Shit. Sherlock was late and it was only his first day back after the summer. Bloody Mycroft, insisting that he would drive Sherlock in, only to make them late because he just had to take that call from which ever politician he was interning under nowadays. It wasn't like he was starting his last year of sixth form or anything... Oh wait. On the bright side, he'd heard rumors that the school bully, Charlie Magnussen, who seemed to have a personal vendetta against him, had not received the grades needed to carry on in the thirteenth year. But at least, Sherlock thought, he now only had to endure this place a little longer and then he'd be free. Free of idiots like Charlie Magnussen. Free of Mycroft's control and watchful eye. Free to run away to London; it was Sherlock's dream. He shook his head, he had better not get ahead of himself, he still had to endure the year ahead.
The day ran by relatively normally, as usual Sherlock wandered from lesson to lesson, not really paying much attention. One thing he was thankful for, however, was that now he'd reached sixth form level of education he only had to study three subjects of his choice. Sherlock had chosen English, Biology and Law because they were the only subjects he could really tolerate. He also hoped that these subjects would aid him in his attempt to become the first ever Consulting Detective, a role in which he dreamed he'd be able to solve the mysteries that the police could not. Some days Sherlock selfishly resented his parents for not sent him to a private school, it just seemed a waste – to send him to a place he hated, to be taught things he already knew, by people who clearly didn't like him. The only redeeming feature that Baker Street Comprehensive (or BSC as it was also known) had to offer was that they allowed Sherlock to use music rooms in his free periods and lunch breaks, where he would spend most of his time playing the violin or reading over interesting reports he'd accessed from Mycroft's 'private' files. It was safe to say that Sherlock spent most, if not all, of his free time in the music rooms at BSC, so much so that he often lost track of time. Today was no exception, he had found some recent crime stats in his brother's files and by the time he'd finished reading over them it was quarter to three, fifteen minutes into his last lesson. Lateness was becoming a running theme.
By the time Sherlock arrived at the Biology lab there was only a handful of seats left, despite the smaller class sizes in sixth form, biology was a popular subject. Sherlock believed that this was down to the teachers of the class, Mr. Dior and Mr. Johnson, who both took a very laid-back approach to teaching – an attractive aspect to the more care free students at BSC. Sherlock decided to take a seat next to one of the only friendly faces in the class, belonging to a small, sweet girl by the name of Molly Hooper.
"Sherlock you're just in time" Molly said, "Sir has shown up yet".
Sherlock half-smiled in acknowledgement and bent down to get a pen from his bag. On his way up he came face to face with Charlie Magnussen and his trail of admirers behind him.
"I see having a governor as a father really pays off" Sherlock gathered that Magnussen's father must have used his position to keep his son in education, despite his lacking grades.
Sherlock was met with a blank look on his tormenter's face.
"What do you want Magnussen?" he sighed, "were the holidays so dull that you just couldn't wait to see me again?"
Magnussen grabbed Sherlock by his collar, "You think you're everything Sherlock, just because big brother Mycroft is always behind you backing you up. Well you're not. You're just a jumped up little shit who-".
Before Magnussen could finish he found himself being tugged off of Sherlock.
"I think that's quite enough mister...?" a male voice waited for a response.
The guy was in his late twenties, Sherlock deduced, brand new to teaching, but definitely not going to be a pushover, and he was quite good looking too…
"Magnussen, Charlie Magnussen" the boy retorted.
"Well Mr Magnussen, I don't approve of bullying in my class. So I suggest you and your friends sit down now before I ask you to leave my class." The unnamed teacher released Magnussen, who proceeded to scuttle back to his seat.
"Are you okay?" The mysterious teacher placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"M'fine." Sherlock muttered, trying not to draw further attention to himself.
"Good. Okay. So, I'm John Watson, but to you lot it is Mr. Watson. I'll introduce myself properly in a second but let's get registration out of the way…"
Sherlock zoned out, there was something about the new teacher that intrigued him. Mr. Watson was the sort of teacher that could hold the attention of a class effortlessly. One who could flash a smile that melted the hearts of any, and every, female student and yet he seemed oblivious to his charm. He carried himself with a modest dignity; something Sherlock saw rarely walking the halls of Baker Street Comprehensive. However, what struck Sherlock the most was that his new teacher actually acknowledged him. During his time at BSC, the vast majority of teachers tended to ignore, or even actively avoid, him. Especially after the time that he deduced, quite correctly, that his English teacher, Mr. Lestrade, was being cheated on by his wife with another teacher at the school. This was not atypical of Sherlock's schooling experience. It wasn't that anyone one said anything to his face, well apart from Magnussen and his gang, it was just that if they passed him in the corridor students, and teacher alike, tended to give him a wide berth. And of course, being the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes meant that his name already carried a reputation. He was lucky he even had Molly.
