Fanfic: The Credulity of Youth (2/5)

[trillsabells]

Title: The Credulity of Youth
Beta: jupiter_ash 
Rating: PG13 (for violence)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves the subjects of a dangerous and deadly experiment.


Part 1

 

“John,” said Mycroft, tapping his fingers on his umbrella. “I must ask. Why has it taken you this long to call me? I know… one or two people who could have helped with this.”

John was looking at him curiously, eyes clearly searching for some kind of reaction to the tale of Sherlock throwing a plate of beans on toast. John was obviously expecting amusement or possibly shock at Sherlock’s behaviour. Mycroft carefully showed neither emotion, after all compared to what his brother had got up when they had been children this was practically him on best behaviour.

“Sherlock was adamant you weren’t to be called.” John answered after a moment’s pause. “I think he was embarrassed.”

“And yet here we are in the middle of the night. What’s changed?”

“Things got… complicated after that.”

“How so?”

There was another tug at John’s sleeve and Sherlock, still glaring at Mycroft, said, “He looks like my uncle Hobart.”

Mycroft and John’s eyes met again. John winced apologetically. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a rare display of astonishment.

 

~

 

“I’m not tir-ed!”

John sighed. “You’re grouchy, fidgety and you can barely keep your eyes open, of course you’re tired.”

Sherlock merely responded with a high whine and a stomp of his foot.

It was getting late. It had been a few hours since John had first made a joke about it getting past Sherlock’s bedtime only to have received a glared response. Now he was beginning to wish he had enforced it. If adult Sherlock was bad enough then child Sherlock…

The fact that Sherlock had spent the afternoon practically bouncing off the walls of the flat wasn’t unusual. The fact that Sherlock had been enthusing loudly about his various discoveries and how significant it was that his coat was nearly dry but the shirt he had been wearing in the warehouse was still sopping wet, wasn’t unusual. The fact that Sherlock had practically thrown a temper tantrum when John had tried to stop him from climbing all over the furniture… again wasn’t that unusual. But there was something about all of those things that was beginning to worry John. A creeping sensation of wrongness, of this-is-taking-it-too-far-ness that was taking over and making him very, very worried.

He didn’t know whether Sherlock screaming in a high pitched fashion was just him adapting to his new vocal chords. He didn’t know whether Sherlock pacing up and down on the table was just him trying to regain some height. He didn’t know whether Sherlock scratching was just him making sure John couldn’t pick him up again. He didn’t know whether Sherlock throwing things and giggling inanely was just acting like a child as revenge for everyone treating him like one.

What he did know was that the child Sherlock was getting on his nerves.

Sherlock was getting grumpier the later it got. He had tried to remind Sherlock that a child’s body couldn’t take staying up for twenty-four hours straight and that he couldn’t function the way he was used to anymore. But it was no use. Sherlock was determined to stay in full command no matter how much his body was mutinying against him. John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock would be forced to give in.

So when it came with a loud thump he wasn’t entirely surprised.

John remembered when he was about the age that Sherlock seemed to be now one of his friends had gotten a puppy. John had gone round his friend’s house and the two of them had played with the puppy in the garden for hours, never tiring of throwing the ball for it to catch. Then, finally, the puppy had brought the ball back and just lain down and fallen asleep. Uncontainable energy to full unconsciousness in a matter of moments. The puppy didn’t wake up again until it was time for John to go home.

It was the same for Sherlock. One moment he was crouched over his microscope, examining his shirt sleeve for the hundredth time, the next his head simply slipped and he was asleep on the table, using his arms as a pillow.

John smiled at the sudden sense of peace that descended over the flat. Watching Sherlock sleep was like a miracle before his eyes. It was hard to see this little child and imagine the chaos he was capable of bringing on the world, let alone on John’s life. John almost didn’t want to move him, worried that he would wake him, but the thought of how cranky Sherlock would be if he had a restless sleep on the kitchen table was too terrifying.

John picked him up and carried him to his bed. At least he was spared the embarrassment of having to change his flatmate into pyjamas. Sherlock had been forced to change into them earlier when he’d accidentally spilt acid on the T-shirt Scotland Yard had given him. Actually, considering how accurately the acid had landed on and wiped out the blue dinosaur John wasn’t certain it had been an accident. Mrs Hudson had bought Spiderman Pyjamas. John had been dreading having to explain to Sherlock who Spiderman was but thankfully he hadn’t asked.

John had already tucked Sherlock in and had very nearly placed a caring kiss on his forehead before he realised what he was doing and stopped himself. It had been a long and confusing day John decided and took himself upstairs to his own bed to get some sleep.

 

~

 

“I had a bad dream.”

John looked blearily at the little boy. “What?”

“I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”

“No,” said John, a little too quickly. “No, Sherlock, go back to bed.”

The little boy stuck out his bottom lip and frowned. “But I had a bad dream.”

