I was inspired to write this story by fanfiction user justforfunstories fic Hiding Fears. Please check out that one and leave them a nice review.


For the seventh night in a row, Sherman Peabody awoke to his own pitiful screams. He'd smothered them in his pillow so that Mr. Peabody wouldn't hear him again. Sweat drenched his sheets, and his pajamas stuck to his body. As the terrifying images faded from his mind's eye, replaced by the dark interior of his bedroom, he shuddered and wiped his soaked face with his blanket then looked at the clock. It was 5:45 in the morning, fifteen minutes before Mr. Peabody's alarm would ring.

As quietly as he could, he slipped from his wet bedclothes and stole over to the dresser to pull out a fresh pair of pajamas. He went to his bathroom and wet a cloth then swiped it over his body to remove his sweat so that his adoptive father wouldn't smell him when he got up. Every noise made the boy freeze; he was terrified that his muffled cries had reached Mr. Peabody's sensitive ears. But nothing happened as he finished wiping himself down before dressing in his new pajamas.

By the time he'd gotten back to the bed, the clock read 5:53. He had seven minutes to change his sheets. That was plenty of time, considering all the practice he'd had over the last few weeks. With one minute to spare, Sherman piled the blankets and pajamas into his closet, covered them in dirty socks to throw off any suspicion (Mr. Peabody had a very sensitive nose), then crawled back into bed and removed his glasses just as he heard Mr. Peabody's alarm going off across the hall.

Sherman turned over on his side, forcing his breathing to slow. As he lay there, he heard his bedroom door open. He could hear Mr. Peabody walk quietly over to him, yawning ferociously. Then the beagle shook him gently.

"Sherman?" he asked groggily. "Time to get up."

The boy grunted then sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Already?" he asked weakly; he knew that if he just got up without protest, his guardian would be suspicious.

Mr. Peabody chuckled and patted his arm. "Unfortunately, yes. I'll start breakfast."

"Mm-kay," Sherman mumbled, faking a yawn.

As soon as the bedroom door shut, Sherman dropped the act and sat still, his brown eyes seeing the images of his dream. There was the broken Trojan Horse, followed by the image of Mr. Peabody with a restraining leash around his throat, and then Miss Grunion's horrible smile, stretched wide over her thick features. Her voice came out low and distorted in his dreams, like she wasn't human.

"Don't you know what happens to dogs that bite?"

And then the horrifying whining yelp that he had heard Mr. Peabody make only once, when Sherman had broken the dog's foot after tripping and knocking over one of the stone busts that Mr. Peabody kept in his study. That noise chilled him, and it replayed in his head even during his waking hours. It was the noise that made him sure that Miss Grunion had gotten her way, and Mr. Peabody would never smile at him again.

Sherman was so distressed by his nightmares that it distracted him no matter what he was doing. It was so bad that his grades were slipping, and he knew if he couldn't focus in class, he was going to bring home a failing report card. And as much as that worried him, it paled in comparison to losing his adoptive father. That thought haunted him, day and night, and he didn't understand.

Everything had been fine for the first month and a half after he and Mr. Peabody had repaired the space-time continuum. Things were great, or at least he thought they were. Penny became one of his best friends, he spent every day after school in different clubs, and things were finally going back to normal in New York. Then, eighty-seven days after their adventure, Sherman had his first nightmare.

He'd awoken to himself screaming at the top of his lungs, the yelping whine echoing in his ears. Mr. Peabody had burst into his room, his pupils dilated as he looked around for an intruder. What else could have his son screaming bloody murder? Sherman sat up in his soaked sheets, staring at his adoptive father for a long moment, at the wild, angry expression, then he looked down and realized just why his sheets were wet.

Mr. Peabody was very understanding as he helped Sherman change the sheets, telling him that it happened to everybody. Sherman didn't reply, his ears still ringing from that terrible, horrifying noise that meant that Mr. Peabody wouldn't be there anymore. The dog noticed his odd behavior, but he put it down to embarrassment. Still, a niggling thought made him stop as he reached the door, the laundry piled in a basket on wheels.

"Do you happen to recall your bad dream, Sherman?" he asked.

Sherman looked up, his heart still hammering, his cheeks flushed from embarrassment, and the whine echoing, echoing, echoing in his ears. He wanted to talk to Mr. Peabody, wanted to tell him what was wrong. But he was enough trouble. He'd made that abundantly clear during the whole fiasco with Penny, the WABAC, and the space-time continuum. All of those thoughts went through his head in the space of two seconds, and before he'd known what he was doing, he found himself shaking his head slowly.

"No," he lied numbly. "I don't.

Mr. Peabody studied him for a moment then nodded. "Well, it's just fine. I'm going to start the laundry. Try to get some more sleep, okay?"

But Sherman didn't sleep for the rest of the night, too afraid that he would have those nightmares again, afraid that he would see Miss Grunion again, afraid that he would hear the moment that animal control took care of the biting dog. Permanently.

And now, two weeks later, Sherman had learned many tricks to keep Mr. Peabody away, to make sure he wasn't any more trouble than usual. He had completely changed his sleeping position, lying on his stomach all night and burying his head in his pillow. He could hardly breathe like that, but it was better than screaming without cushions over his mouth. He'd taken to washing his wet bedclothes and pajamas, whether from sweat or other fluids, in the late evening before dinner when Mr. Peabody had his alone time listening to classical music at top volume and studying voluminous tomes from ancient philosophers like Plato and Augustine. So far he'd kept everything from Mr. Peabody.

