Chapter One: Highest Roll Goes First
The rain splattered on the other side of the window, making Sherlock`s headache more intense by the second. It wasn`t that bad yet, but it would be if the bloody rain didn`t let up. And he couldn`t put on a nicotine patch to ease it until he got to the school, seeing as his father was sitting next to him, in the driver's seat. His parents didn't approve of his habits. Any of them, really, be it his 'habit' of solving the more interesting crimes of London before the city`s police force did, or his occasional dabbling in drugs for some form of amusement when the crime scene got dull. Apparently it wasn't healthy for him. Like he cared. When his mind was wasting away out of disuse, his body might as well follow the same path. And it wasn`t like he was ignorant about drugs and their effects. His studying of 'dubious' topics was yet another habit of his that his parents did not approve of.
The line in the centre of the road flashed by, and his father remained staring straight ahead. The road was nearly empty, other than a few upper-class expensive cars winding down it at a lazy pace. Sherlock leaned his head against the cool window, feeling the cold pressure push into his temple. It eased the headache slightly. Not enough though. He was in withdrawal, and he knew it. He just didn't want to know it, damn his intelligence. As boring as it must be in the minds of the mundane, it would be almost a relief. The constant running codes of his mind, the analyses, and the whole level of alertness became so tiring when it wasn't in use. That's why he tried to actually use it, so he didn't drive himself insane. He had found drugs helped too. Why else would be bother sticking a bloody needle into his arm?
The cars continued through the dreary grey morning, the steady rain and low grey clouds constantly threatening to open up to a downpour instead of the steady dribble that was the usual fare in this part of England. The rain fitted his mood- a brooding, dull, aching throb. He understood why his parents were forcing him into this 'boarding school', but he did not agree that they were making a wise decision. Well, he might be a bit biased, but he didn't think sending away what they considered to be a 'troubled teenager' was going to help him 'find the right path in life'. He could see his path just fine, but his parents again disagreed with him. He did not want to be on the police force because that meant too much structure and boredom. Paperwork was not his idea of a detective. He had already advertised his services as a consulting detective in the papers, but when his parents got wind of that, they arranged to have him sent away in order to 'focus on his education, rather than schemes that would get him nowhere in life'. He would prove them wrong someday.
For now, however, he was stuck here, in the passenger seat of a black Mercedes on a road in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock knew the route already, having worked out the shortest route in his head already.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock ignored his father's deep voice again. He was not in the mood for talking, and he was antisocial in the first place. When he got like this, it wasn't that he didn't realize he was unreasonable. He knew he usually was; it was just the simple fact that he didn't care, and couldn't be bothered to answer. Especially not today. He leaned his head harder against the window.
"Sherlock, please. You're seventeen, stop acting like an insolent four year old. It's not fair to us that-"
"Do you think it is fair sending me away because I am trying to start my own life?"
"Sherlock, this isn't a punishment, it is an opportunity-"
"An opportunity to be free of your socially inadept son. To not have me analyzing every decision you and my mother make. I get it. No explanation necessary. Please, spare me the drama."
"That's not what I was-" his father began hotly, before Sherlock yet again cut him off.
"Father, please. I know what you and my mother talk about. I know I don't fit in with the perfect family mould. Mycroft is acceptable. I am not. It is a fact, not a theory." He looked at his father directly for the first time since he had heard that he was going away. "I do not wish to dispute that fact. I just wish you would trust me to be strong enough for the truth."
With this, Sherlock locked himself away in his own world, refusing any further attempts at conversation by resting his forehead against the cool pane of glass. His father tried to talk a few more times, but his words fell on ears that had deafened themselves to the world. Sherlock had retreated into his mind, to what he called his 'mind palace'. It was easier to do with a little… chemical help, but it was easy enough to get to when he was annoyed. Or angry, frustrated, or any other strong emotion. It gave him the push over the edge he needed. He was easily distracted when he was inside his mind, but he was getting better at tuning his parents out. Their voices were like a mental doorbell now, instead of an army bursting down the door. He was practicing putting the doorbell on silent while he still had his father's voice to work with.
His mind palace was his strategy for keeping his mind organised and under control. It was made up of rooms in his mind where he would leave his thoughts. He had never failed to find the thought he needed yet; it made the cacophony of information in his mind manageable. The random information he didn't need was thrown down the trash chute, never to be remembered again. The information he needed for a case he was interested in was placed into an empty room on a shelf to be examined when needed. Anything else was categorized into whatever room he saw fit, with the exception of his family. Now, he thought of the basement, and placed this conversation with his father among other dust-covered memories of his dysfunctional family, the memories of why it was dysfunctional. It all boiled down to one person. Sherlock. So he covered it in dust and left it in his mental basement, where if he ever needed it he could find it, but it wouldn't bother him when he didn't want the memories.
