Hi guys.

I'm sorry I haven't been working on Mockingbirds that much. The reason being I was working on this.

This has possibly been the hardest thing I've had to write. I'd been thinking about writing a Breakfast Club AU for so long, and I finally did. It's so hard to adapt characters to a situation which is unchangeable, than the other way around. And I know I'm appealing to an audience that's seen the movie and Sherlock the TV show. But I love the Breakfast Club - you'll find nuances from the movie everywhere I could fit them in this fic.

And I did all this thanks to the wonderful Beta Reader I got, Queen of the Beasties.

So here you have it. Five teenagers spending detention together. Enjoy.

Dear Mr. Magnussen,

We accept that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong, but we think you are inexplicably slow to make us write an essay on who we think we are. Not only is the topic absurd, but the execution would imply that you know us beyond the simplest of terms and the most convenient of definitions.

But what we have found is that each one of us is: a recluse; a troublemaker; a freak; a princess; and a rebel.

Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,

The Baker Street Club

7:00 AM

Saturdays had a tendency to be extraordinarily pretty and annoyingly sunny only when detention was handed out. That, or when personal obligations made it impossible for anybody to enjoy the Saturday. This Saturday was no exception.

The five students arrested and tossed into the compound that was the school were aware of the beauty of the particular Saturday. They had fought (violently, in some cases) to extract themselves out of this punishment which they feel was unfair. They were scrubbed and rubbed by what society had deemed appropriate for their particular definition. They were, in short, brainwashed.

The first to arrive was a pretty girl with short blonde hair and a bright smile. This smile was not available today – for she was scowling at the prospect of Saturday wasted. She sighed when she stared at the school which was supposed to be a place of learning. She was wearing a very red, red; in the form of a jacket. Her clothes were expensive and pretty – jeans which were in style, with a white top.

"I can't believe you couldn't get me out of this," she said plaintively.

Her father laughed. "You'll be fine, Mary. You did cut class, after all."

"I know," she sighed again. "Well, I suppose I shall see you later."

She stepped out of the car. Her father passed her a lunch-bag. Mary Morstan walked inside the large building without looking back as her father drove off.

The next one to arrive was a boy, with sandy hair. The crinkles on his face were friendly, his demeanour relaxed and helpful. He too, had come with a companion. Once again, this happened to be his father.

"Look, you did something wrong – that's all right. Just stop bringing your sister in it."

John Watson glared at his father. "It was not her fault. Stop blaming her!" he said. It was remarkable how fast the friendly crinkles could vanish.

The third person to arrive was someone who came alone. Even more ostentatiously, the girl in question drove herself in a car. The car was not a particularly good one, or a very expensive one – it held the signs of being old and slightly rusted. Signs typically associated with one's first car.

The girl had dark hair, and extraordinarily red lipstick. Her clothes looked expensive, but unlike Miss Morstan's – they were stylish. Her shirt was one with a deep neckline, but which held itself comfortably around her shoulders, emphasizing some sharpness. And black, of course. In addition, she was wearing a skirt, and a jacket.

The fourth person also came alone. Dressed in a too-large Belstaff and with a distinct blue scarf, the boy shook his curls, walking, with a bored and disinterested expression.

The last person was a small figure, who stepped out of her parent's car, paused briefly to talk to them and had the following conversation:

"Molly, hurry up and come home," said her Mum tersely.

Molly Hooper nodded. "All right. I'm sorry for getting into trouble."

"Maybe try not to get into trouble next time," said her Mum. "We need you at home."

Molly bit her lip, decided that it was time to turn and face the music.

She was brown haired, plain faced, and with a tendency to stick to the walls while walking. Open spaces frightened her a little, as did a lot of other tiny things. She was known to have very few friends and as such, even fewer enemies.

She was dressed in jeans and oversized clothing, which looked slightly old and just a little worn. There was a nervous expression on her face, for she was also a bit scared of spending time with five people she had never known before.

7:10 AM

The five students filtered into the hall they were directed to. Room 221B of the school was a gym and library together – an open area for communication between the two most incompatible social groups: the nerds and the athletes.

