AN: hello everyone!

Third chapter is here! I sympathise a bit with my poor John. I always make him suffer in some way or another in my fanfics (nothing serious, I promise!), but I love him too much to not make him my suffering puppet! (Forgive me, John!)

Anyway, I leave you all to the chapter! If you feel like, as always, drop a comment!

Exhausted for the sleepless night, at seven a.m. John crawled out of bed. He had to face once again the fact that there was nothing to eat in the house and he had to nibble some very old biscuits he couldn't even remember to have bought with two glasses of water. If that wasn't his worst breakfast, surely it was in the top five, the first on the list being an awful lamb chop he had eaten in Afghanistan. He could still taste it on his tongue and it brought him shivers of disgust. A half moulded biscuit was thousand times better, he thought.

He didn't need to go to university that day, because he had no lessons, but he still had to fill in some forms and surely had to revise some topics for the next lesson. He took it slowly and arrived at the university at nine o'clock. He spent the whole day reading a ton of books in the library, taking notes of parts he didn't remember, memorising everything he needed. To the students coming and going, he surely looked rather funny. Obviously no professor spent that much time in the library, on books as he was doing. He heard some of them softly giggling and saw some others pointing at him before leaving the place. At four p.m. he decided he had enough of everything and stood up, ready to go.

He had to do the shopping. He took the bus, got off at the previous stop and entered Tesco. Half an hour later he came out with three bags of groceries. Sufficient enough for a week and a half, he thought.

He returned home, cooked an hamburger and ate it with some salad. He then sat on the ragged armchair of the living room and switched on the TV, but he was so exhausted that he fell asleep seconds later. He woke up at midnight, with a stiff neck and with his left shoulder that seemed to have taken fire. He stood up and crawled to the bathroom. The taste of the hamburger was still in his mouth and he had to brush his teeth twice to make it vanish. He then moved to the bedroom.

He noticed he had forgotten the window open. The breeze that was invading the room was quite chilly and woke him up completely. He started to massage his shoulders and moved to the window to shut it. Instead he found himself inhaling and exhaling the cold night air. The street below was quite silent and he could only hear the muffled voices coming from the inside of the pub below, the buzz of the sex shop's neon sign and the cry of an ambulance in the distance. Three people were walking under the orange light of the street lamps, moving towards the bus stop.

The sky was crystal clear. There were no clouds and the moon spread his white light all over the city. John could even see two or three stars glittering on the celestial vault. It was rare in London such a spectacle, due to the light pollution of the city, and for this precise reason it was breath-taking. John lost himself in the view, until he started to have creeps all over his skin. September nights were still rather cold.

He shut the window and went to bed, in a blissful state. He slept peacefully until the alarm on his mobile phone rang at six.

It was the day of his second lessons and it was due to start at eight o'clock. He was grateful to the fact he had a good sleeping night, even if his neck was still sore from the nap on the armchair, at least his shoulder wasn't bugging him anymore. He ate a proper breakfast (tea, biscuits and scrambled eggs), had a shower and got dressed. He thus went to the bus stop and waited for the bus. It arrived a bit later than usually, but he was really on time, so that at a quarter to eight he was already in the classroom.

Some students were already sitting there too. There were ten of them, everyone busy with their own affairs: one was writing down on a textbook, three were chatting, one was texting on his mobile, two were looking at their own laptops, the other four were reading a book. He looked outside the window. It was a rather warm day differently from the previous two days and the sky was of a very deep blue. Here and there, there were white clouds drifting high up, but down on earth the wind was mild and tepid.

The bell rang and the horde of students poured into the classroom. He looked to see if there was Sherlock Holmes among them, but he saw no sign of him. The course obviously was a compulsory attendance one. It meant he had to give him a black mark. For some reason he didn't want, so he decided to wait for half an hour before writing it down. And exactly half an hour later (John was about to take his pen, while explaining the Configurational Stereoisomers of Alkenes) Sherlock Holmes made his entrance from the door at the back of the classroom. No one of the students seemed to mind or greeted him. He sat at the usual place in the last row, completely silent.

John noticed he didn't have either a bag or a backpack, therefore he had no books nor pens with him. As the young man sat down (John was eloquently introducing the Sequence Rule for Assignment of Alkene Configurations), he dropped his head back and started to stare at the ceiling. He hadn't even taken his coat off and all he did for the whole lesson was just looking up, not dropping his head back for a single second. At least he wasn't sleeping, thought John. Maybe he was even listening, although he highly doubted that.

At the end of the lesson John gave the students an assignment for the next week.

"Tomorrow we will continue with the Alkene Configurations, but I'm already giving you an assignment about that, so that you have an extra day to think about it."

And he wrote it on the whiteboard. Everyone copied it. Everyone, as always, except Sherlock Holmes, who was still looking up at the ceiling, blissfully unaware of everything else but his own thoughts.

