It was only the first day of classes, and John Watson was already late. He had thought (incorrectly) that he could slip in a fast shower between morning football (or soccer as they called it here) and his first class, Biology. By the time he reached class, just a few minutes after it had started, he was already sweaty from running. The shower had been pointless.
The professor glared at him as he scurried into the nearest desk, desperate to sit down and sink into his chair, away from the searching eyes of the students all around him. His face was flaming red. It was a bad morning, and it was only the first day. There were bruises all over his body and his quads were on fire from the morning practice. There would be two more practices throughout the day, and John wasn't entirely sure his body would survive.
And now the professor was lecturing him. "This class is important for nearly all majors, and your success here will determine your success in the future. One part of the key to success is coming to class, on time." Several of the students behind John snickered.
Another boy walked through the door, silencing the noise of the students. The professor looked up and sighed, "Not now, Holmes."
"But Professor, this is simply bullshit!" The boy was tall and narrow with thick black curls and pale skin. He thrust a paper forward at the professor.
The older man grumbled. "Can't you see I have a class going on? Office hours, Holmes." He tried to turn away from the persisting Holmes.
"I'm not leaving until I get an answer," Holmes said, crossing his arms. He slipped into a chair in the front row, taking the seat next to John and keeping a consistent glare directed at the professor.
The man tried to ignore the piercing grey eyes settled on his face and continued with his speech. Unfortunately for him, he faltered often under the gaze of the younger boy. John cast a glance over at the stranger sitting next to him, wondering what was going on but grateful for the distraction away from his own mishaps.
The professor began talking about the class being a rigorous course that would greatly challenge everyone. Holmes openly snorted. "What is so funny?" the professor asked, exasperated.
"Calling this class 'rigorous' must certainly be a joke," Holmes said smoothly. John turned to look at him in amazement. This boy was speaking out and calling the professor's class a joke straight to his face. "I guess for these feeble minds it might be somewhat of a challenge, but it's hardly anything of real substance. Now the work I've been doing, that's real science. Which is why I need the lab on Thursdays!"
"Get out of my classroom!"
"Give me back my lab time."
"Fine, now get out Holmes!"
"It's actually Doctor Holmes," the boy said, getting out of the seat and striding out of the room. "If you remember, I do have several degrees giving me the title."
The professor rolled his eyes once the door closed with a loud click. He shook his head. "And that, everyone, is Doctor Sherlock Holmes, the most unfortunate fellow anyone could meet. Good luck to any who have the misfortune of having his name on their schedule."
John stared at the door long after the tall figure had disappeared. What a strange man. He couldn't be more than a few years older than John, yet he held several doctorate degrees. And he had arrogance to the extreme. John was fascinated. He looked down at his schedule and saw the name Holmes, Sherlock listed. His throat went dry. He was fascinated, yes, but not ready to make his year miserable.