A picture-perfect aerial view of the city of Cambridge on a bright, sunny spring day, as pretty as a postcard or even prettier. A chessboard pattern of college buildings grouped around their green courts, the River Cam and its adjacent parks and gardens encircling the city centre, the bulk of King's College Chapel and the tower of Great St. Mary's Church rising high above the gables and spires and parapets of the historical university buildings. We fly over them, relishing their beauty for a moment, and then turn westward, across the river and the riverside gardens known as The Backs, past the University Library, and zoom in on a nondescript modern brick building.
Inside the building. A long, narrow, bare room furnished as a computer lab, with rows and rows of white desks with computers on them, blinds down to keep the sun out. Almost all places are occupied by students, most of them male with only two or three exceptions, all staring at their screens or typing on their keyboards, nobody speaking, hardly anyone moving except for their fingers, the constant clicking of the keys and mouse-buttons the only audible sounds in the otherwise silent room. Then all of a sudden, the door to the room is thrown open with a flourish, and in the doorway stands Sherlock Holmes, ten years younger than we're used to seeing him, slightly rounder and rosier in the cheeks, his hair just as we know it, in a navy blue pea jacket and with a tartan scarf around his neck, his violin case slung over his shoulder and an expectant smile on his face. Nobody reacts. The silence in the room – but for the clicking of the keys – stretches. Sherlock visibly deflates. Then in the second row, one of the students raises his head and looks across to the door. He's a slender young man with slightly overgrown dark hair slicked back from a fine-boned face and equally dark eyes hidden behind a pair of large square black-rimmed spectacles. His lips form a silent "Oh."
SHERLOCK: Coming, Victor?
The student at the computer nods and begins to get up.
The Backs. A few minutes later, we see the two friends walking side by side along a path through the gardens towards the river, Sherlock with long, energetic strides, his violin on his back, and Victor, who is about half a head shorter, almost jogging to keep up. He has a backpack on his back and also carries a violin case in his hand. Sherlock looks slightly absurd in his jacket, which is obviously too warm for the day and also makes his shoulders look half as broad again as they really are, but he doesn't seem aware of the fact. He's also not yet quite in the full formidable control of his long limbs that we see ten years later, but seems oblivious of that, too.
VICTOR (threatening to fall behind again, annoyed): You and your obsession with punctuality! There's no point in being early! (Sherlock rolls his eyes but shows no signs of slowing down.) You're losing me eight valuable minutes, at least. Arkady will be far ahead of me by now, and I'll never catch up!
SHERLOCK (over his shoulder): What were you working on?
VICTOR: They're doing a trial run with a new SSL protocol over at The Other Place. We're trying to get in, they're trying to keep us out.
SHERLOCK: How's it going?
VICTOR: Very promising.
SHERLOCK: For them, or for us?
VICTOR: Oh, both. It's all totally white hat. A virtual Boat Race. We're gonna win, and they'll be glad to know what needs patching.
He grins confidently, Sherlock joining in. They cross a stone bridge to the other side of the river and pass under an archway leading into a college court.
SHERLOCK: And while you're at it, you'll make a fortune selling this year's exam questions to their undergraduates.
Victor chuckles.
Inside the college building. A large rehearsal room, every available space filled with chairs and music stands set up in a semi-circle around the conductor's desk, a piano in one corner, a harpsichord in another. About four fifths of the chairs are already occupied by students with their various instruments, setting up their scores on the stands, tuning, chatting, doing bits of last-minute practise on difficult parts. There is a cacophony of sounds on the air, snatches of classical music, rustling of paper, much clattering and scraping of chairs across the wooden floorboards, fragments of conversation, laughter. We see Victor weaving between the chairs to his place somewhere within the relative obscurity of the middle rows, his violin and bow in one hand, raised carefully so as not to bump them against anything, a folder of sheet music under his arm. He arrives at his chair and sits down. Sherlock – looking neat in a plain black shirt and jeans, but still far away from the sartorial elegance of later years - is already in the chair next to Victor's, busy adjusting the shoulder rest of his own instrument, which seems to have come off. Victor selects a sheet from his folder and sets it up on the stand they share, then brings his violin up to his shoulder, runs his bow tentatively across the A string and glances at Sherlock.
