It was the beginning of the new term. Sherlock had topped again, and he was getting very bored of it. He looked at the A levels of his annual report sheets from his secondary school days as he lay in his bed cosily, under layers of sheets, fully clothed and ready before time for the first time. . . there was A or A* in almost every single of them. He had this weird habit of taking out his old grade reports and laughing at how miserable he used to make others and their mundane lives for making his life miserable in the first place. All his grades were the same, and he hated the regularity, the uniformity of it . . . except for the parts which said "Responsibility". . . etc.
Physics: A*
Chemistry: A*
French (his brother made him take it even in Sixth Form): A*
/
/
/
/
/
/
Reading down, Sherlock came to the more interesting fields for marking. . . They always were so diverse in their grades. He decided that he liked his social grades more than his cognitive ones.
Responsibility: a straight E
Discipline: a beautiful U
Interest In Class: Sherlock thought that there wasn't any letter in the English alphabet which could give a definition to this aspect.
Participation in school activities: D . . . hell no, he started to protest inwardly, Sherlock had participated in Chemathlon and represented his school in. . . Well, almost nothing after Year 9. . . He tried not to recall that, except for the brief delight he had felt when he saw Mycroft's look of complete shock as the latter stared at his pinpoint pupils and his desiccated body.
Regard for School Property: Again . . . no alphabet in the English language.
Interaction with peers: Fascinating subject, he tried hard but . . . sadly G again. . . He still needed improvement in that, perhaps make that a U at least.
Overall remarks: Although a very bright child (Sherlock huffed at that), he lacks direction and motivation. . . Sherlock frowned at that and suddenly sprang up from his bed. In ten minutes, 221B Baker Street looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Or a typhoon. Or a cyclone. Or all three of them. He finally found what he was looking for: his Lower Sixth annual report sheet. He smirked at the 'Overall Remarks' column. The teacher had actually written the same remark for the Upper Sixth one as well. Word to word.
And now, here he was, the second term of university awaiting him. He was a sophomore, was what his mummy had happily called him after she had finished with squeezing him a giant grizzly-bear hug while Mycroft watched, amusement not even beginning to cover what emanated from his smug expression. Sophomore, the American term for second year, which regularly reminded him that he still had two years to go in university before he would be free to do anything he wanted to. He liked university more, and less, than secondary school. University gave him more freedom, made him seem like more of a nobody.
Being nobody was something he wanted and didn't want as well.
Sherlock had a love/hate relationship with university. The first time he had set his eyes on the lab, on the sophisticated equipment, which was, of course vastly better than what had been there in secondary school . . . he still remembered that excitement, the excitement to finally be able to get a hands-on on all of it, the feeling where he could see molecules dancing inside his head, 3-D ball stick models, the orbitals , the feeling of being powerful. . . of being able to do it all and know it all and learn it all. He felt like he could write a book on it all, the day he felt that PhD might be an option if he got to just work on. It had simply blown him away.
That was, until he learnt that they weren't allowed to use it as first years. Sherlock could remember the disappointment of going back and doing stupid dry test tube tests and trying to block out the sounds of his peers gasping in appreciation as their Borax beads gave the characteristic colour for the test.
The good thing about university was that not all people were jerks there, like in secondary school, where they made it a point to be jerks to everyone. But then, there were some horrible ones which usually caused the freshmen to take their own lives after a particularly disgraceful hazing episode, but Sherlock had survived that stage, thanks to an extremely cautious Molly Hooper by his side who pulled him away at the right moment, especially when Sherlock blurted his deductions out in an attempt of "small talk" with people. But it was better than Secondary School at any rate. University was full of adults who paid little to no attention to a tall dark-haired, lanky nineteen year old not-eating his lunch peacefully in the canteen with a little mousey-haired twenty year old girl (bless her heart) who sometimes wore cat-patterned jumpers and got weird looks from some of her friends around.
Speaking of which. . . Molly hadn't arrived yet. Sherlock always insisted that he should drive, seeing as Molly was new to driving, and frankly, she ran into anyone who even mistook the tar-paved road for the sidewalk. She could be a valuable asset to traffic police, Sherlock thought, seeing as how effectively she could keep pedestrians off the main roads.
