Mr Holmes, Grade 8 violinist, Grade 6 pianist, Oxford graduate with an A* in Music pulled into the car park of Percy Grange High School in central London. It was the kind of private school that rich parents send their rich children to under the illusion that it was posh, and the teachers were perfect, and there was no such thing as bullying, and that the children were perfectly behaved a perfect hundred percent of the time. They were wrong, to say the least. What was it like, he wondered, in their funny little brains? It must have been so dull, so boring. There was no such thing as a perfect teacher, a school that had eradicated bullying- take it from Sherlock Holmes, if you put five thousand people in a building there's bound to be someone who stands out like a sore thumb -a perfectly behaved child or a perfectly behaved group of children. Why were people so stupid? Why couldn't people just think? He sighed, parking the car and stepping out to meet his least favorite teacher in the whole school, or, in fact, any school.
"Morning, Anderson."
"Holmes." sneered Anderson.
"Have a nice day teaching Year Seven general science."
"At least I don't have a class of fifteen."
"My students aren't forced to take music and aren't incompetent juveniles, much like their teacher." Sherlock finished, pushing open the doors of the Upper Sixth Form building. He meandered through the corridors to his small office, where he dumped his satchel, before walking to the A level music classroom with his violin case in his right hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The first day of the year- oh how he loved the tired faces, the can't-be-bothered attitudes, the complete incompetence of the students in general. He wasn't talking about his students, obviously; the first seventeen year old who had shown up with an attitude that reeked in a manner similar to sour milk had been the last. The music teacher smirked as he remembered it; the ten hour theory assignment he had handed the acne covered tuba player, with the promise of another if he didn't pull his act together, was enough to make Lewis and every other student make sure they got eight hours sleep a night.
Sherlock was known as the oddest teacher in the school to the other adults; to the students who didn't like music he was known as the strictest, weirdest, most demanding teacher; to the students who did like music, he was known as the funniest, best, most intelligent teacher. Naturally, the percentage of students that could stand music was about fifteen to twenty at best. He had a class of fifteen to teach for a year, and that was the most full it had gotten, or would ever get.
The music teacher opened the door of the classroom to an odd sight; a cello. None of the students he had taught played the cello to a high enough standard to take music as an A level. He put down his violin and walked over to the larger instrument, opening the case and examining the contents. It was nice; at least a hundred years old, taken care of well, worth maybe four thousand pounds. Not exactly a Stradivarius, but it would sound nice if played by a competent cellist. He hesitated a moment before extending the spike on the bottom and sitting on a chair, making a bad attempt at projecting his violin skills onto the cello. Just as he placed the bow on the bottom string, the door burst open and a tall, skinny redhead girl walked into the classroom. She jumped when she saw Sherlock, who had stood up and was holding the cello by his side.
"Oh! Sorry, sir, I just came to get my bag." she said, her eyes wandering towards the cello scrutinizingly, but then back to the music teacher.
"Ah, you must be the cellist. I haven't taught you before, are you new here?"
She nodded. "Amy Rodgers. I just moved here from Hartford Sixth Form College." she smiled weakly before picking up her bag, a maroon backpack, and walking towards the door. "You...play the violin?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"The violinist's bow hold is different to the cellist's."
"Oh. Right. Well, I'll see you fifth lesson."
Amy nodded, before pushing down the handle and exiting the classroom, leaving Sherlock standing with the cello in one hand, bow in the other, quite unsure what to do with them.