"Sherlock Holmes?" The sound of Mr. Watson's voice drifted back into the front of Sherlock's mind. "Yes, Sir."
After finishing up with the register, the young teacher spoke to the class "Right, well formalities over and done with, maybe I should tell you a bit about myself." He took a moment to survey the room, glad to see they weren't drifting into boredom, but rather listening to him quite intently.
"Your usual teacher, Mr. Dior, is currently taking a break from teaching. So you lucky bunch get to have me as your teacher for the rest of the year" he continued.
"Probably the drugs again" Sherlock murmured, but to his horror, the entire class, including Mr. Watson, turned to look at him. Crap, he had meant to say that quieter.
"Sorry?" Mr. Watson enquired.
"Nothing, just an observation." Sherlock ducked his head, praying the ground to swallow him whole.
"Careful Sir, you wanna watch Holmes, he's a freak. He knows about people, like their secrets and stuff." Sally Donovan, one of Magnussen's crew, called from the back of the room, resulting in a chorus of sniggering from the rest of the class.
Much to Sherlock's relief, Mr. Watson raised his hands to silence the class. "Enough. Sally, comments like that aren't needed. But Sherlock, maybe in the future, it might be best to not make personal 'observations' about members of staff."
With that Mr. Watson began to introduce their first topic of the term; it was something about genes that Sherlock had already filled away in his mind palace the previous term. But, for Mr. Watson's sake, Sherlock decided to at least try and look like he was engaging in the lesson.
It wasn't long before the bell rang out, signaling the end of the day. Sherlock waited for the majority of chairs to scrape across floors, for the gathering of pencils and pens to be done, before he, himself, packed up. He wanted to make Mycroft wait, a small revenge for being made late that morning.
As he exited the room, Mr. Watson caught him by the arm. "Sherlock, could I have a word?"
Sherlock groaned, he had thought that Mr. Watson was going to be an alright teacher, he really wasn't in the mood to be told off.
"I'm curious Sherlock. Not that I should be confirming such rumors but, between us, how did you know about Mr. Dior's erm, let's say 'condition'?"
Oh, he wasn't expecting that. "You mean apart from the weight loss and the tremors? Or maybe the permanent glazed look in his eyes?"
John actually let out a chuckle. "So what Sally meant about you knowing people's secrets?"
"No, any idiot could tell Mr. Dior was on something. What Sally was referring to was the way I can deduce things about people that others don't see."
John nodded, "So could you do me? ... I mean, could you deduce me?"
Sherlock studied the teacher, this was one of the longest conversations he'd had with pretty much anyone ever at BSC. Better still, it was one of the rare times he felt he could show off his skill and not be sneered at.
"Okay, so you're in a long term relationship – I'd say roughly seven or eight years, you met at university – but not married. You used to own a black cat, although not your choice, you wanted a dog. You're a younger brother, but you don't get along with your older broth- no, not brother, sister. You wanted to be an army doctor but, presumably, the injury you sustained on you right leg put you out of action. Probably why you became a teacher, you didn't want to waste the training." Sherlock let out a long breath. "Was I close?"
John just stared at Sherlock. "Close, that was brilliant" the teacher blurted out at Sherlock, who was starting to develop a slight blush.
"Oh er, thank you, I-" Sherlock started, only to be interrupted by Mr. Watson, "You did get one thing wrong though, well not wrong entirely. I was in a long term relationship. Only, 'was' being the operative word. We broke up, me and Mary, about 2 weeks ago. And yes, we were together for seven years. I'm rambling now and I don't really know why I am telling you all of this".
Mr. Watson exhaled deeply, "Sorry for the overshare, ignore me." He forced a smile and started again, "It's getting late, and you really should be heading home soon. Before you do though, how about if you teach me a bit of how you do that deduction trick, say lunchtime tomorrow, then maybe I won't report what you said about your previous teacher. Deal?"
"Deal." Sherlock's replied, a bit too sudden than he would've liked.
Mr. Watson all but beamed. "Great. I don't think you have Biology tomorrow, so I'll see you lunchtime. Bye Sherlock."
"Bye John." Sherlock began, but was met with a raised eyebrow.
"Sorry. Bye Mr. Watson." He corrected, picking up his messenger bag. He headed out of the classroom, passed the school gates and into the car park. In which, in his convertible and donned in his usual three-piece, Mycroft was sat waiting, tapping a four beat tune on the steering wheel.
"You're late." He stated.
"It's becoming a theme, isn't it?" Sherlock deadpanned.
"Tardiness is not a quality you want to keep Sherlock." Mycroft replied, pulling out of the car park. "What where you doing anyway?"
"Talking to someone." The younger Holmes said bluntly.
"Who?" inquired Mycroft, ever the nosy one.
"Just a friend." Sherlock answered, ending the conversation by getting out his iPod and popping in the ear buds. He missed the look of confusion, followed by concern that crossed his brother's face.