A/N: This story is already completed, but it is being edited/betaed. Yes, it is the long awaited Professor-fic that started due to tumblr, and that people wanted more of from the teases in 'Seven'. I would like to thank AussieMaelstrom for basically holding my hand throughout the whole thing, and coming with encouraging speeches amidst my turmoil of 'Is there too much smut?'

The answer is always 'no'.

This is set during the 1960's, btw.

Prologue

Your soul is a chosen landscape
Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go
Playing the lute and dancing and almost
Sad beneath their fanciful disguises.

All sing in a minor key
Of victorious love and the opportune life,
They do not seem to believe in their happiness
And their song mingles with the moonlight,

With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,
That sets the birds dreaming in the trees
And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,
The tall slender fountains among marble statues.

- Paul Verlaine (1869)

Her legs were tucked underneath her, pillows pushed like a tower behind her back, as her ginger cat Toby meowed from the end of the bed.

Ignoring the cat, the young woman narrowed her brown eyes at the pages of her book. All of her attention was drawn to Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Nothing could shake it, not even the morning light shining onto her face, or – her alarm clock, "Oh no – no – no – too soon," she moaned as it went off.

The book was still firmly in her hands when her bedroom door bounced open, and she turned the alarm off with a dark look at her father.

He stood in the doorway with a cup in his hand. The smell of coffee tempted her senses, making her spring up from the bed, as he looked at her with an amused expression, "You didn't sit up too long, did you?" he said knowingly, scratching at his beard.

Molly pressed her lips together, "No," she said, retrieving the cup from his hands, clinging to the heat between her fingertips, and the bitter flavour she could trust.

"It's your last book though."

"It's not my last – last – book," she said, "Maybe one of the professors actually has-," what was the word she was looking for – "taste this year."

"I don't think they'd actually call ours refined, love. Now get dressed. I can't drive you, got an early start - so you've got to take Stella."

Molly grinned cheekily, "Dad, why do you call inanimate objects – women's na-,"

"Don't be late," he interrupted stonily.

Her heart dropped when she remembered. Not that she could forget, watching the slight tension drift into the shoulders of her father, as he walked away.

"I won't," she said with a small voice, lowering her head slightly, before her eyes were back on her book.

Later on, Molly looked up thinking five minutes had past, and saw that she'd spent thirty instead, so she ran.

Panting for breath she ran, her heels clicked soundly on the floor of the deserted hallway. For once, she was actually, properly late.

The fact that Mrs Bloom at the reception held out her schedule already, with pursed red lips, her mouth twitching, as Molly gave a breathless, "Thank you," half-tripping through the hallways, reminded her that this had often been the case.

English 08:15

Already she was to be reminded of why she loathed school, despite her accomplishments. Every single work of art or piece of literature was dissected, contemplated to the point of ruin, at least if Ruthers was her Professor.

There was truly a lack of passion in the man, not that she expected any of the professors to be shouting out after Catherine in the moors, or living by Oscar Wilde's standards, but – it wasn't Professor Ruthers name on the schedule.

Instead it was - S. Holmes.

Molly halted at the shut classroom door, staring at her timetable with a gaping mouth. Ruthers with his dry voice, that went on and on in a monotone fashion, who seemed inclined to be keep his arms glued at his sides – wasn't her English Professor this year.

If she hadn't been so absolutely taken back, she would have noticed the door had opened almost silently, only the discernable creak giving it away.

Brown eyes met an indeterminable blue-green hue.

Gasping, she stared at the unfamiliar face of her new Professor. He wasn't at all similar to the ashen face of Ruthers.

His face was pale with high cheekbones, fascinating eyes, and dark curled hair that fell gracefully onto his forehead, as if placed there by a tentative hand.

Whatever his age was, he was certainly younger than Ruthers, though his eyes spoke volumes enough on their own. They were by far more intelligent. A compliment she'd never paid anyone, but she felt - by the hurried glance he'd given her – that he knew everything.

Even worse, he had seen her, and found her lacking.

She felt a jolt in her stomach - hard - and at present difficult to understand, his narrowed stare made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

Truly only seconds had passed, yet it felt to her like years had gone by when he finally stepped aside. His attention was drawn to the book in his hand, a bored expression on his face as he said, "Miss Hooper, I presume."

His voice was deep, the sort of voice one wished to hear reading poetry – a voice that truly belonged to the stage, as it reached every corner of the silent classroom with ease.

Several laughed, not that she was unfamiliar to that, when she past him. Eyes flickered towards her, as she with her hastily reddening cheeks was trying to find an available seat, preferably at the back, but the second her eyes caught one, "I've saved you one," he said.

Whipping her head towards him, she saw his hand absentmindedly gesture towards a seat straight at the front, with a book perched on the top.

Her heart dropped, her cheeks unable to push down the blush of shame in her face, as she settled down in the seat. Of course now she could never choose one in the back without giving the impression that she was terrified of him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, keeping her eyes on her desk, having to listen to the stifled giggling around her.

She wasn't the only one with red cheeks by the look of it, though theirs were obviously not due to embarrassment. The fact that he didn't seem at all angry with her made her nervous.

He was so unlike Ruthers that it threw her off.

There was also something in his movement that was different, without even saying anything the man dominated the room, even when his eyes weren't fixed on the students.

His shoulders weren't burdened with a slightly tattered suit.

Instead he wore a simple white shirt, which was tailored, with a dark blue tie, and a pair of grey trousers. He seemed casual, yet not at all.

It was perhaps the manner he held himself, with a straight back, and his silence that made the class obedient. Usually they'd be loud, arguing with rebellion on their minds, whenever a new inexperienced Professor came around.

"Sir," he said, making her blink.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry, sir," she said shifting awkwardly in her seat, settling her tatty leather rucksack on the floor.

