"I'd be a lion."

"I'd be a shark."

"I'd be a poisonous snake."

There's a pause.

"And you, Sherlock?"

"Hm." The curly-haired boy doesn't look up from the ball he's bouncing repeatedly on the table. Maybe he could create a code, an entire language, from bouncing.

The young woman tries and fails to make eye-contact. Sighs. "Which animal would you be, if you could be any animal in the world?"

The boy catches the ball in his fingers, glances up. "I wouldn't want to be an animal." His eyes snap back down to the table and he resumes bouncing.

The young woman sighs again, painfully. "Just pick an animal, Sherlock. Any animal."

"I don't want to be any animal." He doesn't stop bouncing this time, and doesn't look up. "Animals have no capacity for rational thought."

Her eyes pinch shut for a second. "Sherlock, just - " Her eyes open again. "Just answer the question, please. So we can move on."

"I don't see why I should."

"We're here to have conversations with one another and to be sociable…"

He stops the ball on the table, hand flat, stops it before it can bounce back up. "I don't need any help with my social skills."

The young woman stares. The three other little boys look nervously at Sherlock and back to her.

"Okay. Okay. Moving on." She gets out some papers. "Now we're going to talk about whole-body listening."

Sherlock groans. "This is completely idiotic…"

"Sherlock!" she scolds.

"Sorry, did I… say that out loud?"

She doesn't buy it. "It's time to be quiet and listen now, Sherlock, okay?"

"I'll certainly try."

The whole-body-listening lecture is just about as fascinating as it sounds. Sherlock isn't allowed to play with the ball as the young woman is speaking - something about how he needs to "listen with his hands" which is a concept that makes no sense to him. When that nonsense is finally done with, there are ten minutes of free time.

A painfully shy boy approaches Sherlock where he's sitting on the floor, whiling away the time, but the boy doesn't say anything, just sort of stands there and avoids eye-contact.

"Yes, Arnold?"

"Would you - would you like to play with me, Sherlock?"

"I'd rather not."

Arnold blinks once. Twice. "Al-alright." He seems to want to melt into the floor as he shuffles away.

Sherlock lets out a long sigh and flops down on the floor. "I absolutely hate this place," he mutters, then looks over at the young woman. She didn't hear him. Shame. She's filling out the evaluations. She'll give one to Sherlock's parents and they'll read it on the drive home and then they'll tell him he did fine but they'll whisper about him that night and he'll hear them.

I could do better if I wanted to, he thinks to himself. But I honestly couldn't care less if my life depended on it.

But maybe he cares just a little. He sits up and sneaks over behind the young woman, half-hidden behind a shelf. He squints at the paper.

She's only started on Arnold's. This'll take a while. He leans against the wall, absently watching, waiting… he lets his eyes slip out of focus.

In the periphery of his vision, Arnold has approached the two other boys who are playing with cars, smashing them together and making dramatic crashing sounds with their mouths. Like idiots. Arnold stands over them watching, apparently getting up the nerve.

"Can I - can I play with you?"

The other boys look up and then nod, moving apart to let Arnold kneel down. One of the boys hands him the big truck. "This one's the best."

Sherlock feels a little odd now. He doesn't know why. Maybe sick. He hasn't eaten all day.

When the young woman starts writing his evaluation, he perks up and watches quietly.

Sherlock's poor attitude has unfortunately continued into this week's session. He's a smart boy, but he can be very abrasive and rude toward both me and his peers.

She keeps writing but Sherlock sinks down behind the shelf, sitting with his back against the wall. He stares at the wall clock across the room and taps his knees in time with the second hand.

At home that night, Sherlock sits in the garden watching as Redbeard sniffs around in the grass, and pees on various rocks and trees around the Holmes home. When he sees his brother making his way across the lawn to him, he becomes immediately fascinated by the grass and starts pulling up clumps of it. Anything to avoid attracting his attention.

It doesn't work. Mycroft sits down beside him and starts pulling up grass as well.

"'He's a smart boy, but he can be very abrasive and rude…' Sounds about right. Don't know about 'smart,' though."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"I'm teasing, I'm only teasing. How was social group?"

"Shut up."

Mycroft grins. "I'd say it's not helping very much."

"I don't need any help with my social skills."

"No, you don't."

Sherlock looks up at his brother, surprised.

Mycroft stops pulling up grass and turns to face his brother. "What you need help with is pretending to be normal. You've always been rubbish at that."

Sherlock makes an indignant sound. "Well, I'm sorry that I can't be boring and normal like you."

"Oh, please, Sherlock. We both know I'm at least five times smarter than you. Which means that I'm smart enough to know how to not frighten the ordinary people."

Sherlock flicks some dirt in his brother's direction.

"Listen to me, Sherlock. I was smart enough to avoid Mum and Dad sending me to social group, right? I can help you so you no longer have to go."

Sherlock's suspicions are aroused. "Why would you want to help me?"

"I don't - I'm embarrassed is all. My little brother is a freak."

Sherlock grins despite himself. "Am not."

"Are too." Mycroft smiles. "Your evaluation is the last one she does, right?"

Sherlock groans and falls back in the grass. "You and your stupid deductions again…"

"But it is the last one she does. Obvious. That means that she's got a lot to say for yours - can't just write you off as 'fine, good, see you next week.' She's got to dig deep on yours and it's unpleasant, so she puts it off."

Sherlock closes his eyes and feels Redbeard lapping at his outstretched hand. "How do you know mine is the last she does?"

"It's simple. Her handwriting is neat at the top where she writes your name on it before the session begins. But your evaluation part is sloppier, and sloppy in a way that shows her hand is tired." Mycroft pulls the evaluation out of his pocket.

"How'd you get that?" Sherlock demands, sitting up.

"It was sitting out on the table, hardly difficult." Mycroft rolls his eyes. "See, the letters are less distinct and there's a more pronounced slant. Her hand is tired. There's only four boys in your group. She wouldn't be this tired after only one or two, but three. Three would do it. Yours is last. Consistently, too. Your evaluation is the most difficult, therefore you're the problem child of the group. Am I wrong?"

Sherlock's awe takes a back seat to his jealousy. "Well, you…" He looked his brother up and down desperately, for anything he could pick apart. "You… You didn't get the evaluation off the table, like you said. It's got creases in it. It was in Mum's pocket."

"And she took it out of her pocket and put it on the kitchen table."

"No," he said, springing to his feet in excitement. He snatched the evaluation from Mycroft and smelled it. "Yes, just as I thought. Bathroom counter."

Mycroft smiled up at him. "Very good. But how'd you know?"

"Easy. It's got a few spots where water hit it and it smells like Mum's perfume. But she wasn't wearing her perfume when she picked me up today. She would have put it on, though, before she went out a while ago."

"That's good, Sherlock, but it took you far too long to work it out."

"Am I just supposed to assume that everything you say to me is a lie?"

"Yes," he answered quickly. "Everything everyone says."

Sherlock sits back down. "How is it that people think you're the normal one?"

Mycroft shrugs. "I have a deal for you, Sherlock. I'll teach you how to be better at deductions if you also let me teach you how to pretend to be ordinary."

Sherlock glances over at his brother. "So basically if I let you patronize me I'll earn another chance for you to patronize me. Sounds fair." He stands up, whistles and Redbeard comes running. As he scratches the dog behind his ears, he says, without looking at Mycroft, "I'll take the deal."

A/N: This was intended to be a one-shot, but now I sort of want to keep going. If there's interest. Want to see some more?