From mrspencil: Holmes' school report

Sherlock and I shared a dormitory at the University of West London. His enrollment lasted one sole fall semester, from the muggy days of late summer to the frigid, leafless days leading up to winter break. Snow came late that year. The first snow fell as I walked down the stone steps of the mathematics building, my last exam of the term complete (damn professor almost failed me for arriving late to class), but by then Sherlock was already gone. I think I was one of the first, and very few, to know the details of his departure..

When we first met in early September, I apologized for forgetting his name and face. I assumed we must have made introductions over drinks at last weekend's orientation event. Not introductions over my first drink, but probably closer to the end of the night, after I had already downed a few too many. My memory and next-day-appetite suffered for my overindulgence. How else could Sherlock know about my hometown of Bournemouth, my work as a fisherman, and my major in mathematics?

Sherlock assured me that he hadn't attended the orientation party. He explained plainly how a smattering of small details exposed so much of my identity. My accent was that of a southern Englishman (I always thought I had covered it well until then). My shoes had traces of coastal sand stuck in the ridges, and I had tied the laces with a common fisherman's knot. Sherlock correctly deduced that the scar on my right thumb was from a mishandled fishhook, and the faded blisters on my palms were from grappling with coarse boating lines. He figured my passion for mathematics owing to textbooks stowed under my desk, and the way in which my penmanship appeared influenced by the curves and swoops of mathematical notation.

He was damn sharp when he wanted to be. I thought he had the mind of a brilliant statistician: a modern Gauss. Sherlock was able to draw endless inferences about someone's identity, whereabouts and innermost thoughts based on a small sample of tangential observations, narrowing in on truth through precise deductive reasoning and spot-on intuition. As an instance of Sherlock's pseudo-psychic skills of perception, I recall a midday meal at a bakery off campus. I lost myself in thought as I picked at a pastry, and sipped a cup of hibiscus tea. I hadn't mentioned it to Sherlock, but I planned on seeing a London local later on, a woman named Emma. Two tickets to an evening show were buried in my pocket. I wanted to get a small gift for Emma, and as I gazed out the window I internally debated between a bouquet of flowers or a piece of artwork from a street vendor.

Sherlock set down his pastry and spoke aloud. If it's between the watercolor and flowers, then I'd go with the watercolor.

I stared blankly across the table. Now hold on a minute… How did you… How could you have possibly…!?

Amused at my shock and confusion, Sherlock recounted a string of observations and deductions. Based on (1) my quiet admiration of the painting of a cityscape on the wall, (2) the contemplative expression on my face as I looked out toward the distant Victoria Tower, and (3) the calculating expression that followed (along with (4) the subconscious act of fingers grazing my wallet pocket), Sherlock assumed I was actively remembering the street artist we passed on our way here. Pausing at his booth, I paid special attention to his red-pink watercolor of Victoria Tower. The brushwork caught my eye. Apparently, my momentary interest hadn't gone unnoticed by Sherlock. Having shared a room for over a month, learning my tastes and habits, Sherlock doubted I would purchase the painting for myself. Who then was the likeliest intended recipient? He noted (5) my freshly trimmed hair, (6) polished shoes, and (7) recently purchased cologne (back at the dormitory), further deducing my plan to see Emma in the near future.

And the flowers?

(8) My reaction to the sweet smell of my hibiscus tea, and (9) lingering gaze on the old woman selling roses at the end of the block, clued Sherlock in on my flower purchasing ruminations. Sherlock told me the flowers were overpriced, and again advised me to buy the Victoria Tower watercolor, if anything. I could hardly contain my amazement. He could read my thoughts as if I spoke them aloud.

We attended different lectures, and yet I admit I asked for his opinions on a few late-night calculus assignments. My inability to understand my professor's theorem was more confusing to Sherlock than the problem itself! He had no problem with mathematics, but Sherlock's forte was chemistry. He often spent half the day or more at the university laboratory. I heard his methods were unorthodox, but his results spoke for themselves, regularly yielding faster and more precise solutions than his classmates and instructors. One night, over cigarettes, I asked Sherlock about his passion for physical science. He was in a good mood, so he told me about boyhood tutoring sessions with his chemist aunt. Sherlock's parents died when he was a young boy, and so he and his older brother bounced between an eclectic network of family and friends, many of whom were academics or scientists of some sort. As he moved across England, he learned a smattering of science, mathematics, history, language, music and athletics. Sherlock's aunt worked at a mortuary. His eyes lit up as he described his misadventures at the mortuary. He spoke about death with such lively enthusiasm and exuberance. I think in Sherlock's eyes, the living and dead weren't so different. The living grow, and the dead decompose, but it's the same fundamental matter undergoing different sets of chemical reactions.

By my recounting, you may be under the impression that Sherlock was a perfect student. That would be a stretch. He had a bad habit of skipping classes that didn't interest him. I never once saw him reading the assigned books from his eighteenth-century English literature course, and he slept through his astronomy midterm. By the end of the semester, he had amassed half a dozen noise complaints for playing the violin late at night and early in the morning. I once found him asleep on the dormitory stairs, shivering in the cold, mind saturated in a cocaine solution of his own concoction. I carried him inside before any faculty had a chance to find and reprimand him.

In October, Sherlock picked up boxing. We were sparring partners on the weekends. I outweighed him, and had a few extra inches of reach. I could throw a harder punch. Even with my natural advantages, Sherlock was no easy opponent. His wiry frame was agile, his reaction speed uncanny, and his footwork was meticulous. It was as if he always knew when and where I would swing next, and where my defense was most vulnerable. Each boxing match felt like a chess game, every hook, jab and step part of a deliberate, tactical sequence.

One Saturday in November stands out in my memory. Sherlock got the better of me in a few short bouts, and as we grew tired our fighting forms grew sloppy. He gambled on an uppercut, grazing the edge of my chin, and leaving himself open for a counter. I leaned in to deliver a right cross, but something held me back. At the last moment, I pulled back half the force of my punch. I think, in that instant, I imagined some form of divine punishment would surely befall anyone that damaged a brain like Sherlock's. I thought his intelligence and creativity would bleed out of his ears, and I had the urge to protect him like a delicate instrument or a fine piece of artwork. Sherlock stopped the match in anger. I'd never seen him so emotional, cursing me for going easy on him. He preferred a broken nose over a sting to his pride.

A week before the start of final exams, I returned to our dormitory to find an open letter on Sherlock's bed, his progress report. He was failing half of his courses: literature, philosophy, astronomy and politics. He was losing his scholarship. I don't think it was an accident, leaving the report there in plain sight for me to find. That night was the last I saw him, as he returned late from the laboratory.

What are you going to do, Sherlock? Is there any possibility of saving your grade?

No. Sherlock told me that he wouldn't be staying at the University of West London.

I thought it was a terrible waste. He didn't see it that way. He explained that he had no more need for the university. The head of the chemistry department offered him work in central London. He was going to perform research with, and learn from, professional chemists. By the sound of it, Sherlock would be practically running the operation himself. Part of the deal included a private flat on the Thames.

After he packed his bags, we enjoyed our last cigarettes together. We chatted about musical theory, and Sherlock told me about the violin store down the street from his new Westminster flat.