"Page 23, please – Miss Hooper," he said, making her rifle through the pages of her book, "My name is Sherlock Holmes – I am taking over for Professor Ruthers – if you hadn't been occupied with reading during breakfast – you would have known this about five minutes ago."

Her hands froze on the pages of her book, catching his eyes that turned to her, before he directed his attentions yet again to his pages, "Shall we begin?" he said.

Confused, she nodded with the rest of the class, who he was surveying with a piercing stare. He looked like he was expecting to be challenged, though no one said a word. After a few seconds, he finally spoke, "John Keats."

"What do you know about him?" he continued, his hand jerking towards one of the pupils whose hand shot up.

"He was a poet, sir," said a boy named Rupert Stark proudly, puffing his chest out, as he looked round the class significantly.

Professor Holmes did not look impressed, his brows furrowing ever so slightly, "A text book answer, Mr Stark – which can be read from the first line of his short biography on this page alone – anyone else?" His eyes yet again turned to the class, but this time fewer hands were thrown up - none in fact.

Molly swallowed in surprise.

Ruthers had a tendency of being rude to the point of insolent, but obviously he was soft compared to some. Somehow, despite herself she raised her hand gingerly. Professor Holmes' eyes were instantly on her, "Sir, the class hasn't read up on him yet," she said carefully.

"Are you apologising for Mr Stark's ignorance, Miss Hooper?" he said dryly.

Everyone around her was stunned; there was a general intake of breath. "No - sir – but – you asked what we know about him. Not everyone knows more than that about John Keats." Not only was she tardy, she was challenging his methods, however rude they were. It was certainly out of character for her.

"Do you, Miss Hooper?" he said.

Rupert almost seemed grateful in the distance, while she drew for breath without even eyeing the page before her, "He's one of the romantics, but he wasn't valued when he was alive, sir, as most poets were at the time. He used a bit more – err – sensual imagery than the rest of them – most notably his ode-,"

"To a nightingale," he finished for her, "You have read him?"

He was looking at her with interest.

"I wanted to read him before he got ruined," she said without thinking, and the tension that had filled the class dissolved with laughter.

Surprisingly enough even Professor Holmes chuckled, his deep voice resonating in the classroom, "Do call me sir, Miss Hooper – however, she is right – now – would anyone care to read the ode, or shall I?" he said directing his attention to the class, much more enthusiastically, as if there was still hope for them anyway.

But no one raised their hand; Molly turned round to several in disbelief, and saw some of the girls whispering (they were plainly hoping the Professor would), "Fine," said Professor Holmes, "Mr Stark – read the next page."

Their hopes were dashed the second Rupert cleared his throat, as he hesitantly began, "My heart - aches, and a drows-s-s-y numbness pains my senses, as though of hem-lock - I have – had - drunk."

It was torture, hearing him butcher the lines, and she dared a look at Professor Holmes. His face was unreadable, though she perceived the visible frustration in his eyes. Still, he did not say anything amiss when Rupert finished, except thanking him for his efforts.

Soon enough they were put to the task of discerning their own interpretation of the poet's words, but he also gave them schoolwork (not wholly unexpected), "Two paragraphs on John Keats, except – Miss Hooper."

Molly who'd been deep in thought, with her notebook splattered with ink before her, looked up, "You will write me a two page essay on his life's work – a punishment – for your tardiness." She didn't argue with him, only giving a slight nod, as she saw others groaning for her sake.

When she turned in her essay – it was four pages, not two.

Enigma: One that is puzzling, ambiguous, or inexplicable.

Professor Holmes wasn't found habitually lounged in doors smoking with the other professors during his free periods, though he did smell of pipe tobacco when returning to class.

No one knew where he took his lunch, until a Mr Andrews and Miss Baxter were trying to find a quiet place on the roof, only to receive a detention instead for indecent behaviour.

Unlike the other professors, he didn't indulge in social behaviour, even if some of the female professors were intent on seeking him out for such, though by the gossip that tore through the school it was certainly not about school matters.

Molly found herself increasingly distracted by the mutterings that went on, despite her prejudice towards that. The professors' private lives were, in fact, none of their business – but she too couldn't pretend that the man didn't fascinate her.

After receiving almost full marks with the note – Two pages would have been sufficient - on her essay, she found herself amused, though intrigued by him.

Not much was known about him. Of the things talked about, the man himself hadn't confirmed any of it. According to some he had worked at a private school, travelled abroad after that, and was doing this as a favour for his brother.

His brother was apparently a friend of Ruthers, so in some ways it made sense, though Molly felt bothered by it.

Holmes' teachings were certainly unorthodox, often he'd let himself get distracted, and encouraged the pupils to discuss the pages they read thoroughly, instead of pushing his own beliefs at them.

He seemed to like them to think for themselves - make their own deductions – it breathed life into the class, making them feel invigorated the minute they left him (though on occasions he would call them idiots if they came with an opinion based fully on emotions instead of facts).

But she didn't feel he was entirely truthful with them, despite the fact that he had said nothing on the subject of himself – he was like a tightly wound lie in her eyes.

Every time anyone came late to his class, he would know what they had done to earn their tardiness, which was disconcerting.

It was even worse when he didn't care to explain how he did it, giving them a baleful look if they attempted to broach the topic, but in the end no one dared to be late.

Holmes was clever, calculatedly cold on occasion, and by all means the most interesting professor they'd ever had, by the fact that no one knew anything about him. It took three weeks before anyone knew he had a friend – a short sandy-haired man with spectacles who appeared at his side, both of them having a whispered conversation, until the man left the grounds, and wasn't seen again.

In short, the professor was a mystery, but she never expected it was she who would figure him out.