He looked at his watch: twenty minutes to nine. His first class began at half past nine but that would be skipped because of the freshmen orientation programme, he thought with a sigh. He wished skipping uni altogether could've been an option, but it wasn't. He really did not want a certain fat git to climb up the stairs and drag him away to his house for such a trivial excuse. He was happier here, with Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner. He liked little old ladies, however tedious and chatty they could be. They fussed around him and loved him, and always made sure that he was cosy and comfortable, and that they remained his housekeeper, despite their claims to the opposite.
A horn blared in the street. Although it was rush hour and there were many horns blaring in the street, it was only Molly in Sherlock's experience who in her excitement could press the horn that hard. He grabbed his bookbag and his cell phone, smoothed down his short hair (Mrs. Hudson had insisted on a haircut and he was down with flu so he really couldn't protest) and donned a jacket over his jumper, rushing down the stairs speedily to greet her and her second-hand car.
"Hi Sherlock!" she waved at him happily, while discreetly pointing at someone sitting beside her: Gavin or. . . G somebody, her new boyfriend, probably, because Sherlock did not bother to commit that to her memory. Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw open the door to the seat next to the driver.
"Get out, or I'll have to sit on your lap!" he announced a royal decree. He didn't understand what Gavin was doing there. He didn't even go to St. Bart's or any other university. Then he remembered that he worked in an automobile shop two streets away from the uni building. He didn't even like him. He always took Molly away from him and distracted her from her much-needed study time.
Molly, and Gavin. . . maybe, stole a look at each other. She looked embarrassed, "Sherlock," he recognised it as her pleading voice; "you can take the back seat. Please—"
"No!" he said firmly, "I always sit in front. I never sit in the backseat," He threw a murderous glance at the aforementioned inviting seat, "G, erm . . . Gavin, go behind," he tried his best to be polite. "I always sit in the front. Besides, we're getting late," said he, very self important.
"It's Greg," said he uncomfortably, gritting his teeth.
"I can't be bothered to learn any more than ten names," he snapped at 'Greg'. "Now get out or I'll have to sit in your lap, which I assure you isn't a pleasant experience at all."
Molly grew red to the roots of her hair with embarrassment and looked at Greg sadly. Greg attempted a placating smile and squeezed her hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes, because they looked like they were being separated for eternity, instead of only ten-fifteen minutes. Unable to contain any longer, Sherlock threw open Molly's side of the door, "You go back too," he ordered. Molly looked puzzled.
"You are in no condition to drive," he drawled. "Go behind on the back seat with Graham. . . I'll drive."
Molly smiled; it sounded like a good deal, and she didn't have the heart to correct Sherlock on Greg's name this time. Sherlock ignited the engine, taking one look in the rear view mirror at the happy couple kissing in the back seat. He wanted to draw their attention to the third person in the car with a little cough like Mycroft usually did, but he rolled his eyes instead when he saw how content Molly seemed.
Although throughout the journey, Sherlock did not really let them forget that he was there. Whenever Greg grew a little too comfortable or a little too touchy-feely with Molly, Sherlock took a sharp turn, making Greg's head smack against the glass, and making her burst into giggles. She was a little too innocent to believe that Sherlock was doing this on purpose, but Greg could tell, and he sent him dangerous death glares via the dashboard mirror while Sherlock simply grinned away like the Cheshire Cat.
They reached the campus just before it struck nine thirty. Molly gave Greg a chaste goodbye kiss as they strode past the university sciences building centre and loitered around the cafeteria canteen, where Molly ordered a cold hot dog for herself as a sort of an "after-breakfast" and Sherlock sipped from her ice tea just because he could. They could see the crowd gathered outside the auditorium and swerved the other way, not wanting to be the "friendly sophomore and your seniors welcoming you to St. Bart's" to the poor freshmen at all.
"When's the class. . . or any class?" Molly bit into her hot dog while Sherlock fiddled with her calculator, trying to find the names of various elements to type in it.
