The rehearsal room.The members of the orchestra are getting ready for another rehearsal. Almost all chairs are already occupied. Some late arrivals are still making their way towards their places. Professor McAllister is at the conductor's desk. So-Yun stands next to him. They're both looking down at the score on his desk, McAllister speaking and, waving his hand in the air, indicating some particular rhythm or tempo. So-Yun nods her understanding. Sherlock and Victor are already in their places, too, Victor applying rosin to his bow, Sherlock with his violin propped upright on his knee and his chin resting on the scroll, his eyes on the screen of his phone, which he holds in his other hand.
SHERLOCK (under his breath): God, he's slow.
VICTOR: Who is?
SHERLOCK: Never mind. (He pockets the phone. Deliberately changing the subject) You know, I envy you sometimes.
Victor raises an eyebrow.
SHERLOCK: No, really. You live in a world of binary code. It simplifies everything. Zero - one, either - or, nothing in between. Light and dark, Good and Evil, white hat and black hat.
Victor looks slightly disconcerted.
SHERLOCK: Don't you sometimes wonder why the rest of the universe wasn't constructed on the same principles?
VICTOR (drily): I do wonder what was in your lunch today, and who put it there.
At the same moment, at the front of the orchestra, So-Yun returns to her seat, and McAllister straightens up and glances expectantly around the room. The musicians fall silent. In the hush just before the oboist intones the A, there is a clearly audible text alert beep from a phone.
McALLISTER (peeved): And that's five pounds in the kitty, whoever that was. Switch. it. off.
In close-up, we can see that Sherlock has his phone out again. He scrolls through a text message, which reads:
The answer is yes. Logged on 15:57, logged off 16:09. No record of an external device being connected; none of a printer being used. WHY? MH
A deeply satisfied smile forms on Sherlock's face.
McALLISTER (looking directly at Sherlock): And it will be ten unless you put it away now.
Sherlock raises his head, wipes the smile off his face, pockets his phone and dutifully brings his violin up to his chin. McAllister is still looking at him as if he expects some sort of clever rejoinder, almost put out by the fact that there is none. Then he nods to the oboist, and they begin tuning properly.
VICTOR (under his breath): How do you manage to find a new way to annoy him every time we're here?
Sherlock gives Victor a pointed look over his violin, but doesn't reply. When he returns his attention to the pegs and the strings of his instrument, the smile is back on his face.
McALLISTER: Alright. Mozart please, the last movement.
There is a rustling of paper all around as the players put their scores on the stands.
SHERLOCK (glancing up at Violet as she makes her way to the front of the orchestra for her solo): And please no more than four or five times today.
Victor looks slightly annoyed.
VICTOR: I told you she can't help it.
SHERLOCK: Doesn't make it better.
VICTOR: So what are you gonna do if she throws us out again?
SHERLOCK: Drop a bombshell.
VICTOR: What, in a grade I listed building?
Sherlock shrugs. McAllister raises his arms. They play.
Some minutes later,they are three quarters through their piece, everyone making a very respectable job of it except Violet, who plays much worse than before, more than once even missing cues. McAllister keeps giving her sidelong frowns, his patience visibly wearing thin. She does her best to ignore it, but it makes her even more insecure. By the time they reach the point towards the end where the orchestra falls silent and the flute rises out of the silence for the final solo, Violet is a nervous wreck, her instrument trembling in her hands. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to keep going at all cost, and painfully manages a few more bars. McAllister, massively displeased, raises his hand as if to signal her to stop, but at exactly that moment, another instrument seamlessly picks up the melody, and carries it on alone when Violet lowers her flute in surprise. McAllister's eyes fix almost immediately on the source of it. Heads turn to see what he is looking at, and there is Sherlock, finishing Violet's solo for her on his violin, not flawlessly perfect in every single note, but decently enough considering that he's playing by ear. There is a look of innocent unconcern on his face, his eyes on his fingers dancing up and down the strings. By the time he's nearing the end, he's on a roll, piling it on with a lot of vibrato and a couple of extra flourishes as the melody rises up and up towards the triumphant finale. Which never comes, because instead of joining in on their cue, the orchestra dissolves in laughter, some players tapping their bows on their stands in applause, even a wolf whistle here and there. Victor, next to Sherlock, grins in spite of himself. So-Yun can be seen shaking her head, torn between exasperation and amusement. Violet alone stands like a statue, her arms hanging at her sides. Sherlock lowers his violin and looks up to meet McAllister's piercing stare with a very unconvincing modest smile.