Whichever the case, the students walked down the hall to room number 221B, expecting nothing more than the fish eyes of the Vice Principal, Mr. Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Mary Morstan took one of the front seats, without smiling at John Watson (who sat down next to her). Sherlock Holmes (the fellow in the absurd Belstaff) sat down a row away from them. Molly Hooper tried to avoid everybody altogether, sitting right at the back, behind Sherlock Holmes. And Irene Adler (the girl who drove herself to the school) smiled at everyone without betraying a lick of unease, sitting down comfortably a few rows behind Miss Morstan and John Watson.

Mr. Magnussen entered the room, and paused to look at everyone briefly. He smiled a little, and way back, Molly Hooper shivered.

"Good morning," he said. His voice was soft and not at all assertive, but cold.

Everybody else nodded in acknowledgement.

"I'm extraordinarily happy that all of you made it on time. I'd like to remind you, you have eight hours here - I'm sure all of you know why you are here, but you if you could, you should ponder the errors of your ways," he continued. Sherlock glared at him.

"You may glare at me all you want, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, it will not help your position," said Mr. Magnussen, looking at the glaring boy.

"Oh, I'm sure," said Sherlock darkly.

"You are not to move from your seats," continued Mr. Magnussen as if he had not heard Sherlock. "You are not to touch anything – if anybody makes an asinine comment on the limitations of these rules, they will be punished further. That goes for you, Mr. Holmes. Are we clear?" the question was so gentle, it was almost dangerous.

Sherlock defiantly kept his mouth shut, but it could be sensed that he wished dearly to say something. "Crystal," he said.

"All of you have certain perceptions of who you are. While I care little for your teenage brains and whatever they are going through, I would like to understand – intimately – who exactly you think you are." The words were a threat, said gently and caressingly.

"The door will remain open during the duration of your stay. I trust you will keep yourself busy."

Mary opened her mouth to say something, thought twice and shut it once again. The Vice Principal paused to watch her, raising his eyebrows to indicate permission to speak.

"It's just that – I don't think I should be here, sir," said Mary.

The shark eyes continued to stare at her without mercy, and Mary fidgeted under their gaze. "Believe me, Miss Morstan. I think you would like to stay."

Mary shrunk visibly, and sat down once again.

The Vice Principal disappeared behind the office doors, and the door remained open. Sherlock eyed him with distaste.

"Well, well, well," said Irene Adler, relaxing comfortably on her chair. "This is a nice little get together. I wonder if Barry Manilow knows that Magnussen raids his wardrobe."

These words are followed by John and Mary glancing at each other. Irene rolled her eyes at them. "As if you have never considered the possibility," she drawled.

"That man is a shark," said Sherlock viciously.

This was even more surprising, for Sherlock Holmes is a bit of an enigma. Whenever he spoke, he had a tendency to get on the bad side of people. Moreover, he performed a bit of a 'magic trick' – he knew everybody's life stories without knowing them for more than five minutes.

And he didn't speak unless the subject was worth being spoken about.

"How would you know?" asked John Watson quizzically.

Sherlock looked at the sandy haired boy, tilting his head a little as if to get a better view of him.

"Oh, he doesn't, Watson," said Irene, focusing on filing her nails. "Ignore him."

Sherlock looked at her for a second, annoyed. Irene grinned at him – this only seemed to annoy him further. "Do be quiet, Adler," said Sherlock.

"I'm sure I will try, Holmes," said Irene, ignoring him in favour of her nails.

Molly Hooper, oblivious to whatever the drama between her other companions, began tapping on her desk with an alarming consistency. Her nervousness would be reflected in the tapping; however, everybody chose to ignore that in favour of staring at her behaviour.

"You keep doing that, you're going to wear yourself out," said Irene Adler finally.

Molly looked up nervously, and smiles at Irene, unsure of herself. "Leave her alone," sighed Sherlock.

"Oh yes," said Irene with relish. "I have seen you before. You're friends with Mr. Virgin here, aren't you?"

Molly gulped, and looked at Sherlock in panic.

