Chapter Text
“And, what exactly do you call that Mr Holmes?” The words were thick with a disapproving tone, one she always used when speaking to him. Solely to him, and never to anyone else. Sherlock was never sure why Ms Sally Donovan, the art teacher at Harbour’s Academy for Boys, held him in such disdain, mostly because there were too many options for him to choose from. It may have been the fact that within two minutes of their first meeting he knew about her affair with a fellow student, an idiot of a boy named Anderson that lived on his dormitory floor. Sherlock was amazed that with all the evidence pointing at a student-teacher affair Ms Donovan had not been sacked, no inquiry had been made, no off-the-record interviews had been done. Nothing.
Or, perhaps, her dislike for him came from his reputation that he held at the academy for correcting teachers several times throughout the course of their lessons; something he was very proud of doing, especially when it came to Ms Donovan. Whatever her reasons though, she was not the only person at Harbour’s that held contemptment towards Sherlock and wasn’t afraid to show it. And though Sherlock didn’t mind the solitude of having no friends that this brought him, he hated how the teachers would single him out in a class like this. Because people would talk, people would always talk and someone would always listen.
“It’s a self-portrait titled - darkness encompasses me.” He put his brush down after signing his initials S.H. on the bottom right corner. He was mildly proud of the painting sitting in front of him. It was, admittedly, much more gloomy than anyone else’s in the room; it had no vibrant colours, no facial features, nothing discernable about it. There was a dark grey shadow of a man presumably in a coat, much like Sherlock’s favourite one he was currently wearing, surrounded by a grey-green haze. It was perfect in Sherlock’s eyes, because it was him and it was different to anything anyone else in the room was doing.
Though science and history were his true passions; art was a non-destructive outlet for him. Something he could do to express himself with in ways words never could; and he loved using those words. He was able to escape through any medium the teacher set before him, and create something that was his, that said something about him. And, much to his delight, he could do it all while indirectly sodding off the assignment task in very creative ways annoying the ever irksome Ms Donovan.
“That is not a self portrait Sherlock, and you know it.”
“And how would you know how I perceive myself?”
Ms Donovan sighed rubbing the bridge of her nose, “You’re not going to make this easy for me are you?”
“No, I don’t see what the problem is.” Sherlock answered honestly. He looked over the painting again, “You asked for a self portrait so here one is. Are you really that blind?”
“That is not a self portrait. That is an abstract display of grey.” Ms Donovan began, “That. That is a self-portrait.” She gestured to a painting that hung on the wall. It was distastefully colourful Sherlock thought, splashes of too much red, orange and yellow made up the background. Whilst in the foreground was a long nose, heavily bearded, sharp eyed off-white git. Anderson, of course, looked nothing like that in real life, he was much more scrawnier and pimply-faced, and beardless.
“Yes, well, there are a lot of things you like Anderson doing that I never would.” Sherlock flung back at her.
“That is it!” She yelled loudly. He knew what the next words were to be, for she had said them in nearly every lesson to him. He was already packing up his things before she got the last bit out, “Go to the principal’s office this instant! I will not handle this insubordination.”
Sherlock scoffed at her as he began walking to the door, bag slung over his left shoulder, “Insubordination implies that I was openly defiant to your authority Ms. When I was merely stating a fact, and doing the work as you asked me to. Not my fault your hormone levels are high.”
“Out!” Donovan shrieked back at him. “Get out now!”
“Laters.” Sherlock said over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. He sighed as he looked around the familiar empty hallway, taking a second to remember why he must start behaving better in class. The principal’s office; he grudgingly began walking the 127 steps towards it, the last place on campus that he ever wanted to be.
Sherlock wasn’t rebellious, not on purpose at least. He never went around throwing stuff at other students,, never defaced school property and never swore at teachers... well, there was that one time he threw a brick at a window that a student was inadvertently standing behind to prove a point to a teacher about physics. But, in Sherlock’s defence, he only swore in front of the teacher, and not to them. But apparently no one cared about arguing it over with him, brushing off his semantics.
His long fingers traced the edge of the lockers as he continued his way to the dreaded principal’s office. It happened so often these days that, upon snooping through the principal’s personal diary, he found their little meetings had been pencilled into his schedule over several weeks with other meetings rearranged around it. Sherlock was neither surprised or happy about this. He figured that once the new principal had taken the position he would in fact be seeing him more often; after all, the principal happened to be his loathsome older brother Mycroft.
He paused briefly at the door to the principal’s office. It was, realistically, two offices in one. The first one being Lestrade’s office, the vice-principal and school secretary, and also the waiting room where the unfortunate students who had to visit Mycroft would wait. Lestrade would try to make small chat with some of the more well behaved pupils, or berate the deliquinants. However, Lestrade was always nice to Sherlock. And though, Sherlock wouldn’t call him a friend, they had formed a bond after their brief three months as roommates when Sherlock first transferred to Harbour’s. It was a bond more out of mutual respect than fondness. During this time they tolerated each other’s quirks, Sherlock with Lestrade’s pestering questions, and Lestrade with Sherlock’s habit of leaving dead things around to categorise it’s decomposition rate.
Sherlock saw a young boy waiting in the office as he entered. His eyes darted over him quickly and then landed on Lestrade and Mycroft. They were Mycroft’s office, body’s tucked together close and voices hushed. Upon hearing the door slam behind Sherlock, much like it always did when he entered; not because he was angry, more because he knew it pissed Mycroft off, the two men took a step apart and came out of the office.
Sherlock’s eyes darted from one to the other, “What is it this time?” Mycroft asked checking his watch, “Ahh, art class with Ms Donovan. Did you paint a happy little sparrow?”
Sherlock sneered at him, “No, I painted a cake... that somehow magically escaped the painting and became real. She got really offended when I started eating it and didn't offer her any.” Sherlock said wistfully, “Reminds me of someone I know.”
Lestrade stepped in between them, “Alright then Sherlock, there’s someone here we want you to met.”
As if on cue the boy stood and reached out his hand, “Hi.” He seemed to stammer out as Sherlock’s eyes surveyed him expertly. “You... you smell like ...”
“Yes, cinnamon and ginger, I know. The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the room number is 221B in Baker Dorms. I'm sure you're quite capable of finding it yourself.” Sherlock said pivoting on his heels and leaving. He needed to escape the ambush they had laid on him, he needed air. “Lestrade.” He said with a passing nod as he walked briskly out of the office.
“Sherlock!” He heard Mycroft yell out after him. “Will you behave just this once?”
He knew he would be getting a new roommate but he didn’t think it would be so soon. Especially after what happened with his last one. Moriarity, the name still haunted his nightmares.