A/N: Hello, I guess an apology is in order? I know if you have been following me as an author, you know that I put out the last two chapters of Strange as Angels, two one-shots, and four chapters of High Society since the last time I put out a chapter of this. In my defense, I will say that I have been working on this chapter. I have, honest. It was giving me so much trouble. Which is why it way shorter than the other chapters. But at least we get on to the mystery.
Thanks as always to my beta, old ping hai. She's awesome. :D
It seemed the only classes John and Sherlock didn't have together were their science elective (botany for Sherlock and anatomy for John), their PE class (riding for Sherlock and rugby for John), and their art credit (dancing for Sherlock and drawing for John). It appeared that the Deans had conspired to make sure John stuck by Sherlock as much as possible.
They both hated their history class. The teacher, Mistress Pine, was good at her subject, but as it was the last time they had to take it, they just wanted to sleep through it. John decided he might as well put some effort into it so that his school transcript would look good and maybe he'd get a scholarship to the university of his choice.
John took advantage of their schedules to keep a weather eye on the strange boy. He also made sure that Sherlock pointed out all the bullies, but especially the ones that had hurt the dark-haired boy. Edward and his crew, John memorized so that when he was off probation, he could give them a taste of their medicine. But there were others.
Phillip Anderson and his steady girlfriend Sally Donovan liked to yell 'freak' whenever Sherlock would pass them in the hall. They weren't the only ones, of course. They were just the most vocal.
And then there was Jim Moriarty. Sherlock couldn't prove it, but he was sure that it was Jim who was putting the horrible notes in Sherlock's locker. They would say things like "Fag" and "Such a pretty mouth, I would hate for something to happen to it", just creepy stuff like that. Arseholes. John was loyal to a fault and no one picked on his friends. Not without consequences.
Their literature class was interesting. It was so completely unlike any of their other classes. The teachers who didn't wear the black robes (with the stole and bands or just the cords) wore business attire. Suits for the men, skirts and blouses for the women, but not this teacher. He wore designer jeans and trainers with a white button up and sports coat. His blue eyes danced mischievously behind oval spectacles, and his dark brown hair was long enough to be pulled back in a neat ponytail.
In bold letters behind his desk was a large banner that said, "IF YOU DIDN'T VOTE, YOU CAN'T BITCH!" The desks were rearranged so instead of a semi-circle in front of the podium they were set up in three rows on each side of the room facing each other, an aisle between them just big enough for the teacher to stroll up and down.
"Please look for your names, that will be your seat until Christmas," the unmistakeable American accent called to them as they filed into the classroom.
John thankfully was by Sherlock.
"Everyone seated? Fantastic. Now, please pull out the syllabus given to you in the packet they gave you for all your classes."
There was some ruffling as students dug into bags, satchels, and backpacks, as soon as the teacher saw that everyone had theirs out, he smiled. "Great. Now throw them in the air."
There was a distinct lack of movement from the class as they stared at him.
"Go ahead, you won't get into trouble and I'll clean it up myself," he smiled warmly.
One person started, and as soon as everyone had done it, the teacher clapped. "All right. I bet you're all wondering what that was about? Well, my predecessor's syllabus was shit and you won't be getting one from me at all. My name is Charles Joseph Jones. Call me, CJ, not Mr Jones. Mr Jones makes me feel old."
The class blinked at him. They were British. It just wasn't done.
"You'll get the hang of it, I'm sure. Since you are without a syllabus you are probably wondering what we are going to do this year. We will be reading four great English novels. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie, and Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. And we'll also read two of Shakespeare's plays. A comedy, Much Ado About Nothing and a tragedy, Othello. You'll be graded on the assignments and group/buddy projects. And before you get any ideas, I will be choosing the partners and groups each time."
The class moaned. But someone from the back row raised his hand. CJ looked at the seating chart before pointing to the boy.
"Moriarty, is it? What's your question?"
"So, are the tests not part of the grade?" the boy drawled with a Irish lilt.
"No. There are no tests. Studies have proven that any idiot can take a test. It doesn't accurately prove you know the subject."
"Is this an American thing?" Moriarty asked.
"Oh, god no. They are the absolute worst when it comes to forcing kids to takes standardized tests. No, this is a 'me' thing."
The class became awash with murmurs.
"Right, just one more thing before we start the on the first book, Great Expectations. Sherlock Holmes." He consulted his seating chart again. "I've been told things about you. My only rule is this: if you think that I've got something wrong or that there is a point of contention, wait until after class and we'll discuss it. If you are right, I'll make sure to inform the entire class of your correction. Deal?" He stuck out his hand to the dark-haired youth. Sherlock looked at the hand and the up to the teacher. He nodded and took CJ's hand.
"Deal." They pumped once and then let go.
The rest of John's day went by in a blur. He liked his classes, biology was good, as was the practical lab for his biology and chemistry classes. But he loved his anatomy class. With his drawing class working on the human figure and taking this class as well, he knew his people-drawing skills were going to advance in leaps and bounds. And considering they were something of a sore spot with him, he was really excited.
It was a pleasant day in early October that changed everything. John had been walking from his anatomy class to the dorms when a voice came over the campus wide PA system.
