NACH Chapter 3: Consulting Doctor, a sherlock fanfic

John Watson was a man of schedule.

Being in the Army after living in a strict, old-fashioned household had its perks. It taught you to sit down for the dinner with your family. It taught you to sleep by half past 10 on school nights. It taught you to adjust your bathroom time with three of your other family members, two of whom were worked from morning to 8 in the evening. It taught you to wake up to the sound of footsteps. It taught you to do everything one could humanly do without expending the schedule.

A man's backbone was always to be straight, John's late lieutenant often said. His schedule was his backbone.

But when John dozed off once again and was caught by the nurse snoring softly for the third time that day right before his next patient was ushered in (diagnosed with a rare form of tuberculosis that John was very interested in), he realised that there was a problem with him. And his schedule.

He called Sherlock before leaving the hospital. Then he noticed that he had left voice messages for him: more grocery, more milk, and something about another singular robbery in East London. And about not making dinner for him as he'd possibly not return home that night. It was the first case Sherlock had unwillingly taken since Victor Trevor had arrived—the first case in one and a half month—and once absorbed completely, he had abandoned all notions of the regularity of a home life.

As for John, it was becoming tiresome, coming home to just a cold flat and a near-stranger who had recently taken to pulling down Sherlock's huge collection of volumes and volumes of law, anthropology and solved puzzle books ("Putting my new glasses to good use," Victor had said, and John had smiled warily). While John was somewhat glad to see that the old man had finally something to do in the house, he still hadn't come to terms with sharing what was supposed to be his private and intimate abode with someone who supposedly had a history—and not of the nice kind—with his boyfriend.

He replayed Sherlock's voice message over as he drove back home, a feeling of nostalgia creeping over him at the mention of singular robbery. There was a time where Sherlock forced him to ditch work over the cases and the adventures they had shared. He wondered if Sherlock ever had these thoughts. It was unlikely that he did. Nostalgia wasn't his type.

He parked his car (he took it since Sherlock had a reputation of leaving it behind at every crime scene till it ended up behind a tow truck), and scanned the street, a habit he had developed ever since Magnussen had staged his kidnapping. Wrapping his jacket around himself snuggly, he strode back to his home, first to check up on an ailing Mrs. Hudson and give her the daily dose of insulin before her dinner.

John listened to her drone on about the most trivial of things: of crap telly, technology and her pity of poor homeless children; of god blessing the refugees, Sherlock; Florida and old memories. He smiled when she smiled, he pouted when she sounded sad, and this continued till she chose to have her dinner.

It had never really struck John till now, just how many lonely, neglected old people lived around him: Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner, Bill from across the street, Victor. It made his own future seem bleak. Sherlock was not going to be around forever, and who would John live with once he was gone? And alternatively, who would Sherlock live with once he was gone?

Arriving upstairs, John found his pace arrested by a singularly pleasant smell, accompanied with the sound of frying and cooking. Had Sherlock come home and ordered takeout? Even if he did, it wouldn't smell this good. Had Mycroft come and made himself comfortable once again? That was most probable.

John sniffed the aroma greedily and put his bag on the sofa, his spirits considerably brightened by the prospect of delicious food, "Look, Mycroft, it's very nice of you to bring me food, but I'd be glad if you chose to do it at a location of my choosing—"

John's mouth shut promptly. Victor turned to look at him, and blinked innocently, only to turn a little nervous, "Oh John, I—well, there was no food in the house. I'm sorry, I was very hungry. Actually, I thought you'd be coming earlier and I waited for two hours, but . . ."

John groaned inwardly. He had forgotten that Victor could not digest the stale takeout.

"No, it's alright, Mr. Trevor," he waved his wrist dismissively, taking his shoes and jacket off, "do whatever you want, anything you want. It's fine. It's ok."

John turned his back to him. He hated being like this. He felt pity for this poor man, and yet he felt like he had to treat him with some hostility lest he get too comfortable, as if he was still the scum of the street. The silence behind him was uncomfortable, tentative. It made John want to turn, look, just to see what Victor was up to.

At any rate, he couldn't get any more intrusive, could it? Till yesterday, he had been only eating and sleeping here. Today he started cooking as well. Tomorrow he'd be throwing out garbage. All in what was supposed to be his territory.

John brushed his possessive thoughts off. He was no dog to be thinking of territories.

When he turned, he found himself under the inspection of Victor's wary gaze. He turned to the stove, where he was frying some peas and broccoli and chicken and . . .

John's curiosity perked up, "What are you making, by the way? It smells . . . ahem, good." Delicious, in fact.

Victor smiled kindly, "If you want, I can make some for you too. I'd just begun."

"Oh, no," John backtracked at once, "I couldn't. I really couldn't. I'm not hungry, not all that."

His stomach grumbled. Victor looked at him, a knowing tender smile in his face. It made John feel uncomfortable. But it could not let him say no.

"I don't have much interest in political machinations," Victor claimed, and John smiled inwardly at the fancy term he had adopted for 'war', especially when John told him he had fought in Afghanistan, "At least not as much as Sherlock. My grandfather was the Great War hero, or so my mother told me. But he did not make it for long. One day, my sister found him dead in his study, the word "Rober" written on a paper in front of him, his fingers clutching his pen," he almost choked on his chicken, gulping down water for prevention at once, "We assumed he was trying to write "Robert", but no one knew anyone by that name."

John chuckled, "My first case with Sherlock was somewhat similar. The victim was a woman in her thirties dressed completely in pink, and she had scratched the wooden flooring with her nails trying to write "Rachel", but she only wrote "Rache". Like R-A-C-H-E."

Turned out, Victor was a really good and a really efficient cook. His workplace was clean while he cooked, and he transitioned from one chore to another seamlessly, as if he had been doing it for years. His age disappeared from his limbs. He seemed to know where everything was, as if he could smell the oil and the salt, like Sherlock could smell the criminal's trail.

And it was the first time John was sharing his dinner with the man.

Victor surveyed his own plate with great interest, "How did you know she was writing Rachel? She could've been writing Rache, which stands for revenge in German."

John couldn't help but chortle at that, "Yeah, don't let Sherlock hear you say that. The first and the last time someone said that to him, he shut the door in their face, saying, thank you for your input."

Victor guffawed, "Hmm, I always remember him being unnecessarily blunt with most people. I could never look past his brashness, even if he apologised for it once a many times."

John frowned. Sherlock's bluntness was one of the most distinctive traits of his personality. Victor saying that he couldn't accept it was like saying he couldn't accept Sherlock's personality at all.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

Victor went silent then, as he was starting to be at all times he was asked to talk of Sherlock. John would fall into a terrible trap then: whether to ignore Victor's disinclinations and continue prodding him at the risk of being thought of as intrusive and annoying, or to fall into discomfiting silence and think himself a coward to avoid the very subject common to them both. But John couldn't do much. As down-to-earth Victor seemed to be, John always felt that there was something powerful and unapproachable about him. Perhaps it was just the professor in him.

"This is good," he licked his lips appreciatively at last, "the curry."

Victor smiled, and that was that. John thought the food was delicious, and he smiled at Victor graciously whenever the occasional look strayed in his direction. Victor would blink, smile politely, and go back to his thoughts. Was he thinking of him too, or was he thinking of Sherlock's return? Sherlock always saw him once before he went to bed.

These two were so similar, John thought. Victor was easy-going, but in a no-nonsense way. Deep down, John would rather sacrifice his fingers to frost than overstep his boundaries. If only he was Sherlock, if only he could pick apart what Victor was thinking behind that distant, melancholy look on his face. But as courtesy called, John never asked, instead busied himself with thoughts of work, thoughts of his schedule, of tuberculosis and enema and bills.

God, he wanted to chase some bad guys badly.

In the morning, when John emerged from shower, he found Sherlock back at home in his most domestic avatar, crimson dressing gown, coffee in one hand, newspaper in another. John heaved a sigh of relief. Or maybe exhaustion. Living with Sherlock made a man simply sigh at anything.

"Put back those magazines and papers, please," John ordered as he sauntered into the kitchen, "It took a long time to sort them."

No response from Sherlock. He was still immersed in the headlines that proudly declared the capture of the gang of robbers that Sherlock had been following.

Sherlock looked up from his paper and watched John carefully for some time. John liked this, being watched by Sherlock. Made him feel acknowledged, something that men rarely had the pleasure of.

"What title would you have given to that story, I wonder?"

John turned to look at him. The perpetual frown on Sherlock's brow, those crystal clear eyes careful in their attention, they were never the same.