"As soon as this orientation nonsense ends," he replied in a preoccupied tone, typing the name of another element into the calculator.
"We could've gone," she sighed wistfully, throwing a resentful sidelong glance at Sherlock. She revelled in the sense of being a part of the seniors now, and longed to feel a little superior over the first-years during the interaction with them, but Sherlock was going to have none of it.
"Dull."
"You remember ours?"
Sherlock did. It was the most obnoxious gathering he had ever been to. The first senior who had come up to welcome them to St. Bart's had begun the most awkward speech in the world with, "I was a bastard, I am a bastard, and I'm probably going to remain a bastard for the rest of my life. . . but if you ever need any help in Physics, I'm there".
Or something like:
"We here at mountaineering club welcome you to St. Bart's. We actually run a—er—couple of hikes in Wales during the winters, but then last year we had, um—we had some problems where we, uh—had five members go and we had seven members come back. . ."
Sherlock simply scoffed at the memory, mistyping 'mercury'. Molly sighed sadly when he finished with the 'y' of mercury.
"I know, he was the greatest singer," she spoke as if someone had broken her heart, "but death rid him of pain at least. . . oh, no!" She squeaked, horrified at her own exclamation, "I— I didn't mean it like—I didn't—I wasn't—I—"
"Who?" Sherlock abruptly switched to typing 'sodium' into it. When Molly realised that Sherlock wasn't paying all that attention to her rant, she heaved a grateful sigh.
"Never mind. . . so, d'you think we'll be free by recess?"
"Well," he shut the calculator off, scratching his head untidily, "You might be asked to parade around with the idiots to teach the prospective idiots about how to be idiots—"
"Sherlock!" Molly's scandalised voice rang out. "Those idiots are our peers."
He nodded, as if that was what he was trying to say, "Exactly."
Before recess, Sherlock and Molly had had only one class each, Mathematics and Molecular cell biology respectively. Sherlock spent the rest of the time all alone in a queue for his library card (which had been taken from him by some seniors in a meagre show of power over him in his freshman year but Sherlock didn't try and claim it back because it was useless for him anyway, but now it turned out that the university required the previous years' library card as a temporary ID of some sorts till they're issued proper IDs) and contemplating the fine amount, which Molly had told him had increased to ten quid.
Sherlock had been pouring over an online article in the digital source section of the library when he was recognised and thrown out of there with a warning to never ever come back. And now he was in the canteen waiting for Molly to arrive and pour over her notes, but all that came to him was a text. From Molly.
Will join you in recess. Out with Cassie.
Sherlock did not bother to think who this new Cassie person was. It sounded like the name of every new girl in town. He glanced at his watch. He still had twenty five minutes before the start of a class which probably was going to be there: anatomy.
And then he recalled to himself that Mr. Blake had retired from St. Bart's, going by how morose he had looked when he said goodbye to all of them before the summer holidays. Sherlock thought how someone could be even remotely sad while saying goodbye to uni students, especially to him. Well, Mr. Blake had always been an oddity. Even Molly agreed with him.
There would be a new teacher probably, he thought, or maybe a PhD student teaching them instead. Sherlock hated those classes, even if they were really rare. Even though they were in the second year of university now, he really didn't know how much they had matured over the summer. Or if they had matured at all, which they probably hadn't.
It was probably going to be a PhD student teaching them, Sherlock thought resignedly, watching a couple of men at work near the Faculty of Engineering and Technology Students' Union Office. Well, it was only the first day. No one attends classes on the first day, Sherlock thought, because that was the supposed to be a social protocol which did make sense after all. Even if the alternative (spending the day as a free bird and only roam the campus) could be very boring sometimes. The Mathematics lecture had been empty with the exception of himself and a few other dedicated students.
Sherlock gulped down some water and set towards the Arts and Humanities department with the intention to skip the anatomy class and the free hour after that, instead exploring the campus and learning what all routes had been opened and closed, something which he chose to do all alone because Molly kept hammering him with her inane attempts at awkward conversation and jokes about corpses and cats or cat corpses or corpsed cats or whatever. And because she spent half her time teaching some "friend" on her phone about something or other.