He returned himself to reality slowly, and found that the car had stopped. This happened sometimes, when he was concentrating on his mind, that he lost his grip on reality. They were in a line of cars stopped at the elaborate gates, ten feet high and at least twice as wide. Sherlock's headache was too distracting to take the mental measurements. The other cars were all like the one he was in- lavish, expensive, and showy. Everything Sherlock wasn't, though he didn't mind praise. He just wasn't one to go out of his way to show off. The line moved fairly quickly as security checked each car before allowing it to pass, showing off again the rich history and reputation of the school. As though anyone who had come out to the country wouldn't have already known the fact, there was a large black marble arch over the gates, with white letters spelling out the name of the school, the esteemed Aberdeen Academy.
Essentially, the pamphlet had done an effective job at summing up the school, in Sherlock's opinion. It was a cross between a high school and a university, serving grades ten through masters' degrees and beyond. It was, essentially, a campus for rich parents to send their children to get them off their hands, and get the kid a good education as a side thought. Sherlock was almost back to his mind palace when the security officer came around to his father's window. After the standard questions, the officer looked at Sherlock.
"You must be excited, kid! A top notch education, amazing sports and clubs, and the best chef this side of-"
"I don't care about the food and clubs. Please stop spouting crap and let us through the bloody gate before I decide to walk."
The security officer widened his eyes but said nothing. It was a school for rich kids, after all, and he took Sherlock just to be another spoiled brat coming in for the new semester. He checked Sherlock's bags quickly, missing the fact that there was a false bottom in two of the bags, and waved them through with a casual stance. He forgot about the boy within a few minutes of the car rolling through the gate.
"Sherlock, please try to be nice and make a few friends."
"Alone keeps me safe, Father, it's what I do. Don't bother lecturing. You should know by now it won't do any good."
His father was silent. Sherlock was slightly exasperated at the ignorance of his parents. Mycroft was much better to actually have a conversation with, seeing as he understood the complexities of the human brain, and had an intelligence to match that of Sherlock's. But his parents were hopeless. Sherlock had even tried explaining his mind to them one day, only to land himself in the school psychiatrist's office the next day. He never tried to let them into his mind again. He didn't plan on ever allowing anyone in again.
The winding drive led to the main building of the campus, the towering modern ten-story glass building built up from the center of an ancient mansion. The educational facilities were in the tower, while the dining areas, according to the pamphlet Sherlock had accidentally memorized, were located in the old rooms of the mansion based on assigned dorms. Sherlock hoped he got a single dorm. It would be much easier to ignore people if he could lock them out. The car continued around the main building to the back lawns, which were as luxurious as the front lawns had been. Paths wound through the property, leading to courtyards, seating areas, and fountains where students could work or relax in nice weather. The more interesting features, though, were the two dorms sitting about 500 metres from the back doors of the school.
They were modern mixed with tradition, the way people of high society seemed to like to build things. They were old-fashioned red-brick buildings, but with small hints of modern culture to them. There were tinted windows running seamlessly down the wall every thirty metres or so. There was a screen above the door running announcements about the school, built into the wall. The cameras built onto the architecture were seamlessly integrated into the brickwork so that only sharp eyes would notice them. Sherlock, of course, noticed all of these things in his first glance. His second glance was for the crowd assembling at the walkway leading up to the doors, getting dorm assignments and lesson schedules. He shuddered.
Crowds were not his thing. Too much information, too many people, and way too much noise to think, to make sense of all of the information. He sighed as his father pulled the car to a stop in a parking space, slipping out of the car without saying goodbye. He grabbed his three bags from the backseat and didn't turn around when he heard his father's voice.
"Sherlock, I can come help you sign in…"
"Don't bother. Go back home and report a successful delivery to mother. You can both be happy and satisfied that I am safely installed at my new location."
"Sherlock-"
"I said don't bother."
Sherlock walked away without another word. He sighed as he headed into the crowd, the noise soon overwhelming his senses. Resisting the urge to press his hands over his ears, he walked with a purposeful stride to the table, not caring he was cutting off about a dozen others in the process. Time to get out of this mayhem.