John shrugged, "Haven't updated the blog in ages."

"But what title would you have given?"

John gave it a thought. He had the story from Sherlock, more or less, "The Red-Headed Leak, I suppose? Since that was the unfolding of the mystery?"

Sherlock made a piss-off face, "You make it sound like a public urinal for redheads, you and your titles. Next case, I want you up there with me."

John chuckled to himself.

Later that day at the hospital, John logged into his blog. He hadn't written anything since 3 months.

The water, even in the wee hours of January, was never cold against Sherlock's skin, and neither did its current ever hold him back. They taught viscosity in physics. It seemed so contradictory that the retarding force should be the one to propel him forward. Take out the friction, and he'd remain flapping his arms uselessly in one place.

Calm, he told himself, swimming was a great exercise. It diverted his mind. It refreshed it. It made his mother so proud that she even managed to forget his father. Managed to divert her too.

It was his last lap. The only sound he heard over the water was the sound of his own heart. His mouth opened and closed periodically with his pulse; it never missed a breath. His coach at school had always tried to train Sherlock so that his entire concentration would be focused at the race, and not his competitors, but Sherlock couldn't help but notice. He was made to notice things, after all.

The boy two lanes away was good, his technique wasn't half bad, and he had the advantage of more muscles, height and a more streamlined body than his. Sherlock only had stamina and flexibility and discipline at his expense.

The whistle rang out in the air before he could finish. To any human eye, it would seem that the boy and he had reached simultaneously, but Sherlock knew. He was getting slower. He was spending too much time hunched over his books and lesser at the pool.

By the time he had changed into dry, warm clothes, with his kit and the oversized pink towel on one shoulder and his mother on the other, he had already heard the same lecture for the third time. She had arrived three days before she was supposed to, and was intent on sabotaging the blissful Monday morning. Nevertheless, he was relieved that she had come to London, away from home, away from fingers that could bruise and hands that could hit.

"I told you this would happen! Heaven forbid you will realize that huge role strength plays in swimming the day they exempt you from the team. You know what they say, survival of the fittest!"

"I am the fittest." Sherlock drawled.

"If only you were the strongest too. You have to eat, child!" his mother scolded, "There was a time when not even Nigel Stark could beat you at school. Look at that boy, how do you think he got those fine rippling muscles? You think he bought them? No! He eats and he exercises and he eats again! That's what you've got to do too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. She was only one person in the world he could be truly childish with, "Of course, you acquainted yourself with him too."

The second week of the term had only begun and Sherlock had been smothered by the 200m freestyle, 100m butterfly and an audition which obviously had his mother flocking eagerly from their home to London to see her son in action. Sherlock's mother made it her personal goal to attend every single tournament, every single audition and every single performance of his since school days. Not to mention that her sons were a getaway from her marriage. She lived for her children.

"I don't need acquaintance when common sense can very well show me the facts, Sherly," she grumbled as he walked her to their little flat in Montague Street, "You'll spend the morning and evening at the flat tonight so that I can make you all the food you love—"

Sherlock groaned, "Mummy, I can't. It's 7 o'clock already, I have to work! My class begins at 10."

"Oh, you and your brother! Work, work, work all the time. I'll make you your food and I'll help you with your studies!"

"Mummy!" Sherlock felt his face reddening in embarrassment, "Can you please shut up?"

"And no, junk food is not food," she carried on as if she hadn't even heard him, "Yes you've told me a hundred times that your friend Deb gives you extra portions from where she works, er . . . McDonalds, was it?"

He sighed, "Yes, mummy."

"Promise me you won't go there again," she hit his biceps, and he recoiled at how hard she hit him, "That is not the sort of food you should be eating."

"You're no one to lecture me on my eating," he declared petulantly as he opened the flat door for her. A lesson she learnt from her husband, Lorraine Holmes had. She'd groomed her boys to never hit a woman and to always be the gentle when dealing with a lady. Sherlock hated the number of manners he had to remember whenever he had to greet his female relatives under the strict surveillance of his mummy's ever-observing eyes. If a girl deserved respect, he would give it. Why should he have to presume that she was a "lady" if she didn't step up to the plate?

"Why, I am your mother!" she replied sternly, her grey-blue eyes the only bright things in the dark hallway. "I am and I will always be the one and only person to lecture you on your eating, young man."

Sherlock's mood soured. That was true.

His mother's face softened, and she smiled sadly, touching his face with her soft palms. It really was wonderful, seeing how fierce she could be with her sons, and just how the opposite of fierce she was to her husband.

"Remind me again, Sherly, when is your audition? Oh, I'm growing old with dates and all."

"Obviously. So am I."

She chuckled, "I think it was after your classes ended, wasn't it?"

"Tomorrow, 7. You'll be there?" He sounded the tiniest bit hopeful, and his mother heard it, she always did. Even though he knew he wouldn't see her while he was playing.

"Yes, darling. I will be there. I know the route; you don't have to pick me up. By the way, I have a surprise for you."

Sherlock knew his mother's surprises. She was incredibly unimaginative when it came to such matters, "Bye, mummy. Your surprises work on Mycroft, not on me."

"At least give it to your friends! Everyone loves an apple pie!"

His mother had made him eat his breakfast and bathe properly and it was all Sherlock could do to manage his escape from Montague Street by 7.30. He'd taken the Tube back to the hall, taken his bag and stuffed a sandwich in his mouth. He had worked till 9.45 and then had gone for inorganic chemistry, where the professor had already hinted at the load of their coursework and the upcoming assignment on TASOs.

Now, packing his bag as the professor dismissed the class, Sherlock felt sleepy. He'd woken at 5.30, and he knew he wouldn't be going to bed before one in the morning. That had become of his college days since he decided that he wanted to know what he could do with the subject he loved to study. His eyes had become gaunter, with near-permanent dark circles underneath. He hunched while he walked. His nose was no longer the way it had been when he had first left his home, a courtesy of boxing. His mother had noticed, but she said nothing about it.

And as the swimming season started, Sherlock found himself failing to hold together his activities. He missed practices, his fingers grew lazier on the fiddle, making music that sounded more drawn out and sleepy as days became longer. Coffee became his best friend. And no matter how much he tried to distract himself, he became acutely aware of the fact that nothing would fill the hole inside him. No amount of work or play or music or friendly banter would do.

"I saw him again, today!"

The high-pitched squeak jarred Sherlock from his thoughts. Anna's voice was not aimed at him, but at Deb. And Max. And Andy. Sherlock glanced at Max, Max who took so many extra classes and had the patience to fill so many forms and apply for so many scholarships and bursaries that Imperial offered. Max, who came from a broken home to study chemistry at his dream school at the courtesy of his community in Dublin and its Trust which financed his studies against all odds: racial, financial. Sherlock did not understand his struggles but the way Andy revered his friend in secret told him all he needed to know. How can that boy even manage so much, Andy often wondered aloud.

Deb looked up. Sherlock glanced at her next. On her frown lines, Sherlock could see worry written clear as if in ink – Will the bypass operation of my father be successful? Would he work again? Would he be the same again? How will I pay my tuition next year? Sherlock chose not to tell her that he knew, simply because she had never shared and had never aggravated him. Deb was a girl of dignity. He didn't know how he knew it, or whether he should even care, but he knew that she'd never speak if he so much as mentioned it.

"What?"

"I have been seeing him for the past week," Anna seemed to be trembling with feverish excitement. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could feel Anna glancing at him every once in a while, but he couldn't understand why she'd do that. She'd found someone new and that was that, everyone was happy and he was rid of unwanted attention.

"You have a boyfriend?" Max's eyes widened, "Good for you, Anna."

"Poor Max," Andy commented, "playing hard to get doesn't suit you."

Max looked at him helplessly, "I'm being genuinely happy for her."

"No, silly!" Anna smacked in on the arm, and looked at Sherlock hopefully, but then pretended as if she didn't even know that he was there, "Seeing as in . . ."

"When Annabelle Sachs says 'seeing', she means stalking," Andy guffawed at his own joke and looked at Deb. Deb managed a laugh, much to his pleasure. Max was less comfortable.

"Shut up. You won't believe how cute he is! I'm talking about the guy in the organic lab, duh! I mean, I've been here for six months and I've never even seen him before! How could this perfect man have been there while I stayed oblivious to his existence for six whole months?!"

Andy snickered, "There you go, another teacher!"