The one thing Sherlock wasn't averse to about St. B's was the vast campus. St. Bart's was one of those autonomous deemed universities, no affiliations so it had its own set of rules and regulations. For example, unlike many other stupid colleges (Sherlock's words), ID'd motorised vehicles were allowed inside the campus, but that was only because St. B's was mostly non-residential, housing only the faculty, the research scholars and a few undergrads.
Since Sherlock had lost his ID, it was useless for him anyway.
On the bright side, you could walk into the campus, or any other building except for the machine shop, the labs, the library and the medical college without an ID. You had the freedom to sit for your exams during any time of the working hours within a stipulated time period. You had five different official college fests over the year, but that was not a very lucrative thing for Sherlock. Molly however longed to go to those parties, longed to be included, but when she saw for herself how awkward she was at these social things, she stuck with Sherlock instead.
Sherlock walked past the East Building, which housed the University Students' Centre and Humanities Students' Union, where, he thought, students-soon-to-be-anarchists were probably hatching up another conspiracy to overthrow the Vice Chancellor as he tried to make out the various colourful messages they painted on blank posters. That was more or less their day job.
"Hey."
He turned around to see Molly with her notebook out for him. She had caught up with him near the New Academic Building. "Here's the notes. Don't know if you'll understand a word. . . but then. . ."
"Alright," Sherlock ran his eyes over them, browsing through the words and illustrations and her i's dotted with perfect little hearts. He decided that there was nothing new in there and he returned it back to her, instead diving into fish n' chips that she held out for him. Usually he was averse to food when it was time for food. But most of the time, he ended up munching on something or another, maybe a toast or a cupcake or even buttered scones.
"I heard you got into the Production without an ID today," Molly whispered, as if what she uttered was utter blasphemy.
"You should come one day when you're not too busy spending your precious time with the lesser mortals," Sherlock spoke as he crushed the scone into his mouth into a thousand little pieces. "Huge analog machines they've got there. Mycroft would be very pleased," he added in an undertone.
"What d'you reckon they're doing?" She asked, subtly pointing at the horde of people gathered around the litany of slogans posted on the too-small notice board. St. Bart's had one of the most politically active Students' Union in the country. Not that Sherlock was interested. At all.
"Whatever anarchists must do," he shrugged, "I'm not interested in student politics and all."
"It's exciting," she bemoaned longingly at the thought of inclusion.
"I'm sure I'll live," he said drily. Mycroft would be pleased at that too. "And it's me above it all, not the other way round."
"I wasn't talking about you," she muttered to herself, but Sherlock didn't hear it anyway.
They were so busy that Sherlock didn't realise that he was seconds away from crashing into someone. Molly, who had gone several steps ahead, registered Sherlock's absence and noticed the tall gangly teen on the ground, along with a slightly older, shorter man massaging his head, also fallen down, the crisps all spilled on the road.
"Excuse you," was all the man could manage as he let out a quiet curse with that.
"Sherlock!" Molly gave a little squeak and rushed to help him and the gentleman, who had been carrying an armload of papers which were now stained with mustard sauce and mayonnaise. She began apologizing profusely as Sherlock helped her collect those papers under her fierce glare. He made a small stack of it, as Molly gathered the majority of them and began apologizing to the man instead of Sherlock. He was short, blond, had black-framed retro nerd glasses, as was the common jargon, and he looked like a typical professor should.
"It's okay," he smiled good-naturedly at her, a kind smile, "You shouldn't have to apologize."
Sherlock handed him his papers, staring back at this man defiantly, who was looking at him pointedly, as if expecting him to say sorry for crashing into him. Before Molly could warn the older man that no one ever expected an apology from the great Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock blurted out, "Yes, you shouldn't apologize, Molly. . . come on, let's go."
Sherlock took her hand and marched away, only to be stopped by a clear of the other man's throat, "You should keep your eyes open when you walk, you know."
Molly closed her eyes, praying fervently to any God who was listening to her to not tip Sherlock off. But Sherlock, ever the stubborn brat, frowned at him, "S'cuse me?"
