There was a note scrawled in red pen at the top of his outline when it was handed back. "See me after class -SH." John glanced over the rest of the pages. There were a few corrections, but it looked fine to him. He wondered why his chemistry teacher wanted him to stay after. Hopefully he wasn't failing already. He had practice after chemistry, so it had better be a quick meeting.

Students tumbled out the door, anxious to get out of the classroom with the demanding and ruthless teacher. John waited behind, slowly packing his books as he watched the throng spill into the halls. He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed to the front of the room, where Sherlock sat at his desk, his fingers steepled in front of his chin.

"John."

"Doctor Holmes, you sa- "

"Sherlock. Call me Sherlock."

"Okay, uh, Sherlock, you said you wanted to see me after class?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, focusing his steel eyes on John's face.

"I'm not failing, am I?" John asked nervously.

"No, no, you're doing fine." Sherlock waved his hands to dismiss the comment. "I actually wanted to ask you if you would be interested in joining me on a research project. It would be quite beneficial for your medical school application."

John raised his eyebrows. "Me? Uh, a research project? I don't know. Don't you want someone older, with more education?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I'm asking you because I want you to help me with my project. Your lack of intelligence shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Lack of intelligence. Thanks. That convinced me." John began to turn away.

"Wait... John... I didn't mean it like that. I meant, you're not like me."

"No one's like you," John replied bitterly, standing still with his body halfway turned towards the door.

"Yes, well..." Sherlock shrugged. "I've upset you."

"Maybe you don't realize, because you're a sociopath," John heard himself say, "but people generally don't like to have their intelligence criticized."

Sherlock winced slightly at the words. "John, you're not dumb. You're brilliant. It's pretty obvious to see already that you are superior to your peers. You're just not... excessively bright."

John laughed, still insulted. "Excessively bright? What the hell does that mean?"

"John, I can name you two hundred and forty three different types of tobacco ash off the top of my head. I think that makes me far from average."

"No way. You're making that up."

Sherlock began rambling off a list without even blinking. John held up his hand in protest. "Alright, alright," John said. "Okay, I believe you."

"So will you work with me?"

John pondered the idea. "One more question."

"Do tell."

"Why are you picking me?"

Sherlock sighed. "It always comes back to this. Because you're different."

John bit his lip. "I... I don't want you seeing me as a victim. You don't owe me any special favors because of some bruises you may have seen."

"For starters, I did see the bruises. And I'm not sympathizing for a victim. Please. Sociopath, remember? I'm picking you because you might actually be of some use to me. Or at least more so than most of the dimwits that wander these halls."

John glanced at his watch. He needed to get to practice. "Alright, I'll do it." He turned quickly to leave, not wanting to be late.

"John."

"Sherlock, I'm gonna be late for practice!"

"I just want you to know I'm not a psychopath."

John blinked. Sherlock's face was usually stoic, refusing to give anything away, but John thought he could just catch a glimpse of desperation in the grey eyes. "I know, Sherlock." He rushed out of the door as to not be late, reaching the locker room out of breath for two reasons. One, he had run through the hallways. Two, the sight of those grey eyes pleading his for some sort of understanding made his head dizzy and his legs wobbly and his lungs forget to breathe. They were stunning and beautiful and John tried desperately to remind himself that this was his teacher he was thinking about but it was hard sometimes when Sherlock was only a few years older and wore tight shirts and smiled at him like that and... John punched a locker. The pain throbbed through his hand and he tried to focus on that instead of the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

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