"This one's different, I swear!" she insisted, "The last one was old and bald and awkward, and I only said he was cute—"

"You said the same for this one, dear," Deb looked more sympathetic.

"No, no, you guys are not listening. You know, I saw on Saturday too, and you know what? He was wearing those SAME WHITE TROUSERS! For the third time this week! It's like they're his signature, like Anna Wintour's hair since 1963! How cool is that! And guess what, he smiled at me, eesh! Imagine, he smiled at ME! And waved! At me! Oh my gosh, he looks so happy and lovely all the time, and he didn't 'toodle-wave' me! He did a full wave! Oh my gosh, what if he actually remembers me? I did answer one of the questions in his class!"

"You like him because he wears the same trousers every day?" Deb frowned, "Er, that would be the point where I'd stop liking him, Anna."

"Hey, that's not fair," Andy piped in, "You can't not like a guy just because he wears the same clothes every day."

"That was not what I meant. After all, you wear the same jeans everyday too!"

Andy looked nonplussed at that, and Deb blushed dark at her own remark.

"He waved to someone else behind you, obviously," Sherlock couldn't help but cut in, diffusing the momentary tension. Max shot Sherlock a warning look of 'be nice'. Sherlock paid no attention. Being nice was a thing of the past.

"You're just being jealous!" Anna exclaimed, and oddly enough, there was something victorious in her voice.

Sherlock frowned, "Why would I be jealous?"

Anna's words died in her throat. Sherlock stood up straight, ready to leave.

"Somebody waved past Anna? That is a disaster of epic proportions!" Mimicking Anna, Andy putting a casual arm around Sherlock's and Max's shoulders. Sherlock stiffened immediately at the contact, but tried not to make his discomfort obvious. He had to be cool with these things, he had to not let these simple gestures affect him . . . but he didn't like Andy's newfound boldness after having saved him from an oncoming car the last week.

Anna turned sour immediately, "Go away."

"Professor Trevor is probably married and with kids, Anna," Deb yawned, "and I'm hungry."

Sherlock saw his opportunity, "I have apple pie."

"Aw, you have food," she smiled gratefully, as he opened the tiffin box for her, grateful for someone's hunger not for the first time. She was just about to take it when a thought crossed her face, and she withdrew her hand, "Wait, your mum probably sent this. And for you."

Sherlock looked at her in dismay, "She sent it for all of you. And besides, I've had my portion."

Deb narrowed her eyes, "Bollocks. This box is full. You couldn't have had your portion."

"But—"

"I'm not eating this. You're in more desperate need for food than I."

"Fine, cut it, girls. This is mine."

And before Deb could protest, Andy had wolfed the pie down his throat and looked irritatingly smug about it.

"Are you guys even listening to me?!" Anna's shrill voice rang out.

Satisfied, Sherlock sent Deb a victorious look before stuffing the box back into his overloaded bag. He got up, ready to leave, "We are, and I think you can have this man, Anna."

Anna got down too, eyes glazed, hope in her eyes, "I can?" His friends sent him a puzzled look.

"Oh yes. The professor's wife neglects him. Big time."

Andy rolled his eyes, "Oh come on. You cannot possibly know that."

"If you had a proper look at the hem of his trousers, you'd see. They were frayed."

"So?"

Sherlock sighed. Just how stupid could people be? "Oh come on! You two are girls. If you ever married a man, would you ever let him go out of the house without proper clothes or without ensuring that their hair was perfect and their shoes were shining?"

Andy thought hard, "His wife could be a feminist."

"Or working," Max supplied

"Sherlock's right," Anna pondered, "If I was his wife, I would've ensured that he had got new clothes, let alone walk out in them."

Andy looked at him weirdly, shaking his head, "If I didn't know you, I'd have sworn you were a girl or a fag."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. Well, he was one of that. But they didn't know. They needn't know.

"Are you serious, fellas?" Deb rolled her eyes, "Are we really talking about our teachers' wives now? What next, the weather?"

"Oh, wow," Anna made a happy sound and hugged Sherlock, choking the air out of him. He staggered backwards, but was nevertheless caught in her embrace. So much for getting rid of unwanted attentions, "He's mine!"

"Who? Your professor, or Sherlock?"

This time, she turned angry and hit Andy, letting go of Sherlock's waist, "Shut up!" Andy laughed, making minimal effort to dodge her and failing, "Count yourself lucky, Anna. I don't hit girls."

By then, Anna had turned back to Sherlock, "Gosh, you're so thin," she reached out to touch him again, but faltered, noting the look in Sherlock's eyes that said back off. Anna's face reddened and she turned back and began to engage Andy's hostile attention instead.

Deb laughed, "What do we have now?"

"Oh, I have stat now," Max took off his glasses and cleaned them with his t-shirt, "thank you for the reminder. And you have the hour free."

Deb looked at him weirdly, "How do you even take so many classes?"

Max smiled conspiratorially, "I have a time-turner. It's a secret." Deb rolled her eyes.

Sherlock was alarmed, "What's a time turner? I wasn't given a time turner."

They all looked at him as if he had grown a pair of wings in the head. Andy decided to break it to him, "Sherlock, it's a Harry—"

Deb kicked him under the table. Sherlock did not miss it, but he did not understand why she would do that, "Harry Elgin, Andy means. The Student Hub president, remember? Max received one because, erm . . of that scholarship. Which one was it, Max?"

Sherlock did not miss the pursing of Deb's lips. And the constipated look on Andy's face who was trying so hard to control his laughter. He was being made a fool of. And in a very unimaginative way.

"Oh, you can do better than that, Deb. I'm off. Shoot me a text if the class starts. Which one is it going to be, by the way?"

Deb laughed like a child caught stealing sweets, "Physical Chemistry: kinetics. You probably should come five minutes before 11.30, okay?"

Sherlock frowned, "Why so?"

Sherlock was 5 minutes late to the class.

The professor had been right on time.

And when Sherlock knocked and walked in without a care, only to glance at the teacher after he was comfortably seated, he found the latter looking at him as though he had murdered his father.

He was the Physical Chemistry 1C old prude—who was a famous tyrant known by his more famous faculty name NC—and after Sherlock's entrance, proceeded to ignore whatever he had been speaking before hand to insist that their class started at eleven thirty, and eleven thirty meant 11:29:60 hours. Not later, and most certainly not earlier since he was apparently "very, very busy" (and ironically the only professor who managed to arrive on time). He went on to complain about how kinetics wasn't his area of expertise and yet the department had assigned him to take the course, and how futile the Student Body had become, and that the administration were hopeless when it came to daily things like enough marker pens in class (apparently, he used one pen per lecture, or so Deb claimed) that or a working projector at all times and a Linux OS instead of the usual Windows in the computers.

Sherlock disliked such complaint boxes.

Then came 12:30 pm, Organic Chemistry 1B, and Sherlock could honestly say that professor, an old, olive-skinned guy with greasy grey hair who waltzed while he "taught", was the one most hopeless case out of all the other hopeless cases Sherlock knew. He spent half-an-hour on attendance, trying to read everybody's names properly, mispronouncing names and making the class laugh (because he had forgotten his glasses in his lab, he had admitted) instead of just passing the sheet along.

Then he asked the stupidest question Sherlock had heard in all seven years of learning chemistry.

"What is a chemical reaction?" he said, while executing his version of one-man waltz.

Deb instantly dubbed him old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy since the "wondrous" benzene molecule was all he could talk about throughout the lecture.

And Sherlock decided that he would never sit through another of old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy's lectures, come hell or high water.

"John!"

In an instant, John was up, the picture of attentiveness, "Yes?" He squinted, "Helen?"

Helen, the nurse, looked worried, "Are you feeling well? Should I—?"

"NO," John groaned at being caught napping again, "Anything the matter? Is there . . ."

"Um, your intercom's been ringing for ages so I just came up to check on you," she glanced outside, "If you want to call it a day—"

"No, it's alright," John rubbed his eyes, "Just give me five minutes, okay?"

"You're the only one I know who has, or ever had, a decent job, y'know."

Victor looked at John surprised, and swallowed his food, inspecting him carefully. John noticed. Victor was too cautious, perhaps that came with age, "Is that so?"

John chuckled, "Well, you know Sherlock, Mr. Trevor. He doesn't do hours. Then there's Lestrade, but he's a detective, so he doesn't count. There's Molly Hooper too, but she works at a morgue. She's got someone else doing the paperwork and everything."

Victor let down his spoon, and looked at him, "Your colleagues at work?"

