Probably the most detrimental consequence of yesterday's fight, besides her sore elbow, slightly confused psyche, and Irene's red and angry nose - would be the social stigma that came with it. Regan noticed almost immediately that her classmates were growing quite wary of her, and it was to the point that everybody opted to sit away from her in math. She enjoyed the peace at first, but after a few periods she began to feel quite lonely. At lunch, she had an entire table to herself just because everyone was too ashamed to be seen with the girl who dared to fight back to Irene. Regan imagined that the whole hype would die down by tomorrow, as these things often did, but for now she was feeling the effects strongly. Even Kate, who'd surely have something to say about Jim by now - shyed away from her in the halls with a pitiful smile. So Regan picked at her food in a sullen silence until the bell went.

She arrived slightly late to English due to a few locker shenanigans, but she didn't imagine it would be late enough to make any substantial difference - she definitely didn't think that Mr. Moriarty would give her any explicit consequence. However, when she arrived, the class was clustered at the back of the room with their own little red books - eyeing her with these looks that told her if she dared sit anywhere near them and not and in the suspiciously isolated desk at the front of the room, there would be riots. She didn't feel like being too much of a shit-stirrer today, so she took her place in front of Jim's desk and pulled out her own old red book.

Jim watched her take her place keenly, with his usual predatory grin on his face. He waited patiently until she was set up, and then rose to address the class.

"Homework, please." he lulled, looking incredibly bored with the class.

The class shuffled around with papers, most of them producing the work. Regan looked around, slightly agitated - she hadn't heard of any homework, was there any? She couldn't for the life of her remember him setting any, all she remembered was that fucking book. Defeated, she simply produced a blank piece of paper. Jim chose to victimise her first, swaggering over to the front of her desk and turning the paper quickly towards him - as if he were turning the invisible words the right way up. He looked at the paper appraisingly. She supposed nobody besides the two of them would be savvy to the fact that there were, indeed, no words on that paper.

"Very good, Regan." he said, looking impishly up at her - before moving on.

Regan quickly put away the paper. She felt proud of herself, although she might've felt as though she'd gotten away with much more if it wasn't the teacher that assigned the work letting her off that easily. Once upon a time she might've felt guilty about the unfair advantage she appeared to be getting - but considering the work load of last year she was selfishly grateful for anything she could get.

Mr. Moriarty finished judging the rest of the unknown and mysterious homework, soon returning to the front of the room. She shuffled the papers around on his desk for a moment, before saying transparently melodramatically, "Oh, I seem to have handed out all my copies of the book." he slipped around the desk to meet Regan at hers, "Can I borrow yours, Regan?" he grinned.

Regan handed him the book, and he flipped through it quickly - Adam's apple bobbing. He opened the book in the approximate place she remembered their poem to be, he grinned down at her - before flipping back through the book to get to the section he wanted to read.

It was at this point Regan spaced out. She wasn't at all interested in the many fantastical exploits of Lord Byron, in all honesty. She couldn't help but be extraordinarily distracted by the fact that Jim was still standing in front of her desk, reciting poetry to a bored class - while she had nothing to look at besides his belt buckle. Which, she noted sarcastically, was just as clean and tidy as the rest of his appearance. She thought back to his car, the absolute seething mess of nicotine that he adorned the expensive interior in, and the unpredictable contrast of his character.

He finished reading and turned to write some notes about the poet's life on the board in the same cursive, neat writing with which he wrote in the book. Regan copied them down wordlessly till class ended. She packed up her things, and Mr. Moriarty returned the book to her after he'd collected the rest of the class's copies. He'd dog-eared the page of their poem, she noted, as she covertly put it in her bag.

"I'd like to find some time to talk before the day is over." he mused, tracing lines with an elegant finger on the edge of her desk.

"What time?" she replied, not looking up from shuffling with her bag.

"Some time, didn't you hear me?" Jim jeered.

Regan picked up her bag, tossing him a lopsided grin and nodded. "Whatever you say."

She couldn't help but warm up to Jim. She didn't even want to try to fight it anymore, despite his idiosyncrasies, quirks and obsessive nature - he was charming. He had that rare charm, the one that politicians and talentless people who are for some reason celebrities have. She supposed it was also the sort of charm that made you like a person despite every sane nerve in your body threatening to shut you down if you go through with causing yourself pain. It was simple to have moments of clarity like that... when she wasn't in the same room as him. But it was almost as though the precise moment she'd lay eyes on him - his 'charm' would persuade her brain: hey, you gotta like me, I'm so mysterious and I like you. And that was somehow enough for her.