SHERLOCK (still fiddling with the shoulder rest, not looking up): No.
Victor gives a peg at the end of the violin's neck a turn. The tone rises a little.
SHERLOCK (as before): No.
Another turn to the peg, another attempt, higher still.
SHERLOCK: Yes.
VICTOR (under his breath): It's a curse, that.
He begins to tune the other strings, but is interrupted when a petite but very resolute-looking Asian girl with edgy short hair rises from the end seat in the front row – the leader's chair – and looks around at her fellow players, demanding their attention.
VICTOR: Oh. I like So-Yun's new haircut.
SO-YUN (loudly): Alright, everyone.
The orchestra falls silent. She nods towards the oboist in the back row behind Sherlock and Victor, who stands up and intones an A for the rest of the players to tune to, which is noticeably lower than the one Sherlock and Victor had just settled on. Sherlock cringes.
VICTOR: I said it was a curse.
SHERLOCK: Didn't hear me disagree.
They – like everyone else – tune. While they do, a man in his fifties – the conductor, Professor McAllister – steps up to his desk and sets up his score. He walks with a slight limp, but carries himself very well otherwise. He's not tall, but his mane of grey hair brushed back from a high forehead and his scimitar of a nose, on which a pair of reading glasses is perched, make him look rather impressive. He is in a grey suit with a silk scarf tied loosely around his neck in place of a tie, and his hand that holds the conductor's baton is carefully manicured. He looks very much like the artist that he is, and he's fully aware of it. He waits for the orchestra to finish their tuning, then raises his head and exchanges a look with So-Yun, who nods.
McALLISTER: Right, everybody. End of term concert's getting closer, and we've still got a lot to get through. Now let me hear what you've done in the sectionals, and try not to disappoint me as badly as last week.
He raises his arms, and as one the musicians raise their instruments. A moment later, they're away into what sounds, at least to the casual listener, like a very respectable rendition of the Overture to Handel's "Jephtha". McAllister is conducting with great precision but little enthusiasm, his face falling visibly as they go along. Sherlock and Victor exchange a look, and a moment later their bows go out of sync as Sherlock's skips and bounces merrily over a couple of notes in a rhythm quite different from that of the other violins around him. Shortly after that, the incident repeats itself. Sherlock and Victor exchange another look, now both grinning. McAllister abruptly lowers his arms. The music breaks off. Victor mouths a silent "Uh-oh" at Sherlock.
McALLISTER (in a tone of great discontent): Firstly, everyone - please take your tempo from what I give you. I don't stand here merely for decorative purposes. I want it stately, not in a mad rush. Secondly, strings – no sugar icing on top, please. This isn't Verdi.
The string players in the front rows look slightly crestfallen.
McALLISTER: Thirdly, bassoons - I can't even hear you.
The two boys with the bassoons in the back row look mortified. McAllister lets his eyes travel over the rest of the orchestra, looking for more victims.
McALLISTER: And would the gentlemen at the third desk in the second violins kindly not try to improve Handel, but confine themselves to playing what is written in the score. There is no dotting on the scales in bars forty-six and fifty-two.
Victor looks up in alarm, opens his mouth as if to protest, then wordlessly points across at his stand partner, who tries and fails to look perfectly innocent.
McALLISTER (to Sherlock, pointing his baton at him like a weapon): And don't you dare tell me that there is a manuscript somewhere in an obscure German archive that supports your version.
SHERLOCK (smoothly): No, sir, the only known autograph is the one in the Royal Music Library in London, and it supports yours.
McAllister looks grimly satisfied.
SHERLOCK: But it's a fake.
A burst of laughter rises from the ranks of the orchestra, hastily but imperfectly suppressed. McAllister gives Sherlock a monumentally displeased look over the rim of his reading glasses, then clears his throat and raises his arms again for a new attempt on the overture. They restart.
