"Alright, settle down guys and girls. I know: first day of term and whatnot," a shy smile spread across the short man's face, trying to calm down his class without looking like a complete prick, "but we have work to do, okay?" Mr. Watson's grin widened, "I am Mister Watson, your new-"
"-Chemistry teacher; obviously. Save your breath." A low voice groaned uninterestedly.
Watson's smile faltered briefly, God, that's a little harsh, before looking at the boy who had tried so casually to embarrass him on his first day. "Yes, well, formalities are formalities. Aren't they, Mister…?" He tried to keep his voice strong and yet kind, but he was a little resentful of this arrogant boy. He mentally sighed, this is going to be a long year.
"Holmes." The boy droned, bored, and rolled his eyes underneath a thick mop of dark curls. Watson couldn't make out much from this boy; tall with terrible posture, very pale (almost unhealthily) and he wore a tightly fitted black suit that clung suffocatingly to the boy's emaciated limbs. The thinness of Holmes genuinely concerned Mr. Watson. He clearly didn't eat enough -but was definitely far too confident for it to be because he was self conscious; his cheekbones protruded out of his face like a skeleton's would, and where one of his buttons had been left open, Watson could see collar bones tearing out of his translucent skin.
His face was shadowy and unclear -so many contours and so much hidden by his big (and somehow elegant) mop. Each curl seemed perfectly formed and it was almost as if he had spent hours in front of his mirror, coaxing his hair with curlers and hair spray, just to look perfect. Although he obviously didn't. His eyes were deeply imbedded into his skull and was outlined with dark rings and pale blue veins creeping out over his temples, making his piercing grey eyes stand out all-the-more. Despite every flaw on his face (and yes, there were certainly many) this boy was strangely attractive; so feline and raw.
"Right, well, Mister Holmes, I would appreciate it if you refrained from making any other unnecessary or sarcastic remarks in my lessons." He sighed out-loud this time. "Good morning 13A." The polite smile briefly returned, but he knew he wasn't tricking anyone.
"Good morning Mister Watson." The class chorused, out of time, falling back onto their chairs. He slumped back into his own; definitely going to be a long year.
"So how was your first double today?" Miss Morstan -Mary, she had insisted he called her- said cheerily, blowing into the tea cup that rested on her lips. Mr. Watson didn't want to call her Mary; he didn't really approve of her and he certainly didn't approve of her flirting. He had Sarah, his wonderful and stable girlfriend of three years. He didn't like Miss Morstan's slightly-above-regulation-length-skirt and slightly-below-regulation-cut-shirt and he felt considerably violated when she had tried to "nonchalantly" brush up against the side of his body this morning in assembly.
"Oh, er, it was alright thanks. The class seems like a good sort and definitely bright." He hoped that his voice sounded uninterested enough that she'd get the message and go away. But of course she was far to persistent.
"I saw that you have Freak in your class. I assume he tried to embarrass you the moment he saw you; probably couldn't resist such a victim." She chuckled and he was definitely a little (or maybe a bit more that 'a little') offended.
"Who's 'Freak'? And I really don't think it's professional to be giving students such nicknames." Watson tried to sound calm, but it snapped out a bit harsher than he had expected and she recoiled slightly at the ferocity. "And I'm not a victim." He grimaced at the word.
Yes, John Hamish Watson was short and wore baggy oatmeal jumpers, and yes, he tried to be nice and friendly to everyone he met, and yes, he had dropped out of med school early because he couldn't deal with the stress and yes, he was only 23 (barely qualified to be a teacher!) but he wasn't a victim and certainly didn't want someone such as Miss Morstan thinking of him as one.
"Oh, sorry," she wasn't sorry, if anything, she was bitter, "and calm down John, everyone calls him Freak. Even the kids. His real name is Sherlock Holmes and he's a proper creeper; nobody likes Freak." She tussled her overly-dyed and overly-perfumed hair and sniggered. God, it wasn't even attractive!
"Holmes made one comment at the beginning of the lesson and then didn't look up from his book for the rest of it." His voice picked up slightly with anger, "Look, he's rude and I'm not exactly a massive fan of his, but we're professionals and I expect you to act accordingly, Miss Morstan." He snapped and pulled away from the staff desk pointedly, turned his back on the 'teacher' and strode out of the staff room. Fucking ridiculous. I thought teachers were supposed to be adults.
The next few weeks went by uneventfully. The days were long and boring and nothing happened. Miss Morstan had finally left him alone, although it hadn't escaped his notice that she frequently spoke badly badly of him to Mr. Moriarty, the ethics and psychology teacher, in hushed tones over 'tea-quila'.
But Watson had made a couple of colleagues and they were well meaning: Greg (Mr Lestrade, food tech and law) and Mike (Mr Stamford, another chemistry teacher). They would share light banter on the staff sofa and every Friday night, they'd go for a pint at The Rose and Crown down the road to watch the game. They weren't particularly close and never met up on the weekends, but John enjoyed their company all the same, and equally, they enjoyed his.
That mysterious Holmes boy frequently missed school and his excuse was always "bored". Whenever Holmes was actually in school, he rarely looked up from his thick science textbooks -that even Mr. Watson struggled with- that he seemed to glide through with absolute ease. John never saw the feline boy around the school grounds -as if he just vanished as soon as he walked out the lab. Hell, John didn't even know what other subjects he took, and Greg and Mike didn't know either; not that they ever really spoke of him, save occasional comments of concern. Holmes only ever spoke when answering his name in the register or a witty retort to a snide remark made by a fellow pupil, such as Anderson or Donovan. The boy barely seemed to exist outside of his books and it was certainly worrying.
One day, just as the lesson had finished, Sally Donovan rushed out the classroom and 'accidentally' knocked the boy's big textbook off of the bench. Holmes sighed and swooped down -not ungraceful, but the boy hadn't quite grasped control over his gangly limbs yet- and thrust it into his smooth leather satchel.
"I'm sorry about them, Holmes. You really don't deserve any of that." John muttered quietly, concern clearly present in his tired blue eyes that were locked with the boy's through the veil of curls.
Holmes shrugged dismissively, "I'm smarter than them. I don't care what they think." And John almost believed him.
Sherlock walked pensively towards the door, hesitating briefly before turning back to Mr. Watson, "But, thanks," He sounded awkward and a little bit confused, lowering his voice, "John."