[[Author's Note: HahahahaIshouldbeworkinghahahaha. I own nothing but the OCs and regrets.]]

"Don't do that thing you do where you don't make eye contact just to make people squirm."

The door slammed shut behind him as he reached the classroom ten minutes late. "Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure, I'm sure. Mobiles out of sight or they are mine." Sherlock's deep baritone echoed ominously across the auditorium. He had barely looked up at the hundred students packed into their seats while he wrangled off his suit jacket and folded the sleeves on his shirt up to his elbows.

"I have a teaching plan, please don't stray from it."

He flipped through the thick portfolio, neatly prepared with Addie's lesson notes, color-coded and highlighted on the points she really wanted to drive home. A flash drive sat nestled in a little pocket inside the front cover, containing that day's slides. He ran through the papers like a flipbook, twisting his mouth into a frown when he reached the end. He promptly tossed the portfolio onto the podium.

"Let's see if you lot have learned anything in this Introduction to Biomaterials course." He hopped onto the surface of the table set up at the very front of the auditorium. It wasn't until now that he had bothered to look up at the wide-eyed students for any length of time. Preternatural eyes flitted over the faces, prodding, looking for the weakest of the pack; hunting.

"For the love of everything, Sherlock, be nice."

The victim was a willowy sort of bloke, blond hair messy and sticking out in all directions. He shrunk into his seat the second Sherlock's eyes had stopped its trail to double back to him. "Let's talk about murder, shall we?"

The boy swallowed, all color draining from his freckled face. The whole room had turned into a noiseless vacuum, where only the roaring of his pulse was of any consequence to his ears. "Sir?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet, teetering slightly on the knee he had just had repaired, but ignoring the bite of pain that came from the maneuver. "Suppose that you're want to eliminate someone–a know-it-all classmate– but don't want to get caught. How do you do it?"

"Why would you want to–?"

"They're annoying. They're your wife's student and spend a little too much time picking the perfect seat at the front of the classroom and emails a little too often to be normal concern for their professor..." he trailed off, catching himself mid-rant and sighed. "The reasons are irrelevant, though I do suggest you focus on the fact that she has a ring."

"Naturally-derived, degradable scaffold." Sherlock tore his gaze from the trembling boy up front to a young redheaded woman sitting three rows back, legs kicked up onto the seat in front of her. "You'd have to play the long game, but it could be virtually untraceable."

A grin crawled onto his lips. "You've thought about this."

She shrugged. "We all have exes, don't we?"

The detective crossed his left hand over his chest while the digits of his right rested lightly over his lips. He was pacing, the students following his form like a metronome. "Suppose that you're not interested in the long game. Nor are you interested in untraceable, just don't want the hassle of dealing with Scotland Yard. Then what?"

"Er… Sir?" A brunnette raised her arm near the back of the room, her question echoing over the walls for a few seconds after she had spoken. "Is this going to be on the test? Also, where is Doctor Villalobos?"

"She was shot." There was a great gasp around the room, immediately followed by a barrage of questions that had Sherlock wincing at its sheer volume. He placed his forefinger and thumb in a half-ring form between his lips. A sharp whistle cut through the din of questions and the room fell silent. "She's fine. She's eating ice cream on the couch with the dog and cat; she just can't teach until her stitches are out," he growled, rolling his eyes. "I volunteered to help out since it was my fault she's bed-bound."

The annoying blond in the middle first row interrupted, eyes wide as saucers. "Did-did you…?"

"Are you asking me whether or not I shot my wife?" When he glanced up, perhaps to catch the gaze of someone who thought the notion was a ludicrous as he, he only found eyes that seemed to be wondering the same thing. "I didn't–I love my wife. More importantly, would I be teaching her class immediately after if it were me who shot her?" He mumbled a few choice words under his breath, much to the amusement of two or three people in the whole auditorium. "As for testing, assume that whatever I teach you will be a substantial portion of your grade. Now, again, short-term solutions. Things that can slip through the cracks."

"A shot of potassium–"

"No– what part of a giant needle stick and immediate cardiac arrest slips through the cracks?" He cut his eyes over at the man who had answered. "You've failed the course. Thank you. You may go." The student stared blankly for a few minutes before Sherlock gestured him the door with no little measure of insistence. "Anyone who just lowered their hands because they were about to offer the same answer can join him." Eight other students rose from their seats with frowns.

