Chapter Text
The people of London were being ridiculously frustrating again. The air was thick with moisture and fog hung above head like a plague. It had apparently affected every person in the city. Where people were stupid, they were now excruciatingly so. Where people moved slowly, they now moved in slow-motion and it was driving Sherlock completely mad. His fingers drummed his thigh and one of his legs bounced in agitation as he sat in the back of a puttering cab. The driver of the offending, sluggish vehicle was equally lethargic with slow, deliberate speech and an absolute refusal to speed the cab up.
“Is there anyway you could go faster?” Sherlock muttered, digging his fingernails into the fabric of his trousers. Oh… Killing this cabbie would be so easy… Just reach out and asphyxiate him.
The driver looked up, adjusting his mirror so he could look at Sherlock in the back. “I’m going the speed limit mate.”
“Three miles per hour under,” Sherlock growled.
So. Bloody. Easy.
“You in a hurry or something?”
Sherlock locked eyes with the driver in the mirror. A slow, murderous smile spread across his face. “Not at all. But I’m seriously considering snapping you neck. And the longer I am in this cab with you, the more likely that is to happen.”
The cab sped up. Sherlock sat back in his seat, relaxing and watching as the city passed by in the window. At least things were now moving at nearly the same pace as he was.
* * *
The day inched by at a snail's pace. Every second dragged like an hour. Sherlock couldn't take how slow it all was. It was as if weights had been attatched to him, limiting his speed, his mind. These weights were people, professors, other students, all weighing Sherlock down. They moved about in their dull, unimportant little lives. God, Sherlock wanted to kill them.
It was good of him that he didn't. He kept his frail temper in check, only using painkillers once. Admittedly, it was a rather high dose and he practically floated through half the day, but by his last class he had come down enough that his nerves were as wound as ever. At least he was going to be in a chemistry class. Something that was actually useful.
Sherlock dug his fingernails into his thigh. The professor was already driving him mad. All he did was ramble and drone. He didn't get at anything important. And Sherlock needed to do something. He needed work. A puzzle to solve. Anything.
"He's rather boring isn't he?" A plain-looking girl, with far too much eye makeup whispered. There was a conspiratory, flirty smile on he face. It made Sherlock want to vomit.
The prodigy ran his eyes over her, attention immediately drawn to the purity ring on her finger and the cross-shaped bulge under her jumper. It said Christian. But the fact that the cross was tucked in rather than openly displayed informed Sherlock that she wasn't exactly proudly presenting her religion. The copious amount of eye make up partnered with the fact he could literally see the lace on her bra because her shirt was so low cut reaffirmed his deduction. She desperately desired attention to make up for the deep-seated insecurity about her appearance. Sherlock was not in the mood.
"Very boring. At least the subject he's teaching is more interesting than shagging you would be, so stop writing your number on that little piece of paper, I'm not interested." Sherlock smiled and turned back to the teacher. He turned back to her quickly. "And you might want to get rid of that purity ring if you don't plan to stay pure. It's a bit of a turn-off to some men."
"Hey! In the back. Quiet down!" The professor called to Sherlock huffily.
"How do you plan to make me?" Sherlock jeered. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, challenging the professor.
"There will be no talking unless you can solve the equation on the chalkboard!" The professor declared to all in the classroom.
Sherlock glanced up at the problem. It was simple enough. "As a matter of fact, I can," Sherlock replied.
"That's enough out of you!" Shouted the professor. Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, jaw working, teeth grinding. "Anyway," The teacher continued, straightening out his stringy hair, "This problem may look hard to all of you now. But, hopefully, by the end of the term, each one of you will be able to solve it. The exam will be working through this equation-"
"Really?" Sherlock scoffed. "It's so easy! Don't tell me that this is is supposed to be our exam!" He looked around the class, trying to find someone who would agree. But they all were so blank. No one knew how to do it. Sherlock was the only one.
"What did I tell you? Quiet down now or I shall have you removed from this course!" The professor cried.