"Yes, but . . ." John faltered. The right words just weren't coming to him. And even if they did come to him eventually, he wished he didn't have to say them aloud. He wished old, wise Victor Trevor would understand. But he wouldn't.

"Have you ever felt like something . . . you know, was wrong? With your job, because it was decent?"

"I'm not quite sure what you mean by decent, John. You're a doctor. You save lives. I can't think of anything more honourable than that."

John had to admit he was flattered.

"It's not the job that's . . . never mind. Pass me the salt, please."

Victor did, his long, nervous fingers shaking. He was being an idiot, telling Victor his problems when the man had so many of his own. While returning home, an idea had made home in his head. An idea that was not sustainable and not . . .

"As a teacher?"

John looked up, "S'cuse me?"

"You asked me if I ever thought that something was wrong with my job," Victor smiled a small smile, "Several times."

He had John's full attention, "Then?"

"Being a teacher is never easy. I always thought that teachers were those who imparted wisdom to kids. Wisdom comes when you interpret knowledge, and knowledge comes when you interpret information. When I started to teach, I found that . . . well, it was not so. It was only about imparting information. Kids of this generation don't want to be told.

John nodded. Kids of this generation didn't want a hell lot of things that might make them feel like kids.

"Being a professor doesn't come with the prospect of climbing the ladder, you see. Respect, yes, lots of it. All the kids call you 'sir' and look up to you, but back when I joined Imperial, I was younger. I did not crave respect as much as promotion back then.

John was surprised. Why would Victor even join a university when he wanted to "climb the ladder"? But he did not ask. He had not got comfortable enough to ask him about his life choices.

"It was a challenging job, no doubt," he seemed no longer interested in his food, "You see, John, the line between friendliness and professionalism often starts to blur, and you have to be very careful not to slip," he drew out the 'very' lengthily, "Kids rarely think we're human. They think it's easy for us to see the distinction; they often rely on us for keeping to the lines. It's not always. Unfortunately, we slip too."

John's food was stuck in his throat, reluctant to pay attention to anything else. He couldn't believe it, now that he found that his suspicions weren't unfounded. They had been dating when Sherlock was in university. Back then, John had thought he was a fun guy with a schedule as busy as the Prime Minister's, with weird tastes and no attachments. If only he had known . . .

It was not always easy to keep to those lines, Victor had said, unless John had misunderstood.

"So, you and Sherlock . . .?"

Victor did not respond. His face was flat, gulping down last morsels of his food as quickly as he could. John knew he was going to have to steer away from the topic, lest he flee.

"I'm not talking about those sorts of problems, Mr. Trevor."

Victor looked up, relief subtle on his face, "I see."

The tone in his voice was prompting, so John decided to continue with what he had been saying earlier, "I often . . . feel like there's something wrong with my job. With the routine. With the schedule."

"Oh," Victor frowned, as if he were hearing something new, "I can't imagine that kind of problem. Although my teaching job could have got boring over the years. Luckily, the curriculum changes with advances in industry, so I never had to teach the same thing every year. I never felt like I was sitting around wasting hours like those god-awful desk jobs, doing menial jobs way below my intellect."

John chuckled, "Seems like you and I have that in common."

Victor's eyes lit up, "Haha, that we do. I've always wondered how a doctor like you could find it in himself to ride off to war when he could've had a fantastic career here in London."

That was like a slap in John's face. Only four people had made that remark to him before—his father, his therapist Ella, Sherlock, and Mycroft—and none of them had sounded as judgmental as Victor did. He pursed his lips, smiling bitterly, "Well, we all make choices about our careers that don't seem sound to others."

Victor looked at him, examining, so intently that the look had John seeking his refuge in his meal. A chuckle later, he began in a low voice, "Oh, I had my constraints, John."

John could hear the unspoken unlike you in the air, and had never felt so pissed off at any other human being.

That night, in his bed, alone for a second night in row, John pondered over his conversation with Victor. Turning over his words in his head.

I never felt like I was sitting around wasting hours like those god-awful desk jobs, doing menial jobs way below my intellect.

And finally understood his dilemma.

He needed to find a flexible job. Like Sherlock's.

A job without schedule.

When they came to the organic lab, however, Sherlock felt his stomach plummeting. There, on the platform near the chalkboard, where Anna's crush had been standing the first time he had seen him, there was old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy waiting to give them instruction.

Where's the other guy? Sherlock thought, surreptitiously looking around the lab and the lab office for him. He wasn't there, anywhere. Was he a replacement? Or was he just for one day? He sighed, and stole a glance at Anna. She looked heartbroken, unsurprisingly. Poor girl, and poorer him.

"I saw him today," she sadly moped to Deb. Deb patted her shoulder, commiserating.

Sherlock tried to recall everything that he had learned about Anna's crush that day. Maybe he was a guest lecturer? No, that was unlikely, he could remember Trevor patting one of the guy research scholars on the back after the end of their lab session. He obviously taught here. Then. . .?

Sad. And here he had hoped he would not have to see old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy ever again, except for tests.

The class assembled around old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy as he began writing on the board. Sherlock did not bother with the lab coat. Not until they were starting with . . . he looked down his copy of the lab sheet, the Lassaigne's tests. Elementary, but it would pass the time, at least.

"Qualitative analysis of an organic compound," old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy turned with a semi-flourish and the platform creaked pitifully under his feet, "Never write 'systematic'. Write qualitative. Only," he turned to the board, and began to write in huge caps, "Q-U-A-L-I-T-A-T-I-V-E."

Sherlock squinted to focus on old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy's eyes and forehead. No, he wasn't drunk.

He looked down at his lab sheet. It was titled 'systematic analysis of an organic compound'. Deciding that the guy had a serious case of OCD, he decided to just ignore it.

He glanced at Deb and Max. They were actually listening.

"In the lab," he began loftily, like a Caesar-era herald, "you'll do Lassaigne's tests first, to detect," he tiptoed down the platform and tried to find his footing without his glasses to help him, "special elements in your organic compound.

"Now, Professor Trevor," he motioned towards the back of the lab, and all students turned to get a look at the man who had sort of appeared in their midst out of nowhere. Sherlock heard a barely-concealed squeak to his left. He did not need to deduce who that could be, "will walk you through the details and the how-to of the procedure. But I, I will give you the theory!"

Sherlock tried not to linger on just how self-important that had sounded.

He observed Trevor carefully as much as he could in a second. The man's face was impassive, for a change. He was in that same red jumper and, as Anna had claimed, maybe those white trousers really were his signature. Like Anna Wintour's hairstyle, he recalled amusedly. Funnily though, he actually seemed to be listening to old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy's bullshit.

Then, Trevor turned his head towards Sherlock, blinked, no change in his expression, and turned back to old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy.

Sherlock, too, turned away just as unaffectedly. He lounged against one of the desks, and then felt it was too low and uncomfortable for his back. Leaned against the wall, and thought it must make him look like an idiot. Stood straight, and felt compelled to change his posture once again.

Till he realised what he was doing.

He didn't like this feeling. The man at the back of the lab was making him feel restless, and he probably wasn't even paying any attention to Sherlock's discomfort.

Sherlock sneaked a quick glance to the back of the lab while pretending to adjust his standing posture once again. Nope, Trevor was patiently ever-focussed on old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy. Sherlock resigned to do the same, trying not to think that he was actually forcing himself to listen to a batshit insane old man.

Surprisingly, their so-called instruction did not take very long to get over, and they were called over by Trevor for further demonstration. He was, as always, waiting patiently, ever-present Zen-like smile on his face, hands clasped together, hair not combed and lightly sprinkled with chalk dust, yet neat. Every bit the gentleman.

Sherlock found that amount of positivity off-putting. It could only be faked, he was sure.

"Come here quickly, quickly," he barked, voice booming out loud and not-as-gentlemanly, "or there'll be no time for the reactions after this!"

Everybody hurried to him as he set up the burner and took out a small finger-length fusion tube. Sherlock took a secluded spot just to Trevor's left and felt Andy and Deb crowd up the space behind him. He met her eyes, and knew he'd have to entertain her stupid little doubts that otherwise required only a little bit of thinking.

"I'm sure you know what this is, yeah?" Trevor showed the tube up, "Fusion tube, because you'll be heating this," he shook the tube, "in the oxidising flame, temperatures upto 300 degree-centigrade."

The class gave a low moan of acknowledgement.

