* Based on screen capture (102), John Watson graduated from King Edward Grammar School Chelmsford, and is studying at King's College London.
(I leave it as it is because I assume the grammar school name is fictional)
* Sherlock went to the UK version of Phillips Academy. (I deleted the school name.)
**All the characters are fictional. They belong to ACD and BBC.
Dear Cathy.
Congratulations! The school has gained a talented teacher! What's the name of the school again? It seems to be a very old and prestigious school like Phillips Academy here. Is it nice there? When do you start teaching? You must be busy right now but write to me when you settle down. Say hello to Eddie for me.
Love.
Teresa.
Dear Teresa
Thank you so much. Sorry for the belated reply. Like you said, I've been very busy.
Eddie, he's still in Seoul; he needs to work for a few more months. I got a job opportunity so I decided to come back to London early.
Now I've done with unpacking. I found my old materials at Chelmford in the box. I'm going through them now: there might be something that can help me.
The new term starts in two weeks. I'm working on the yearly plan. I'm thinking about doing four essays a year, covering descriptive, explanatory, argumentative, and poetry.
This job is a one-year maternity cover position, but the school said they could use one more English teacher depending on the year-end evaluation. I'll teach English to the first and second years. I haven't decided the topic for the descriptive essay.
Well, hope you well. I'll stay in touch.
Miss you a lot.
Cathy.
p.s Help me with the topic for the descriptive essay?
Dear C.
Are you okay? I heard about Eddie. I don't want to believe it. I'm so sorry. I did call you, but your old number was disconnected.
As to your question, what about a candle? I remember that was your essay topic for final evaluation when you taught at Chelmsford.
xxx
T.
p.s Your number?
Dear T.
Perfect. I just submitted my yearly planning. A candle it is. I remember the essay that one of my previous students wrote… I still have a copy of what he wrote at the final evaluation. Take a look at it. (Don't worry. He rewrote his essay in beautiful cursive and gave it to me as a farewell present)
He was just about 14 years old when he wrote this. Isn't it great? I thought he would grow up to be a writer. A hard working student with great potential in writing. He still sends me Christmas cards even after I left the grammar school. That's how I know what he's doing now. He's studying at King's College to become a doctor.
xxx
C.
p.s T. I haven't gotten my landline yet. I'll write to you when I get one.
A candle
A wisp of tangerine smell is refreshing even before I tear the wrap of the votive. I just take it out, a red votive and a votive holder. Fumbling with matches, I enjoy the scent immensely, feeling my mouth watering. Carefully I carry the lighted candle to the table.
Candles have been a source of light in the dark. A guardian for us from fear at night. Now with the invention of the light bulb, candles are mostly used for decorative and ceremonial purposes. Still they remind us of their power that we once depended on.
The sun sets and the room sink into darkness. I watch the flickering flame dancing. The flame and the wick struggles, mesmerizing me, the lonely observer. The flame succeeds pulling itself up and up as though to say 'Let go of me!'. Yet it never un-tethers itself from the wick. Like a patient mother who nurses a baby, the wick feeds the orange wax to the struggling flame. The melted orange wax near the flame is glowing so brightly, seducing me to reach out and touch it. Like a vampire smelling blood, my nerves get tense, screaming to make myself stop in vain. I become a moth, daring to make a deadly dive into flames.
Ouch, I feel the heat and wake up from hypnosis of the candle. I blow it out; the seduction comes to an end with a lingering smell of sulfur and tangerine. I flick up the light of the room.
Early Oct
The first month for Cathy Welton was hectic, as she had to get used to the teaching and school rules. Mercifully all the boys were very smart, polite, and hard-working. Few seemed to have troubles in class. Sherlock Holmes was one of them; his was the first name that she memorized. He didn't pay attention, and stayed aloof and unfriendly all the time.
Despite strict rule enforcement, the faculty was friendly and Cathy came to love teaching more and more.
At one night, she was evaluating descriptive essays submitted by her second year students: most of them seemed to have understood the essence of description. Second year students wrote essays on a candle the previous week. She had brought a couple of pillar candles and made them watch the lit candles for five minutes with drapes pulled down. Composition test for 30 minutes.
She groaned when she read Sherlock's writing. She didn't know if she should laugh or not.