“You’re not sleeping here.”

“Mummy always lets me sleep with her when I have a bad dream.”

“Well mummy’s not here so go back to bed.”

John turned over in bed to face the other wall. He tried to remain still but the lack of light footsteps going away kept him awake. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep, but then the sniffing started. Resignedly he turned back to face his flatmate.

Sherlock’s bottom lip was wobbling. His brow was furrowed too. There were tears building in his eyes.

“Oh please don’t cry.”

“I. Want. My. Mum-meeeeeeeeeee,” Sherlock wailed.

“Sherlock, if you’re doing this to wind me up-“

“Where is she? I want her.” There were tears streaming down Sherlock’s cheeks.

“You’re not faking, are you?” John was suddenly very awake and a very bad feeling was sinking into his stomach.

“Where is sheeeeeeeeee?”

 

~

 

“I’m trying to find Mycroft Holmes. Yes, Mycroft Holmes. No I- What? It’s his name. What do you mean what kind of- Well I didn’t name him! Look, I’ve been there at his office, room two oh one. I know it’s the middle of the night I just need to get hold of him. What do you mean there’s no room two oh one? I’ve been there. It exists. Well look again. Mycroft Holmes. How many times do I need to- Mycroft. Holmes. Yes, I’ll hold.”

There was a tug at his sleeve. John turned his frown towards Sherlock. His eyes were red but thankfully he’d stopped crying. He absentmindedly rubbed his runny nose on his sleeve.

“Why are you calling Mycroft?” he asked. “I want mummy, not Mycroft.”

“I don’t know mummy’s number. Do you know mummy’s phone number?”

“No. It’s our house. I’ve never had to call our house before.”

“What about mummy’s name. Do you know her name, Sherlock?”

“Mummy,” Sherlock replied looking puzzled at John’s line of questioning.

“What do other people call her?”

“Mrs Holmes?”

Someone came back onto the phone.

“Yes, I’m trying to reach Mycroft Holmes. I know he’s not there, I still need to reach him. There must be. Look, it’s about his brother. Yes, his little brother. Baby brother is the phrase I would use. More accurately than you could ever imagine.”

“Why can’t you find Mycroft?” Sherlock asked with a wide eyed inquisitive look he did very well.

“Because his office won’t tell me where he is,” John said loud enough for the people on the other end of the line to hear his annoyance.

Sherlock frowned. “He’s at school. Can’t you just call the school?”

John stared at him, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with shock.

 

~

 

John took a deep breath after finishing the story in a rush. He glanced down at Sherlock, half expecting the little boy to have got bored and wandered off. Instead he found Sherlock was staring up at him with piercing blue eyes that showed an almost permanent expression of curiosity.

John turned back to Mycroft. “I assume you got the message.”

Mycroft’s gaze was steady and serious “John, I knew the very instant you called.”

“He’s forgotten everything about who he was.” John knew he was sounding desperate now. He didn’t care, he was desperate. “He’s utterly convinced he’s his five year old self. I asked what he did last week and he told me in amazing detail about school and what he had for dinner and about your cat.”

It had been astonishing detail actually, peppered with Sherlock’s opinions on the stupidity of the vet and the advantages of peas over carrots.

“Hmm.” Mycroft bent down so he looked Sherlock in the eye.

The little boy pulled himself more behind John.

“Do you know who I am?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head firmly.

“Can you tell me how you got here?”

“Don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t like you. Your umbrella is weird.”

Mycroft pointed to John. “Who’s this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock dropped so he was no longer holding on to John’s jumper but had his arms wrapped around John’s leg. “Not talking to you.”

Mycroft looked back up at John who winced helplessly. Mycroft stood up and idly brushed invisible dirt off his trousers.

“If you give me the samples you’ve collected I can pass them on to contacts of mine who can carry on where Sherlock left off.” 

“That’s not why I called you here,” John said quickly, worried that Mycroft’s businesslike tone meant he was leaving.

Mycroft smiled. John suspected he had read his thoughts. “I thought not. So tell me, Doctor Watson, why did you call me here? And against my brother’s express wishes too.”

John struggled for the right words. “I… I don’t know what to do. I mean it was alright when he was still himself but now… I’ve never even looked after a child before let alone one as… special as Sherlock. And with him out of action I’ve got to solve this case.” He gave up. “Mycroft, he was crying for his mummy. The fact is that there’s only one person I know who has any experience with a five year old Sherlock Holmes and that’s you.”

“You want me to baby-sit?”

John shrugged “Or take him to see his mummy. I just don’t know what to do with him.”

“Perhaps you could send him to school?”

“NO!”

Sherlock ran out from behind John and launched himself at Mycroft. He started pounding his brother with his fists and trying to push him over.

“Go away! Creepy man, go away!”

“I beg your pardon-“

“Don’t want you here nasty, creepy, fat man.”