McALLISTER (after a while, conducting and commenting at the same time): Strings, yes, better. That's what I meant. Bassoons, you're still not there.
They play on as far as bar forty-six, and we can see Sherlock doing the same little stunt again.
McALLISTER (loudly): And I heard that, Holmes!
They finish the piece this time, everyone visibly relieved that they're allowed to. McAllister, somewhat mollified by now, turns back the pages of his score, looking for details that still need improving, and starts talking to So-Yun in a low tone.
VICTOR (to Sherlock): You keep doing that, and one day he'll kick you out.
SHERLOCK: Oh, come on. It's an overture, not a funeral march.
They look up as their conductor taps his desk with his baton to get everyone's attention.
McALLISTER: Alright, we'll leave it at that for today. Let's move on to the Mozart flute concerto. We'll just do the tutti bits one by one, since there's no time for the solos today.
SHERLOCK (rather loudly): Oh, thank goodness.
Victor and Sherlock's neighbours on the other side give him slightly irritated looks. He turns in his chair to look over his shoulder at one of the flute players in the row behind him and gives her a glaringly false smile. The girl blushes furiously, deeply hurt. She's a blonde girl with a round face, her hair up in an elaborate bun, wearing slightly too much make-up, her blouse cut slightly too low, her skirt slightly too short, hands with long red fingernails clutching her flute to her chest in rigid offence. She is hardly recognisable as the happy and relaxed Violet Westbury from the Christmas card photograph.
Inside the college. The Hall.Morning on the next day. Wood-panelled walls and a magnificent stuccoed ceiling with large chandeliers hanging from it, three long tables, students milling around, carrying trays, a constant coming and going. Chatter, laughter, the clatter of cutlery. At the near end of one of the tables, Sherlock, Victor and a third student are just finishing their breakfast, Sherlock on one side of the table with his back to the open door, Victor and the other one opposite him. This other one is Sebastian Wilkes, less ten years and at least twenty pounds, in a navy blue polo-shirt with the college coat of arms on the chest, one of his big hands around a steaming coffee mug. Victor is in a tight-fitting jersey in glaring neon colours, his bike helmet, bike gloves and sunglasses on the table next to him. Sherlock's hair is still wet from the shower, and he's the only one who is still eating, munching on a piece of toast. All three of them have their noses in what is apparently the latest issue of the college newspaper, and none of them speaks. There is a sudden loud clacking noise of a woman in high heels making her way across the wooden floor. Victor and Sebastian both look up, and their heads turn in ludicrous unison as their eyes follow a mini-skirted Violet Westbury on her way from the door to the far end of their table. Sherlock, without so much as glancing over his shoulder, picks up some paper napkins from his breakfast tray and holds them out to Victor and Sebastian simultaneously, one in either hand. With an effort, Sebastian and Victor tear their eyes away from the rear view of Violet's swaying hips and, still comically in sync, look at Sherlock with identical questioning frowns.
SHERLOCK: You're drooling.
Sebastian's hand goes up to his mouth as if to verify the truth of this statement. Victor looks hurt.
VICTOR: Why do you hate her so much?
SHERLOCK (his eyes already back on the newspaper, in a bored voice): I don't hate her. Hatred requires an emotional investment, and I have none of that to waste on a silly little cow who thinks that being a moderately gifted musician excuses her from using her brain, and sleeping with her tutor will get her through her exams.
SEBASTIAN (with a broad grin): Isn't that how you do it?
SHERLOCK: Speak for yourself.
SEBASTIAN: Yeah – (pulling a face) Urgh, no.
VICTOR (quietly): Sherlock, I think you've got that wrong.
SHERLOCK: No I haven't.
SEBASTIAN (triumphantly): Yes you do! Look at that!
He jerks his head towards the other end of the table, to a little group of male students in the college's rowing gear. Violet is standing by one of them – a very athletic, well-built young man with short ginger hair – and, leaning down towards him with her hand on his broad shoulder, is engaged in a long and passionate kiss. Sherlock glances at them and shrugs.