The man strode over to both of them, speaking very patiently and in a very steady voice, with an underlying hint of annoyance, "Well, thanks to you, I'll have to rearrange this stack of papers again."
Sherlock gave him a winning smile, "Then good luck with that, professor! I trust I have given you enough work to be busy with for the rest of the lunch," and before the other man could answer, he strode off with Molly at his heels, while she threw back an apologetic glance at him. The blond man merely smiled at her humourlessly, as if thinking why he even resorted to teaching when such students still existed in the world.
"Sherlock?" Molly called his name tentatively, to which he only responded with an acknowledging 'hmm' after they had put a lot of distance between themselves and the blond man, "That man you crashed with. . . was he really a professor or was he a senior you mocked for looking like one? Because if he was a senior, you're going to be in so much—"
"I thought you knew who the seniors were," Sherlock drawled as they ended up near the 60x35 banner saying that hazing was abolished in St. Bart's and were decreed a criminal offence by the Supreme Court of United Kingdom. Sherlock rolled his eyes at that; he knew how true that was. "I thought you made a rank list in the order of all of their "hotness"."
He said "hotness" the way a child would say "butt". Molly blushed pink at his exclamation.
"That was supposed to be a girls' thing, Sherlock. . ." She sat down on a bench in the Green Zone and patted away the dust so that Sherlock could sit beside her. "At any rate, he looked too young to be a professor and too sand to be only a PhD chap in here, you know. . . I mean all we've got is eighty-year olds!"
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock fished out a business card from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her as he sat down. It read:
Dr. John H. Watson
Ph. D Biology, MSc Biological Sciences
07700 900581
Molly looked appalled, "Where on earth did you get that?"
Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, taking Molly's calculator out of her bag again to punch in it the name of anything that was remotely scientific. He was sort of getting addicted to the little challenge that the scientific calculator provided him with, "It fell down. I picked it up as I collected his papers. Might help one day if I wanted to pose as a fake Ph. D. . ."
Molly laughed, giving it back to him. "In that case, you should keep it carefully."
Sherlock smirked. Only she got his humour all the time and that's why he liked her company, besides using her as a smokescreen while dealing with anyone who Sherlock deemed too stupid. Molly glanced at her watch. It was probably time for them to go for their lectures. When she saw Sherlock trying to type in "ununbium" into her calculator, she seized it away, "Give me my calculator back!"
"It's fun," Sherlock pouted.
"You know, other guys type words like. . ." she faltered, embarrassed by what she was about to say, "well, you know."
Sherlock craned his neck towards the throng of freshmen near the main entrance of the central library building; the freshmen were all probably getting their library cards issued, "Do I look like most guys?"
"S'pose not. . . so, what have you got now?" she asked, running her eyes through her schedule.
"Anatomy theory, Room no. B40," said he disinterestedly, waving his schedule about in front of her eyes while Molly shone with happiness.
"Me too! I wish it's Mr. Blake this year as well."
Sherlock helped her up, trying not to dampen her spirits by informing her that Mr. Blake had left St. B's, or had been kicked out on false charges. "I thought you considered him an oddball."
"Doesn't mean I can't like him. After all, you're an oddball too, but you're still my best friend."
Sherlock froze upon hearing it, and Molly turned around to look at him, slightly worried.
"What happened, Sherlock? You okay?"
Sherlock looked at her as if she was an alien, but in which case also he wouldn't have looked at her so intently. Finally, after minutes of motionless staring and patient take-your-time looks from Molly, he took a breath down his oxygen deprived lungs, and swallowed. No one had ever said that to him.
"I'm your. . . best. . . friend?"
Molly looked at him incredulously, and then broke into adorable giggles. "Of course you are, why else would I put up with you and let you treat me as your personal smokescreen all the time?"
He thought very hard for a moment, "But. . . what about your. . . girl friends? You've got loads."
"They're boring," she shrugged, trying to come across as nonchalant, but her eyes were shining, ". . . and they're idiots."
Sherlock let out a chuckle, "I told you so."
"So, you ready to go to class now?"
