Sherlock and Dr Watson At Oxford University

Chapter 1

Sherlock sauntered up to the stately, antique sand coloured doors which concealed a home for the most prestigious, avant garde scholars to ever walk the Earth. Brasenose college, Oxford university. As Sherlock's hand brushed against the Brasenose knocker over half of a millenniums history flashed through his head- Brasenose College, Oxford: founded 1509 on the site of Brasenose Hall. Name is believed to derive from a bronze knocker that adorned the hall's door. Significant past pupils: William Golding, Kate Allen, Henry Addington, Douglas Haig, David Cameron. Sherlock felt as though he were flying now, elated on this deluxe knowledge and even better: a murder!

He had been sat at home playing his violin with such impatience that the melody was barely tolerable, but when he had received a call that there had been a murder of a student at Oxford University, he had thrown his hands and the air and cried out in joy- a murder involving fiercely intelligent minds should certainly be interesting!

So, what did he know so far? One young man found dead, apparently from poisoning, in his en-suite room this morning at approximately 3.26am. He was studying medicine, and coincidentally (or rather not, as Sherlock thought) his current module was toxic and poisonous substances. The class professor was Dr John Watson, who he would see soon. He had read of Dr Watson before, and with his deep knowledge of medicine Sherlock had often found himself admiring the passion of his work.

"Sherlock!" a brusque male voice called, interrupting his thoughts. Sherlock turned to see Detective Greg Lestrade beckoning him towards one of the staircases leading up to the rooms. Staircase 10 to be exact, or X if you prefer the Roman.

Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around his neck in reply and sharply pulled the thick black collar of his famously extensive black coat to straighten it out and continued towards Lestrade. "Anderson will be along with forensics soon, you'll be pleased to hear." he gave a mocking smile "Try to refrain from insulting him this time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I don't insult, I just point out his stupidity. Surely a little honesty never hurt anyone." Lestrade laughed, he didn't have the energy to argue back, plus he secretly applauded Sherlock's confidence.

They walked into a fair sized room complete with mini fridge, two beds and large TV. "TV-watcher. Bound to get him in trouble." Sherlock tutted, Lestrade shaking his head with a tired disbelief. "Quite. Now, this is the deceased." Lying face down on the floor, he could have been mistaken for an average university student who had over-partied and come home desperately needing sleep in the early hours of the morning. Of course, this was a little different. "And the roommate? Clearly not the best of friends…" Sherlock said dismissively.

"What? Why not?"

"His bed- the one with the photo of the boy that isn't this one-" he gestured to the body lying in the floor- "hasn't been slept in for some days. It's the middle of term time, he should have been there. Not just that, but there's food under the bed, hidden from his roommate. Why wouldn't he put it in the mini-fridge? Ah, yes, because he didn't want to share it with someone he disliked. Hmm…but he hasn't always disliked him. See that? Two wallets together on that table. They wouldn't have left their wallets anywhere near the other one if they didn't have some sort of mutual trust- so there used to be friendship. But a recent deterioration…" Lestrade stood dumbfounded.

"Well, um, yes Sherlock- you're right. There were reports of loud arguments this week, which people thought was odd…They'd been really good friends before." Instead of gloating, Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"Indeed. And was he in the same class as the victim?"

"Yep. Both taking Dr John Watsons class this term."

"Good. Right- look around. Just look for anything interesting." Sherlock commanded, stepping right over the victim's body, and starting to pull open draws, tear piles of clothes up and throw common objects across the room. Suddenly he sighed, gave a little chuckle and then muttered "Oh for goodness sake." His voice then grew louder, his theory becoming more and more solid in his mind. "Call Anderson. Tell him we don't need him."

"Sherlock, no matter how much you dislike him, we need him to do his job-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted. "I've got it. See this?" He held up a golden bound book: 'Alexander the Great: The Mystery'. "On either 10 or 11 June 323 BC, Alexander died in the palace of Nebuchadnezzar II, in Babylon- there are many theories about his death, but it's obvious, obvious that it was poison. He drank some mildly poisoned wine, upon which he felt agony and tried to throw it back up. He was given a feather to do so- so that it would reach right to the back of his neck. But the feather was poisoned- and that ended him. Riveting stuff, but this imitator is just boring. So boring! Why steal someone else's method? Boring, unoriginal minds." He ran his hands through his thick, sprouting curly hair and let out a groan. "Turn the body over." Lestrade hesitated, but then pulled the body so that it was facing up. An immediate stench of vomit filled the room, and Lestrade covered his mouth.