"Good," he said, "now one thing before I start with the test . . . the fusion process obviously requires a metal with low melting point like sodium, but for proper fusion, uniform heating is required. I can tell you, ladies and gentlemen, this incredibly simple test will prove incredibly frustrating for you. Sure, in theory, you can claim, 'Nitrogen's going to fuse with melted sodium, and voila, you've got a cyanide compound and a ridiculously easy ferrocyanide test to perform'. Well, everything absurd is possible in theory, man, but not so easy when you actually do it in lab."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk when, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw while old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy bristling at Trevor's comments on theory over lab work. He did love a pissed-off teacher.

"For example," he went on, "in reactions with Grignard reagents, you've got magnesium in ether. Ether is your solvent. Pure, hundred-percent unadulterated ether, that's what you mean when you write on paper, 'Mg-slash-ether' as your reagent! What about actual lab? Well this," he pointed out a reagent bottle, "What do you think that contains? Pure ether?"

The class shook their heads. Anna looked close to becoming a puddle of goo on the floor. Her eyes were glazed, and it reminded Sherlock of those exorcism rituals.

"Na! There's water, adsorbed gases, X-Y-Z, everything! No man, ether means ether, not ether plus water or gases or acids or anything! I've always found that paper is the best solvent do to organic chemistry in. Everything is 100% pure and possible on paper. Heating in air at any temperature is sometimes even considered to be heating in pure oxygen, how convenient theory is, no . . .?"

Sherlock raised a critical eyebrow as Trevor caught his eye and trailed off, seemingly realising that he was digressing. A lot.

Deb tiptoed and whispered into Sherlock's ear, "What's he on about?"

"Anyway, my point is," Trevor did a last take at Sherlock and looked away to the rest of the class, "there's a huge difference between writing your reaction on paper and doing it in lab. Your sample has to be uniformly heated with the fused sodium, and since your fusion tube is smaller than the conventional test tube, the usual test-tube holder will fail here.

"So instead of finding a smaller test-tube holder and then trying to uniformly heat your sample like this," the class chuckled as Trevor imitated a clumsy man fumbling around with the holder and rotating his arm around the flame—which, in fact, resembled old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy's manner a lot, "making my own is what I've always found useful, erm. . ." he looked around and turned to Anna, who was standing just to his right, and spoke in a deeper, gentler voice than the one he had been using while lecturing, "could you lend me a page, please?"

For a second, Sherlock suspected Anna was going to faint. Deb was trying to suppress her giggles. Anna looked like she was trembling—more like shivering—as she tore a page out of her notebook and gazed into Trevor's eyes, as if pouring out all her devotion and adoration towards that man in that single gaze.

Trevor took it, smiling kindly and promptly went back to the class.

"Wasn't that intense now!" Deb exclaimed under her breath, sounding a little freaked out.

"White-hot heat, man!" Andy remarked jokingly. Deb slapped him lightly on the arm, trying her best not to burst into laughter.

Trevor folded the page into a long thin strip and wrapped it around the mouth of the fusion tube, "See! Twist it, and you can heat the whole tube uniformly. Because, people, fusion with nitrogen is going to be the most common, and also the hardest. And it can happen only and only if you heat the whole tube uniformly, and obviously there's concentration and a lot of other factors. . . Okay, before we get started, just one last question. Anyone with cuts or exposed wounds on their hands?"

A boy showed his hand up. There was a minor cut on it.

"Okay, so you will NOT be working with the sodium extract if you don't have your gloves on," Trevor ordered, "There's going to be cyanide in the sodium extract if your sample contains nitrogen. And cyanide . . . well, I did tell you that you can even die in the lab. But don't be worried, that's a small cut, it'll heal by the . . . um, next session and you can get a hands-on then!"

The boy did not look very worried in the slightest.

"Okay, the instruction sheet is pretty clear on the procedure, but I'm just going to do it so you know what not to do. And all those who know everything, constructive criticism will always be appreciated. Anything else," he took a piece of sodium metal with tongs and cleaned the oil off with a filter paper, "you should keep in your mind that we poor teachers are the ones who're going to give you your credit at the end of the term."

Sherlock felt like that comment was directed towards him, even if there was no way Trevor could know.

Trevor's fingers trembled as he took a pinch amount of the sample in the fusion tube with the sodium and kept heating. His hand shook as he kept heating and made a self-directed comment about how people with lack of Vitamin B complex like himself were better off not doing sophisticated lab work. Sherlock could now make out his hands. His left hand. A platinum band on the ring finger shone in all its glory. He could make out an inscription, some initials, but not what it said. Probably the initials of his spouse. It was clean, taken well care of—a one-sided marriage right there. Poor Anna again.

It was ingenious indeed, Sherlock thought, the option he was using instead of the test-tube holder. It gave uniform heating without much fuss than the conventional test tube holder. He tried to keep blocking Trevor out as the man kept talking about little preach-y things from his own Uni days, generally giving everyone his boyish smile and Sherlock found it hard to not give Trevor a strained smirk when their eyes met. Charming or not, the man made him uncomfortable on the inside, and Sherlock kept his guards up, just in case. He wasn't going to be the friendly student who got along with the overly-friendly teacher, regardless of how sincere his efforts seemed.

"So," Trevor declared, "anyone wants a hands-on? Now?"

All of them eyed the promising red glow of the fusion tube sceptically and backed off. Trevor gave a silent chuckle and pulled out a random girl, "Here, hold this."

The girl, called Sarah, put her gloves on after a pointed look from Trevor. She was another one of those who had been very impressed with Trevor, although to a lesser extent than Anna, and now looked as if she would go to the ends of the earth to please him. Pretending to be in control, she took the tube from him and kept heating while he moved away, giving her the space.

"Now, twist, make sure heating's uniform," he'd keep saying kindly, while Sherlock would wait for something wrong to happen, for Sarah was being irritatingly coy with the attention she was getting, "or you'll never get the test. Yes, okay, you can go back to your friends when it glows red hot for the third time, yes, that's it, bring it over."

"Like that, sir?" she asked, as if the red glow wasn't exceedingly obvious. Trevor beamed. Sherlock inwardly wished for something to go wrong at that very moment, and then caught himself.

"Look at Trevor," Deb whispered right at that moment, "gosh, he's preening!"

"Forget Trevor, will you look at Anna!" Max snickered.

Sure enough, Anna looked comically murderous as Sarah stepped back into the group and Trevor began heating the fusion tube for one final time.

There was the sound of coughing with a, "Does anyone have the class roll sheet?"

Sherlock turned back to see old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy standing in the true Robin Hood style. Trevor did not spare him a look, and Sherlock found it oddly amusing, how Trevor seemed to ignore old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy despite the tightening in his jaw.

"He does," a huge, pudgy faced bully called Steve gave Sebastian a push. Sebastian gave him a nasty look.

Sebastian gave him a look, "You took 'em from me, you big cun—"

He stopped before he spoke any further. Old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy blinked at the rest of the class bemusedly.

"Why would I take it, huh?"

"I don't have it, mate! Go open your bag and—"

"Alright, enough now!" Trevor looked displeased, more at old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy for interrupting the peaceful lab session than Seb and Steve for fighting, "Just . . . go and check your bags, quickly."

When they came back, none of them had the roll sheet. Old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy looked sour, "Okay, if you don't have any, one of you can just go to the office, get one from there."

"After the demonstration," Trevor reminded sternly. Sherlock watched the drama, feeling somewhat irritated and disgusted that he had to go through two-and-a-half more years with people like Sebastian Wilkes.

Old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy threw Trevor's hunched-over-the-flame back an indignant look, "Fine. After the demonstration."

"Done with your fighting, eh?" Trevor spoke, looking pointedly at Seb and Steve while he quenched the glowing red fusion tube into the distilled water. Some of the unreacted sodium burst into flames in the mortar bowl in which he quenched the fusion mixture. The class gave a gasp and immediately flinched away from Trevor as if he had suddenly sported huge thorns on his whole body. But Trevor was always at peace, ever careful and unaffected, considering that he wasn't even wearing any gloves or a lab coat despite being their staunch advocate.

Hypocrite, Sherlock entertained himself with that thought, even if it did not match with how Trevor had presented himself so far.

"And that too over a roll sheet!" he admonished, "Honestly, you're adults now. And still pointing your fingers at each other like children. You all are going to be scientists, researchers, our future someday. Do you think we want our industries and our economies running on a bunch of cry-babies?!"

The room was quiet as a crypt. Trevor focussed his energies on a round filter paper—folding it in half, quarter, smaller and smaller . . .