On that same day John had the disgrace (yes, he called it a "disgrace" for a reason) to meet professor Sally Donovan. They met at the canteen, sitting at the same table. Another professor addressed to her calling her 'Donovan', therefore John knew who she was. She was a rather young looking woman, slightly dark skin, long black curly hair, big dark brown eyes and a nice smile. Despite the appearance, she was a nightmare. She badmouthed everyone: from the canteen assistants to the colleagues, from the students to the Queen herself. She had a foul word for everyone. But John soon discovered that her most prominent area of interest was, beyond any doubt, Sherlock Holmes.

"Has the freak done something new yet?", she asked to a blonde man, namely professor Maycomb.

"Well, the other day I found him in the laboratory with what it looked like a human eye…he was dissecting it, I think.", the man answered with disgust.

"And that's not even the worst of what he's capable. Remember the explosion? I'm still surprised he hadn't been expelled at the time. Or when he starts blabbering about private facts. One girl almost choked on her tears because the freak had told her in front of the classroom that her boyfriend was a compulsive cheater…"

The conversation went on for a while and the more it went on, the more John Watson couldn't believe his ears, the more wanted to punch Sally Donovan right on the nose. Sherlock Holmes was surely, from their descriptions, one of the most arrogant, childish, impossible man he had ever met, but he was a pale shadow confronted to the perpetual poison coming out from that young professor. He finished his lunch in a hurry, desperately wanting to leave the place before doing something he would have regretted in no time.

The afternoon passed so slowly that John thought it was never going to end. It eventually ended and he went home, still focused on what professor Donovan and his colleagues had said about the student named Sherlock Holmes. The explosion part was the one that was bugging him the most. What had happened? He wanted to know it so badly that he thought he should go to the police and ask if there had been any accidents in the university in the last two years. He discarded the thought a while later. It was a slightly creepy idea and he didn't want to become the "stalker professor". And for some unknown reason he was sure that Sherlock Holmes would have known what he had done in no time.

The day after he had the last lesson of the week with his second year students. No sign of the young man anywhere this time. He had waited more than thirty minutes before realising that Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to show up that day. He had to give him a black mark. He hated himself for it and cursed silently the young man for his complete lack of respect towards his fellow students, who had all decorously sat on their chairs during his two hours lesson, and towards the subject, which John was teaching at his best. But mainly he cursed Sherlock Holmes for he was showing his lack of respect towards him. He had mentally defended the young man the previous day versus Sally Donovan and John was now furious for having done it. After all he was just an arrogant young man, professor Donovan was right. He huffed and wrote the black mark down, thinking already of calling him into his office and make him understand that he couldn't just not attend the course and expect to pass the exams.

The first weekend after his first week of teaching passed rather nicely for John Watson.

On Saturday he went to see a free art exhibit in Chelsea. He enjoyed strolling down the little streets contoured by white houses. He enjoyed sitting at a table of a small café placed in a courtyard. He enjoyed the lovely warm weather while drinking an infusion of herbal tea made with roses, mango and blueberries, eating some scones with it. He enjoyed the art exhibit, obviously, but not as much as his walks around the quarter.

As he walked down a street he remembered the small conversation Sherlock Holmes had exchanged with the other man almost one week before. They were talking about a triple something in Chelsea. He wondered what was it about and who was the other men he had already met two times, always with Sherlock Holmes. A fellow student? He had seemed quite old to John Watson to attend university. Yet one could never say. The young man's father? No, he was too young for that. A relative? It could've been the case. But the reason why he had come to university looking for Sherlock Holmes remained a mystery. A triple what, in Chelsea? Was still the question that bugged John until he fell asleep that evening.

Sunday passed quickly. He had nothing important to do and decided to enjoy the still warm weather spending the day at the park. He brought with him a packet lunch and a chemistry book he had borrowed from the university's library. He sat under a tree and spent the whole day there.

Monday came fast too. It was time for his second week as a professor and he had started to think that he was rather enjoying it, even if it wasn't really his area of expertise.

At ten o'clock the lesson started as usual. This time Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his chair, but obviously wasn't following a single word of what John was saying. He simply looked out of the window and played with his blue scarf. Two hours passed like that and John was really getting frustrated about that behaviour. As the lesson finished, John addressed to the students.

"Before exiting the classroom, please put your assignment on my desk here."

Every single student moved to the desk. Even Sherlock Holmes got up and walked to it, but, instead of leaving his assignment on the table, he went straight to the door. He had done it on purpose, John was completely sure of that.

"Sherlock Holmes!", John shouted at him, while giggles came from all the other students.

The young man turned back, an annoyed expression in his eyes.

"Yes?", he asked in a lax huff.

"Where's your assignment?"

"Oh. That. Uh. Boring. Couldn't be bothered with it. Haven't done it."

Had he really said it so frankly? John couldn't believe his ears one more time. He hadn't even lied. He had just stated a fact like it was the most normal and obvious thing. The girl who was placing her papers on the table smiled resigned.

"He always does that, professor."

"Not with me.", and he turned again to the young man who was still standing in the classroom "You. My office. Now."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders. John picked up all the papers on the table, the briefcase and his jacket. As they exited the room, John feared that Sherlock Holmes would just go away and he was extremely surprised when he noticed that he was following him in silence. Nevertheless an amused smirk was visible on his lips. The student was finding the whole situation funny. John grunted in annoyance, ready to scold that insolent student about his awful behaviour. Three minutes later they were in his office and John realised he didn't even know how to start the conversation.

