Meanwhile, John was scratching his head. It's OK, he told himself, no one's going to show up to this. He pushed open the doors of the auditorium. A whole row of students eagerly looked back at him. He dipped out again. "Oh God," he said to himself, "I can't do this." But the thought of losing his fifty quid gave him confidence and a part of him was eager to see what Sherlock was planning to do. He re-entered the auditorium. He looked at the eager, smiling students, recognising Rachel's face among the small group, and grinned.
"Hello, class," he said, with a grimace. He hesitated for a few moments as six students stared back at him, one of whom now folded his arms, sulking, and kicked a chair toward the door. John shrugged uncomfortably – he always felt nervous around people with mohawks.
At this point, Rachel's hand shot up, "Mr Atkinson, I think it would be a very good idea if we started by me giving a solo performance as Maria from West Side Story."
Several groans arose from the other students and the guy with the Mohawk snarled, vengefully. John gave an involuntary squeak, which happily went unnoticed by the rest of the students. He coughed. "Ah, perhaps it might be better if I learned all your names first," he suggested, nervously. That's it, he thought, stall them before they actually ask me to teach them something.
A smiling student in a red bowtie, with his hair neatly slicked back, leaned forward, gently, smiling"Mr Atkinson? Hi - I'm Blaine and I really like your tweeds. Do they come from Saville Row?"
John smiled. No, he thought, they come from the school costume cupboard. "No," he said, "They come from another very old fashioned English shop."
Blaine's eyes lit up, "Which one?"
John's mind blanked. "Primark."
"Go on," hollered Sherlock Holmes, "Get those booties moving!"
He had found a handily placed loudspeaker at the side of the gym and was screeching through it now as though he had been born with it. Meanwhile, a gymnasium full of students were happily grinding away on each other, and each cry of, "Fuego!" from the boombox, brought them even closer to each other. Several of the students had already stripped down to their underwear, "Because it's so damn hot in here, Mr H!" and even Sherlock marvelled at the dexterity of the teenage libido. "Come on!" he urged through the loudspeaker, "I'm not seeing enough pelvic movement!" The students eagerly obeyed. "Uh, Mr Holmes," chirped Kurt skeptically, a little separated from the rest, "Are these exercises really going to extend our lifespans by twenty years?"
Sherlock smiled mischievously, "Of course they will. See Brittany over there?" He pointed to a tall blonde girl who was swinging her hips maniacally in circles, while another Hispanic girl had her arms wrapped around her. "That's another five years she added there." Kurt still looked doubtful but he simply shrugged, "Well, I don't have a partner to dance with anyway."
Sherlock eyes narrowed, examining him. "Isn't your boyfriend here?"
Kurt gasped, "How did you know…"
"Doesn't matter," Sherlock interrupted in that lightning quick manner of his, "Isn't he here?"
"No," Kurt frowned. "Unless," he added, his eyes brightening with a coy twinkle, "You want to be my partner?"
Sherlock was just about to answer when the music came to an abrupt halt and he turned to see a growling Sue Sylvester staring at him, open mouthed.
"Well," she hissed in a low voice, "I congratulate you, mister. You have single handedly managed to turn a pack of degenerate children with more craven lust than a band of newly castrated male gigolos stranded inside a Carmelite nunnery, into a Latino based musical recreation of Sodom and Gemorrah that even a horny Charlie Sheen would call weird. I may never eat a taco again."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed again, "You interrupted my teaching."
"Now you see, man-chin – I'm calling you that because your chin looks like a butt and I can't be bothered to learn your real name – I have had a long and illustrious career, a career that I've worked for, over the years, involving multiple criminal convictions and one public execution that might have been a ritual killing. Hell, I even had a hand in the Bay of Pigs invasion that would have been immortalised in Billy Joel's 'We Didn't Start the Fire,' if the US government hadn't filed an international super- injunction against him; there was a legal battle and a lot of red tape – look, the point is that I don't which college for butt-faced, Irish giant anaemics you learnt to teach at but here at McKinley, it's the semester of Sue Sylvester and I will not allow you to walk in here and throw sexually deviant orgies under my nose."
Sherlock crossed his arms smugly, "You can't stop me," he said.
Sue leaned in, intimidatingly, towards him, "I told you I'd see you in Hell, sunshine."
"And I told you I would shred you to a pulp."
"I'm not interested in your short ass English boyfriend, man-chin. I've had the best of British beef, and let me tell you, Posh Spice was not happy about it. I'm here to take you down."
"And how are you going to do that?"
Sue straightened up again and raised her voice, "Put your clothes back on, class. You're all in detention."
The class sighed and there were outcries at this.
"You can't do that," Sherlock snarled, "All of you stay where you are."
"As acting principal," replied Sue smugly, "I think you'll find I can."
"Since when were you principal?"
"Since Figgins got taken sick."
"And when was that?"
"In about five minutes."
At that moment, a shriek of, "Sueeeeee!" rang through the gym and Figgins came running past them all, both hands on his crotch, all the way out through the other end of the gym.
Sherlock raised another eyebrow, "Would that have something to do with the can of laxative you have in your hand?"
Sue lifted the blue tin gleefully to her hip. "I mixed it with an ingestible skin irritant."
Sherlock scowled, "You're a monster."
Sue scowled back. "You're a man-chin." There was a pause for a moment. Then Sue smiled again, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to throw out my tortilla chips and burn my Gypsy Kings CD. Urgh – even the thought of Zumba makes me think of Will Schuester in a sombrero."