"Holmes, Sherlock."
The name sent the woman behind the table busy finding his file. His name usually did that; with his brother as a young agent of MI6 and his parents in the government, the people in upper-class social circles fell over at their name. That, as well as the fact that his… unique report card usually got his name attention. All in all, he hated it.
"Here you are, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock nodded in thanks, trying to at least be pleasant. It was a good idea not to make enemies on his first day here, even if his head did feel like it was being pelted with a sledgehammer every time a raindrop landed on it. He flipped up the collar of his black trench coat to try to decrease the number of drops that actually reached through his short, curly brown hair. Bowing his head, he walked in a straight line towards the door. He almost ran into two other boys, who were standing in his path, but he cut between them at the last moment, just brushing them with his bags. The shorter of the two turned to glare at him, something dark lurking in his eyes, but Sherlock took no notice, remaining on his path towards the doors.
He reached the doors quickly thanks to his long legs. Genetics had given him a tall, lean stature, giving him an advantage in height to match his mind. He pulled the door open, sliding inside quickly before backing up to the side and leaning his head back against the wall. He exhaled slowly, reveling in the silence and calm of the hallway. Luckily, most of the others had gone to school here last year, he had been informed, and they all had their friends, so the wanted to socialize. Sherlock almost envied the simplicity of their lives. Almost.
Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, intent on seeing his room. He wasn't happy to be here by far, but in the present situation he felt the best thing to do would be to just accept the shortcomings and live with it. He had heard they had a half-decent sciences program here, so perhaps he wouldn't be completely bored out of reason. He reached his room, number 221B of the Baker dorm. According to the brochure, the dorm was named after a famous trumpet player, Chet Baker, who had been instrumental in the music scene in the 1950's. It was supposed to teach the occupants of the dorm culture, or something of the sort. Sherlock reminded himself to throw that pamphlet out next time he returned to his mind palace; it was taking up valuable space.
Opening the door with the key card from his file, Sherlock stepped in and was immediately disappointed. Against the walls on either side of the door were beds. Two beds. He would have a roommate. His name was placed on thick purple paper on his pillow, on the bed to the right of the room. He removed it and tossed it into the bin at the bottom of the bed. A glance at the other bed revealed the name 'John H. Watson' on the card. Hm, the surname didn't ring a bell, but perhaps he would leave Sherlock alone. That would suit him just fine.
As he was pondering, Sherlock looked around the room, taking in hiding places for items of delicate nature. The room was done in a modern black-and-white colour scheme, which was fine by Sherlock. Colours gave him a headache when he was using, almost as bad as the one he had now. The bedposts were oak, painted black, with simplistic and strong lines in the style. The right wall of the room was painted white, and the other three black. The room was a simple box, with a tinted window from floor to ceiling in the centre of the wall opposite the door, providing a nice view of the courtyards below. There were also two black armchairs facing the window with an end table between them. The bedding was white, and the pillows black. There was a wardrobe at the end of each bed, pushed against the wall, the one against the white wall black and the wardrobe against the black wall white. Beside each wardrobe was a simple desk, old-fashioned writing style, but with a touchscreen built into the surface that could be flipped over should the student want a normal desk. It was a nice room, truth be told, and under different circumstances Sherlock may have enjoyed it.
He glanced out into the hall, which was still deserted. He walked to his bags, on the floor by his bed, and took them over to the wardrobe. He pried a small piece of wood at the back of the bottom shelf off, seeing the hollow space behind it and smiling for the first time since he had arrived. It wasn't a big smile, but it was the most emotion he had shown in a month, at least. He opened his bags, and had just finished slipping his contraband into the small hiding place when he turned, seeing a figure standing in the doorway. He placed the wood back over the small hole and shoved in some clothing in order to gain some kind of excuse.
"Air cadets or army?" Sherlock continued putting away his clothes.
"Pardon me?"
"You were, until recently, in cadets. Air or army?"
"Army- How did you know?" The boy stepped inside and shut the door.
"You might as well get settled. I suppose we are stuck here together." Sherlock stood and crossed the floor so that he could see the boy better.
"Yes, but aren't introductions supposed to-"
"I don't need an introduction to you."
"You know nothing about me."