"Never point your fingers at anybody! It's a sign of weak character, putting blame on others," he went on, "that you can't own up to your mistakes. Why are you blaming your friend? Accept your mistake; it's not going to make you look any smaller, and you're not going to remember this by tomorrow! It'll only make your friend look lamer if he still remembers that incident after a couple of hours."

Seb and Steve both looked embarrassed. And just as Sherlock was beginning to think about why he had to listen to the ramblings of a man when he had done nothing wrong, Trevor turned towards the entire class, filter paper still in hand, "And this goes to the whole class, not to only these two, yes?"

When Trevor unfolded the filter paper, it had taken the shape of an umbrella. Sherlock at once peered at the sheer ingenuity of it. Labs had always been taught theoretically to him. This was different.

"Okay, so anyone knows why I did this?" He showed up the filter paper.

"To increase the surface area for filtration, sir," Sherlock replied, eager to show off what no one could think of before him, "So that the whole filter paper can be used."

Trevor looked at him and smiled, "Very good. Now this part's easy, class, filtering and everything. People with open cuts and no gloves, stay away because the sample I used contained Nitrogen and therefore, this mixture," he pointed to the now-black coloured suspension filtering in the test tube, "has sodium cyanide in it. Rest of the detection part, you know, you've passed your Sixth Form, and honestly it's very clearly given in your lab sheet.

"Now, off to your desks, and remember," at this point, everybody dispersed away and he walked between rows of lab desks, watching everybody move, "your usual lab precautions: no peeking into the boiling test tube and trying to investigate something in the hopes of a Nobel Prize, no water to acid, and no. . ." he stopped in front of Anna and snapped, "Why ma'am, you are a chemist, not a doctor! Button up that lab-coat properly, or don't come crying to me when that pretty top is spoiled by the acid you use for detecting nitrogen!"

Anna was left reeling, almost crying. Deb felt pity for her and, as Sherlock could make out, an instant dislike for Trevor.

"God, I hate him," Deb stared after Trevor making his way to the lab office and threw his retreating back a hateful glare and turned back to Anna, the corner of her lip curving down, "Are you okay, love?"

Anna sniffled, "At least he thinks my top's pretty."

Deb looked like she didn't know who to hate more: Trevor or Anna.

Sherlock was thankful when their so-called instruction got over and he finally could get a hands-on . . . when he remembered the dreadful protocol of lab partners. Obviously, Andy had taken away Max, and Anna had paired herself off with Deb. There remained no one, he was always alone, and so he hoped . . . or not. The same thing had happened in inorganic lab last term, and instead of giving Sherlock a lone desk, the instructor had paired him off with two other insufferable jackasses, making it three on their desk. It was one of the major reasons Sherlock had wanted to boycotted the inorganic lab.

He spotted a lone desk, far at the end of the lab, farthest from the lab office, and quickly marked it as his territory, hoping no one would be there. However there was no such luck. Apparently, Sebastian Wilkes was also the only one left without a lab partner after his stupid fight with his friend and companion bully, Steve. Surely, fate wouldn't be that cruel? After all, Seb hated him.

Trevor came out of the lab office after what looked like a one-sided happy chat with old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy. It was obvious at the first glance that old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy had a strong dislike towards Trevor, but the latter was either unaware or shamelessly chose to ignore it.

Sherlock watched the dreadful scene unfold in front of his eyes: old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy snuggled up with his mini laptop in the office while Trevor began roaming around the lab and found an aimless Sebastian Wilkes. After a moment of search, Trevor seemed to find that Sherlock was without a partner and, as luck would have it, Sherlock found himself in the amicable company of his most hated classmate and would have to stick with him for the whole term.

Sherlock threw Trevor's retreating back a hateful glare and turned back to his desk. Oh yeah, it was easy to hate Victor Trevor. He was like a walking magnet for bitterness with his shameless contentment and free advice. In fact it should be easier for any third party to hate Trevor more than Sherlock himself.

He suppressed his thoughts and turned to his beloved lab partner. Sebastian was, obviously turned away from him, hunched over his phone.

Although it was better to be anything but enemies with your lab partner especially when it was "a lab you could die in", he still had to think hard to resist the childish temptation of sticking a foot out in Seb's path whenever he walked.

So, Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly.

And Seb sent him a weird look, "What?"

"Er, I . . ." Sherlock found himself at a loss of words, and then his eyes found Seb's phone, "You really shouldn't use your phone near chemicals. Some of them have awfully low flash points and can even explode, especially when you make calls or use your mobile data. Like you're advised not to use your phone at petrol pumps."

Seb made an ill-tempered face, "What's your problem, freak?"

Sherlock sighed, "I'm not a freak, and I don't have problems."

Thankfully, that made Sebastian lose interest in his phone, "Oh right, you're not a freak. Maybe you're a super stalker with your super creepy tricks."

"No, not that either. It's not a trick; I simply observe."

"Observe, my arse!"

"No, thank you."

"Fuck you."

That was original.

Sherlock took a deep breath, biting back his next words. He could not let his emotions get the better of him. He had learnt it early enough in life that he could not escape dealing with such people and practiced his composure like Mycroft did, thought of it and said it in his mind over and over till the disdain and the sense of superiority over such people—and hence the need to ignore such people with maturity—came naturally to him.

The more negative he was of such people, the farther he'd be from them and the lesser he'd feel the need to lower himself to their level.

Although it was sometimes very difficult, especially with people like Sebastian.

Sherlock assumed an air of nonchalance and clasped his hands together, "Well, just want you to know that you can go on with your . . . er, whatever it is that you do, so long as you don't interfere with my work."

Seb looked like he could kiss Sherlock's feet, but still managed a rude comeback, "Fine, freak, you don't have to talk like you own the lab!"

Sherlock contemplated murder for two seconds before going away to the lab attendant to fetch the sample and a fusion tube for himself.

However, when he returned, he was met with an unexpected but pleasant surprise. For Seb was . . . washing the test tubes and cleaning the apparatus and generally doing everything Sherlock dreaded about lab work.

Sherlock blinked. And then realised why.

Standing beside Seb was Trevor, ordering him around and generally being macho and dominating and far too stern for his own good. Seb looked miserable as he cleaned the beakers and flasks while Trevor looked like he was telling him off—not as cruelly as he had told Anna off—but still.

Sherlock approached his desk cautiously. Trevor kept reprimanding Seb in his own nerdy manner.

". . . No, no, no, clean them properly. Just because you have a cut on your hand doesn't mean you can't help your lab partner by doing the other chores! . . . For God's sake, that distilled water is never going to come out of the nozzle like that—apply Pascal's law!" saying this, Trevor grabbed the distilled water bottle and squeezed it till water flowed into the test tube. Seb kept gritting his teeth, once at Trevor, and then at Sherlock.

Sherlock did not know whether to be amused or whether to pity him. He decided to go with the former.

". . . And why aren't you working with your partner? Maybe I should give you a lone desk. . ."

Yes! Sherlock thought.

". . . But I will not. You must learn how to work together with other people, and if you don't learn now, it'll cost you later. Fine, hand's cut, but you can help him with other things," he pointed his thumb in Sherlock's direction, "it'll speed things up and you could leave the lab earlier."

"But he said—" Seb pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock, and Sherlock realised that Seb was going to use his no-interference accord as an excuse for not working. But no sooner had Seb pointed the finger that Trevor began again, this time more fervently.

"Never point your fingers at anybody!" Trevor said solemnly, and Sherlock had to keep his laughter in. He was full of glee to see that someone was talking Seb and his drama down for the first time . . . and despite how he felt around Trevor and how that man had landed him with a guy who loved punishing him for his "tricks", Victor Trevor was instantly a hero in his eyes.

"But he—" Seb protested. He looked like he could tear Trevor apart in two.

"Why? Is he the Queen? Can't you think for yourself?"

Sherlock doubted if he could.

Trevor then turned to Sherlock and glanced at the fusion tube and the sodium in it, "You haven't started the test yet?"

Sherlock sighed inwardly. And here he had been thinking that Seb was going to be the only one who'd suffer Trevor's wrath.

He looks so happy and lovely all the time, Anna's voice echoed in his head. He distantly hoped she was right, because he did not need anything to piss his mood now that he had been paired up with Seb.

"Quickly, quickly, start the burner and get on with it," Trevor spoke hurriedly, dismissing Sherlock, "The instruction took longer than I expected it to. Go quickly."

Sherlock was a bit surprised, "Yes, sir."