A candle
Sherlock Holmes
A candle is a solid block of wax with an embedded wick, which is ignited to provide light. As a source of light, a candle consists of wax commonly in cylindrical form. A candle wick works by capillary action, drawing the melted wax up to the flame. When the liquid fuel reaches the flame, it vaporizes and combusts.
Capillary action...
For an expository essay, this wasn't terribly written. The problem? He was supposed to write an descriptive essay. She had thought that she emphasized the elements of descriptive essays.
Were he paying attention when I said imagery and metaphorical language were more important than scientific or mathematics data?
Sherlock Holmes. She finished grading the rest of the essays and decided to talk with the boy.
There was a knock. Cathy closed her drawer shut and fidgeted with her fingers. Pulling Sherlock's file, she answered.
"Come in."
Sherlock walked in, putting on a face of unexpected nonchalance. He should've known that something was wrong - everybody else's graded essay was returned to its owner but him. Instead, she told him to visit her classroom later.
"Sit down."
His eyes fleeted on a picture frame on her table. She flipped it over so that he couldn't see it.
"This is our hus..., my...Well, first things first. Mr. Holmes, the reason that I asked you to come is..."
"You have been in far East Asia before here, haven't you? Possibly Japan or Korea. "
"Uugh? Yes, Korea. Did someone talk about me?"
He shook his head.
"How did you... Wait. It's rude to interrupt a teacher, Mr. Holmes."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Welton."
"Well, how did you know? People talk about me?"
"I don't care about rumors. Your choice of words. Some Asian countries put the group before individuals. Holistic tendency of a culture affects the language. "our" is often used in place of "my". You just stopped before you said, "Our hus." We don't share a husband so it had to be my husband. You must have spent some time there. China is still a communist country, leaving two free countries in the region...Japan and Korea, I mean, Southern one."
She stared at the boy.
He's smart. Catching a small detail. Expansive knowledge. But he seems to consider her class is dull.
After a couple of weeks, she had learned that the class proceeded better when he kept his mouth shut. He often asked questions that had nothing to do with the lesson. After consulting with other English teachers, she had been ignoring his raised hand.
"Wow, that's quite detailed knowledge on correlation between culture and language. It's impressive. You have keen ears."
The boy looked surprised a bit; his lips twitched into a small smile.
"Normally people don't say it. They glare at me or shut me up. Teachers usually give me a double."
Cathy felt slightly uncomfortable. She did make him write lines, too. He was much pleasant now than he was at class.
"I've got keen eyes, too!"
"20/20 visions?"
"No, I observe things."
She pondered his words for a minute and asked,
"Observe? But you didn't impress upon me that you were paying attention."
The boy's face reddened a bit.
"It's just...that I see everything logically and scientifically. Most of literature just doesn't make sense to me. It's boring..."
She smiled at the boy's honesty. She remembered a chat with his chemistry teacher, Mr. Halt. He had spoken very highly of Sherlock.
"You like science?"
"Chemistry, Pedology, Biology, Toxicology, some history... I don't like astrology."
She cut in a slight disappointment.
"Not my subject, either."
The boy fidgeted uncomfortably and stuttered,
"No. It's too much ambiguous and unexplainable. Sometimes it doesn't make sense at all."
"That's a shame. Actually there are many wonders in the literature if you would open your eyes wider."
Her eyes twinkled. She got curious about this brainy boy.
His attitude. The class might not be challenging enough.
She asked tentatively,
"Would you mind showing me? For example, from me, what can you see?"
"Give me one minute... please."
The boy's eyes scanned through her, her clothes, and her accessory; his eyebrows frowned slightly. She checked on her watch and said,
"Time's up."
He did hesitate. He wouldn't be bothered to rant on anybody else, but the teacher had just complimented him. Her smile was warm and friendly.
Cathy smiled, thinking that he might have been bluffing a moment ago.
"If you can't, it's fine. I don't think you were bluffing."
"I can say anything?"
"Unless you use some inappropriate words."
The boy inhaled deeply, and opened his mouth.
"No offence, Ma'am. You've just divorced or going to get a divorce very soon. The picture of you and your husband. You still keep in on the desk. Probably you haven't gotten over him or rather you don't want the school to know that you're a divorcee. The person named Teresa seems to be important to you. She is your family or friend."
Her mouth dropped open. She almost felt dizzy, totally taken aback. The boy hastily gazed down on the floor. A minute of awkward silence fell in the room. She whispered, mingled with embarrassment and fear,
"School knows it?"
"I deduced."
"How?"