"Watson, I'm assuming. Well, come in then. Hm… Military family, been in cadets since a young age, likely about five years old when you started. You've been out of the cadet force for about a month, I would say. You weren't here last year, don't worry, I wasn't either. You've come here because your family is going through some trouble involving your brother… Your parents didn't want you affected. You had two dogs and a cat at home, but you were the friendliest with the cat. I think I know enough to say I don't need an introduction." Sherlock winked as he walked back towards the wardrobe. He turned when the boy, John, started speaking again.
"What- How did you-?" The boy's mouth was almost touching the floor.
"Simple reasoning. I might explain it someday if you don't bore me." Sherlock felt he was putting forward a superb example of being friendly. He was surprised when the shorter man stepped back, falling onto his bed and crinkling the name card.
"Are you stalking me?" The boy asked, before promptly turning red. "I- I mean-"
Sherlock turned away, heading back toward the wardrobe.
"Quite alright. Better than most people's response." He stacked some clothing onto the second shelf, organized alphabetically by fabric name.
"What do most people say?" John finally looked up, taking in the strange boy with wide eyes.
"Most people say piss off." Sherlock looked up.
Taking in the other boy, John noticed the high, sharp cheekbones and the long lean figure. Then John saw the blue-green of his eyes, and he looked away.
"I can't imagine why."
"I apologise if you feel you've gotten a bad deal, with me for a roommate. I assure you, I am not a bad person, merely a person with some habits some call bad." He kept his gaze fixed on John. "It is best to know the worst of a person when you are going to live with them, do you agree?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Then I will tell you this. I play the violin. If it bothers you, I will try to play it when you are not around. I dabble in dubious things occasionally, you need not know what. If this bothers you, I must simply ask you to turn a blind eye, as it helps me think. I am not an easy person to live with, and I know it. I will sometimes ask you to leave for no apparent reason. It is my way of thinking; I can rarely think the way I need to with someone else in the room. Their thoughts annoy me." Sherlock looked back to his clothing he was stacking. "What about you?"
"What about me what?" John was still on the' bad deal' speech. This was one hell of a roommate, and he wasn't quite sure what to think about him. His mind slowly caught up, but he still couldn't make sense of the strange creature...
"What about you? What are your worst qualities as a roommate?"
Well, John had to think about this for a moment. He certainly was not going to tell a total stranger he was gay, but he had to tell him something.
"I have a bit of a short temper, I suppose. I have been told I snore."
"Those won't bother me. I have quite the temper when I am bored myself, and sleeping has never been… overly hard for me. What else?" He still hadn't looked up from the wardrobe.
"I am a neat person. I like things in order."
"Then we will halve the room. This half-" Sherlock motioned to his side "-is mine to keep as I please, and that half-" he motioned to John's half "-as you wish."
John just looked at him.
"Do you follow me, John?"
"Hm? Oh, yes. Halves. Good idea."
"Good. We understand each other, then?"
"Yes, sir- I mean- I never caught your name?"
Sherlock did a half-smile, pulling up the left corner of his mouth and tilting his head slightly so that John could see it.
"I never threw it. It's Sherlock."
"Well, then, nice to meet you Sherlock." John muttered, trying to regain some composure.
"As with you, John Watson." Sherlock finished the last of his bags, and closed the wardrobe door firmly. He moved to shove the bags firmly under his bed. "You must excuse my untidy habits. An organized mind sometimes needs a seemingly disorganised space in which to function."
"An… organized mind?"
"All in good time, John. We just met." Sherlock did his half smile again, lying back on the bed as he pressed a nicotine patch against his arm.
"So, this is what you mean by dubious habits?"
"This is the least of them, John. Don't worry; I won't require the others for a while. I'll warn you when to leave if you're squeamish."
"Well, I feel I should deny being squeamish, as you call it. I intend to be a doctor someday."
"Do you, John? How fascinating." Sherlock closed his eyes as the headache subsided, feeling the slight buzz start in his system.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Why?"
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around the room.
"Because mundane life bores me, John, and these take away the boredom. They let me think without worry. And they help my think deeper than I usually can on my own. So, when life gets boring, I use this-" He gestured to his arm, where the patch sat "-among other things to keep myself from wasting away to dust."
"…I see."
"No, you don't, John, but that's okay. You couldn't possibly understand this. I wouldn't expect you to."
"Sherlock, I should really tell the school about this."
"No you shouldn't John. It will make no difference except for make life hard, and I can guarantee that without these you will be miserable."
"Why would I be miserable because of you breaking a bad habit?"
"Again with calling it a bad habit… It's a source of stimulation for a brain that needs more than the average brain does in order to remain sharp. And you would be miserable; I guarantee it, because you would be stuck here with me without drugs. It's been done before. I get them back, one way or another, but in the time before I do, I can be an unpleasant roommate."
