For those who didn't get the memo, all December Challenge posts will now be in my imaginatively named "December Challenge" thread. I will do my best to keep up both, but if I slack off a bit with my updates on this one that's why.
A grey-haired, sharp-eyed professor stood at the front of the room, waving his hands about to demonstrate as he lectured. The rows of seats were taken up by equally wooden rows of medical students. Surprisingly, none of them seemed bored - all were alert and scribbling notes avidly. It was the only class for which this could be said. In fact, the only student not paying attention was a rather slim boy in the back. His intelligent hazel eyes were glazed and focused somewhere in the vague direction of his professor's voice; a hand scribbled absently in the margin of his otherwise blank paper. Should one look closely (which no one did) they would find that these scribbles were names: James, Nathan, Gilbert, Alfred, Henry . . . He had put a circle around 'John'. The last name he wrote down was 'Sherlock', and he stared at it as if it was written in a different language.
The professor wound up his speech and the students gathered their books. The boy remained seated.
"Arthur", nudged the boy sitting next to him. "Arthur, class is over. Time to go."
Arthur blinked, shook himself out of his daydream, and hoisted his bag. Before he could leave the classroom, however, the professor's voice rang out. "Mr. Doyle, I should like a moment."
He ducked his head in equal parts acknowledgment and shame. He knew he ought to try harder, but it was so hard to focus. Not because the lectures weren't interesting - in fact, they were too interesting. Hardly would he sit down before ideas would start popping into his head left and right, and all attempts at note-taking would fall by the wayside as he tried to capture inspiration.
Dr. Joseph Bell sighed as he surveyed his pupil. "You're a bright boy, Doyle. You just need to apply yourself. Don't waste your time on fruitless scribblings. This is medicine - the future!"
Arthur murmured his assent and hurried away before Bell could start in on one of his tangents. He was a brilliant man, the doctor, and truly fascinating. But like all geniuses, he could go on. And Arthur had writing to do.
All writers get plot bunnies, right? Plus Doyle got the inspiration for Holmes, allegedly, from his professor. Which is a thousand times worse - anyone else tried to sketch out a novel while also not failing a midterm? It isn't easy.