A/N: Due to the rising case numbers of the Virus, universities are caught between going fully online and trying to limit the number of attendance lectures. I don't really know where that leaves this story, but with tooth ache I am trying to distract myself whilst not being entirely focused. -csf
Second.
Fresher's week ending and the first lectures are expected on campus. Among the most popular are Ms Chandler's Applied Calculus and Sherlock's Forensic Deductions. The first because apparently Ms Chandler is an elegant young professional prone to wardrobe malfunctions that are mildly embarrassing and mostly amusing, and no one understands Calculus anyway. The latter because of my mysterious friend who has become a legend in himself among London and beyond.
Expectations are quite bubbling for my friend's first appearance as masses of students make their way to one of the main auditoriums. Its capacity stretched thin in these social distancing times. Rows and rows of students sitting down to face the vast podium where the spotlights frame Sherlock's unruly jet black curls, and bring out the hint of opalescence in his pale, well cared skin. Sherlock busies himself with stacks of useless papers on the main desk as the hubbub grows in the room. I could worry about my shy, socially challenged friend, but that would be ignoring that Sherlock is as high functioning as he easily states. I'm not entirely convinced about the sociopath streak, but the detective can be very high functioning in anything he puts his mind to.
The lecturer raises a quick glance at the forming audience and immediately glances my way, as if finding in me some security blanket, I can tell he looks absolutely spooked.
Nothing to worry about, it's just like explaining your deductions at the Yard or a crime scene, I try to convey in a pacifying look back. I further glance at the swarming students, and then too I stop bewildered.
Quite a few are cosplaying Sherlock Holmes. What in the world—?
More blue scarves on this lecture hall than on the Everton football match stands.
I guess we can call these students Fans.
Good grief, some even have the same long wool coat!
This is not good. I promised Sherlock he could teach his perfected art of deduction, this is a mockery of my friend's powers and abilities. Trying to get on the teacher's good books, or do they actually think being Sherlock Holmes is about how you dress and look?
Get a haircut, will you? How can you see the crime scene with so much dishevelled hair over your eyes?
Is that a magnifying glass? Really? Where did you get it? An old theatre props store? Sherlock hardly uses his pocket lens – and pocket microscope too; big pockets – and he most definitely does not smoke tobacco from a pipe. Where did they even get that idea?
I groan and hide my face in my hand. Poor Sherlock, he won't take this well.
I take a few good deep breaths, and noticing the prolonging overwhelming anxious wait, look back up to my friend. He seemed to be waiting for me. With a stoic shrug of shoulders (perhaps he saw this coming) he once again gazes the audience with those steely grey eyes, commanding silence.
The volume in the auditorium drops in waves to an absolute silence.
Neat trick; never ceases to fascinate me.
'Professor Chandler's malfunctioning wardrobe has extended upon my class, I see. Third row, fourth seat along, I can assure you I don't investigate crime scenes without underwear as you so aptly seem to emulate, so perhaps stop doodling me in inappropriate ways?'
Sherlock once again glances at me, a deep satisfied smirk erupting in his features as we make eye contact, just for that split second he looks anchored in the acceptance and familiarity he sees in my presence by his side.
'Let's play the game', professor Holmes focuses again on the audience. I groan at once. He's got that maniacal look on him again, I don't know how he pulls it out of the hat so easily.
The one I never quite manage to stop in its tracks. Derailment of catastrophic proportions is imminent.
I clear my throat. He pays me no attention.
'You read John's blog, I imagine. Can I see a show of hands?'
Just about everyone raises a hand. I squirm on my seat, uncomfortable. I've been too candid about Sherlock in there. The picture of the man I painted in my blog is accurate enough, but perhaps not as censored as Sherlock himself would like to be.
I made Sherlock Holmes a public figure. Just as all celebrities, he's no longer seen as a full person, more of a quirky set of odd habits and easily identified traits, a boxed personality that can never encompass the full and incredible person I tried to describe throughout the years.
'Just about everyone read John's lurid prose, it figured. How about my own blog?'
Some young lady raises an eager hand and asks: 'You have a blog too?'
'Yes', Sherlock assures. 'Only it's scientific, non-speculative, accountable, independent, reason oriented and absolutely nothing like John's. Want the web address?'
'I guess' she mutters, as one would say Not Really.
'You'd find it most illuminating, much like the slow leaching through the scalp of your cheap home applied hair dye might actually be causing your right eye to twitch. Strawberry blonde is a touch juvenile after your boyfriend has swapped you for his first love, don't you think? Or the gentleman on the fifth row, five seats along, who leads a fake social media account under my name, and who today posted "I'm about to meet my hero". John can assure you I'm not a hero, never was and never wanted to be. I suppose that if told you lately your cheeks are abnormally flushed and you tried to conceal it with your girlfriend's foundation, that maybe you need to check the batteries on your carbon monoxide detector because it's probable you have a small leak building up over time. No – wait. The thin scratches on the back of your hand. You've got a kitten. Has he looked more sleepy of late? You better go get that kitten out right now.'
The bewildered students raises up tentatively from the fifth row, five seats in, and suddenly starts scrambling for the exit.
'Thank you, Sherlock!' he shouts after himself, as the auditorium door closes after him.