SHERLOCK: Just trying to save us all a bit of time. (Cheerfully) OK, done. Can we play something more interesting now?
All heads turn to see their conductor's reaction. When McAllister opens his mouth to speak -
SHERLOCK (cutting him off): Oh, please don't feel obliged to point out that I'd make a very poor replacement for her in every conceivable respect. (With an air of generously conceding a point) Yes, alright, I'm not saying that you'd be averse to experimenting a little on occasion, but you generally prefer the type that just holds still and doesn't talk back, don't you?
This raises another laugh, but more subdued this time. Quite a few of the students are beginning to look uncomfortable rather than amused. Victor's grin has disappeared entirely. McAllister crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing.
SHERLOCK (still mock-modestly): I'm well aware that I'm nowhere near her level of ingenuity when it comes to impressing you, on stage or off.
Violet gives a jolt at this.
VIOLET (bewildered): What?
She turns abruptly towards McAllister as if for his support.
SHERLOCK: But even if she's currently not quite as impressive as usual on stage, I think that off stage, you'll soon be in for a surprise or two.
In the faces of the intently listening students, there is no trace left now of the former merriment. They can be seen to exchange doubtful looks, puzzled as to where all this is going, but sensing that it is not going to end well. Victor even makes a little move as if to put a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm.
McALLISTER (massively annoyed): What do you mean?
SHERLOCK (gesturing at Violet): Why don't you ask her?
McALLISTER (impatiently): Ask her what?
SHERLOCK: Well, a good starting point would be what she was doing on the computer in your room at four o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, when we were all kicking our heels in here waiting for her. Was she just checking your browser history for clues on how best to make you happy in a private context, or was she looking for something more immediately and substantially helpful to see her through her exams?
A heavy silence follows his words. McAllister stands thunderstruck. Violet gapes at Sherlock, shocked almost out of her senses. Victor, too, stares at him, aghast. The room seems to collectively hold its breath. Sherlock looks very pleased with the effect.
SHERLOCK (pertly): Go on, ask her.
Another silence. Then -
McALLISTER (in cold rage, almost spitting out the words): Get out. Just get out.
Sherlock smiles a wry little smile. Then, without protest, but also without haste, he stands up, winds his way out from among the other players with his violin and bow in his hand, and heads for the door.
McALLISTER (calling after him, loudly): And don't come back!
Sherlock reaches the door, and it slams shut behind him, leaving the room in an appalled silence. Then Violet Westbury bursts into tears, and Victor Trevor hangs his head, looking physically ill.
A view of the lane leading up to the college gatehouse.Late afternoon on the same day. A grey, overcast sky, clouds hanging low, threatening rain, a rumble of thunder in the distance. Sherlock, in his pea jacket again, with his violin case over his shoulder and his laptop bag under the other arm, is hurrying towards the gates, stepping into the road to avoid a group of Asian tourists going the other way. He glances up at the sky just before he passes under the archway into the gatehouse, glad to have made it home before the rain - and stops dead the moment he is inside the building. We follow his gaze, straight through the passage and out again at the inner archway into the court. A man in a bright red goretex jacket is crossing the court, seen from behind as if he has passed through the gatehouse only a moment before. By his limp and his mane of grey hair, it is clearly Professor McAllister. He turns aside towards the doorway of Staircase B and disappears from view. Sherlock, who has drawn aside a little to avoid being seen by his newly-ex conductor, comes to life again and walks on through the passage and past the porter's lodge. The porter on duty is Mr Thompson, the same we've seen in an earlier scene. He looks up at Sherlock with a smile and points over his shoulder to his left.
THOMPSON: Don't forget to check your mail.
Sherlock merely nods, too preoccupied to exchange any witticisms with the porter today, and turns the corner into the narrow passage beyond the porter's lodge where the students have their pigeon-holes. There is a large, thick brown envelope jutting out from one of the compartments. Sherlock's eyes fix on it, and he smiles even before he takes it out and reads his address on it, written in round, bold handwriting.
THOMPSON (off-screen, calling after him jovially): Looks like someone thinks you need feeding up!
