Authors Note: I do not own BBC Sherlock no matter how many shooting stars I have wished upon. Sorry this chapter is so short, this fic is a bit of an experiment. Reviews will be cherished, suggestions are welcome, and don't worry about hurting my feelings. (I have been told about how thick-skinned I am) Enjoy!
I took a small, tentative step into the room where I would be teaching classes for the rest of the foreseeable future. Clean desks were arranged into unforgiving rows, patiently awaiting the students that would soon use them. The chalkboard hung from its fixed position, nailed to the cinder block walls. It was my first year teaching at Saint Bartholomew's Secondary School. I had already established a formidable knowledge of where everything was, which teachers to watch out for, and why no one messed with the headmaster, Mycroft Holmes. He didn't seem particularly threatening, until you did something wrong. Then, according the other staff, he was like a raging dragon fighting every instinct to rip your head from your shoulders. After hearing the story of poor Professor Hooper, I vowed to keep my distance. My classes were scheduled to begin in half an hour, so I busied myself dusting and straightening things that weren't really in need of dusting or straightening. Nearly ten minutes later, I was hopelessly bored. I was shooting number two pencils into the Styrofoam ceiling panels to pass the time when the first few students began to trickle in before the bell. While I was somewhat embarrassed to be caught in such an unprofessional manner, it was truly a relief to have something to do that had a purpose.
All but one desk was filled when the bell finally rang, signaling that anyone else who arrived after that would be considered late.
"Professor Watson?" a tall girl with nut brown skin and fuzzy black hair tapped my shoulder, "Can we go ahead and start class? Freak probably won't be here for another five minutes."
"Sorry, what? Freak?" I furrowed my brow in confusion.
"Sherlock, Holmes. He probably won't get to class for another five minutes. The weirdo is likely to be holed up in the lab doing who knows what," the tall girl frowned, "I'm Sally Donovan."
"Charmed to meet you Ms. Donovan, please take your seat. Whenever this Holmes character shows up, I'll be sure to write him up." I assured her gesturing towards the desks. True to her word, five minutes into my lesson about the French Revolution, someone, presumably Holmes, strode through the door.
"Glad to see you could make it Mr. Holmes," I deadpanned, not looking up from the papers I was stacking.
"A pleasure to be here Professor. Nothing like the smell of sweat and hormones in the morning eh?" a surprisingly deep voice intoned from in front of my desk. Slightly taken aback by the dusky pitch I risked a quick glance up at the boy before me. Holmes was easily six feet tall. I would say that he loomed over me, were it not for his slender, wiry physique. Piercing gray-green eyes stared into mine, as if daring me to challenge him. A fringe of curly black hair stood in stark contrast from his alabaster complexion. Good god, that boy must have half the girls in this school throwing themselves at him; those cheekbones did nothing to offset the handsome features gracing the human race. A deep purple, freaking silk, shirt clung to his small frame. He definitely wasn't someone I'd suspect of skipping, or being late for class.
"I'm going to have to report this, you know," I chided, pulling a tardy slip from one of the many drawers in my desk.
"Oh, do what you must. I have become accustomed to the tedium of punishment," Holmes rumbled, sounding more like he was thirty than sixteen. I shot him a quizzical glance before handing him the slip. After he had taken a seat in the front row, I returned to the endlessly fascinating topic of Marie Antoinette.
"So, John, how has your first day been so far?" the Language Arts instructor, Janette Clancy cooed into my ear, leaning in closer than would be considered decent. It didn't take a genius to figure out she fancied me. It was an incredibly uncomfortable lunch period so far.
"Brilliant," I muttered into my spoonful of mashed potatoes.
"Oh, good. I heard you got Holmes." Even though I was a bit confused by her answer, I let it go, opting to stuff my face with dense food. An algebra teacher, Mike Stamford, also gave small and somewhat pitiful attempts at chatting. Bringing up the weather, or next week's staff meeting. Both Janette and Stamford were surprised by my lack of sociability, especially for a twenty-five year old. The rest of lunch passed in silence after Janette mentioned her mother's dementia. I found myself wishing I could get back to preaching about the importance of the guillotine. Unfortunately, I had to suffer through another ten minutes of dry conversation and awkward silences. Stamford faked an aching stomach and left for the nurse's office. Janette leaned her head onto her fist and regarded me softly.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, blinking her eyes several times in quick succession, a sad attempt at seduction.
"Er, no," I mumbled, taking a sip of the dull brown substance that passed for coffee.
"Oh," Janette nodded her head, "Do you, maybe, want to go out to pub with me next week? I have some free time Wednesday afternoon."
"Alright, sounds cool," I flashed a faux grin before getting up to throw away my remaining food.
When I finally got home to the sad little flat I called home, I was completely exhausted. Nevertheless, I pulled out my laptop and started typing out lesson plans for the next week. This monotonous task only added to the startling weight pressing down on my shoulders, demanding attention. I sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that stating up any later would only increase my irritability. I closed the laptop, and trudged off to my startlingly un-homey bedroom for another restless night of sleep.