He nodded, a little surprised at being called someone's best friend. As he gulped down water down his throat, he thought. Best friends, interesting. . .
"So. . . if you're my best friend. . . does that entitle you to complete my lab journal for me like you did last year?"
"Shut up."
John heaved a tired sigh. The student he had collided with had spilled all the mustard sauce and all the mayonnaise on his research papers. Well, he was only lucky it hadn't stained more than three papers, he had a soft copy on his computer. But then, whoever that student was—because he looked young enough to be a student but then he had seen younger looking people who were actually PhDs (And what exactly possessed the younger generation to look younger than they were? After all, they eventually had to get to forty, hadn't they?) —he was sort of rude. Not that he was the only one who was rude. Everyone made a point to be rude now-a-days, as if that were in fashion.
Poor girlfriend, he thought, apologizing for the kid.
John made his way to the PG science building and shut the door of his office behind him, collapsing in his chair. There were so many formalities left to complete, and the recess time was the only time he could do it, which for him was only for a maximum of fifteen minutes because the senior batch's class ended at two-twenty which he could always dismiss five minutes earlier and then sophomores had a class right at half past two, their recess timings being different. Half the professors had not even bothered to arrive. And John, just beginning as an undergraduate Anatomy teacher in there, did not have the habit of teaching a class after only effectively two minutes of lunch. He was not a girl on crash diets right before the finale of Britain's Next Top Model. He was a man in the prime of his life. He needed food, actual solid old-fashioned food down his throat, nothing like glucose aids or whatever.
And St. Bart's campus was so goddamned large that getting lost was a sure thing. How could students make their wake through the roads which seemed to curve into themselves? Even though John had a map in his phone, he could make neither head nor tail out of it. He kept ending up in the Arts department, sometimes even near the wicket gate which led to the St. Bart's medical college. University Sciences centre had gradually become easier to find, because it had a landmark, the "Green Zone", a park sort of place where flocks of students usually hung out, about a couple of yards away from the main gate of the University Sciences Centre and the Alumni Association building next to it.
Canteen was a trickier affair, you had a short cut and a long route, and you were likely to get lost via both of those routes. Hence, John had chosen not to go for the senior batch's class, instead seeing for himself all the places he needed to know at the least: the Central Library, the department library, the canteen, the exit nearest to the gate and the Old Building housing the administrative offices.
He closed the door behind him and unwrapped the hotdog in the cling wrap, devouring it as voraciously as he could. He was so hungry, and it was inhumane to burden poor people like him with formalities.
He looked resignedly at the small stack of papers and files and then around at his office, the air-conditioning and the heating, at the paper weight and the pen stand and the desk lamp. This was his life now. It was irrevocable. It had been permanent the day he had gone into biological sciences and realised that MBBS was something he'd better not long for. Had he told his father that he only wanted to be a doctor and that he had no plans for the Army, that would've been a better plan, and he would've done that. He would've, he had been going to do that, not tell them about his enlistment forms and deal with the going away part later. But then, fate had something else stored for him. Something entirely different.
He shook his thoughts away. The office wasn't half-bad, actually, he thought for the hundredth time, as if consoling himself. The chair was comfortable, the woodwork of the desk was actually good and they had managed an HCl computer and a decent inkjet on the desk. That wasn't the problem. Somehow, the office felt small, as did the rest of the classrooms, as did the huge university. So small. Was this him? Was this anything like him? He didn't know what to do here but teach and give out assignments and hope that students liked him. He didn't know.
And John was never good with what he didn't know. He relied on knowledge based on data, on guidance. He was alone here, and even though he was a hierarchy above the most of the population in university, he still felt powerless.
He took his glasses off. Even if the eye doctor said that he had power and he needed those glasses for reading, they somehow muddled up his vision.
It took Sherlock two more lectures (and a Molly Hooper being dragged away from him and into some stupid welcoming committee for the freshmen)—that was missing the Anatomy lecture and the free period after that—to end up in front of the Sciences centre and enter the building to make his way to the classroom. As he reached the third floor, he could hear immature shouts and screams. Sherlock sighed. No teacher, probably, and no class. He knew what was going to hit him just as he entered the lecture hall full of rogue students. Well, they could go to hell.