Sherlock turns the envelope in his hands, feeling it, and nods approvingly. Then he slits it open with his index finger and takes a king-sized chocolate bar from it, which he pockets before he turns his attention to the remaining contents of the envelope. It's a rather random-looking collection of newspaper cut-outs (some with their headlines highlighted or notes pencilled in the margin), scientific articles torn out of magazines, and a photocopied sheet with what looks like a song or even a church hymn on it. Sherlock quickly leafs through them and then stuffs them all back into the envelope except for a sheaf of lavender-coloured letter paper, several pages covered in the same handwriting that we saw on the envelope. He turns towards the exit, his eyes on the letter, reading as he walks. But only three or four steps further on, a sudden flash of lightning illuminates the interior of the gatehouse, and with an enormous thunderclap, the rain starts coming down in a torrential downpour, soaking the grass in the court and the gravel of its paths within moments. Changing his mind, Sherlock turns his back on the weather and continues reading on the spot while he waits for the rain to subside. He turns over the first page, smiling in an unusually unguarded, truly affectionate way.
Some minutes later,Sherlock is on the last page of his letter. The rain keeps coming down heavily, and there is still an almost continuous roll of thunder. The bells of Great St. Mary's, braving the elements, can just be heard chiming five o'clock. As the final stroke of the bell dies away, a familiar man's voice speaks up around the corner, at the counter of the porter's lodge, unseen by Sherlock.
McALLISTER (off-screen, sounding apologetic and slightly out of breath): Well, thank you for your help, Mr Thompson. It's all sorted now.
THOMPSON (off-screen, cheerfully): No problem, sir. That's what we're here for.
Sherlock raises his head sharply, then silently edges closer to the corner into the main passage and very, very carefully peers around it. Professor McAllister is at the counter, still in his bright red rainproof jacket, in the act of turning away from the porter towards the outer archway. He puts up the hood of his jacket over his hair, readjusts the bicycle clips around the legs of his trousers, and resolutely steps out of the college gates into the pouring rain. When he is gone, the porter gets up from his desk and, as he does so, notices Sherlock standing in the passage, no longer hiding but looking after Professor McAllister very thoughtfully.
THOMPSON (jerking his head in the direction in which Professor McAllister has just disappeared, grumpily): Him and his keys.
Sherlock gives him a politely interested look.
THOMPSON (walking over to a key safe mounted on the wall of his lodge, speaking over his shoulder while replacing a single key in it): First loses one, then locks his new one in his own room. (He locks the key safe carefully and turns back to Sherlock.) All in a single week, can you believe it?
Sherlock grins sympathetically and shrugs. But as he turns away towards the inner archway, the expression on his face has changed to something very different. He looks strangely content.
A long windowless corridor within the college,leading up to a wooden door marked "Junior Common Room". Notice boards with all sorts of posters, leaflets, announcements and advertisements on them cover both walls for several yards. Sherlock is walking along the passage towards the door. When he is almost there, the door opens and So-Yun comes out. They both stop dead at the sight of each other. The corners of Sherlock's mouth start going upwards, but his smile freezes when he sees her expression. She looks him up and down with narrowed eyes, very coldly. For a moment, they're both on the verge of saying something, but then So-Yun changes her mind and resolutely walks straight past him, turning sideways a little and drawing in her arm so as to pointedly avoid touching him. Sherlock exhales audibly, deliberately refrains from turning and looking after her, and after a moment walks on through the open door into the Junior Common Room.