"We're chemistry partners, my dear Woman," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"I'd like to hear her talk," said Irene, her eyes glittering.

John and Mary looked at Molly curiously.

"Um," squeaked Molly. "He's my Chemistry partner. That's all."

"So she does talk," said Irene.

"Leave her alone, Irene," said Mary.

"You're singing the same tune then?" asked Irene. "Miss Mary Morstan, coming down to the lower levels of society, am I right?"

"Stop terrorising girls just because you can," fumed Mary.

"Are you going to get your boyfriend down on me?" asked Irene in a lively voice. Mary shot her a look.

"Who am I?" muttered Molly to herself. She sighed. "I wish I was a butterfly."

John looked at Mary and smiled reassuringly. "So what are the both of you then?" asked Irene, thoroughly amused. "Boyfriend and girlfriend?" she paused. "Lovers?"

Mary didn't say anything, choosing to look out of the window ineffectually.

"Come on, Princess," said Irene. "Tell me all about it – is Watson here your little boy-toy?"

Sherlock did not bother looking up from his desk where he was furiously writing something in top speed. "He's not," he said.

Everybody looked at him.

"Well, it's a little obvious, isn't it?" asked Sherlock, exasperated, but continuing with whatever he was doing. "They're not dating – but they do have an interest in each other. Look at the way she's leaning in on John. The assurance of familiarity, the way he smoothed his hair when she entered, the –"

"Hey!" said John, angry. "Stop it. Stop pretending you know what you don't."

Sherlock looked up with a bemused expression. "What's there to know? There's possibly no one exciting here apart from maybe Morstan and obviously Adler."

Molly blushed red. "Oh really, Holmes?" asked Irene.

Sherlock stared impassively at her. "I don't need to explain why you might be a little less boring than everybody else here. And Mary's hiding an American accent. God knows why, it's almost invisible. Liar, liar, I smell."

Mary's hands dropped to her lap. There was a nervous wobble in her lips, but when she spoke, her voice was clear and her English accent perhaps clearer. "Stop making things up," she said.

"Stop this, stop that," said Sherlock, bored. He picked up the paper which had a number of words slashed across is, all gibberish. "What are we even supposed to do? All I'm doing is telling the truth."

"No, you're being a massive dick," said John.

"That's a healthy reassurance," said Sherlock without paying attention. "I say, Molly, happen to have some dilute hydrochloric acid on you?"

Everybody turned this time, to Molly. Molly did not blink or fidget – she dug into her bag and extracted a small test-tube of the substance. "Um – I think that's – erm, yeah, that should be hydrochloric acid," she said. "Diluted," she added.

"Thanks," said Sherlock as she passed the stopped test-tube to him.

"So she simply has hydrochloric acid on her?" asked Mary.

Molly went red. "Um – Sherlock tends to ask for... well, strange things. At, um, odd times."

"Fascinating," said Irene. "Do you have concentrated acids?"

"No..." said Molly. She peered into her bag. "I have an orange. Heavy on citric acid," she said brightly. Molly laughed at her own joke, but was not joined by everybody else.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," said Sherlock, concentrating on his paper. The room's focus swivelled.

"And what are you doing?" asked John.

"I wonder what hydrochloric acid does to ink," said Sherlock. He poured a little bit of it on the paper. The ink melted a little. Sherlock looked at John and grinned. "They were useless codes anyway. Even she," he jerked a thumb at Irene, "would have broken them."

"I'm insulted," said Irene drolly. She extracted a magazine from somewhere in her bag. "I feel like we should shut the door. Magnussen wouldn't like to hear us all bonding."

"If you break one more rule, I'm going to scratch your eyes out," informed Mary.

"Keep your knickers on," said Irene. She looked at Mary thoughtfully. "Or rather, don't – you're funny when you jump out of your good-girl act."

"Act?" asked Mary.

Irene only smiled.

"This is exhausting!" said Sherlock suddenly, falling back on his chair. He tore his paper into thousands of small little pieces in obvious anger, and scowled at the rest of the room. "For fuck's sake – must he pick something so obviously boring?"