"This is your Dean of Students, Mr Reed. Headmaster Richards has asked me to direct all students to the auditorium. Please, all students come to the auditorium for an emergency assembly. Dorm Heads, please check all the rooms in your Houses to ensure that no one is caught ditching this important assembly. And if our teaching staff would check their classes and offices for stragglers, it would be appreciated. Again, all students report to the auditorium for an emergency assembly."
John was half way between the main building and his dorm when the announcement came through. He cursed silently and turned around to head back into the main building.
Just outside the center doors to the auditorium, Sherlock was waiting for his friend. John rushed up to him.
"Any idea what's going on?" he asked, but Sherlock just shook his head.
"No clue. Let's hurry in there, Dale and Victor are saving us a seat," the other boy told John.
"More than one I hope, otherwise I'd be sitting on your lap," John said with a wink and Sherlock blushed.
They moved quickly to their seats and sat down. "Where's Greg?" John asked Dale and Victor, leaning over Sherlock to whisper.
All three of his friends pointed to the stage. There in the aisle between the front row and the stage was Greg. He was fielding questions of the students that came to him for answers with a girl and another boy.
"Who are they then?" John asked, pointing the dark-haired girl with the long and narrow face and the boy with curly, ginger hair that was slicked back and a sneer that turned the room just a few degrees cooler.
"The other Dorm Heads," Victor explained. "The girl is Amelia Anderson and the ginger is Cary Firth."
"So the requirement for dorm head in Victoria is 'bitter man-hater' and for Paddington it's 'creepy as fuck'?" John asked with a snicker.
His friends laughed.
"It would seem so," Sherlock said.
Up on the stage, behind the podium were the Headmaster, the Dean of Students, and a man who took the stereotype 'grizzled cop' to whole new levels. He was broad-shouldered with a narrow face and greying blond hair. His badge was prominently displayed on the lapel of his dingy, tan trench coat and he worried his black fedora in his hands as he waited for everyone to file in.
Mr Reed stood up and shuffled over to the podium. He raised his hands to quiet the audience.
"Hello, students and faculty. Thank you for coming so promptly," he began.
"Like we had a choice," Sherlock murmured. John elbowed him in the ribs.
"I would also like to thank Detective Inspector Gregson for taking time to explain the situation to you all. DI Gregson," Mr Reed said and then sat down. The grizzled man put his hat on his chair and stood up, revealing him to be a tall man, taller than Mr Reed. He lifted the microphone and it squeaked horribly. He fiddled with it until the noise stopped.
DI Gregson cleared his throat. "Right. Thank you for that introduction, Mr Reed. Last night around half two in the morning, Master Jenkins, the riding instructor, was brutally murdered by someone bashing his skull in."
Their was a roar of disbelief from the crowd, but over the din, John heard the Headmaster hiss, "DI Gregson, please!"
Once the roar dulled, the Detective Inspector continued. "We will be interviewing each student and trust that they will be truthful. Lying, no matter the reason, only wastes our time; time giving the murderer a chance to escape."
There was a small murmuring to that proclamation. Again, the policeman waited them out.
"There is another matter, one that we believe to be connected to the murder. One of the school's horses has gone missing." He pulled his black leather notebook out of his suit breast pocket and began rifling through it. "A 'Silver Blaze'. Any information regarding this animal will be treated as priority."
Sherlock scrambled to stand up. He was breathing heavily and began to emit a low whine. John gently touched his arm, but it only set him off.
He screamed, "No!" and dashed for the doors. John looked at Victor and then ran after his friend.
Victor moved to follow them, but Dale held him down and shook his head.
"Let John take care of it," the light-haired boy told his friend.
"But-" Victor protested.
"I know, but would you be rushing out that door if John hadn't come along?" Dale asked. When his friend didn't answer, he smiled, "I thought not."
Sherlock had almost made it to the side doors when John caught up, but instead of tackling his friend, he followed him. And as John expected, Sherlock made a beeline for the paddock. John was a bit a winded by the time they got there, he paused for breath, hands on his knees. He looked up to see Sherlock thwarted in going over the fence by a constable.
"Oi! Get down, now!" he called. Sherlock eyed the man's nightstick warily and then did as he was told.
John rushed up to them.
"Hey! This is the owner of the horse that was stolen," he said imperiously.
"So? This is crime scene. No one is allowed back here until the boss says so. And seeing as he is up at the posh building just there, I'm betting he hasn't said so."
Another officer came up to them and she looked back and forth between her constable and the two boys.
"What's going on here?" she asked.
"These boys were trying to sneak into the crime scene," the officer huffed.
"No, we weren't!" John growled. "Sherlock has every right to be here."
"Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes? The owner of the missing horse?"
"Yes," Sherlock agreed.
"We'll want to speak to you, but you should be back in that assembly."
"Oh who cares about that? I want to know what is being done to find my horse." He folded his arms over chest and glared at the two officers.
"There's a little matter about the murder of your teacher. I think that trumps your horse," the constable huffed.
"The life of one man does not trump the life of an animal worth £300,000-400,000," Sherlock snarled.
The silence was palpable.
He turned to John and whispered, "Not good?"
John looked around them and then back at his friend, "A bit not good, yeah."
A/N: It's me again. CJ is based on a real person. My sociology teacher in high school. Everything from the banner, the way he dressed, the calling him by his first and middle initial, and not having tests is based on this one person. One of my favorite teachers of all time. He sadly retired the year after I graduated.