'That's Professor Holmes to you', Sherlock mutters, dignified.
An uproar surges from the audience, including calls for "do it again" and "John was right, it's blooming amazing".
Sherlock's expression softens somewhat at that, and again he looks over at me.
'And I didn't even poison them yet', he mutters my way, reshuffling those blank pages, ready to start again.
.
'That was very entertaining, John. I could share out loud what I normally deduce for myself and these transgressive young people seemed to actually enjoy it, as if I was some sort of cultural icon. But however much better this other side of the university life is being for me, I really regret I have taught them nearly nothing. I showed them what could be achieved, either through proper observation or persevering techniques, and now I must dissect my own deductions and find an approachable way of systematically convey how you deduce. To create a mathematical system of equations capable of leading any experienced detective to the correct deductions.'
We're sitting side by side on the campus grounds, in a nice bench under an oak tree. I'm nearly getting used to the double glances of those students taking up different course subjects that were not aware my friend was on site.
Sipping a sorry excuse for tea, I explain: 'They can learn from you, Sherlock, but they can't become mini versions of you, ready to take on the world at the police's side. You'll teach them something, but perhaps their talents lie elsewhere, ever thought of that?'
He blinks. 'Being a mentor is boring', he despises.
'So is being an idol after a while.'
Sherlock glances my way.
'I believed a mathematical approach was the correct way to go about, systematising what I do in order for them to pick it up in time for an exam or some coursework. What you ask of me... is much more difficult to execute.'
'Yeah, you need to learn from them too. And to care.'
'They are not you, John. They are boring and mediocre.'
'So am I.'
'Most definitely you are not.'
'For a genius you can be incredibly blind.'
.
Second week and the auditorium is packed. Sherlock has changed tactics and started insulting regularly his audience members, comparing them to a quiz show's audience, waiting to be entertained. The detective shooting quick-fire tirades about a projected picture of a crime scene berates every audience answer as he calls for clues of the perpetrator and modus operandi.
As I desperately try to signal Sherlock when he steps the line again and again, Sherlock just keeps rolling insulting deductions of the students that raised an arm to answer, faster and faster. He quickly insults half the class by the time the lecture is drawing to a close.
Some are too stunned to leave.
One gets up and asks Sherlock if he can teach him to be a jerk as good as him.
Professor Holmes dismisses the class at that precise point, and there is collective relief perceptible in the air as the students make their way out.
Coming over to me, as always sat on the first row, Sherlock explains:
'Apparently the university got several requests from students wanting to change to my course, so they asked me if I could gently ease some of the hopefuls away.'
'That wasn't gentle at all, Sherlock.'
'No, I was getting rid of dead weight. I want to keep only those students that can actually think, John. Isn't it kinder to redirect the ones who would be better at, say, home pottery lessons?'
I sigh and shake my head.
.
New nationwide virus restrictions means that plenty of students are self-isolating or would, for health concerns, rather study the course online. So Sherlock is about to have a first test run of the video conference call adapted to lessons. For that, we've come to Sherlock's corner office, a stuffy old closet space with a window as far as I recall it, that Sherlock intended to transform into a home away from home.
At least, I think that's why the stuffed vulture with spread wings overhangs the office door, looming over any trespassers. Where in the university's archives did he nick the taxidermy bird, I'm not sure, but someone should come collect it soon, along with the formaldehyde jar with the swollen brain – tropical illness, I diagnose – and the mummified hand.
'Oh, no, that's just trick or treat for Halloween, John. You like seasonal thematic holidays, I thought I'd put it there for you.
'What? No curare darts, no thumb screwing torture instruments?'
'The Health and Safety team are stricter than Mrs Hudson, they confiscated most items, I'm afraid', he laments in comical sadness. 'Now...' he pulls a chair to angle it under the vulture and sets up the webcam accordingly.
'Not in the slightest dramatic, are you?' I mock.
'John, whilst home working or studying we all had to choose how to portray ourselves to our colleagues, peers, subordinates. It's quite interesting how so many folks opted for the bookshelf background. And in those, the book titles chosen, the ornaments in front of the books, and of course the most universal lack of book binding creases – the tell-tale sign of a book that actually was read.'
'I though paper handbooks helped reduce the bounce back of sound waves throughout the call, avoiding annoying echoes.'
'Perhaps. But how many people actually know that?' he ponders. 'Windows facing gardens were a close second in the media, something in London only an elite can afford. Personal mementos creeped in week by week, from a child's drawing to a toy, a clever way of making yourself look more personable. But no actual child. That's actually going too far, it can severely disrupt the call.'
'Alright, alright, you've made your point. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they choose to present themselves.'
'In the absence of other clues I'd get in close proximity, yeah. Like a sweet scent in a diabetic person with their sugar levels too high, or a druggie's pupils reaction to changing light, or even a slight limp in a former army doctor.'
I smile.
'Fine, you do your thing. I'll join in through my phone once I stop feeling too self-conscious to find some chair to sit on, in front of your books.'
'Corner wall, John. There are some medical tomes for you there, doctor, will that do?'
He bloody well knows it will do just fine, as he's the one who decorated 221B anyway.
He smirks, triumphantly.
.
TBC