It should be clarified: exactly ten minutes had passed.

John blinked at him, finding himself unable to say anything.

"Holmes, we're all bored," said Irene darkly. "What would you have us do."

"Do something interesting!" said Sherlock, loud and exasperated. "Something! Anything! I'm bored."

"And we obviously exist for your entertainment," said Mary, rolling her eyes.

"Well, you're all idiots. You might as well."

"And you're not?" asked John.

Molly shook her head violently at John, but the question had already been posed.

"I can tell you your story without having ever known you. I can tell you hers, and hers and I already know Molly's but I can tell you things about Molly even she doesn't know," said Sherlock without pausing. John looked at him without interest.

Sherlock watched John for a second, before rattling off again: "Don't believe me? You're a straight arrow, a friend for most people, with one vice – you have a brother who parties and that is possible why you are in such a bad state with your parents and with your brother. You're getting sick of covering his mess ups," said Sherlock. He tilted his head at John. "Friends with Stamford and Lestrade. Odd, but all right."

John blinked at Sherlock. "How on earth did you know that?" he asked. "Have you been spying on me?" demanded John.

"Hardly," sneered Sherlock. "You're not worth that much. It's in your clothes and everything. It's obvious you don't get along with your parents, for the clothes haven't been laundered in a while – your mother has been punishing you by forcing your jobs on yourself. How do I know you're doing your chores yourself? Sloppy hands all over your grooming – the stitches in the tear of your jacket are uneven and untidy."

Molly sighed.

"As for your brother. Obvious; he's been the one to give you that jacket. It's his because of the small tag at the back: for Harry, love Clara. He probably broke up with her, which is why he does not hesitate to give you jacket."

There was a heavy pause after this demonstration. "God, Holmes, I'd fuck you under the table," said Irene.

"Must you be so crass?" asked Mary.

"You would too, sweetheart, and you know it."

John stared at Sherlock for a second. He was fuming.

"You got one thing wrong," he said.

"I did? Always something," said Sherlock. John said nothing. "Care to elaborate?" asked Sherlock.

"Harry is short for Harriet," John said.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and shut it again. "Oh," he mused. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" asked John aggressively. "Because she's a homosexual?"

"What?" asked Sherlock blankly. Molly bent down to whisper in his ear for a second. Realisation dawned on his face. "Oh, that's why. No, I don't care what anyone's sexual orientation is, as long as they aren't stupid," said Sherlock.

"You don't?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Well..." said Mary. "To most people... it kind of matters."

"People are incredibly stupid regardless of their sexual orientation," said Sherlock dismissively. "I was saying sorry because I guessed the wrong bone of contention between your parents and yourself. They obviously have more of a problem with her being a homosexual. I'm sorry you get the brunt of that."

"I – uh. Well," said John. "That's remarkably decent of you."

"Eh," said Sherlock, now organising his papers in stacks to make a cityscape. "Go away."

John looked at Mary to share a look of incredulity and easily aroused anger. Sherlock paid no attention to him, while Irene was smiling, however, she was smiling at Molly.

Molly shook her head at John gently. She tapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"What?" asked Sherlock, aggravated. She handed him a bunch of papers. "Oh, thank you," said Sherlock, glancing at the papers in interest.

"And while that's all good," said Irene, her voice having a sharp edge to it, "I'd like to know who is going to make the bold move of shutting the door? Obviously not Miss Perfect here. I don't know about her little boyfriend either. Holmes could, but he's lost already, thanks to whatever magic you gave him." She waved a hand at Molly.

"Shutting the doors would be pointless," said Sherlock, without looking up from his scan of the papers.

"And why?" asked John.

"Because Magnussen will just come back and open them. Take out the little screw in the joint between the wall and the door – door'll stay closed." Distantly, they heard a door open and shut. "That'll be him going to the water fountain," mused Sherlock.

Irene gave a very, very wolfish smile at Sherlock. "You do have your advantages," she said brightly.

"Don't even think about it –" said Mary, alarmed.

"You haven't been here before, Miss Perfect," said Irene mockingly, waltzing up to the door. "I have."