"So?", said the young man "Have you brought me here to play the game of silence?"

Arrogant prick, as always.

"No, Mr. Holmes.", he said calmly, weighing his words "You are in this office because of your disrespectful behaviour, because you missed a lesson last week and, mainly, because you haven't done your assignment and you seem to not care about it at all."

"But I do not care.", replied Holmes innocently "It was a boring assignment."

"Like my lessons, uh?", teased John.

"Oh, those are the worst.", answered the young man frankly.

John gawked at him.

"You won't get anywhere with your insolence."

"Maybe I don't want to get somewhere. And I don't accept speeches from a professor who isn't even a proper one! Even if he's enjoying the sensation of power that teaching is giving to him…", he remarked, teasingly.

John gulped. Was that Sherlock Holmes able to read his mind? He suddenly remembered all what the young man had told him about his own life the other day. He couldn't hold the question that was bugging him since their last brief encounter anymore. He swallowed hard and spoke:

"How do you do that? How did you know all these things about me?"

"Do you really want to know?", he honestly smiled.

"Yes, I do.", John found himself replying quickly.

Sherlock Holmes fixed his eyes on him.

"Army. That was easy. Your posture, your way of walking, of speaking, of moving says it all. Military trained. As for the doctor part: you teach organic chemistry, hard subject, but you have a deep knowledge of it, but not the deepest. I guessed you had attended a university course with it as facultative subject, so medicine it is."

John was staring at him agape, the young man stopped.

"Do you want me to go on?"

"Yes, please.", John said almost begging.

"Three years in Afghanistan. Your skin shows it. Your hands are tanned, so is your face. But they are both dry, slightly chapped in some parts. It means a desert place with little water to drink for a long time. Only three years of staying in the sand the whole day would have affected your skin that much. So army doctor, where to? Afghanistan or Iraq, obviously. Afghanistan was more probable, but I admit it was a lucky guess. As for the leg: you walk by limping a little and yet, while you teach, you never sit down. This means that when you are focused on something else you forget about it, so it doesn't trouble you at all. Psychosomatic, then. Left shoulder. You keep massaging it while you teach, it probably hurts still, so it means that is where you got shot. Am I wrong about anything?"

John was completely breathless. That Sherlock Holmes was…amazing.

"No. no.", he managed to utter "All correct. Perfect. That was…amazing. Seriously amazing."

"Really?", the young man raised an eyebrow.

He seemed somehow pleased and perplexed at the same time of what John had just told him.

"That's not what people usually say to me.", Holmes continued.

"And what do they say?"

"Piss off. Or something very similar in meaning."

John couldn't help but smiling. But then he remembered he was a professor and that he had to scold Sherlock Holmes anyway.

"Yet that doesn't mean you can just show disrespect to everyone, myself included. Especially: you can't just not do your assignment. They are useful for your personal growth."

"They are boring. I never do them. And you aren't going to change that."

Still an arrogant prick.

"If you did them, you wouldn't still be in the second year after three years of attendance!"

"Oh! I thought you had already read my folder. Thank you for the final confirmation.", he smirked "But not doing my assignments or not coming to your lessons it's not the reason because I'm still in my second academic year."

"And what's the reason, then?"

"I get distracted."

"By what?"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The person who had knocked didn't wait for John to answer and opened the door directly. It was the same man he had already seen with Holmes.

"Found you!", he panted like he had run a marathon.

"What's that, this time?"

"One woman, Southwark."

"Uninteresting."

"Wait until you see her."

"Ok. Ok. Coming.", Sherlock Holmes huffed.

John was looking at both of them, surprised. Triple, the previous time. One woman, this time. Were they talking about…sex? It was an obvious deduction.

"Who's on forensics? Don't say Anderson, please.", the young man continued.

The older man shrugged his shoulders. Forensics? Thought John. What had forensics to do with that? He shook his head. Maybe it was some sort of a code.

"Anderson no! I can't focus with him around. He's an idiot.", he pleaded.

"Was the only one available."

Sherlock Holmes nodded unenthusiastically and went out, leaving John Watson with a thousand questions in his mind. But three seconds later the face of the young man reappeared at the door.

"You're an army doctor…"

"Don't you say?", John teased.

"Any good?"

"Very", John cleared his throat "very good."

"Would you like to come with me?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I need your advice."

"About what?"

"You'll see."

John stared at the man for some seconds before answering.

"And you think I'll just come with you just because you asked me for advice on I have no idea what?"

"Oh no, you won't do that for that reason.", Sherlock Holmes grinned.

"Why then?"

"Because you asked me what distracts me. If you come with me, you'll see."

John was still staring at the young man.

"And because it'll be less boring than your boring, dull, tedious lessons. And because you're dying to know where I am going.", he grinned again. "Come on, doctor Watson!"

As magnetically attracted by Sherlock Holmes's words, John Watson followed him outside his office. That young man was right once again: he was literally dying of curiosity.