Sherlock wasn't sure what he hated more: the idea of school—shoving a bunch of adolescents into rows within rooms where they are force-fed knowledge, or the actual practice of school—waking up early, listening to teachers, writing useless essays on useless subjects that nobody is likely to ever read.
But by far, the worst aspect of the educational system came in the form of "partner projects".
Sherlock exhaled slowly. Before he was finished letting out his breath, little Molly Hooper spun around in her seat.
"Do you want to be my partner, Sherlock?"
Sherlock agreed out of a lack of better options.
"Great. Well, I tutor some kids on Thursdays after school, so is it possible to get started tonight?"
"I'll be at your house by six."
"You don't… uh, know where I live."
Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Why couldn't anyone ever see how obvious they were? "You live in the mobile homes a few blocks from here."
"How—"
"Did I know that? You ride a bike to school. I can tell by the way you arrive to French with your hair windswept, despite your best efforts. So I could eliminate every neighborhood that is detached by a freeway. You love books. You're always reading something, aren't you? But they're always borrowed from the library. If you had the money, you'd buy your own. Not to mention you're lack of name brand clothing. The trailer park wasn't too much of a leap."
"Oh," said Molly, a bit flushed. "I didn't think anyone noticed things like that about me."
"You read books, and I read people," Sherlock said a bit smugly.
"Right, well, it's the first street, home 338."
"Uh-huh," said Sherlock, snapping his English literature textbook shut. The bell wasn't meant to ring for another five minutes or so, but Sherlock hoped that the gesture would signify his disinterest in anymore small talk.
…..
Sherlock arrived 42 minutes late to Molly's house. She still answered the door readily, and appeared a bit shocked to see him standing there. She probably assumed twenty minutes prior that Sherlock had ditched her. She seemed the type of girl to be ditched often.
Everything about Molly Hooper was sort of depressing, Sherlock thought as he swept into the poorly lit two-bedroom home. Her hair never held its machine-made curls and fell lifelessly onto her shoulders. Her clothes were dull, mostly because bright colors would wash her out. Not to mention she maintained the figure of a twelve year old, and looked prepubescent despite having put on extra make-up for their encounter. (What was the point of that?) Sherlock knew that Molly was in all of his advanced classes, though she struck nobody as the intelligent type. She was also probably in those sports or clubs that accept anyone who show up. It wasn't that Molly was bad-looking, or even unpleasant to be around, but to Sherlock she was just sort of the epitome of boring and desperate.
Though, it must say a little something about Sherlock that Molly was one of the only kids in school that would talk to him.
"Do you want anything to drink?" she offered sweetly.
"Have any coffee?"
"Yeah, sure. Bit late for caffeine though. It'll kick-in when you try to sleep tonight," she noted.
"I don't sleep," Sherlock grunted, as if the last word were a dirty one. "Sleeping is tedious."
"That doesn't sound very healthy," she said, entering the kitchen.
"Neither is your doleful obsession with Robert Pattison," Sherlock muttered beneath his breath.
"What was that?" She called.
"I said black, two sugars please!" he replied.
Sherlock took a seat on the couch. He was greeted by a hairless cat with a pink bow wrapped around its head. Like everything else in the trailer, it looked miserable. "I regret to inform you that your cat may be inside-out."
Molly laughed, returning from the kitchen with a coffee mug and a plate of imitation-name-brand biscuits. "I'm allergic to animal fur," she explained, although Sherlock had already come to that conclusion. She sat beside him on the couch.
"Okay, so the instructions say that we have to do a modern adaption of our play," she went on.
Oh, hell, thought Sherlock. He hated these excruciatingly "fun" assignments. He quickly did the math in his head, calculating what his grade in the class would be if he skipped this project.
Molly handed him the coffee and biscuits. Her doe-like eyes appeared brighter from the eye-shadow, he noticed.
Sherlock frowned. Too late in the game to bail on her now, he decided.
"What play did we get stuck with?"
"Romeo and Juliet," she chirped happily.
"How unfortunate."
"I don't know, I'd rather take romance over a gore fest like Macbeth."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Romeo and Juliet isn't a romance, it's a tragedy," he said. "It's a love story between irrational teenagers that lasts a few days and results in six deaths. It's a commentary, I think, on the idiocracy of sentiment."