"Just sit back here –" began John, however, Irene had already placed a few perfectly manicured nails on the screw that Sherlock had pointed at.

Molly gave Irene a panicked look, and Irene winked at them as the door shut with a very permanent-sounding thud.

"Oh, dear," whispered Molly.

Irene rushed back to her chair. There was another distant sound of a door opening and shutting.

Sherlock tilted his head at Irene in anger. "We could have just sat here," he hissed.

"You were the one getting bored," shrugged Irene.

"This is not funny, Adler," said Mary, terrified. "Put it back."

"Be quiet," whispered Irene. "Learn to break a few rules!"

John rolled his eyes at the small storm brewing inside the room, and got up. He rushed to pick up the fallen screw, putting it in his jacket. "Everybody, be quiet now. Adler, keep your face blank, for fuck's sake. Holmes, say nothing. Mary, I know you're not happy, but she's right. We're stuck here for eight hours. Molly, I kind of like you. You seem to be the only person with a little sense."

Molly blushed red, grinning.

"Stop that," he ordered.

She nodded hurriedly, composing her face.

The door opened and shut, however nobody looked up to see who was entering. The man looked at the five students, and adjusted his glasses.

"Is there a problem?" he asked softly.

John chose to look at the table while Mary conveniently avoided his eyes by scribbling on her paper. Sherlock was personifying the phrase 'if looks could kill.' Meanwhile, Irene simply continued filing her nails, and Molly twisted her scarf over and over.

"Why is that door shut?" he asked.

Sherlock shut his eyes. "I think a screw fell, sir," he said.

Irene shot him a look, but quickly composed her face.

"I'm sorry?" asked Magnussen.

"A screw," repeated Sherlock.

John caught Magnussen's eye, nodding fervently. "It just shut, sir."

"Do you think the falling of the door has anything to do with you all?" asked Magnussen. "Come on, Mr. Holmes. You're supposed to be good at this."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "I'm afraid I can be of no help this time, sir," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Really?" asked Magnussen. His eyes drifted towards Molly. Her face went very red, but she stared back in determination. Sherlock snarled at Magnussen.

"And can you help, Miss -?"

"Hooper," supplied Irene.

Magnussen's eyes surveyed this particular speaker. "I believe I asked her, Miss Adler. You would do well to remember your place."

Irene looked at him carelessly. "Does it matter? I'm in hell anyway."

Magnussen smiled at that. "I would like to tell you that there are many other ways of ruining a student's life than giving bad grades."

"Leave her alone, and I'll take the bad grades," shot Irene.

"Unfortunately, that is not an offer I am giving you, Miss Adler. Now, Miss Hooper. Can you help us with this mysteriously falling screw?"

"She doesn't speak!" said Irene loudly.

"Miss Adler, I am very close to awarding you detentions for the rest of the year."

"Cut it out!" hissed John. Irene jerked her head at John and he mouthed, 'Stop it!'

Molly tilted her head at the teacher. She was green in the face and shaking a little. "I think it fell between the crack in the tiles, sir," squeaked Molly.

Mr. Magnussen took the liberty to step forward, looming in her face. "Did it?" he asked.

"She doesn't like it!" said Sherlock angrily, stepping out of his chair. Mr. Magnussen turned to look at him only slightly. Sherlock fell back in his chair, nostrils flaring.

"Whatever happened, I would like to know. However, in the face of your stubbornness, I can only choose to leave it to you. I would remind you," and his teeth seemed inexplicably sharp at this – "That penalties can be a lot harder than what the school promises."

As the man left the room, Sherlock glared at him with such unadulterated fury, rising into a very remarkable crescendo which lead to a loud and very audible "Fuck you!"

The others sat down on their chairs once again, while Sherlock breathed heavily. Irene was watching Molly with interest. Catching her eye, Molly grinned suddenly and very mischievously. She dug into her bag, extracting a book from inside.

Molly looked at the cover briefly, and tossed it to Irene.

'A Collection of Horrifying Poetry,' read the title. Irene smiled at Molly.