Sherman was trying so hard to be a good son. But it wasn't good enough, at least in his mind. His innate clumsiness meant that he often broke things or ruined things. Like that Ming vase that his father had received as a present from the Chinese authorities. Like the chandelier when he was playing catch with a tennis ball, knocking off three crystal danglers. Like burning the dinner he tried to make for Mr. Peabody when the dog had a long, boring meeting with the UN. And on and on and on.

With each new accident, Sherman felt worse and worse. He had stopped smiling, stopped laughing, stopped doing anything that would bring attention to himself. He was a failure. He was a doofus. He was a mistake. The only mistake that Mr. Peabody had ever made.

"Sherman?" Mr. Peabody called from the kitchen. "How do Belgian waffles sound? It's a little unhealthy, but my sweet tooth is acting up."

Sherman looked up, turning to his alarm clock. It was 6:20. He hadn't moved in twenty minutes. The smell of coffee filled the penthouse apartment. Mr. Peabody was going about his usual business, completely unaware of the torment that his son was going through. Sherman wanted it that way. He wasn't going to make any more trouble. Not a bit. If he didn't, then maybe Mr. Peabody wouldn't regret adopting him.

"Sherman?" Mr. Peabody appeared in the doorway, his green eyes taking in the still dark room. "Sherman?" he asked again.

"Sorry, Mr. Peabody," Sherman said, faking another yawn. "I guess I dozed off again. What were you saying?"

Mr. Peabody turned on the light, studying his son. "Belgian waffles for breakfast?"

Sherman's face split into a grin, one as false as his lie. "That sounds pretty fantastic!"

Mr. Peabody stared at his son, then he nodded. "Belgian waffles it is. Get up and get dressed, please. We have a busy morning."

The dog turned and went back to the kitchen, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had noticed a change in Sherman's behavior, but he didn't understand what was wrong. The previous afternoon. Sherman's Principal, Drew Purdy, had called and requested a meeting with him the next afternoon. Unlike the first call, which he had expected (though, as he found out later, for the wrong reasons) Mr. Peabody was worried about this one. Mr. Purdy had sounded subdued, and there was stress in his voice. In the dog's broad range of experiences, that kind of stress in an educator's voice meant very bad things.

Mr. Peabody hadn't told Sherman of the appointment. His mind had already come to the conclusion that something terrible was going on at the school. It certainly was nothing at home. The stress had started a few weeks before with the nightmare. Sherman hadn't remembered it, he was sure of that. The blank confusion on the boy's face assured the canine that Sherman did not recall the dream. Though no other nightmares had come, it was obvious to Mr. Peabody that something must have triggered the night terror. The only places Sherman went were school and the penthouse. And since things were fine at home, it had to be the school.

Sherman's footsteps padded from his room to the bathroom as Mr. Peabody pulled off the first four waffles from the griddle. He buttered them then set out a pitcher of maple syrup. After the second batch was done, along with a pan of scrambled eggs and half a package of bacon, Sherman came in, dressed in his school uniform, his hair combed and his face washed. Mr. Peabody looked him over and sat down, serving them two healthy portions of the rare treat of sugar for breakfast.

"Eat up, Sherman," Mr. Peabody said. He glanced at the clock. It was 7:10. "We have to get you to school a little early. You can spend some time at the library. I've already cleared it with the school."

Sherman nodded, but he didn't speak with his mouth full, which was another sign that he was upset about something. Mr. Peabody ate in silence, his bright eyes on his son, who ate the waffles without a single smile or exclamation. When he'd cleared his plate, Sherman was still nibbling on his bacon. One of the changes Mr. Peabody had noticed was that Sherman no longer enjoyed eating. He'd made some of the most scrumptious dinners over the past two weeks, many that Sherman often went crazy over.

Mr. Peabody swallowed and cleared his throat. "Sherman?"

The boy looked up, setting aside his bacon. "Yes, Mr. Peabody?"

"Is anything wrong at school?" the dog asked.

Sherman frowned, a puzzled expression on his face. "Not really. Penny and I are getting along. Robotics club is fine. Everything's good."

Though the words said one thing, Sherman's determination not to look Mr. Peabody in the eyes told him another story. Mr. Peabody pressed his paw against Sherman's sticky hand.

"Sherman, you can tell me if something's wrong. You know that, right? Anything at all. And maybe I can help you with it." Mr. Peabody paused and scanned the tight, pale face, the puffy eyes, the blank expression. "I love you, Sherman. I want to help."

Sherman pushed his plate away and stood up, and Mr. Peabody saw that blank wall in his son's usually expressive eyes. His heart plummeted. It had to be something more serious than anything he'd thought of. Sherman had been a fountain of joy and enthusiasm. Now he was silent, timid, and afraid.

"I have a deep regard for you as well, Mr. Peabody," Sherman said, his voice hollow. "I should go brush my teeth."

Mr. Peabody watched his son go, a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should have been. For so many years, he had said that very same thing to Sherman every time the boy said that he loved him. When Sherman had said it to him the first time, there had been a twinkle of mischief in his brown eyes. But now, with no joking or joy, Mr. Peabody realized that the phrase was as good as a rejection. He had said that to Sherman for years and years. But Sherman never told him how much it hurt.

For the first time, Mr. Peabody considered that maybe he had done something to hurt the boy. Maybe it wasn't something at school. He just didn't know. He wouldn't find out until 1:00 that afternoon.