"That's one way to look at it," she mused. "But I think Shakespeare also speaks to the power of emotion. I mean, love and hate are clearly the most powerful forces in driving the plot. So if you ignore the feuding families, the story becomes a passionate romance… but were the play the opposite, well, it'd be another story of tragic violence like Macbeth or something. I think the beauty lies in the combination. I mean, from the beginning we're told that our leads will die, and yet we hope that their relationship will last, that they'll be okay and happy. So many stories copy Shakespeare's formula. It's like… love in the midst of misfortune."
Sherlock wasn't used to anyone arguing his analysis, and yet Molly had. Without really thinking too hard about it, her words sounded clever and pretty. It caught Sherlock by surprise.
"Your logic is sound enough, but how will we convey that in a modern context?"
Molly checked the paper instructions. "It says we can create video or perform live. Must be an adaption of a 2-3 minute scene. All group members must be in the scene/video."
Sherlock let out a long breath.
"Not your cup of tea, I'm guessing," she said. "Don't worry, I can write the script, and I'll try not to make it too embarrassing. You can… make props or something."
Sherlock nodded, hating to be as useless as he was. They ended up spending the next half hour in near-silence, reviewing the play for ideas. Sherlock's attention was diverted by a dog barking just outside the window.
It was dark out by then. Faint light from porches and windows lit the street, but only vaguely. Sherlock could make out the figure of a boy. He was probably the reason the dog had been barking, and he seemed flustered to have called attention to himself, even if it were just a yapping Pomeranian.
He walked like a person who did not want to be seen walking. He got a little closer, and Sherlock was hit by recognition.
"Molly, that guy outside. Do you know him?"
Molly, caught by surprise, glanced out the window.
"Erm, yeah. He lives down the block. Bit closed off. His whole family is. Why?"
"Which house, exactly?"
"The one right at the end of the street, I think. Broken mailbox. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Sherlock answered. He knew this response wouldn't satisfy Molly's curiosity, but fortunately, she didn't press the matter any further.
Sherlock forced himself to read on.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night
…
Mycroft always attributed Sherlock's obsessive interests to his autism. Sherlock would then reply with something along the lines of "better to have obsessive impulses to learn than obsessive impulses to eat cake."
But Sherlock begrudgingly thought about his brother's warnings as he walked down the dark street. He knew it wasn't wise to go snooping around some boy's home based on an odd hunch.
But it was a colossal hunch, the type of hunch to make all other hunches quiver in fear. The Goliath of hunches, really.
At least, that was how Sherlock justified it to himself as he approached the mobile home at the end of the block.
The mailbox was snapped at the neck. Sherlock examined the broken thing. There were no clear weather marks, rain damage or the likes. Whoever did this seemed to have done it almost intentionally, he decided, based on the cleanness of the wound.
Perhaps someone doesn't want mail.
Hidden by darkness, Sherlock walked around the outside of the home. It was very poorly taken care of, he noted: weeds in the grass, faded paint, cracks in the window frames.
Sherlock made mental notes of everything. It struck Sherlock as strange that this didn't look like an inhabited homes, and most certainly not by anyone young.
The boy had a 10 year old sister, so where were the bikes and scooters in the small yard? Or the classroom-made wind-chime that hangs from the porch?
There was also no garage, no cars parked in the space available.
This home didn't just look poor, thought Sherlock, it looked forlorn, neglected, unhomely to the highest degree…
"What the hell?" came a fierce whisper
Sherlock spun around on his heels. He hadn't exactly been avoiding the return of the boy. In fact, he left Molly's house at a time he thought would ensure the boy's return.
"Out of fruit snacks?" Sherlock smirked down at the boy's grocery bag.
"I…" the boy closed his mouth, confused. "Listen, I don't know why you're here, but you need to go."
"Why?"
"Because this is private property!" he warned.
"And if I don't…"
"Please."
"Interesting," Sherlock noted. Usually, someone would threaten to call the cops at this sort of encounter. But this boy resolved to pleading.
"I only want to talk," said Sherlock.
"Fine," said John, "just not here."
Hey! Please review and tell me what you think J