John sighed and walked out, muttering that he had to go to the washroom. When he was gone, Sherlock smiled. A genuine smile. Perhaps this year wouldn't be so bad after all.
Sherlock and John got along fairly well for the first few days, John still disapproving of Sherlock's habits and Sherlock studiously ignoring him. While John's side of the room remained meticulously neat and orderly, Sherlock's became increasingly messier. His papers from other schools were scattered over the floor where he had cast them, stating that they were useless. His wardrobe was still neat inside, but there were multiple articles of clothing draped over the outside after they had been washed, and Sherlock hadn't bothered putting them away. The library must have been nearly empty, as Sherlock had filled his half of the room nearly to bursting with books on crime and the history of; the stacks of which he could dive into and not come out of for hours.
Soon the first day of class dawned, another dreary day. There was no rain though, and Sherlock's headache was long gone now that he had gotten a couple nicotine patches on. John awoke to find Sherlock already awake and dressed, looking through another book. Rubbing his eyes, John could just make out the title… 'Bruises on a Corpse Induced Post-Mortem and their Effects on Crime Scene Analyses'. Typical morning reading material for Sherlock, John was beginning to notice. He seemed to always pick something particularly dreadful to wake up with. John still had not moved when Sherlock spoke.
"You had best get dressed. The classes will not wait for us." Sherlock never looked up, but he seemed to know John was awake.
"You could go ahead, you know." John stretched his arms, yawning widely.
"I could, and yet I am here. I wish to finish my chapter, so please take your time. We have fifteen minutes thirty-two seconds until, if my memory serves me correct,-" John rolled his eyes, knowing his companion's memory was nearest perfection he had ever seen, "-we both are due in advanced chemistry, room 308."
"Did you memorize my schedule?" John rolled out of bed, the sheets tangling around his feet and causing him to trip, almost landing his chin on Sherlock's leg where he sat on the floor reading. He struggled to sit up but couldn't manage it with his left arm pinned under him and his feet tied up in the sheets, halfway off the bed.
"No, I simply saw it. If you did not wish me to see it, you should not have left it on your desk. I notice things, John. It's what I do." Sherlock got up much more gracefully than John had managed and walked over to John's bed. He looked at the sheets for a moment before tugging a small piece of cloth, unraveling the mess and leaving John's feet to fall heavily to the floor. Sherlock straightened up. "It was hard not to see the schedule, when we share a room."
"That schedule was under three textbooks and a binder, Sherlock." John rubbed his left arm and shoulder, which had taken most of the impact from his fall. "It wasn't exactly in plain sight, though I certainly wasn't trying to hide it."
Sherlock just twitched his lips into a half-smile again. It was the most emotion he would allow John to see, so John had gotten into the habit of taking it as he would take a full-blown smile from anyone else.
"Had you been trying to hide it I would have noticed all the quicker. Get dressed John, there are thirteen minutes left." He hadn't looked at his watch since John had awoken, but when John glanced at his own, he realized Sherlock was exactly on time, though Sherlock rarely cared about whether it was day or night as far as John could see, preferring to operate on his own schedule as much as he could. His roommate got more and more interesting.
After dressing quickly while Sherlock read and showed no interest in him in the least, John was ready to go. Sherlock must have been paying at least some attention to him through, since as he put his shoes on Sherlock was beside him and already opening the door. He walked through without a word, his long legs carrying him down the hallway easily and into the stairwell before John could close the door. Sherlock was halfway across the lawn before John caught up.
"Couldn't wait to get to class, huh?"
"I did not want us to be late. You would move faster if you were trying to catch up."
"Well, thanks for the concern." John panted slightly, still trying to keep up with Sherlock's brisk pace without breaking into a jog. "Think we could slow down, perhaps just a bit?"
Sherlock showed no sign of hearing him, but simply walked onwards. He reached the back door of the main building, which automatically slid aside for him. It was similar to the ones they had a department stores, but fancier. Sherlock ignored the elevators in front of them, walking to the stairwell to the side instead.
"Sherlock, can't we just take the elevator? Please?"
"John, you should be in better shape after your time in cadets. Elevators are too easily sabotaged, I never use them unless there is no alternative method of getting to the destination."
