This reagent is precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else, which can be easily proven using the Sherlock Holmes test...

Sherlock dropped his pen and rubbed his temples vigorously, and then flexed his fingers. This dissertation was proving the bane of his existence. The Sherlock Holmes test indeed! How silly it sounded. When he had discovered it a few months back he had been proud to give his own name to the discovery; but now, when it came to writing it up in this damned dissertation, it sounded as if he was making it up. Why hadn't he called it something less... obvious? Less self-centred? He could have called it anything, and he used his own name. God, it sounded stupid. So pretentious.

He picked up his pen again and was about to cross it out when he remembered how much of his dissertation he had crossed out, and how much time it had cost him. Long before now he had begun to despair about his choice of course – doing Chemistry at Oxford was possibly the worst decision he had ever made. The place didn't suit him – too much order, too many traditions, too many things expected of him. And much as he liked chemistry, it wasn't his true interest. He could but hope that it would come in useful later on.

And though he had tried – he had actually tried, and that was impressive for him – to make friends, he had entirely failed at that as well. He tended to put people off either with his eccentricities or his total inability to make polite conversation – small talk. He had just one acquaintance – Victor Trevor, a history student, whom he did not see often. And he preferred being alone anyway.

Furthermore, he had so much work that he didn't have time to pursue his true passions. Sometimes he fenced or boxed. Occasionally he went for long, winding walks around the city for the purpose of merely observing people and things. But he was occupied almost the whole time by the heap of work that seemed to have crept up on him – the heap of work that had gathered whilst he tried to find reasons not to do it. Meditation, or deep thought, was, according to him, a valid excuse. As was reading anything other than chemistry to build up his knowledge base, the mind palace that was expanding into an architectural masterpiece. Sadly his professors didn't agree with him.

In an attempt to entertain himself, he had decided to do his dissertation on forensic chemistry – an analysis of tests used to identify substances at crime scenes – blood in particular. It was a topic that interested him immensely, and he could rattle off a long list of crimes in which such tests might have been useful, had been useful, and had not been up to the standards required. He could name a good handful of unsolved or failed cases in which the Sherlock Holmes test would have proved invaluable. But putting it all in this essay, this dissertation, restricted by the rules and conventions and word count to the point of being unable to write anything remotely exciting... He had tried and failed many times to stop his writing sound like his own slightly sarcastic voice, to cut out his witty comments that made it sound more like a transcript than an essay. No, he didn't like doing this dissertation at all.

Sherlock Holmes was not enjoying his third year at university.

He threw his pen into his pencil case and sat up, straightening the papers before him into a neat and rather boring pile; then he went over to his bed and sat down heavily. One day he might even finish his dissertation. He knew that even if it was done well he wouldn't have got a good result overall for his course – his marks for anything involving group work had left much to be desired, him being the one who sat silently criticising everything everyone else was doing, and being convinced that he could have done the task in half the time on his own; and oral presentations were far from his forte, as he was nervous about public speaking, especially in front of people whom he knew but didn't much like, and anyway he had never really prepared his presentations properly, as he had spent far too much time trying to practise the voice he would use.

And it was at this point that he started being jealous of Mycroft – Mycroft Holmes, his annoying older brother who had graduated with an easy First and was now on a career path that would lead him to glory – private and slightly bizarre glory, but it was still success. Whereas he, Sherlock, the baby, would be thrown into the real world, and probably expire flailing hopelessly, like a fish out of water. This existential despair threatened to envelop him completely, and he was just slipping into mild insanity when there was a knock at the door.

He sat up, groaning inwardly, recognising the knock. 'Come in, Victor.'

Victor Trevor then emerged, attempting to open the door at the same time as removing his large coat so that the door was pushed almost-closed and Victor propelled towards the chair he always chose when visiting Sherlock. He sat down with a bump and an embarrassed smile, and handed Sherlock a mug of tea.

Sherlock was well used to Victor's bumbling clumsiness, and did not complain, though this time he could not deny being rather irritated. Still, he had brought tea, so it wasn't all bad. He took a sip and smiled at his acquaintance – he still did not call him a friend, and wondered what the barrier was that prevented such a term being appropriate – before greeting him politely, showing nothing of his inward annoyance.

'Dissertation getting you down?' Victor chuckled, glancing at the mess of crossings-out that lay on Sherlock's desk. 'Don't worry. Mine's not going well either. I was right in the middle of the inner workings of the 18th-century French government when I realised that my brain was about to melt, so I made tea and came here instead.'

'Via Hannah's room,' Sherlock cut in.

'Well...' Victor reddened a little. 'Sorry, has the tea gone cold?' He sipped at his. 'Ah, it has a bit, sorry.' He took another mouthful. 'Anyway, did you hear about the murder?'

'Murder?' Sherlock sat up straight. 'Oh – is that what all the police cars were about?'

'Yep. Apparently some poor guy's been found dead in a flat in the centre of town. It was only a couple of hours ago. I don't know much about it. Just thought it might interest you.' Sherlock had developed a great interest in local crimes, ever since Victor had suggested he could be a detective. Sherlock rather feared he wouldn't be a very good detective though, and he knew he wouldn't be respected by the rest of the police force. He was still wondering how he could get round that.

'I'll listen to the radio later, see if there's anything more about it. Actually, I could go into town. I don't have anything else to do. Except my dissertation,' he grimaced, 'but that can wait.'

Victor grinned. 'Thought you might like to know about it. Anyway, they're sacking old Fletcher – the cleaner, you know – did you hear about that?' And he launched into a monologue on the merits (few) and faults (many) of the grumpy old caretaker who cleaned their part of the college. Sherlock only half-listened, uninterested as he was by small talk but also with his thoughts now occupied by the murder. He wanted to find out more before he thought any more on it – otherwise his speculations would bias the judgment. He wondered, fleetingly, whether the Sherlock Holmes test might come in useful in the case. And at last, when Victor had left, he flung his coat on and headed out in search of mild distraction.