SHERLOCK: All part of her strategy. Next to Simon D'Arcy, even she looks brainy.
He returns to the newspaper. So does Sebastian. Victor is the last of the three to do so, looking unhappy.
SEBASTIAN (turning pages): Ah, this sounds good. (Reading aloud) "Five fun facts about your college. Did you know that – "
SHERLOCK: Yes.
SEBASTIAN (deflating): Oh, really.
VICTOR (to Sebastian): He's kidding you. He wrote that piece.
SEBASTIAN (peering myopically at the article in front of him): It says "by Sheridan Hope".
Sherlock shrugs.
SEBASTIAN: Just how many personalities do you have? (Skimming through the article, in a disappointed tone) Aw. I thought it said "fun". I was looking for something about the ghost in the crypt, or the mystery of the secret room between the first year girls' corridor and Staircase B.
SHERLOCK (impatiently): It's not a secret room. It's a locked door, that's all.
SEBASTIAN (slyly): Oh, how d'you know that? Been to visit lately?
SHERLOCK (in a flat voice): Never been there in my life.
VICTOR: Remember, he hates first year girls. Or doesn't make emotional investments in them or whatever he pleases to call it.
SHERLOCK: So-Yun's nice.
VICTOR (smugly): "Nice", is she? (To Sebastian) You could never tell that from the way she makes him sweat in the sectionals.
SEBASTIAN (with a leer): Oh, I'm sure he likes it.
Sherlock, in despair, buries his head under the newspaper. Sebastian takes pity on him.
SEBASTIAN: No, but seriously, how d'you know about the room being not a room but just a door if you've never been there?
SHERLOCK (reappearing from under the newspaper, disdainfully): I know it because I can count to fourteen, which is apparently more than we can expect from our country's future top bankers.
Sebastian, passing over the insult, just looks puzzled.
SHERLOCK (rapid fire deduction mode): Fourteen windows from one corner of the court to the other. Nine, on the right hand side, for the girls. Five, on the left hand side, on Staircase B. Number five of those on the second floor, the one that is open twenty-three hours every day even in December, is Professor Bergmann's, who is a fresh air fanatic, as you would know if you'd ever had to shiver through a tutorial with him, which I have the pleasure of doing every Thursday morning. The one directly next to his – number nine from the right – is already part of the girls' wing, because it's So-Yun's. If you perk up your ears when you cross the court at ten o'clock at night and pass under that window, you'll hear her doing her bed-time etudes on her violin. So unless you want to argue that that legendary secret room is less than a foot wide, there's no way it's going to fit between Professor Bergmann on Staircase B and So-Yun on the girls' wing. The corridor's been bricked up at that point, and there's a door through that wall, yes, but that's just what it is, a door.
VICTOR: Locked.
SHERLOCK: Of course. Even in this famously liberal place it would be a bit of a stretch to allow the venerable Fellows from Staircase B a direct and unrestricted access to the first year girls' quarters, wouldn't it?
Sebastian, who has evidently stopped listening a while ago, sighs. Victor shrugs and turns to a different page of his newspaper. There is a sudoku on it with a ridiculously large proportion of blank spaces. Victor picks up a pen from the table and starts filling them in rapidly with never a visible pause for thought. Sebastian watches him and grimaces.
SEBASTIAN: What a pair you make. The hacker and the lab rat. I wonder why I put up with you?
SHERLOCK (hardly glancing up): Feel free to leave. Besides, there's someone at the door who thinks it's time you did.
SEBASTIAN: What?
He looks over Sherlock's head towards the door. In the open doorway - behind Sherlock's back - stands an Indian student, who smiles expectantly at Sebastian and jerks his head towards the exit in a "You coming?" gesture.
SEBASTIAN: How – oh, never mind.
He picks up his bag and goes to join his friend, shaking his head in irritation. When he is gone, Sherlock stretches his hand out towards a shiny chrome-plated thermos coffee jug on the table and experimentally turns it this way and that, trying to get more mirror views of the room behind him.
VICTOR: Good one.
Sherlock smiles.