"Sherlock-"
"John, you are free to take the elevator if you wish. You are under no obligation to follow me. It is, however, only three floors up, so it shouldn't be too much of a challenge to take the stairs. Besides, I hear it's good for your heart." Sherlock paused at the bottom of the stairs.
"Just… give me a… second… Sherlock," John gasped out, looking like he had nearly run a marathon. "You walk a bit… fast."
Sherlock smiled his half smile, waited a moment, and then began taking the stairs two at a time. John looked at him for a moment before following, muttering about how oxygen was usually supposed to actually make it to the lungs before being exhaled again. He ran up the stairs nevertheless, however, in an attempt to actually keep up with the madman in front of him. Making it to the third floor, he found Sherlock waiting with the door open, not even winded. John shot him a glare as he stumbled through the door, to which Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Are you upset with me John?"
Sherlock proceeded to follow him through the door, walking confidently down the hallway to the left. The hall was like that of a sleek office building, marble floors and fancy lights casting a soft glow over the crowd of students filling it. The walls were pained a white on the right wall and black on the left. Though he didn't have a headache today, Sherlock still flinched slightly at the noise out of habit. He much preferred quiet, where he could properly think. He weaved through the crowd easily though, people parting for his tall form and purposeful stride.
"Sherlock, you just made me essentially run from the dorm to the classroom. I really don't see how that was necessary."
"Being fit is always an advantage. It has many health benefit-"
"I don't care about the health benefits, and I know you don't either. Sherlock, why?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows at being cut off in the middle of a sentence and stopped in the middle of the hall, causing a line of people behind them to have a situation similar to that of dominos stacked too close together.
"Maybe you're not as mundane as I originally figured, John. We might make something out of you yet." Sherlock began walking again, forcing John to walk as well if he wanted Sherlock to hear him in the loud hallway.
"Make something out of me? Sherlock, you're not making sense. Are you sure you didn't help yourself to some of your… Habits last night? Sherlock, look at me." John stopped at the side of the hall, grabbing Sherlock's hand and ignoring the slight spark John felt at touching his hand. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes, looking for dilated pupils or shaky signs, but all was calm. He looked away from those eyes quickly.
"John," Sherlock started, pulling his hand away gently. "In the first place, drugs don't have much of an effect on my in a physical sense. Secondly, I told you I would let you leave the room, I would warn you before I did anything. I keep my promises."
"Of course you do." John looked back up at him, standing close in the crowded hall. He spotted their room across the hall, behind Sherlock. "Oh, look, room 308. How convenient."
John stepped around Sherlock quickly, making for the door to the classroom. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he walked away, and he heard Sherlock start after him as he walked up to the door. Inside was a classroom with twelve desks, arranged in pairs in three rows, two desks deep. John hesitated inside the door, not knowing where to sit. Sherlock strode in with a wink, and picked the pair of desks in the back row, the centre pair. John followed quickly, after only a slight pause, not wanting to sit with somebody he didn't know. Not that he knew Sherlock well, but he felt at ease enough to sit with him.
"I was beginning to think you had given up on me, John. You hesitated to come sit with me."
Sherlock was sliding his bag off his shoulder, and getting out his binder. John looked at him, but he could see no emotion in his face, and his voice had the tone of asking if John took sugar in his coffee. John slid into the desk next to him, the one on the left-hand side of the pair, and sighed.
"I believe it's called catching your breath, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes.
"Your breath was caught in the hallway. You spoke in a perfectly ordinary manner there. I observed no shortness of breath when you were attempting to determine if I was under the influence of drugs." John's breath caught and he looked around the empty classroom. Sherlock flipped open his binder, dating the first page in the upper-left corner of the page and putting his name in the corresponding right-hand corner in a messy scrawl.
"It was a figure of speech. You could get both of us in trouble, saying things like that."
"I see. There is nobody in the classroom. If there were, I would hardly speak so loudly."
"But you would still say… that?"
"People don't notice things, John. They get caught up in their own lives, and they fail to notice that of those around them. I'm hardly concerned."
"Of course you aren't."
Two more students walked in at this point, and a third soon followed. The classroom was soon full, all twelve desks occupied by a student. Sherlock recognised none of them. All that remained was the teacher. He walked in a few moments later, a tall man with greasy black hair and a gaunt, stretched-looking figure.
"Alright, let's get on with this. You'll address me as Professor Anderson. No fooling about or you'll be straight to the principal's office, no exceptions. Try not to blow anything up." The man, Anderson, had a slightly high-pitched voice and a lazy manner about him. Sherlock disliked him instantly. "We'll start the year off with a review of the behaviors of molecules. Come get a textbook and we'll try to sink some of this into your good-for-nothing brains."