But then sitting in the classroom was a much better option as compared to roaming the campus under the sun, even if it meant being surrounded by people.
It was Organic Chemistry, the last class for the day, Sherlock's all time favourite. He usually settled in the last bench comfortably, arms crossed over the chest, legs stretched to their fullest with Molly beside him, who always wanted to sit in the front rows, but Sherlock never liked the front rows. In the back benches, he could do whatever he liked if he ever got bored with the lecture, plus he got to watch people instead of the other way round, giving him an opportunity to study what puzzled and fascinated him the most (although he never admitted it): human interactions. He loved interactions, loved chemistry because of this very reason, and the back benches gave him ample opportunities.
But now, being a little late, Sherlock approached the classroom cautiously, almost tiptoeing his way and peeking into the classroom. The last benches came into view. Most were seated and shouting, noisy and completely out of control. Although they were all very loud and obnoxious, there was no one outside the class, no one loitering in the corridors. It was all very odd. Usually, most of the class didn't bother to be present when a teacher wasn't present, more so when . . .
No, Sherlock could see a figure hunched near one of the desks in the front, leaning over and listening to one of the students . . . was that the professor? He didn't look like one. He looked. . . young, styled hair, purple belt sticking out, top two buttons of his Versace unbuttoned, probably a gift because he had no watch even if he was in the habit of wearing one and was obviously very meticulous and he couldn't possibly forget it, going by the perfectionist ribbon-like tied laces . . . perhaps a senior who had to get to his next makeout point before time after having introduced to them some rubbish about the SN1 reaction mechanism, the only thing he could read on the chalkboard.
Sherlock was so glad he had almost-missed the class. And so pissed that he hadn't missed it.
The chalkboard was filled with graphs and energy diagrams and labelling, and it had been rubbed with a duster several times over. This was a senior/professor who wrote date on the topmost left corner of the board. Never heard of one like that.
As Sherlock entered the classroom, or rather strutted inside, without any regard for anything, the entire class turned at the metallic screech of the door hinges as he slipped inside. The senior/professor also looked up and Sherlock continued walking, taking his usual place in the back benches after spotting a wide-eyed Molly Hooper in the front rows. She did get scandalised over the smallest of things.
Even after Sherlock had taken his seat, the senior/professor continued to stare at him, dazed and astonished, his mouth hanging open with a steady blink, right within an interval of two seconds. Sherlock didn't understand. He hadn't done anything extraordinary and yet the screaming had turned into raucous laughter from the boys and giggling from girls' side with the exception of Molly, who mouthed to him a Are you out of your freaking mind?
FHI, he wasn't. He never was.
The senior/professor straightened up with narrowed, immensely irritated eyes at Sherlock, turned away towards the front of the classroom and proceeded to take the attendance. Senior/professor taking attendance? Well, that was unheard of. Well, a senior/professor taking classes was mostly unheard of as well, and yet. . .
When Sherlock's roll number was called out, and when he simpered a smooth "present", the senior/professor simply shook his head and it seemed like he marked him as absent. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He had only been late, not absent, and now he was going to have a visit from Mycroft and several calls asking him where he had been. He wasn't a child; he didn't need a bloody chaperone. . .
"Hello class, sorry I'm late. . ." came a breathless voice near the doors. The same blond young man, Dr. Watson, came rushing into the classroom and with a tired sigh, took his place behind the teacher's desk, running his eyes over the students in the class. Well, nobody's sorry when a teacher's late, but Dr. Watson probably did not realise that. The laughter died down and everyone stared at him, flabbergasted. Some of the girls' necks turned towards him in attention, some of them drooling openly at him.
"Oh wow," one of the girls in front of Sherlock squealed in excitement, "Man candy is back!"
Sherlock frowned.
Who was exactly the teacher here?
He could see traces of chalk on the senior/professor's fingers, but he already knew that this Dr. Watson was a professor. And what exactly was he doing in an Organic Chemistry class when his qualifications clearly put him as an authority on life sciences?
