I really like this chapter. I ended up having to cut it off at an awkward time because it would've been too long. So it this ended up to be a straight up 2000 words. I don't know about you, but I really like that number.

Also, there's a huge cabin pressure reference in here. So if you're a fellow member of the fandot, look out for that. If you don't know what I'm talking about, open up youtube in a new tab and look up cabin pressure. You will never stop thanking me.

Classes have been going... unusually well for the past few weeks. After the intimidation tactics Sherlock used for the first few classes, he softened up on the students a lot. He's actually a pretty good teacher. His overall knowledge may be spotty, but he's only been teaching subjects that he has extensive knowledge on. Such as how to identify, track, hunt down and take out murderous psychopaths or how to tell when someone's killed recently or how to tell when someone's operating under the guise of something called polyjuice which apparently changes people's appearance. Sherlock made me demonstrate with that one. I now know what it's like to be Sherlock Holmes. Or at least be in his body. I really enjoyed those extra six inches. It's nice to stare Sherlock straight in the eye without having to standing on a box.

The students seem to be really enjoying themselves too. Sure, they grumbled and moaned about having to get in shape during the first week, but no one complained yesterday when we were running around the forbidden forest, learning how to pick up the trail of the unusually lightfooted groundskeeper and magical creatures professor, Hagrid. And I'm not hearing any complaining today as I listen to him recount one of our adventures to the class. Sherlock had intended to do a course on mud and dirt but half way through his introduction speech, someone asked how this could possibly help anyone in any situation whatsoever and Sherlock redirected this class into storytime.

All I have to say is at least it isn't tobacco ash.

"Everyone was certain that the thief was some stupid teenager. But the samples of dried mud taken from the scene said otherwise. You see, it was not one singular specimen, but several all mixed together. Now, this in itself is pretty ordinary, as people tend to pick up mud from several places around the city in a day." His retelling of the stories are much drier than how I remember it. To collect that information we had spent four days undercover in an airport. He was a pilot by the name of Martin Crieff with a fake I.D. and, I assume, no experience or knowledge of how to fly planes. He insisted I pose as a female flight attendant called Martha because we'd get more information that way. Also, I just couldn't argue with him while he was in that uniform.

"I knew this because there were sand particles mixed with river mud and several bits of foliage that wouldn't usually grow within the same climate. This could only have occured in one way. Which is that the boots, size 10 1/2 faux leather combat style boots, that had tracked the mud into the house had collected it from several locations not just across the city, but across countries." Countries that I distinctly remember screaming like a schoolgirl at as they rushed towards the plane much too quickly for my liking.

"So after a few months of investigation and evidence collection, we found that the thief was not, as previously thought, a teenager and was actually a travelling journalist who had been stealing women's underthings from Abu Dhabi to Zurich for thirty years straight and had never been caught. You know why?" Because most scotland yard detectives don't enjoy getting their skirt-clad arse grabbed by a suspected serial panty thief as the hurdle through turbulence miles above the himalayas in a metal cylinder driven by a bored Sherlock Holmes. "Because everyone assumed the mud didn't matter. Any more questions?" A red haired kid in gryffindor raises his hand.

"How do we know you're not lying? We had a teacher last year that strutted around and told us about all the amazing things he did. But they were all lies. How do we know you're not the same?" He asks, wearing the same face as Donovan would make when she said something that she hoped would stump the great detective. Granger, who was sitting next to him, rolled her eyes audibly. She had become the only tolerable member of the small but frightfully dedicated League of Sherlock Holmes Fangirls. She had never declared her undying love for the bastard or officially join any fanclub, thankfully. She even declared that they were silly because they obsess over things that really don't matter. But whenever she'd stay behind to help clean up after a particularly messy demonstration or turn up at our door with questions on oriental matial arts and how to disguise one's voice while under a polyjuice potion, she always looked at him with all awe and admiration of any fangirl.

"Oh, right. I nearly forgot that you had Potions before this class. He's probably been talking against me whenever he can so you come in here with that doubt planted in your heads. Although, I don't know why you'd believe him. You're obviously not very fond of him." He walks down the gryffindor side of the room then down one of the isles to face the questioner.

"but if you want proof, I'll give you proof." He leans over the frightened boy, whispering something only they could hear. I watched the boy's eyes widen and his face redden in what was either embarrassment or anger. I couldn't really tell from this distance. But from the context, Sherlock is probably revealing something deeply embarrassing about his life and had found the mercy in his heart not to spout it off in front of the whole class. He straightened and smiled smugly.