"Botox injection tainted with botulism." Another voice echoed from the middle of the crowd. Sherlock smirked, nodding thoughtfully.

He stopped his pacing, just long enough to rub an ache on his leg. He shouldn't have been walking on it, and John would tell him off for hours afterward, but crutches were bothersome and he wanted to flexibility to run and jump and move. "Good one. Would be easy enough to blame a bad lot of Botox, but let's assume this person isn't in the business of eternal youth."

"Infection from an implant." The redhead quipped, tilting her head with curiosity.

Sherlock pointed at her, narrowing his eyes. This intrigued him. "Explain."

"An improperly sterilized material could cause a localized abscess that could causes sepsis. Or better yet, a material that was thought to be anti-fouling causes an adverse immunological reaction and the person goes into shock."

The detective clutched at his heart, cooing. "Beautifully creative. Effective and painful." He frowned at a handful of students staring back at him in horror. "Third and fourth rows from the top. Any suggestions?" They all gave shakes of their head, still wide-eyed and scared. "If you're going to be making product that will go into circulation, you might as well know the full extent of your capabilities. This might sound like it's in terrible taste–and it is, which is why it's fun–but it should be informative. What will you do if called to a witness stand and you never thought of how your materials could be used?"

"They're not meant to be used outside of manufacturer suggestions," a young woman in a pristine bun and pinched face spat.

Sherlock guffawed. "Yes. Never mind that they've killed a person, but they didn't even follow instructions! The horror!" There was a titter across the room and he gestured vaguely at the crowd at the top. "If you're too morally disgusted by the discussion, you may go." Students started picking up and filing down the rows before Sherlock spoke again. "Of course, that does mean that if you were hopeful for a spot in Doctor Villalobos' lab, you will be forfeiting your chance."

"I'm serious, Lock. I already chose the students, don't meddle."

"You don't get to decide that. Doctor Villalobos is not a psychopath."

His lips twitched at the term. It had been a while since anyone had called him a psychopath–he almost missed it. Folding his hands behind his back, he took the stairs up the central nave of the auditorium. "Can you be sure of that?"

The Bun, as he now knew her, scoffed. "Of course. Doctor Addie is reasonable and takes into account the experience and drive behind–"

"I think I might need to reiterate that I am, indeed, married to her. The psychopath–well, high-functioning sociopath." He grinned. "And I can tell you right now, your resume fell to the bottom of the pile as soon as it hit her desk," he added, lowering his voice so only she could hear him. "You lied six different times on it. Don't think that slipped past." Though the Bun remained staring, mouth agape, the other students filed past in a jog, trying not to get caught in Sherlock's crosshairs.

He returned to the front of the room, surveying the thinned out crowd with another calculating look. "You." He began pointing. "You. You. Definitely you. You. You. You." He continued until he had pointed out about twenty students. His eye caught the blond in the front row. "God, a million times you," he groaned, pointing at him. "Out. Game over."

"What? You can't be serious! I have a perfect score in this class."

The Blond was wearing his patience thin. "Congratulations. I'm sure that makes you feel very accomplished. Get out." If the rough tone wasn't enough, Sherlock's towering form looming above him was the impetus needed to grab his bookbag and stand. Sherlock grabbed his arms as he brushed past. "And if you could refrain from greeting emails with Addie dearest, I would appreciate it. I know she's pointed it out several times. Ta!"

He sighed, countenance completely relaxed once more. The group remaining stared back, curious as to what he'd do next. "Botox. Future Murderess. Bloke too afraid to say Turing's apple out loud. Come to the front. The rest of you can go."

There was a short murmur bristling through the group. "Will you be back next class, Mister Holmes?"

"Depends on whether Addie is feeling better. Think of ways to cover up murder for next class, just in case." Sherlock turned back to the portfolio, pulling out a few sets of papers that had been carefully placed to keep from getting creased. His fingers made a dent in them straightaway, and for a second he winced at thinking what Addie would say. "You three. Fill these out, take them up to Addie's lab and give them to Bill. You're expected Monday at 8am."

Murderess crinkled her nose. "I didn't apply to her lab."

"Oh, I know, but it would be socially irresponsible to leave you roaming the wild, unchecked," he quipped, exaggeratedly widening his eyes, making all three fall into chuckles. "Don't make me regret it."