Title: Purple Crayon
Paring: Headmaster!Mycroft Holmes X Kindergarten Teacher!Reader
Warnings: fluffity fluff fluff fluff, my friends.
Spoilers: this is so AU. So...no
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His grim footsteps could be heard for miles down the dreary corridors of the primary school, the dull thud of the umbrella tip as it met the polished floors like a cane echoing ominously. By now, almost a year since taking up the position of headmaster, Headmaster Mr Mycroft Holmes had a reputation - one not to be trifled with, to be feared and respected. At the start of his post, children had gawked at his immaculate three piece suits but now they stood tall and unwavering like flames frozen in time.
It was today when Headmaster Holmes had a classroom to walk through - the kindergarten. It had seemed the year had fled and he'd been to all the other snot-nosed rooms...but not the youngest year group. He recalled this as he raised a hand to rap at the glass of the door to alert the teacher inside.
Mycroft hadn't had the pleasure to meet the teacher of the class. He guessed they weren't important enough if he hadn't had them catch his eye or be an outlier in the school statistics.
To his surprise on the punctuality, the door was suddenly swept back to reveal not only a pristinely kept classroom - minus the childlike messy finger paintings and scribbles of the future Monet's and Picasso's - but the teacher.
You.
Yes, he had been in the school for a year, but Mycroft could've sworn he'd never seen you before. Maybe...maybe it had been you that once on the stairwell, gone in a flash, wearing a bright scarf. From the curly handwriting on the board he guessed it was you who left the affirmations on the blackboard in the tearoom.
But as soon as Mycroft laid eyes on you, he knew you were perfect for your position, with soft (e/c) eyes reading him carefully and (h/l) (h/c) hair secured into a bun with a purple crayon and the complete kind demeanour of a kindergarten teacher. At once a smile retuned rightfully to your face.
"Headmaster?" You questioned. He could only reply non-verbally as words had failed him. "You're here early, we were just finishing our spelling words, but if you wish to come in anyways..." You continued to talk but all Mycroft could hear was perfection. He'd never found that in a person, in all those goldfish. Ever. You weren't the type of person he'd usually go for - usually it was about power, appearance, title - but somehow those standards evaporated.
"Er, yes, I'd love to." He stuttered, entering the smallest room of learning. At once thirty spines became straighter than lampposts and an unearthly silence settled in his presence and then he announced himself, "Good afternoon, kindergarten."
"Goo-ood afternoo-oon Headmaster Holmes." they chimed.
From the corner of his eye Mycroft watched you step forth and take charge of the class. "Our Headmaster is here to see your progress from throughout the year. But before we begin to move to our tote trays -," you paused, and Mycroft too caught the culprit of your standstill of speech, a child overly eager to rise, and just with a pause, the awry child was seated once more, "you need to write your name and the date on your spelling sheet and put them in this box. Does anyone need me to repeat anything I just said?"
There was a missed beat, then, "No-oo Miss _______!"
Mycroft did his best to regain his composure before turning to speak to you.
"Now, Miss ______, I've only just realised that I've not once seen you in the tearoom at break time," he remarked, accident making his tone sound chided. "Why is that?"
You took in a deep breath, replying, "It's not my place in that big quiet room upstairs, Headmaster. This classroom is almost like a second home - an environment of learning that I dedicate myself to." Mycroft watched as you looked down and your hands as they were slowly wrung, "Also, when it comes to conversation, nobody understands the gist of kindergarten or anything much else I'm into." You paused, but this time, Mycroft sensed it wasn't for effect but out of shyness, "It gets very lonely when there's nothing and nobody you can relate to."
Mycroft nodded, on the outside yes, but internally, he felt like he knew what the teacher of the little ones felt like. He understood. Often he felt like a fish drowning in an ocean as well - in his element, yes, but too far over his head.
"Well, that's alright, Miss _______," He mused, "But know, come next lunch break, you are welcome to take the spare seat at my table."
You blushed a ripe crimson as the classroom began to fill with noises satisfied completion of the work and Mycroft felt a quirk of a smile pull at his lips. He watched as a small blond boy approached him with a watery painting - "I painted the pond, Headmaster!" - and you mouth the words,
"Thank you, Headmaster."
After he had appraised the child and twenty-nine others with false confidence - "It is very lifelike, good job! And you are quite good at arithmetic, you shall be a great astronaut-sorry, ballerina when you grow up - he turned to you who had already organised the children to have five extra minutes of play before home time and felt that uncharacteristic smile come to him again.
Good lord, he thought, I'll have to hide her from my brother Sherlock if I want any privacy on the matter.
"That - that went surprisingly well, Headmaster," you smiled, "You seem to be a natural with children."
He nodded. "I suppose so. And do call me Mycroft, Miss _______. I think 'headmaster' is too formal for conversation."
You laughed. "I will, Hea-Mycroft. But you'll have to call me _______."
"Of course," he smiled.
YOU ARE READING
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