"The psychology of obsession." Mr. Holmes drawled as he wrote the words in cursive on the board. Psyche was Regan's favourite class, despite Mr. Holmes being one of the more eccentric teachers in the school. Although, frankly, nearly all of the teachers who taught at her school were off-colour in one way or another - but Mr. Holmes was right up there (of course, in her personal opinion, just behind Mr. Moriarty - but Jim took careful measures to ensure that he appeared that way to nobody but her). There was the Irene scandal, of course, where Mr. Holmes demonstrated that he was not open to flirtation from his students and sent her to the school counselor to discuss the technicalities and boundaries of the teacher-student relationship. Then there were the rumours about him and the gym teacher, Mr. Watson. But, to Regan, that was neither here nor there - she couldn't care less above who wanted-to/was shagging who, as long as she was getting taught it didn't matter much. "Tell me about the types of obsession." he demanded.

A hand shot up, "Addiction."

"Elementary, try harder." Mr. Holmes snapped.

"Compulsive disorders." another voice said.

"Better, better." he shrugged.

A voice purred, "Romantic."

Mr. Holmes clapped his hands. "An excellent point, Irene. Personal bias aside," he shot her a glare, raising a snicker. She went red - which was surprising consider half her face looked quite bandaged and white. "We all have or will have an experience with romantic obsession in our lives. Romantic obsession is the narcissistic pursuit of ownership and fulfillment by one party, to the displeasure of another. Romantic obsession is, of course, one sided."

Regan bit her lip. Associations were hard to avoid, especially when it came to talking about romance.

Mr. Holmes clasped his hands behind his back. "Mutual romantic obsession is what is commonly referred to as love. Often, when an individual is romantically obsessed - it's hard for them to recognize that they've crossed a line: romantic pursuit lies on a continuum. At one end are courtship initiatives, with the risks, pleasures, and privileges of being the aspiring lover who takes the lead. At the other end is criminal stalking, which can ruin lives."

Regan looked over at Irene, who was covering her face with her hands. She felt a twinge of empathy, she'd already been publicly called out - but this was a bit of a cruel demonstration.

"The line between courtship and stalking is clear to a 3rd party. Courtship may entail texting, thoughtful emails, flirting and phone calls. While the latter issue involves surveillance, monitoring behaviours motivated by love and anger. Along this spectrum, frequency and degree are the defining key: is it one text, or is it a hundred? Is it a dozen roses, or a roomful? Then there are extreme behaviours, which involve no romance and are, frankly, just scary: trespassing, threats, harassment, coercion. Once the obsessed moves from stalking to aggression - there are no blurred lines. And why - do we chase what we desire so hard? Because rejection goads us into action. If everything was easy, and there on demand - why would we want it? It is the inherent circumstance of not being able to have something - that tells us its worth having. A potential mate rejecting us tells us that they believe they have choices - that we aren't up to their standard. Which triggers in us the desire to compete, to prove we are worth having. Thus, 'obsessive', materialistic, and competitive behaviour presents itself. Now this was observed in action by-"

A knock on the door. It cracked open, and Mr. Moriarty stuck his head through the crack. "Sorrrrrrrry to interrupt." he lulled, making eyes at Regan - who proceeded to look at anything else but him. "I'm going to need to steal Regan for just a minute."

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. "Mr. Moriarty..." he said darkly, "I am in the middle of a crucial part of my lesson, a lesson which Regan needs to attend and appears to be raptly interested in." he shot his sharp gaze towards Regan.

Jim pouted his lips. "Please? I won't be a minute, Sherlock." he said Mr. Holmes' name with a palpable degree of malice and a flick of the tongue.

Mr. Holmes sighed, defeated - gesturing Regan away with a flick of the hand.

"What is you wanted to talk about?" Regan asked, once they were safely outside the classroom. She itched her head anxiously - ruining her hair in the process.

Jim leaned against the wall suavely. "How're you going?" he grinned.

Regan couldn't help but laugh, looking down. "You caused a scene just to ask me how I was going?"