"Yes, please go back to your place," Dr. Watson motioned towards the senior/professor with a wave of his wrist, evidently mistaking him for a rogue student. "I can't waste any more time like this."
The senior/professor didn't budge from his place and Dr. Watson forgot him when he looked like he had more important things on his mind.
"Good afternoon then, students," the buzzing murmur of interest which had arisen as a result of two teachers in the room who both claimed that it was their class was drowned by Professor Watson's mellow voice, "I am Dr. Watson, and I'm your anatomy professor for this session—"
Sherlock straightened up in his seat. Something was wrong, definitely wrong. He fixed his eyes on the back of Molly's head and she turned her head in his direction, eyes rabbit scared, asking him with her eyes about what the hell was happening. As if he knew.
Recognition crossed Dr. Watson's face when his eyes met Sherlock's during his examination of the whole room. He suppressed a smirk, maybe at the thought of finally punishing that smartarse kid for not saying sorry. Sherlock looked coolly at him, body language lazy and uninterested. A frown line crossed Dr. Watson's forehead as his eyes swept over the whole room, but Sherlock couldn't deduce why. Why would he frown at students he had never even met?
"—well then, I thought this was . . . well, never mind. I suppose we'll be taking the roll calls, shall we?" Dr. Watson cleared his throat, "Let's get started, then."
The senior/professor blinked twice, and Sherlock tried to figure which one out of them was in the wrong class here, or whether a new protocol of "teaching assistant" had been established in St. Bart's. Dr. Watson spotted the almost completed roll call sheet, and he looked like he was relieved.
"Oh, you must be the CR, yeah?" He nodded at the senior/professor, who kept blinking at him incredulously, "Thank you very much for the roll calls, you can take your seat now. I'll do the rest of the . . . uh, the honours."
"S'cuse me, sir," he began, "this is Organic Chemistry, second year. I'm their teacher."
Dr. Watson frowned at him. "What are you talking about? Look, I appreciate practical jokes, I really do. But not when my time's being wasted. Please go back to your seat, you're not fooling anybody."
"This is my class!"
"What—no! Room number B14, anatomy, third year—"
"No, this is room number B14, organic chemistry theory, second year."
"But," Dr. Watson frowned, "it's written in my schedule that—"
"You're mistaken, sir," he insisted. "This IS my class," he turned to the students for some support, but most of them were far busy being entertained by the war between the two teachers. Sherlock, for his part, took far more pleasure in crossing his arms over his chest, stretching his legs to their fullest and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, "you can check anybody's schedule here."
Sherlock had had his fair share of odd happenings throughout his nineteen-and-a-half year old life, but he had to confess, even though this was stupid, he had never really seen two teachers fight over who wanted to take the class. Had it been Sherlock in the place of any one of them, he would've bolted right out of there and sneaked into the medical college campus and used his authority as a teacher to stay in the mortuary as long as he liked. The one he had thought of as a senior was a professor after all, and the professor was in the wrong class and he was thinking that their organic chem professor was a student.
"It IS Chemistry!" A someone who wished for this to end announced from the other end of the class, "Dunno why this nutter's here, teaching Anatomy!"
Dr. Watson frowned in the direction of the speaker, who had effectively camouflaged himself amongst the many students. Maybe Room number B14 was supposed to be room number B19. He must have realised something similar too because he checked his own schedule and turned a violent shade of crimson right till his ears. If it was awkward for a student to end up in the wrong class, only God knew how embarrassing it was for a teacher to end up in the wrong classroom and accuse the other teacher of practical jokes. Sherlock felt a sort of sympathy for the poor new teacher as he muttered an incoherent apology to the teacher and the students alike, and rushed out of the class in top speed. The entire class burst into laughter as the senior/professor resumed writing the various kinds of theories constructed to explain the action of catalysts. But no one paid any attention to him, instead straining their ears for the poor Dr. Watson steering his way through crowds, calling out to people to make way for him.
"New teacher, wrong class, coming through!"
Sherlock joined in the laughter too, allowing himself to revel at Dr. Watson's inability to read the schedule properly.