other kid's hair. In a swift change of events, a much larger child grabbed a tuft of dark, curly hair and yanked Sherlock off him. Not even understanding what was going on, the larger boy, called Jacob, began to beat on him. Both boys managed to bust open his lip and bloody his nose before a teacher could get to them.

"Jacob! Thomas! Dear God, Sherlock! Come on now, we'll have to take a trip to Mr. Costello's office."

Even when crying and emotionally compromised, Sherlock knew exactly who Mr. Costello was and that was the headmaster of their private school.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded as Sherlock sat outside the office, waiting to be evaluated. "What's happened to you?"

"Are they going to call Mummy and Father?"

"Most likely."

Sherlock whimpered and sniffled. "By dose is hurtig. Ad by lib."

Mycroft opened the jacket of his school uniform and handed his little brother a clean handkerchief. When Sherlock didn't immediately accept it, his brother gently pressed the cloth to Sherlock's nose and held it there.

"Wait until the bleeding stops. I don't think it's broken."

"Will I get paddled?"

Mycroft scoffed. "I don't know Sherlock, I've never been to the headmaster's office."

"I don't want to be hit again."

"What happened?" Mycroft asked again, this time in a softer tone.

"Thomas Crutener knocked my block city down so I knocked him down. Then, Thomas and Jacob hit me."

"That's unlike you, Sherlock." Mycroft's twelve-year-old mind was whirring like a machine. What had really upset him? It was out of character for Sherlock's emotions to blind him. Often, Mycroft wondered if he had emotions. He had taught Sherlock well, that much was certain.

"Thomas called me a freak."

And there it was.

"You are not a freak." the eldest Holmes brother assured him. "In fact, Father might allow us to change schools again, due to the low averaged IQ scores of this glum commoner's zoo. They're just goldfish, swimming around and gorging themselves on stupid indulgences."

"Really?" Sherlock mumbled beneath the handkerchief, tilting his head back to better stop the flow of blood. Mycroft tried to bite his own tongue so as not to sound so sentimental, but the words escaped his lips anyway.

"And Mummy might make you a cup of tea when we get home."

AN - I'm impressed I got such a positive response on my first chapter! Thanks to Ballykissangel and VioletErin.26 for their kind words! I know this was concise, but it was based off a prompt someone gave me on Tumblr and it sort of fit. For those interested, Sherlock is five years old and Mycroft is twelve. Thanks, lots of love,

~VW