"Understand now, Weasley?"Weasley's head wobbled about on his neck like it'd fall off. "Good. Now. Back to dirt and mud. On the chart pinned to the wall on your left, there is a diagram of the unique qualities of mud and dirt from all over the school grounds. I want all the Slytherins to take off your right shoes, leave it on the table in front of you and stand. Then Gryffindors, take off your left shoes-"

"All Gryffindors shoes are left shoes." One of them snickered quite loudly.

"Ten points from Slytherin for interrupting. Five for the insult. Another two for being clumsy about it and a final three because you haven't taken off your shoe yet." He didn't take off house points often, but when he did he made a game out of it. The blonde boy turned blonder somehow while his face reddened at the glares he was getting from his housemates.

"But-" Sherlock had outlawed the use of the word 'but' in this classroom.

"Five points from Slytherin." By then, the boy behind him had clapped a hand over his mouth before he could say another but.

"Now as I was saying. Gryffindors, take off your left shoes, leave them on the table in front of you and move to a spot on the Slytherin side of the room. Slytherins, find a spot on the Gryffindor side. If any student is missing a shoe at the end of class, I will know who took it. So don't try me Slytherins. I don't think you want to lose anymore points for today. John, give me your shoe."

"That was a bad idea." I comment after the students had pulled their shoes on and dragged themselves out of class like they have weights on their necks. "They were all bored out of their minds. I don't think any of them understood a thing. Even Granger was hopelessly lost."

"Mm." He grunts in a broody sort of agreement. "I don't understand. I explained it clearly enough. I even showed how applies. But still..."

"You can't force them to want to learn about the composition of mud, Sherlock."

"But it's incredibly important. I've solved hundreds of cases by just examining mud composition." He makes it sound like he's baffled how people get by without knowing where the dirt on their shoes came from. Although I remember being just as baffled when I realized he didn't know about the solar system.

"That's you and your work. Most people just can't see mud as important. Even if you did succeed in teaching them how to identify dirt, they probably would never find a way to apply it to their real lives. Unless they go into gardening." I explain carefully, sweeping some of the stray dirt off the tables.

"But-"

"Five points." I jokingly bark his own rules at him. He groans and scowls at me from his desk, where he's picking at the bottom of my shoe with his wand. "Very few of these kids are going to go into law enforcement. And I know for a fact that none of them will grow up to be great consulting detectives. Yes, half your work is being able to differentiate one type of tobacco ash from another and knowing what mud comes from where. But you can't teach that to the kids because they're not you. They're not wired to pick out details like you are. To them, mud is just mud."He sighs hugely at tosses my shoe at me.

"I suppose you're... not entirely wrong." It's the closest he'll get to admitting I'm right about something. Like the last time he sincerely called lestrade smart, he said 'occasionally not as much of an idiot as most people are'. "I suppose I should also change tomorrow's lesson plan from dog and cat hair to... I don't know..."

"How about a lesson in how to run from something that's trying to kill you." I suggest, remembering all the times I would've died out on a chase if it hadn't been for my military training.

"I've already got two weeks planned out for that after the hogsmeade trip. It'll be split into small animals, packs of small animals, large animals, packs of large animals, people and mobs." I'm impressed how much thought he put into it. I always assumed he was just winging the lesson plan. Considering how spur of the moment most of he classes feel and how he never assigns essays or anything out of a textbook so he never had any grading to do. "Maybe I'll just do another run in tracking. They could use some extra practice with that."

"Mm. Now that we've got that sorted, what time is it? I'm starved."

"Just about time for dinner, but I don't particularly feel like being gawked at in the great hall. Lets just pick something up from the kitchens." I sigh in resignation. The kitchens always creep me out. Those weird elf things always seemed too... eager.

"Or... You could pick something up at the kitchens and bring it to the office..." I suggest, without much hope that he'd be that gracious.

"I'm not the one that has to eat and I'm not your delivery boy. If you want food, get it yourself." I knew it. "You do have to eat, Sherlock. Everyone has t-" I start up the old food lecture again. I know he never really listens, but I have to try anyways.

"Yes yes, If it'll get you to shut up, I'll get dinner." Sometimes I get my way in the oddest way possible.

Someone knocks at the door as I wait for Sherlock to deliver the food. I know it couldn't be Sherlock because he wouldn't knock. It is his office after all. I'm not sure who else it could be. Maybe another Professor here to make pleasantries?

I open the door to find a rather peeved looking Granger at the standing behind it. Her anger dissipates a little when she sees me standing in the door.

"Where's Professor Holmes?" She practically demands, looking like she's about to murder small animals. My stomach drops when I think of what Sherlock must've done to make her this angry. Putting him in a building with hundreds of children was never a good idea. Like putting a rhino in a china shop. I'm surprised there haven't been more casualties thus far.

"What'd he do this time?"