As soon as Trevor was out of sight, Seb drew out his phone and continued with it. Sherlock threw his back a look, and decided to say something more, and then thought better of it. He switched on the gas and lit the burner. It burned non-luminescent dull blue and went off.

"What the hell?" Sherlock muttered under his breath. He checked the air supply and the gas, nonplussed. The burner was faulty, he concluded.

"Ha ha!" Even Seb's fake laughter was irritating, "No gas, no class!"

Sherlock sighed, "It's not the gas, it's the burner. Idiot."

"Fuck you too."

Apparently many of them had the same problem. Sherlock glanced at Trevor, who was at a desk on the other side of the lab with two other boys. Apparently their burner wasn't working too.

Sherlock frowned. Trevor was . . . dismantling a burner and instead of just solving the problem and cutting out of there, he set to explain to them studiously how a burner worked.

He watched Trevor from a distance as the latter assembled back the parts with ease. A smile crept up his cheeks at the thought. He had himself never bothered to get into the details of the construction of a lab gas burner as long as it served the purpose.

"Go get Trevor," Sherlock said to Seb. Trevor on the other side of the lab did not seem to want to leave that desk and Sherlock had no wish to approach him.

"Sorry, but I don't take orders from a cunt," Seb bit back.

Sherlock browsed through the lab sheet unaffectedly, "Then stop being one and call him."

Seb made a face, "You go call him."

"I'm the one doing any work, unlike you."

"Yeah, holding a fusion tube. Congratulations."

Now it was really getting on Sherlock's nerves, but for some reason, he just didn't want to approach him, "Look, I—"

"And what do we have here, boys?"

Sherlock turned, still irritated and hot-blooded from the argument. Trevor was looking at the two of them expectantly. He instantly disconnected the burner from the gas and thrust it towards Trevor, speaking as fast as he could, "Burner's not working, sir. I was trying to see the problem by myself, but nothing's jammed and I checked the gas and it's just fine. Lab attendant can't fix it, same old and I can't find anything that that might be obstructing the air flow. It burnt at the beginning and —"

Trevor raised his eyebrows. Sherlock caught himself. Cleared his throat.

"Burner," he glanced at the little whites in Trevor's temples and then looked down, "Er . . . not working."

Trevor nodded, unscrewing the bottom circular disc, "Relax. I did not ask you to give me an engine check. The problem's simple, but I forgot to mention," he glanced at Seb and continued good-naturedly, nothing like he had been a couple of moments ago, "some of the burners in the lab have been replaced by new ones, and so, they're closed at the bottom. Open it up," he dismantled the burner and showed them the brass screw at the bottom, "just a bit and there you are. This is where the oxygen actually comes from. . ."

Seb gave Sherlock a this-is-so-damn-boring look. He ignored it. Seb instantly turned to nod whenever Trevor looked at him, which was almost always.

Sherlock simply hung at the back, unnoticed.

". . . See here, when you unscrew this, the little inlet up there," he upturned the burner's conical drum, "opens up, and you can regulate the amount of air like this. Yeah, it's a bit more complicated than a normal Bunsen burner but it's perfect for fusion and can get you higher temperatures—"

"Do we need to know this?" Seb piped up, and Trevor came to an abrupt stop. Sherlock hoped for another round of fighting between the two of them, but, to his surprise, Trevor looked a little taken aback.

"Well, not really. . ." he said, shrugging. He looked at Seb a little longer than what was normal, and then straightened up. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then he changed his mind and went on his way.

"Why am I the one who's always stuck with dorks?" Seb rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning the test tube in his hand for the umpteenth time. Sherlock noticed it, the way Seb seemed to be inclined to cleaning the apparatus whenever Trevor was around. It was amusing, he thought as he set up the tripod and making the makeshift test tube holder.

"Do you have any idea when we'd be starting with the quantitative analyses?" Sherlock asked him innocently, "Kjeldahl's methods and—?"

"Again," Seb murmured angrily, "why am I always stuck with such dorks and freaks?"

"Because the universe puts contrasts together, you being the village idiot, and me being the cleverest person you'll ever meet."

Seb turned a bit, "Did you say something, freak?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, trying to keep his calm, "Never mind. You know you can condescend to do some work at least instead of being totally useless to me. Just do the cleaning and the washing and—"

"Excuse me!" Seb towered over him, and Sherlock always hated the height advantage Seb had over him during arguments, "Do I look like your fucking maidservant?"

He shrugged, testing the efficiency of the holder. It was perfect, "Well, don't come crying to me when Trevor comes and tortures you again."

Sherlock knew he had Seb. Although only the second day, Seb seemed to be deathlike afraid of Trevor. That was so convenient. Now, he could do all the work that mattered without much interference, and Seb, out of his dislike for lab work could go and get the samples and clean the test tubes and generally be his personal lab assistant, even as childish and naive Sherlock knew he sounded to himself. Seb would never forget the humiliation.

He waved that thought off. Whoever cared about Sebastian Wilkes?

"Use your brains, Wilkes," he drawled, "You don't have to do actual lab work. Just . . . appear to do something. And since you obviously don't have the capability to do the real work—"

"Excuse me—?"

"—face it, Wilkes," Sherlock shrugged, "you're a loser when it comes to chemistry. I, on the other hand, know how to do all this."

Seb looked like he could tear Sherlock apart with his bare hands. Finally, in a voice loaded with loathing, he said, "You're one insensitive prick, you know that?"

Sherlock promptly ignored him and set to heating the sample, "Now, get me some fresh test tubes. I'm not working with those."

Seb threw him a dirty look, "As you order, princess Shirley."

Deb came over to him, and patted him on the shoulder, "Hey, you started yet?"

"See for yourself. Unlike you, I don't have a functional lab partner."

Another dirty look on Sherlock's way, but he ignored it. Deb rolled her eyes, "You want Anna? She's all yours."

Sherlock re-thought his words, "No, thank you."

"You alone are faster than the two of us. I haven't even set the apparatus, and Anna is hunched over the desk reading. I don't know what she's even thinking of accomplishing by reading the instruction manual over and over again."

Sherlock smirked, "Apart from the obvious?"

Deb smiled, "You know, I heard that the other batch got a really good professor for Orgo theory. And not old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy like us. They're sharing their class with Polymer Science people apparently."

"Nice," he drawled. Deb sensed that the better half of his concentration was focussed towards the dull reddish glow of the fusion tube, and she walked away without taking much offense. Sherlock liked Deb for that. Thick skin was a rare thing.

"You know what," Seb suddenly burst out, and Sherlock inhaled sharply to restrain a curse, "Fuck this shit. I'm out. I'm not gonna pretend I know much. I'm just gonna come clean to that Trevor. I'm gonna tell him I know nothing."

"I'm not sure you could've even pretended," Sherlock snickered, "I don't even know why you took chemistry."

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Unless you've twisted the laws of nature to make the air listen to you, I'd imagine that you were."

But Seb did not retort back, simply took one beaker and opened tap so that water ran freely. Sherlock knew who was coming around.

Trevor hummed approvingly behind their backs. Their desk was the nearest to exit, and so he came over again and stood near Seb, "When you're done with your washing, you will write down the reactions happening in the fusion tube that your partner's heating up."

Seb nodded inaudibly. Sherlock really had to give it to Seb and his stupidity. They hadn't even begun using the apparatus, and here he was, washing them sparkling clean. Unfortunately for Seb, Trevor did not budge from there, instead taking out his phone and browsing through it. Seb gave Sherlock a pointed look, as if non-verbally saying, look, even the teacher's using his phone near those chemicals.

Sherlock sighed, "He's not making phone calls or using the internet."

"How do you know? Oh, let me guess. Your lame tricks again."

"The reactions," Trevor reminded Seb sternly, peering from beneath his glasses. Seb whimpered like a dog whipped by his master. Sherlock had never felt such unbounded glee. Sebastian Wilkes had always held a special dislike towards Sherlock, since Day 1. Sherlock, unwilling to acquaint himself with new people before his first week, had been surfing the internet on his laptop in the common room peacefully while observing the people around him when Sebastian and a couple other boys had come over to him to invite him over to another large group of boys—a group so big that it made Sherlock nervous—so that they could rank girls and talk about football. That was perhaps the only time Sebastian had been friendly towards him.

Sherlock had, of course, politely declined his very generous offer, but Seb did not know how to take a 'no'. There had been some unpleasantness, for Sebastian could not truly believe why someone would want to read about archaeology rather than discuss girls and football, two things that Sherlock had no interest in. Sherlock had finally cracked under the stress and had uttered things. He had kept it under control, of course. He had learnt it at school, how to keep his mouth shut so that other boys did not hit him. But what he said hadn't offended them; rather it was met with unprecedented delight.