"John, get me a textbook. I'm already too bored to bother." Sherlock leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling with his fingertips pressed one hand against the other and spread apart, his index fingers touching his upper lip. He closed his eyes as John got up, following the rest of the students up and grabbing two textbooks.
"Put it on the desk." Sherlock made no other indication that he knew John had returned. His eyes remained closed as he listened to Anderson begin the lesson, knowing he already knew the material inside and out.
"…And so, when heated, the molecules expand. This means that-"
"Wrong." Sherlock's voice rang out loudly through the classroom. He still didn't move, or open his eyes. John, as well as most of the others in the room, stared at him open-mouthed. Did he just correct the chemistry teacher not ten phrases into the unit?
"I beg your pardon, young man?" Anderson narrowed his eyes, taking in the boy.
"Molecules do not expand. Heat causes molecules to move faster and therefore farther apart. This can give the appearance of the substance expanding; however it is incorrect to surmise that the molecule itself expands, due to the fact that each molecule remains the same size." As he spoke, he opened his eyes. Sherlock leaned forward until his elbows rested on the desk, his hands remaining in the same place.
Anderson looked taken aback at being corrected by his student, but upon checking the textbook, he found the student was correct.
"Yes, I suppose it is." He grumbled. "Now, when the substance expands due to the faster speed of the molecules, the glue holding them together-"
"Wrong."
"Young man, what is your name?"
"The molecules are not glued together. To say so is not only misleading but blatantly incorrect. Glue implies a firm attachment, an inflexible and permanent entity. Not only is there no physical substance holding the molecules together, as it is a force of attraction between positive and negative charges, but it is a very flexible bond, which will strengthen or weaken based on the surrounding temperature." Sherlock's mouth twitched in a slight smile. "Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor Anderson."
"Mr. Holmes, I would advise you to allow me to teach this class. Just because you proved correct once, doesn't mean-"
"I beg to differ." Sherlock flipped open the textbook, moving with confidence to page 127, before walking up to the front of the room and laying it across the Professor's lab bench. "Page 127, paragraph two, lines three through seven. I nearly quoted it a few moments ago."
"You just received your textbook, Mr. Holmes. How could you have memorized it already? If I remember correctly, moments ago you had not yet opened it."
"I make it a habit to keep up with science, Professor Anderson. Even the simplest forms, the easiest to understand, such as molecular theory, can come in handy for my hobbies."
"Of course you do. Would you like to teach this class, Mr. Holmes?" Anderson was turning a delicate shade of pink.
"Oh, no, Professor. I believe you are doing just fine. I'll let you know if you need help, and I'll happily give it." Sherlock began walking back to his desk. John was trying his best to keep from laughing, but he wasn't succeeding very well.
"That won't be necessary." Anderson was now turning bright red.
"We'll see." Sherlock sat down.
"No, I don't believe we will. This is your warning, Holmes. One false move and you're in the principal's office!" Anderson looked like he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen.
"I am ensuring the quality of education for the class, Professor Anderson. I believe it is against school code to punish a student for being correct."
"It is not against the code, however, to punish a student for disrespecting their teachers." Anderson took a deep breath. "Perhaps we should move on to electrons. When the carbon electron decides-"
"Please, Professor Anderson, an electron is not a thinking entity. It does not 'decide' to do anything. The forces of attraction between a carbon atom and two oxygen atoms, as you were about to say, is based on a mutual need for electrons. The positive and negative charges of the atoms are not a decision, they are the natural laws of the universe." Sherlock placed his fingertips on his forehead and paused for a moment before looking up. "As well, electrons cannot be called by the name of the atom they are currently orbiting. Every electron is the same, it is not theoretically correct to term them according to status. The correct term is 'electron of the carbon molecule'. Please, Professor Anderson, do your research."
"Mr.-" Anderson glared at Sherlock
"Page 129, paragraph five, sentences three through nine." Sherlock didn't look at the closed textbook on his desk. Watson quickly flipped through the pages until he found the correct passage, right where Sherlock had specified.
"Holmes, I will not tolerate you behaving in this-" He turned incredulously to John as he cut him off.
"Professor, I apologise for being blunt, but Sherlock is right."
"And you are?" Anderson glared at the pair of desks in the back center.
"John Watson, sir."
"Well, Mr. Watson, you and your boyfriend have just earned yourselves a trip to Headmaster Lestrade."