"You were fidgeting with your ring. You didn't slip it into your finger until I entered. Your hand was in visible sight: you wanted to look married. But you flipped the picture frame over when you noticed I was looking at it. You don't want to remember him, I suppose. Your bracelet has a name Teresa inscribed. It's rather cheap material. Not a family heirloom. I guess that is a present from your friend, whose name is Teresa. Teresa's very meaningful to you. You're wearing costly brands like Burberry and Versace. The bracelet just doesn't match your clothes. But I've never seen you without the bracelet. I assume you like her very much."
"I don't know what to say. Your deduction…quite accurate. That's an exceptional talent. I don't understand why you're always alone."
Sherlock said petulantly.
"People can't stand it when their darkest secret is revealed. Some teachers don't like me, either."
Cathy cleared her throat, and opened the folder.
"Your essay might be acceptable, or even good in expository writing. In descriptive, I don't know how I should grade it. I'll give you one more chance. By next lesson, that's two days away, would you write a new one and hand it over? You won't get an A for fairness sake. One more chance."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"As to your deductive skills, I'd rather recommend that you use them only in science classes. It's four, five weeks from the start of the term, and you seems to be quite famous."
With a grimace, the boy muttered out tonelessly.
"They call me the Freak."
"I don't agree to that. Mr. Holmes. You're brilliant and observant. You can do better at school. At least you can do better in my class, can't you?"
Sherlock's eyes met hers for a moment. He gave a small nod.
"Here, I'll read you one essay that I am very fond of. Don't memorize it. Written by one of my previous pupils. His name is John. He's studying at college to become a doctor. Close your eyes and focus on the images that pop up."
Cathy read John's essay. The boy listened intently with his eyes closed.
"Now, you get some idea?"
"I guess so. I could picture the scene."
"A good description should be sensory, letting its readers see, feel, smell, and hear things. Figurative language like metaphors is good only when it's not overused."
She stood up. The boy followed.
"It's almost dinner time. You'd better hurry. You're dismissed."
"Thank you, Ma'am."
Cathy hesitated and called out the boy's name. He stopped.
"And, Mr. Holmes..., No. You can go."
The boy turned around and walked out. Next moment, his pale face reappeared.
"My lips are sealed, Mrs. Welton."
She smiled despite herself.
221 B, present time
The whole street was in darkness. One of the summer blackouts. For days the mercury had soared to record highs. It would take a couple of hours before the power was restored. John just lit a few candles on the table. He stared at the flickering flames and placed his fingers over the flame.
"Ouch."
"John, it's quite stupid of you. You know the temperature over the candle flame is over 1,000 degrees Celsius? They're called luminous zone and veil, with a temperature of 1,200 and 1,400 degrees Celsius respectively."
"I need a burn cream."
"You're not a kid. Why are you playing with fire?"
John was very tempted to ask why Sherlock played with chemicals and cadavers in the "kitchen", but the pain on his finger tip made him fumble his way to the medicine cabinet.
"Why?"
Sherlock asked again.
"Nothing. Candle light always mesmerizes me like a moth diving into flames. I often got finger burns when I was young. I stopped playing with fire when one of the candles toppled down and burned half of the dinning table."
Sherlock glanced at his flatmate. He remembered that he had stayed up two nights in a row to rewrite the bloody candle thing. Mrs. Welton read him her favorite essay.
What's the name of the author? Mesmerizing? A moth diving into flames?
His eyes sparkled in recognition. John! Smiling, he started reciting as if he was reading a poem.
"Like a vampire smelling blood, my nerves get tense, screaming to make myself stop in vain. I become a moth, daring to make a deadly dive into flames."
John stopped looking for the cream. He asked curiously,
"Wait. That sounds familiar. I wrote something like that long ago. How did you possibly know it?"
"It just popped in my mind. John. Coincidence."
The detective picked up his violin and started to play Bach's Air on G String. John shrugged it off and started his search for a burn cream.
I hope you enjoyed this. Please, let me know what you think:)
*Cathy Welton teaches English literature and knew both boys of different timelines.
*John's essay is mine: I wrote it long time ago. Sherlock's mostly modified from wiki.
*I couldn't find my submission after a couple of hours; Some problem on the site or I assume my story had been deleted for some reason. Probably I shouldn't have mentioned the school name.
I modified as much as I could. If this one disappears from the site again, then I might have to leave it taken down for the time being:)