"It's a wonder I haven't murdered all of you yet! This is stunningly simple! And not a single one of you morons can understand it?" Sherlock snapped, standing, his constitution finally breaking down. Heads turned, all eyes on him as he vented his frustration. "Look at the equation! Look at it! It's easy!" Sherlock demanded. He marched up to the gaping professor and snatched the little piece of chalk from his hand. In his messy scrawl Sherlock wrote out the problem. Even his writing was frustrated, chalk shrieking against the chalkboard as the enraged student wrote slowly, heavy, deliberately. As if doing so would make them understand. In a matter of moments it was, done, the equation balanced, solution worked and Sherlock turned back to the class searching their faces for any sign of understanding. He waited expectantly for an "Ah!"or an "Oh..." to show that someone grasped the concept. To show that someone got it. Instead he was met with vacant stares, blank faces. Dull, unintelligent eyes.
It was moments like these that Sherlock remembered how truly alone he was.
Sherlock straightened himself up, buttoned his coat and turned the collar up cooly. His glare was frigid as he gently set the chalk back down on the metal tray. Of course they wouldn't get it. They were all stupid. He turned back to them, looking each of these "advanced" students over. Cat lovers, dancers, ink-stained writers' hands, a closeted lesbian. But not a single intellegent person to be found.
"You're all so slow," He snarled bitterly. With that he turned his back to them and as he stalked to the door he slammed directly into another person. Sherlock blinked down in surprise at the vastly shorter man. Well built, blond, rugy player, bachelor, med student, definately not enrolled in this advanced chemistry course. Unimportant.
"Sorry mate," The blond apologized, looking up at the taller fellow. Sherlock was taken aback.
His eyes. They were... intelligent. They had life. They had purpose.
"Erm, excuse me," The blond mumbled, trying to step past Sherlock, but Sherlock blocked him, trapping him in the doorway of this classroom.
"Who are you," Sherlock demanded, searching him. The prodigy had been thrown off guard. He lived his life in the midst of lifeless eyes. To see someone who wasn't blank, who wasn't entirely stupid, was strange and confusing. New.
"I'm John Watson," The other replied, taking up a defensive stance. Why was he doing that? Did Sherlock put him off guard as much as he did Sherlock? "Can you let me by please?"
Sherlock stepped aside, watching him carefully. "I only ask because you are so obviously not a student in an advanced chemistry course," Sherlock mentioned, looking down at him with a smirk.
John turned to him, surprised. "How would you know- Hey! What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything, simply stating a fact." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "You might want to go inside now. People might think it odd we're having a conversation in a doorway." Sherlock brushed past John, a triumphant jaunt in his walk.
"Who are you?" John called after him.
The prodigy smirked. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."
* * *
John felt like a rescue team on the arse-end of a tropical disaster. Walking into the classroom was like walking into the aftermath of a cyclone. He supposed that if he had to describe Sherlock as anything, a storm would be proper.
A girl in the back of the class was sniveling. One student was tearing pages out of his notes and ripping each page in half. Jesus, what did this kid do?
At the front of the room, near the big chalkboard stood the professor. He was staring, flabbergasted up at some scribble on the board. Whatever was up there was way above John's head. The extent of his chemistry knowledge went as far as knowing which medications mixed with which made poisons. And that was all he needed to know.
He made his way over to the professor quietly, not wanting to upset anyone further. "I'm sorry I'm late," John whispered. "What happened?"
"That's the term question," The professor whispered numbly, not taking his eyes off the chalk marks. "That's the term question and he just solved it. Without even trying."
John's jaw dropped and he looked up at the board, stunned. His mind couldn't even begin to make sense of the equation. Part of him just couldn't believe it. How could some kid just show up and solve the term question without putting forth an effort? It couldn't be possible. The chemicals were too complex. The math was too advanced. Only a superhuman could do that. A machine.
"Did he get it right?" John asked slowly.
"Yes."
Screw storm. Sherlock Holmes was a hurricane.