"We're- I mean- Not, um-"
"Come on, John. We're not going to learn anything anyway sticking around here."
"Sherlock- It's the first day, and-"
"Come on, John."
Sherlock stood, sliding his binder into his bag. He grabbed John's bag as well when it appeared he was in shock, and grabbing John by the hand lead him out of the classroom. John looked in amazement at Sherlock's hand in his own as Sherlock pulled him down the stairs and out onto the lawn. He didn't even mind the overly brisk pace either, as he felt Sherlock's cool hand in his own warm one. Soon though, too soon, Sherlock pulled away. He continued across the lawn, confident John had returned to his wits enough to follow him.
"Sherlock, isn't the headmaster's office in the main building?"
"Yes."
"Then why are we heading in the opposite direction?"
"Because there is no other direction to go in. Anderson has nothing against us other than corrections to his lesson. He merely acted out of anger. Pesky emotion. There is no reason to go to the Headmaster with such a petty thing."
"We should go to the office, Sherlock. It's the right thing to do."
"Nonsense. The Headmaster is out at the moment anyway."
"He is?"
"Yes, he left on a personal matter early this morning."
"Ok, how do you know that?"
"The announcements screen above the doorway to our dorm. While you were trying to catch up to me this morning, I took the liberty to read them. We would only get a later appointment should we go to the office, and I have a suspicion Anderson would have that cancelled out of concern for his job."
"Why would he be concerned for his job?"
"I made him out to be an incompetent moron in class today, John. Certainly you did not miss it. I believe you helped me on the last point." Sherlock winked at John. "We have no cause to worry, Anderson will be relieved I'm not going to be talking to the headmaster about him."
"If I get in trouble for this-"
"You will blame it fully on me and I will shoulder the blame without protest."
"You don't seem concerned."
"That would be because I'm not." They had reached the doors to the dorm, which Sherlock quickly opened.
"The class was rather amusing."
"And now we have free time before our next. I think I will use it for a shower, John."
"I think I will pass on a shower, I took one last night." John turned slightly pink.
"Very well." Sherlock opened the door to their room and changed quickly into a simple black silk robe. "Enjoy your nap."
"Okay, how did you-"
Sherlock was already out the door. He walked into the common shower area, starting the water in one of the stalls before noticing a slight odour in the air. Sniffing lightly, he turned slowly. He realized that he had assumed he was the only person in the showers, and had therefore let his observations slip. He had missed the small red rivulets slowly extending from one of the stalls, the steady dripping from above. He walked over to the stall and pulled aside the curtain.
Hanging by his wrists from the showerhead was a boy, grade ten, by the looks of him. He was short enough his feet didn't touch the floor. There was a look of grisly horror on his face, with is eyes open wide and his mouth uttering a silent protest that no one would hear. His head was hanging to the side, and rigour mortis had not set in yet. He had been dead less than three hours then… It could have been done before classes started or during the first half-hour afterwards and Sherlock would have not seen the murderer. Any time before that and there would be too many people in the showers to pull off something like rigging up the body. The blood was coming from his mouth, a slow drip. There was no wound on his body, however, and no bruises on his neck indicating strangulation. Sherlock leaned in for a closer look, but stopped before he got too close by the smell. It wasn't decomposition; it wouldn't set in for at least a few days. It was a chemical odour that threatened to overcome him, and left his head reeling as he fell back against the wall with a loud thump.
"Sherlock?"
Watson was at the door to the showers in a few moments. Seeing Sherlock on the ground, he immediately pressed an emergency button on the inside wall beside the door.
"Now what did you do that for?"
"Sherlock, are you alright? What's going on?"
Watson crossed the floor to stand beside Sherlock.
"Why the devil did you press the bloody button? Something interesting finally happened, and now I won't even get to take a good look!" Sherlock pointed to the shower, where the blood was steadily creeping out as the steam from the shower Sherlock had turned on heated the space. John took a sharp breath in, starting for the stall, but Sherlock held him back, not wanting him to get a whiff of the chemical.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me…" John's voice slowly faded as Sherlock lost consciousness, slipping into a deep slumber with the image of the blood slowly moving in his mind, and John's concerned face a phantom shadow on the inside of his eyelids. He heard footsteps, but he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes to see them. His name was called, but he became deaf to the world. His heartbeat remained steady, his dreams revolving around hearts, molecules, and blood slowly dripping, running across the smooth white tiles.