And Sherlock was delighted too. At first. At the acceptance. He had been relieved.

Seb had invited whole of his gang so that they could listen to Sherlock's deductions. This time, the size of the group did not make him that nervous. And so he spoke, to his heart's content, and at first everything was fine. He was saying, and he was explaining. Bradley walked by Soho every day, the mud on his shoes was obvious. Alan's big brother Rickard was a research intern; Rickard's girlfriend was from Bosnia and she wanted to marry him desperately. Evan had got laid yesterday night. Aaron had never got laid.

And then it got worse. He told them the "what"s, and then they began worrying about the "why"s. Why did Bradley go to Soho every day? Why was Rickard's girlfriend so insistent on marriage, that poor sod? Why did Evan never get laid?

And then it came out. What a freak.

Sherlock knew the word in only one context: hatred and fear and spite. But this time, he heard it in an altogether different and worse context. Like he was being made fun of. As if he was a fool made for amusement.

"I don't know the reactions, sir."

Seb's voice came a hundred times meeker than he had planned it. Sherlock barely suppressed a snort. It did not matter anymore that Trevor had partnered him off with Seb, so long as he got to see him talk Seb's drama down.

Trevor quirked an eyebrow, and he lowered his voice so much that it was almost a growl, "You don't know the reactions?"

"No sir," his voice was bolder now, "no ferrocyanide and thiocyanide and—"

"It's thiocyanate. Did I say anything ferrocyanide and thiocyanate?"

"—and no Ethylene diamine tetra acidic—"

"—did I ask you to write any of that?" Trevor's gaze was completely focused on Seb, careful and just a hint of calm down in his voice. Sherlock chose that exact moment to plunge the red hot fusion tube into the water. It went off with a hiss, no sodium combusting. Crushing it to make the suspension, he dug into the pockets of his lab coat, redeemed the filter papers he had kept in them and set to fold them Trevor-style.

"You," Trevor signaled to him, and Sherlock stopped and looked at the man, "Slow down. You two are supposed to be working together. So listen to me when I'm speaking, and do everything else later. There's a lot of time remaining, there's no hurry."

Sherlock frowned. There was the ferrocyanide test, the thiocyanate test, and the halogens too. Was this man hallucinating? "Sir, there's a lot of tests remain—"

"I know, young man."

There was a tone of finality in his voice. Sherlock felt a serious impulse to blurt out to Trevor about the state of his marriage, given how much he had pissed him off, but for the sake of Seb's entertaining torture, he decided to remain mum.

"Now," he turned to Seb, "I asked you to only write the basic equations. Okay, what do you think the fusion test does to the organic compound? Just give me a simple answer."

It has a simple answer, Sherlock thought. He had no interest in standing around and listening to such low levels of intelligence.

Seb looked at both of them uneasily, "It forms compounds of sodium."

"Exactly! That's all I was asking. Those big terms you threw around come later, and EDTA won't be used in this lab for titrations. I believe that was last term, inorganic lab."

Seb nodded, with just a little bit of confusion. Trevor expertly picked up on that.

"Ethylenediaminetetraacetic acid? Chelating agent?"

Seb's less-than-confident nodding turned to real confusion.

"Okay. So what compounds do you think the fusion reaction would form . . .?"

"Are you serious?" John frowned. Sebastian Wilkes had always struck him as a banker to the core, not the one to be bullied by an Orgo chem professor, "I still remember those things. What was he even doing, taking that course?"

Sherlock chuckled, staring at his wine, "You wouldn't believe it. His girlfriend made him take it."

John gaped at him, "You serious?"

Sherlock sipped the wine, smirking.

As the lab got over, and they had their attendance recorded on roll sheet (that Steve had to get all the way from the office in the Chemistry building), Trevor and old-wannabe-obsessed-with-benzene guy (his name was Adam Coulson, apparently, and he was a visiting lecturer at Imperial) made their way out of the lab, and Sherlock found his attention wandering, finding Trevor, and following it, following him out of the department. Trevor did not even so much as look back. It had been a while since Sherlock had felt so . . . volatile, so entertained.

Apply the Pascal's law . . .

He exhaled deeply, his thoughts oddly wandering into dilapidated regions of his memory palace he thought he had closed down long ago. The light feeling inside him was replaced with a heavier, a darker one. Sherlock refrained from dwelling much about it. It was like an itch; the more he scratched, the lesser he'd be at peace. He'd not seen Mycroft since the day he had set foot inside Imperial. Whitehall was less than half an hour from the campus, and yet. And he'd not talked to Mycroft since he passed his A-levels, regardless of the fact that Mycroft called him twice a week from a new number, sometimes even thrice. Sherlock could only wonder about the nature of his brother's mysterious job. He wouldn't ask him, he wouldn't talk to him, and he would never forgive him.

"Sherlock?" John called out tentatively, arm tightening around Sherlock's waist.

"What's wrong?" he murmured in his sleep. There was no fooling him, even in his half-conscious state. Sherlock could make out from his voice that there was something John wanted to say, and that only gave John more courage. He had been saying it in his head, but he hadn't got around to saying it aloud. He was afraid of how it might sound.

"Sherlock, you listening?"

"You have half of my attention, which is still more than what you can manage with caffeine, so yes and no."

"Dick," John withdrew his arms and sat up. He felt it was important enough to not voice it so cavalierly, in the middle of the night. If what he was going to propose actually happened, that would mean a radical shift in not only his lifestyle, but in both of theirs, and so he wanted Sherlock to be the first one to hear him out, "Get up."

Sherlock grunted. John slapped his back hard. His pale skin flushed a lovely red.

"What?" he cried out.

"I checked my blog yesterday."

A chuckle from Sherlock, "You still check your blog? I thought it was dead."

"Exactly, Sherlock! I haven't written an entry in three months! Do you even remember the last case I helped you with?"

"The one where we were tagging the suspect in the restaurant and you laughed so hard that the soup came out through your nose?"

John gave him The Look, "Fine, you remember. The point is, I hardly go with you anymore," he shook Sherlock by the shoulder, "I want to keep going with you, you prick."

Sherlock frowned, "I've never said you couldn't come."

"I know, but, my job, Sherlock. . ."

"What about it?"

"Well, this might come as a shock to you—"

Sherlock scoffed, "Nothing you say comes as a shock to me."

"Shut up!" John said, pointing a threatening finger, "I'm thinking of quitting my hospital job . . ."

No sooner had he said it that Sherlock turned to him, mysteriously roused from his sleep, looking at him as if he were Santa on Christmas, "Oh, the good news, finally! And no, not a shocker. I knew you were going to do it eventually—"

". . . and, well er, I'd like to open a private practice."

John waited for Sherlock's reaction, or lack thereof. Sherlock's enthusiasm had faded away as quickly as it had come. It created a vacuum that made John feel like he had to fill with words and explanations: what he'd been feeling these past weeks, the wisdom Victor had offered, unbeknownst.

"It's just that I feel like my time is wasted in that hospital. And it's not the same every day. Sometimes, the days crawl by and there's so few patients. And other times, they come flooding like the bloody refugees. Sometimes I get these rare cases of—a couple of days ago, a fourteen year old boy came to me suffering from a very rare case of Sickle Cell and I really wanted to help him but he's been assigned to someone else. God, I know I'm a doctor and I shouldn't say such things, but . . . I want to choose my patients, like you choose your clients.

Sherlock still stared at him, too dumb for the brain between his ears, mouth slightly open, pink tongue just visible.

"Sherlock, I—I can't do a 9 to 5! I want to be available for only so long as my patients are available. And I want to choose who I'm going to be available for. And the rest of the time, I want to solve crimes with you."

John stared at a mum Sherlock in dismay. Why wasn't he saying anything? This man, who had to give his opinion on every damn thing, why wasn't he saying anything, why?

Then Sherlock took a deep breath, "Ahem, so you've finally managed to shock the world's first consulting detective," he smiled, "I believe it'll be John Watson, Consulting Doctor now, yes? Though I must say I'm disappointed to see that you've retained your unimaginative mind, because, sorry to say, your job's already been invented by someone else."

John managed a disbelieving chuckle at last, "Disappointed, are ya?"

Sherlock smirked, "You know me, John."

And despite the fact that his boyfriend managed to be a prick on every occasion, John fell in love with Sherlock for the umpteenth time.