A/N: Short bit. I'll probably alternate between John's POV and general narration anchored in Sherlock's POV, because it's fun for me, and hopefully not too bad for everyone else.
Still not British, a writer, or a detective. -csf
3.
Sherlock Holmes is a man on a mission, giving this Professor of Deduction his wholehearted attention, much like a criminal chase with a death stake or even a top-of-the-hill sunrise duel with pistols against a sworn enemy (it was just once, I got there on time to put a swift end to such nonsense over an internet spat, then I showed Sherlock how to block idiots from his blog).
The master of disguise and concealment is, at this very moment in time, working costume props from his theatrical spoils he keeps in trunks at Mrs Hudson's 221C; wait until she finds out, luckily she never goes downstairs.
Why does the greatest investigative mind of the century need to disguise his physical appearance in his approach towards teaching his specialty? I'm not sure – but I'm eager to find out.
.
Sherlock awaits for my arrival at 6pm sharp, at the kitchen laboratory, 221B. I know this because I have been sent a student timetable. I received this in a parched piece of good quality paper, handwritten in red ink and a fountain pen, folded into 7 sides (a bit of an origami masterpiece) and sealed in red wax. I got this missive slipped under my bedroom door as I got dressed for work. When I opened the door, the corridor was dark, empty and cold.
I presume this means my lessons are so far secretive and also some weird initiation to a very select club of one learner.
Upon further scrutiny of the letter, other lessons this week include Mrs Hudson's kitchen at 4pm, the park at 11.57 am, and Molly's morgue at midnight. New Scotland Yard, the cemetery, the prison and Mycroft's Diogenes Club also make guest appearances on this timetable that seems to fill up every breath of spare time I have once I clock out from the surgery.
221B's 101 lesson on lord-knows-what is about to begin, and I find myself climbing the seventeen steps with renewed energy.
'Sherlock?' I call out from the landing.
'Master Sherlock,' he corrects me, flipping up his dressing gown's collar like a moody vampire.
I scoff. 'Never going to happen, mate!'
'Had to try,' he shrugs, nonchalant. 'John, welcome, do have a seat.'
I look around in the kitchen setting. The table is customarily cluttered, giving no hints of what is to come.
'John—'
'Present.'
His lips twitch in a guarded smile and with a flourish he ticks my name off an imaginary lost of students. I'm his best student already.
My friend is much too uptight. In all sternness he fills his lungs and prepares to speak, so I interrupt: 'Can we have tea while we do this? Tea helps me think.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but dry swallows all the same, as if his mouth automatically watered upon my suggestion.
I approach the kettle, ready to take no prisoners.
'Sherlock, I appreciate this, I really do—'
'But?'
'No "buts", it's just—'
'Yes, John?'
'You are taking this way too seriously, mate, and I worry – well, you know – I'm an ordinary human, you know? Like, could you pace yourself? Be patient?'
His familiar face scrunches as if he'd just tasted something sour.
'John. Lying, manipulating and cajoling are advanced subjects. Let's start small on our first day, shall we?'
I blink, taking the convoluted compliment in slowly. Biting down a smile, I pour out the boiling water over a couple of teabags and question:
'So what are we starting with today?'
'My favourite, John. Murder most foul, as in the best it is. But this most foul, strange and unnatural. Please be seated.'
I sigh, taking a couple of fingers to my throbbing temple. 'We're not mock murdering Mycroft again, are we? We spent a whole Boxing day doing just that...'
Sherlock retorts fast. 'Who said anything about mocks?'
'That's it. You'll just have to mock murder Mycroft on your own time, from now on. I've got a sibling of my own.'
'I can bury Harry alive for you, John.'
'Maybe next time.'
'The offer is still there, should you choose to take it at a later date. All I require in return is a truck load of laxatives and some vanilla extract.'
'Sherlock, focus.'
He sniffs stiffly at that.
It's all metaphorical, by the way. Mycroft's failed diets and Harry drinking herself to the grave; and Sherlock knows that very well. I mean, I think he does. Definitely, he does. He does. Still, he gets carried away quite easily.
'John. We should start our lesson, and be serious.'
'Yes. Can't waste the solemnity of a wax sealed note in red ink and all that.'
He bangs his fist on the cluttered table. The laboratory glassware clinks together perilously. 'I used dragon blood, John, a red resin from Dracaena draco sp, the dragon tree. I folded the note a fiendish shape that bloomed open in your hands. I used the wax seal of the Holmes ancestral coat of arms. Does nothing impress you, John?' he finishes, a bit testy.
I lean forward over the kitchen table clutter, eyes on my companion, and assure him: 'Went to too much trouble there, mate.' His face shuts down any expression, I let him finish that quick breath intake before I assure: 'It's a waste of time to try to impress me. For goodness sake, I'm constantly in awe of your shenanigans, never mind when you try really hard, Sherlock. Do we really need to do this Professor Holmes and student routine?'
'Yes.'
'Why?' My voice hardens.
'Just drop it, John,' he whispers. Then, in a louder tone, pulling back, he promises me: 'You can deduce that yourself by the end of the course, John.'
I roll my eyes. 'Naturally.'
.
We didn't get to the best of starts, but afterwards Sherlock spend the best part of two hours showing me phosphorescent pollen spores found at a crime scene in Battersea. I mean, they weren't phosphorescent to start with, but we turned them into glow-in-the-dark solutions in old jam jars and wine glasses all over the kitchen, with a bit of bleach and hydrogen peroxide. The bluish light glowed bright in the darkened kitchen, lights off and only the partially veiled moonlight filtering through the window. We had glass containers on the window sill, on the table, on top of the fridge, hanging from the dish rack, inside the oven, and everywhere we could find a free surface area. They churned a blue light that was intriguing and fantastical, that Sherlock assured me he could measure in its intensity to match out different pollen structures and identify them that way in time. He's still building his reference library of pollens, but it has already been used to settle the modus operandi of a serial killer in Paris, with the French police only too happy to accept his innovative method.
It's the Yard and the Met, with first-hand knowledge of Sherlock's extravagant ways, that doubts him more, I've noticed. Sherlock is undeniably genial, but some at the Yard still can't get past his curious ways, his crime scene glee, the way he stomachs an autopsy with a coffee and a bun. The French detectives don't really see any if that so they are only too keen to collaborate with Sherlock Holmes.
'Sherlock?'
'Yes, John?'
We're both reclining in our chairs, watching the near magical glow enveloping the familiar kitchen around us. Home.
'There's no homework for next lesson, is there?'
He hums to himself, maybe unaware of doing so, as he ponders my question.
'Not this time, John. You are, after all, my favourite student.'
I smirk to the darkness around us. 'Naturally.'
.
TBC