“Fat?”

“You’re so fat! Why else won’t you move when I push you?”

“Perhaps because you’re so small.”

“I am not small! You smell!”

“I do not!”

“Do too!”

“Children, children.” John decided to intervene before Mycroft turned back into his twelve year old self, and physically pulled Sherlock off of his brother. The little boy struggled weakly in his arms but John placed his feet back on the ground and taking his hand marched him back towards his bedroom. “Sherlock, you’re still tired, I’m taking you back to bed.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“You get bad tempered when you’re sleepy so forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

John didn’t release his hand until they were in Sherlock’s bedroom. For a moment Sherlock looked like he was going to argue but seemed to judge by John’s expression that this would be a bad idea and climbed into the bed. Once again John found himself tucking in the covers around his young flatmate.

Sherlock regarded John from under his dark curls.

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” he asked eventually. There was a surprisingly threatening tone to little boy’s voice which would have been much more effective had he not looked so small and vulnerable smothered in the bed covers.

John perched on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with school? You were telling me earlier about all the things you’d learned. I thought you enjoyed it.”

“The learning bit’s ok,” said Sherlock grudgingly.

“Then what is it?”

Sherlock pulled up his legs and hugged them close, staring at his knees. “The other kids don’t like me.”

John’s heart gave an involuntary lurch.

“They call me freak and won’t let me play with them. I don’t care, they’re all idiots anyway.”

John thought very definitely that Sherlock really did care, and had probably never stopped.

“You don’t have to go to school tomorrow,” said John.

Sherlock looked up at him and gave him a genuine smile that John recognised from the very few times adult Sherlock had shown it to him. John always felt honoured when he was graced with that smile.

Sherlock stretched out again and pulled the covers up around himself. John got up to leave. He hesitated in the doorway.

“I’ll always be your friend,” he said.

Sherlock had pulled the covers around his face so John couldn’t see his reaction. John turned out the light.

“G’night, John,” Sherlock said just as John went out the door.

“Goodnight, Sherlock. Sweet dreams.”

John shut the door and went back into the kitchen where Mycroft was making two cups of tea. John sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and the two men stayed in thoughtful silence while the kettle boiled. Mycroft poured it out, adding the exact amount of milk and sugar that John liked without asking. Only after he was taken a gentle sip of tea did Mycroft finally break the silence.

“Five was a difficult age for Sherlock,” he said. “That was when he got his diagnosis.”

“I don’t believe for one instant he’s a sociopath, high functioning or otherwise. And if you’ve got half as many brains as I think you do, you don’t believe it either.”

Mycroft smiled. “No. But Sherlock was sent to the best doctors and the most expensive clinics.”

“And if they’re being paid so much they’d damn well better come back with a diagnosis better than ‘he’s very precocious and just a bit shy’.”

John huffed irritably, realising as he did that he sounded a bit like child Sherlock.

An almost regretful expression crossed Mycroft’s face. “I’m afraid the label rather stuck with him.”

They sat in silence, sipping their tea.

“John, you appear to have come to me with a misapprehension. Sherlock does not recognise me at all and if I took him home to Mummy the sight of her having aged what to him would appear to be overnight would only distress him. What intrigues me is how well he remembers you.”

John wasn’t sure what to say so he simply waited for Mycroft to finish his sip of tea and continue.

“He’s forgotten everything about being an adult and yet he’s not distressed at waking up here instead of at home. He remembers Baker Street well enough to know you could be found upstairs. And he trusts you. He’s still fond and… protective of you. I suggest you be glad of those remaining instincts. Besides, Sherlock hasn’t changed that much in the last couple of decades; if you can manage him as an adult you can manage him as a child.”

Mycroft got to his feet.

“You’re leaving?” John jumped up, feeling momentarily lost at sea again.

“John, it is clear to me that the best place for Sherlock to be is here, and the best person for him to be with, possibly the only person he would currently tolerate to be with, is you. Now it’s late and I’m sure you’ll have a tiring day ahead of you.”

John nodded but Mycroft’s words weren’t really necessary. The moment of panic had been fleeting and now the idea of looking after little Sherlock on his own somehow didn’t scare him as much as it did an hour ago. Still, as Mycroft pulled open the door to the flat he couldn’t help calling out,

“Can you at least give me a few pointers?”

Mycroft paused, looking thoughtful.

“Keep him stimulated, keep him fed, and for your own sake, don’t play him at Monopoly.”

“Let me guess, he always wins?”

“No, Sherlock doesn’t play monopoly very well. He also doesn’t take losing very well. I’ll tell you what, if you want to ask any more questions you can call me on this number.” He handed John a small business card. “But I’m certain you will manage to ‘play it by ear’.”

John gripped the card a little too tightly. “Thanks, Mycroft.”

With a parting nod Mycroft left, shutting the door behind him.



Part 3