"Yes-okay, okay. Ugh, that stinks. Let's get out." They walked outside, Sherlock feeling proud of himself, but at the same time sincerely let down.

"I was hoping for something a little more interesting." He scowled, like a disappointed toddler who had been told Santa Clause was in fact, his father. " You do some more checks on the roommate, the body. I have someone to go and see." He looked at his watch, Dr John Watsons lecture was in twenty minutes. He could not miss this.

"Thanks Sherlock- saved me a headache yet again." Lestrade smiled.

"Anytime!" Sherlock shouted, already half way down the stairs.

Sherlock watched John's hands as he moved. Picking up deathly poisons one after the other without so much as a flinch. "Previous traumatic experience", he thought to himself. "Not scared of much anymore." He watched how Dr Watson made little jokes- followed by smiles which didn't quite reach his eyes. "Lonely." He thought again. Yet he didn't pity him, just recognised the oh-so human trait. One of the women who worked at the Morgue back in St. Bartholomew's Hospital had once told him that he himself looked lonely. It had taken Sherlock rather by surprise- lonely? He could recognise it in others so easily but he never thought to apply it to his own life. That aside, Sherlock had simply brushed it off.

But now, watching John Watson, the way he had a slight limp in one of his legs, and the way he sometimes hesitated in his words, he started to wonder. Was he lonely? Was something missing in his life? Abruptly, this trail of thought vanished at the sound of an adorning applause. Dr Watson kept bowing his head, as though he was answering a question. He then started to pack up his equipment. As rows of heavy-headed students began to file out, Sherlock started to skitter down the endless steps towards Watson, his heart beating at an unusual rate. "Dr John Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said, as Dr Watson turned around, an empty smile appearing.

"John. Call me John, please. Are you a student?" Sherlock almost blushed, putting one of his hands to the back of his neck.

"No-no. I just solved a murder. Pretty boring really. I just came to say that this was interesting talk, however I quite disagree with your description of Cyanide as the deadliest poison. Arsenic concerns me more- much more available, much more subtle."

"Oh. Um, well yes. I suppose if you think about it like that…" John said, "But- solving a murder? You're a detective?"

"Of sorts," Sherlock let out a boyish smile. "The way you spoke about the poisons- all the different kinds. Intriguing." Sherlock pretended to be impressed, but of course he already knew all about poison. "Reminds me of tobacco ash- there are 243 types in fact."

"Oh. Interesting," John replied, returning back to packing up his things.

"For God's sake Sherlock!" Sherlock thought to himself. John was making him nervous- he had never felt this before. His palms were sweating and his heartbeat had increased even further. "Sorry." His eyes creased as he let out a little laugh, John joining in. John turned to look at him- properly this time. He stared right into Sherlock's eyes, and took in his crystal-like cheekbones. This time he smiled- and it stretched right into his eyes which gave a warm glint.

"No-no, 243 types. Very interesting." He was still grinning. "God- It's been a long time since I've had tobacco. You've made me miss it now," he joked, sliding into a black leather jacket, with soft padded elbows and shoulders.

"Ah!" Sherlock said, "You're in luck." He pulled out a pack of Marlboro from his pocket, and a lighter from the other. John chuckled.

"I'm alright thanks. Gave up a long time ago."

"Oh." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, disappointed. "I'm pretty desperate actually, if you don't mind." He started to light the dirty white end, breathing in sharply so that his cheekbones were on full display. John didn't know whether to laugh, he couldn't believe his eyes.

"This is a lecture theatre!" He shook his head, laughing. "Can't smoke in here. I'll walk you out though, show you where you can."

"Rules." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "boring." But he smiled at John, feeling a peculiar warmth towards him. They walked out, Sherlock still smoking and John feeling a clumsy fondness towards the intriguing man in the big black coat.