The Junior Common Roomis a large and - as outside, darkness has fallen - brightly lit, rather messy room with groups of sofas and squashy, ill-matched armchairs, some tables with proper chairs around them, some bookshelves, a pool table in one corner, a small fridge and a coffee machine on top of it in another, and more notice-boards on the walls. There is quite a level of noise, as the room is packed with students, some standing by the pool table, where a game is in progress, some sitting in armchairs and chatting, such as Violet Westbury's boyfriend Simon D'Arcy and two or three of his rower friends. Violet herself is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Victor Trevor. Sebastian Wilkes is at the coffee machine, fiddling with the buttons. Close by are his Indian friend whom we saw earlier and a tall, willowy girl with long, glossy red hair, engaged in lively conversation with each other. Sherlock, in the doorway, lets his eyes travel over the whole room, then quietly closes the door behind him. The sound raises some heads among those closest to the door, and their sudden silence in turn raises more heads, until gradually, all the chatter in the room has died down and practically everyone is looking at Sherlock. It is evident from the students' faces that the news of his dismissal from the college orchestra, and of what caused it, has already made the rounds. Some look at him merely curiously, but more look disapproving, if not hostile. Sherlock takes in this cool reception with a single glance, then starts making his way across the room as if he is alone in it, supremely unconcerned. Where he passes, people move aside, some even ostentatiously turning their backs on him, and one by one, they start talking again, the pool players resume their game, and Sebastian Wilkes returns to his efforts to make coffee. By the time Sherlock reaches a low cabinet with open compartments at the opposite end of the room, in which stacks of newspapers are stored, the atmosphere has turned back almost to normal, except that there is less noise now and the chatter seems a bit more subdued. Sherlock fishes a folded piece of grey paper out of the back pocket of his jeans - which looks very much like one of the newspaper cut-outs that he found in his mail earlier today - and then squats down to find the newspapers with the same date, presumably looking for more information on the same subject. He locates one that fits, puts it on top of the cabinet and starts flicking through it, his back to the room, seemingly oblivious to the furtive glances that people are directing at him from time to time. A moment later, Violet's boyfriend Simon stands up rather abruptly from his armchair. Sherlock, noticing the movement from out of the corner of his eye, very deliberately closes the paper again. Then he turns to face Simon, who has made his way over to him and is now standing in front of him with his fists clenched at his sides, looking murderous. As if on command, the room falls silent again, and everyone is watching intently.
SHERLOCK (raising his eyebrows): Yes?
Simon's frown deepens, but he seems rather at a loss for words.
SHERLOCK: Can I help you?
SIMON (forcing the words out through gritted teeth): You - you -
Sherlock looks at him with his head to one side.
SIMON (his voice low and tight with anger): D'you have any idea what you've done to her? Any idea at all?
He steps closer, and with one of his big, muscular hands grabs Sherlock by the collar of his shirt. His face is a grimace of hatred.
SIMON: Don't think you're getting away with spreading dirty lies about her like that.
Sherlock, not yet looking particularly worried, merely glances disapprovingly at Simon's hand. Simon, unimpressed, tightens his hold on Sherlock's shirt with another twist and brings his face very close to that of his opponent.
SIMON (baring his teeth in a snarl, hissing with suppressed rage): You made her look like a cheat and a slut in front of the whole college.
SHERLOCK (unfazed): She is a cheat. Have you asked her?
With a little shove, Simon lets go of Sherlock.
SIMON: And d'you know what happens to people who tell lies like that about a decent girl?
SHERLOCK: I'm sure you're about to enlighten me.
Simon grins lopsidedly and obliges. His fist comes crashing straight into Sherlock's face, and Sherlock's arm comes up just a split second too late to block the blow. The force of it makes him reel backwards, the back of his head bumping against the wall behind him. Blood starts welling out of his nose, the left side of his face burning like fire. Simon, recklessly pressing home his advantage over his momentarily disoriented opponent, puts both his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, pins him against the wall and, with a vicious jerk, brings his knee up to where it hurts most. Sherlock slumps forward against him with a groan, his bloody face contorted in agony. Simon steps back, and Sherlock collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, landing in a heap on the floor at Simon's feet. A murmur rises from the ranks of the onlookers, whether of approval or concern is hard to tell, maybe both at once. Simon looks down at Sherlock, wrinkles his nose in disgust, and then, for good measure, aims another kick into the pit of his stomach, so hard that it makes Sherlock double over and retch with pain.
SIMON: Enlightened now?
There is a collective gasp from the onlookers, and at last, one of them - Sebastian Wilkes' Indian friend - steps forward and puts his hand on Simon's shoulder to keep him from doing even more damage. But Simon shrugs his hand off, turns on his heel and walks straight out of the room. Sherlock is left behind, face down on the floor, coughing his heart out and dripping blood on the carpet. The other students hang around him in a silent semi-circle, staring at him in helpless fascination, eyes wide and mouths gaping, Sebastian in the front row looking like he's going to be sick. But for the longest time, nobody comes to his aid, nobody offers to help him up.