"Well, I was terribly bored." he admitted.

She took that moment to look at him, really look at him. His hair was more tousled than it usually was, as if he hadn't had quite enough time to prepare himself this morning. His expression was as it always was - bored, yet fundamentally intrigued. Somehow he could scowl himself into the most sour face she'd ever seen - and yet have that mischievous smirk pull the corners of his mouth just so. His face had these perfect angles, as if they'd been perfectly carved from marble. Yet he didn't have the conventional sculpture beauty - because no matter how minimally flawed his skin was, or how immaculately looked after his light smattering of dark facial hair was, his eyes were dark. Not only in hue, but they proved that something about him was just fundamentally dark.

If the eyes were the window to the soul, it would be perfectly reasonable for one to come to the conclusion that he, indeed, did not have one. Or at least, he hid it well.

"It's rude to stare." he lilted. In that fucking voice of his. And yet he continued to stare back at her.

Regan cleared her throat. "I'm, uh, going. I suppose. Can't really complain. Why do you ask?"

He turned his body away from her, back flat against the wall and arms crossed. "As your teacher, Regan." he shot her a sideways glance. "I am merely inquiring to ensure that you're able to continue your schooling without issue."

"Oh."

He pushed himself off the wall. "But as a fellow extraordinary, not boring individual..." he paused, scanning her face. A confused expression washed over his face, disappeared, and came back again.

Regan just stared at him blankly like a stunned doe. Jim reached up, clearly causing himself a degree of emotional pain and conflict, and brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. Their stunned eyes shot looks of shock and surprise back and forth, both aware that if a single word was said it would frighten the other person into bolting away from the situation. He touched her as one might touch a scared animal, tenderly - but with a certain percentage of fear for ones own well-being in case that animal were to turn violent. Regan couldn't stop her head from turning ever so slightly in to the touch.

The door opened behind them. "Regan, we're finishing up now. I have a few important points on your upcoming assignment to cover before you're dismissed for the day."

Regan stepped away from Jim, pulling her eyes away and slipped briskly into the classroom. She saw Mr. Holmes shoot an angry expression Jim's way - she imagined he would've just rolled his eyes.

Mr. Holmes wrote up some specifics about an essay on Freudian psychology they were to be assigned next week. Considering it was still only the Wednesday of the first week back, Regan wasn't very happy about this at all. He dismissed the class - and was not at all subtle about stopping her and keeping her back. Irene shot her a look as she left the class, not so much angry - as sad. She suspected she was suffering a fall from grace, she felt sort of sorry for her.

"Miss Byron." Mr. Holmes began. "I will open by telling you that I will not be informing any one in faculty. Because I have complete and utter faith in your ability to take control of your own future."

"I really don't understand, Mr. Holmes." she said eloquently.

"Your guile might have worked wonders on Moriarty, Regan, but I assure you it's not going to work here. I want you to know that once you leave the safety of these walls, once you're expected to be a responsible adult - get a job, house, car, pets, et cetera... People usually won't care enough to warn you. As a teacher I have an invested interest in you, Regan. As do all the staff who teach you. We do care, to different degrees. Now, Mr. Moriarty... Is he making you call him Jim?"

She didn't move, or speak, and she could scarely breathe.

"He has a different sort of interest - as I'm sure you're aware. While I'm not privy to the specifics of this observation - what I can offer you is advice. He is dark, Regan. I knew him before he began teaching - easily better than anyone else in staff."

"How do you know him?"

Mr. Holmes looked up at the clock. "I can't discuss the specifics, I'm afraid. But that in itself is a good reason - I can't discuss crime, especially not with a student."

Regan furrowed her brow. Crime. And somehow she should've been more shocked than she really was. Of course it wasn't ideal, but it was simple enough for anybody to glean from his - everything, that he wasn't an... Ordinary person. "Thank you for the advice, Mr. Holmes. I do appreciate your discretion, but I... Really don't believe there's much to worry about, on my part - at least."

"No?"

"I can't say I have any interest in him."

Mr. Holmes began to chuckle, as if she'd told a particularly fantastic joke. He waved his hand, ushering her away as he laughed to himself.

Regan couldn't help but feel insulted, and so she just left the room. She wasn't sure whether it was being called out by another teacher that was making her face flushed and heart race, or if she was still on an emotional high from the touch.