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Sherlock hated school.
Don’t get him wrong, he loved learning, loved exploring new ideas and building on his, frankly, already expansive knowledge. He loved the satisfaction of solving a puzzle, pitting his mind against a problem and emerging the victor.
What he did not enjoy, however, were the morons with whom he was forced to socialise in order to gain this knowledge. Easily the cleverest in his class, it grieved him to be shackled by the slow-wittedness of his colleagues and, in most cases, equally idiotic teachers. How much more he could have learnt if he’d been given the freedom to explore his own interests! But no. His mother and father, in some twisted act of spite and punishment he had no doubt, had decreed he must continue to attend school so he could learn to interact with people his own age. Tedious.
He may have found the experience marginally more tolerable had there been even a single, solitary person in the school who was even vaguely on his intellectual level. But, alas, this too was denied him. So Sherlock spent his time flitting between boredom and irritation, practically counting the minutes until he was able to leave the hell hole of school and amuse himself. Still, there was the possibility of an improvement in his study situation; he wasfinally able to leave behind the pointless subjects forced upon him as part of the national curriculum and focus on the far more important topics of study. For this year marked his transition from secondary school to college, and the commencement of his A levels. And, although he wasn’t physically moving schools, the change was still a welcome one for him, allowing him to free his mind of the clutter with which five years of teaching had saddled him.
Entering the building shortly before first period was due to begin, Sherlock, as per usual, ignored his fellow students as he made his way down the corridor, hands shoved in his pockets. They, in turn, ignored him; an occurrence in which he could only rejoice. Morons. Making his way to the science labs, he breezed in, prepared to take his usual seat (which had been his since the start of Year 7, thank you very much)… And stopped, brought up short by the fact there was someone else already sitting there.
Blinking in surprise, he shook his head slightly, as though hoping that would make the troublesome spectre disappear. A quick glance at his seat, however, proved it had been a futile endeavour; the chair was still occupied. Storming over, he glowered down at the student – not someone he recognised, probably a new transfer – drawing himself up to his full height as he folded his arms across his chest. Having grown several inches over the summer, his full height was now really rather impressive and he all but towered over the stranger.
“That’s my seat.” Of all the reactions he had mentally prepared for – stammered apologies, grovelling, their hasty removal from his seat – the one he got was decidedly unexpected. Glancing up, the new student met his gaze steadily, her grey eyes dancing with something which looked suspiciously like amusement as she arched an eyebrow at him.
“You must be Sherlock,” she murmured, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she leant back in her chair to study him. “I’ve heard all about you. A pleasure to meet you at last.”
“What?” Frowning down at her, perplexed, his previous concerns almost entirely forgotten for the moment, he attempted to unearth some vague logic and sense in what she’d just said. Where on Earth had she head about him? From whom had… Whatever information she had, been offered? And most worryingly of all; why did he care? Resuming his earlier scowl, he re-crossed his arms as he glowered down at her. It didn’t matter. Back to the problem in hand. “That’s my seat.”
“So you said,” she replied mildly, her smile widening slightly as she tilted her head to the side, the amusement in her grey eyes taking on a faintly mocking edge. “Aren’t you interested in who I’ve been talking to about you?” Since that had been exactly what Sherlock had been wondering (doubtless it was that cretin, Baker, or one of his football-crazy cronies), he did the only logical thing and completely ignored her question, sinking instead into the seat next to her with as much dignity as he could muster. And if his gazehappened to flick around the room, resting for slightly longer on the more likely culprits (Johnson? Surely she wouldn’t have subjected herself to his inane chatter), well. There was no harm in that, was there? It was perfectly natural and nothing to do with the student at his side who had successfully managed to capture his curiosity in just a few murmured sentences. The arrival of the teacher, however, soon put a stop to his musings, and it was with some reluctance he dragged his attention to the front of his lab and the middle-aged man attempting to silence the class.
“Yes, alright you lot, settle down. Now, I’m Mr Brent, and I’ll be teaching you…” Letting the teacher’s inane babbling fade into the background like white noise, Sherlock turned his attention to the far more interesting problem of the girl sat next to him.
With loose, curling hair the colour of coffee, crimson-painted lips which seemed to continually hover on the brink of a smile and a piercing grey gaze which sparked with intelligence, she was entirely unlike anyone Sherlock had met before. Even the way she was dressed, an over-sized navy jumper over skinny jeans, seemed to do nothing but accentuate the natural grace she all but exuded, and Sherlock found it difficult to tear his attention away from her as Mr Brent droned on and one.
Eyes narrowing marginally as her lips stretched into a slight smile, Sherlock was still attempting to puzzle the reason for it when a note was pushed across to his side of the desk. Dropping his gaze to it, he blinked once before slowly reaching for the piece of paper and unfolding it.
- Penny for your thoughts?
Feeling his face flush slightly (Damn it, he should have been more subtle… No. Wait. He shouldn’t have been staring in the first place. Obviously. That was what he meant. Yes), he scrunched the note into a ball and quickly turned away from her, resolutely fixing his gaze on the whiteboard as Mr Brent continued to explain… Something.
As another note was pushed against his hand, Sherlock was half-tempted to simply ignore it, pretend he didn’t know it was there, but he found himself reaching for the paper again and unfolding it, almost against his will. (Damn it).
- Something the matter?
Resolutely not looking at the girl, he grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled a note in return, before shoving the paper at her, all but glaring at the board now.
- Shut up and leave me alone. I’m trying to listen.
He could practically feel the amusement rolling off her in waves as she read his reply and was ready for the note this time when it was passed across.
- Of course you are. Which is why you spent the first twenty minutes of the lesson staring at me.
- I did not. You’re imagining things
- You’re a terrible liar
- Who says I’m lying?
- It’s quite flattering, really.
- Being lied to?
- Being stared at. I’m flattered.
- Don’t be. Besides, why would I be staring at you? I don’t even know your name.
He didn’t receive a reply to that one, and found himself almost disappointed about that. It was the first time he had even the slightest inclination to interact with one of his fellow students, and he’d found the simple act of passing notes surprisingly enjoyable. It was… Odd.
“Homework! Make sure to read pages 5 to 8 and answer the questions at the end. Next time we’ll be looking some more into entropy, so if you want to read ahead, to get a better understanding, that’d also be a good idea.” The shrill shriek of the bell and the discordant cacophony of scraping chairs as people rushed to leave roused Sherlock from his thoughts, and it was with some surprise he found the lesson to be over. That was quick… With a slight shake of his head, he quickly joined the rest of the class in packing up his belongings, sneaking a glance at the new student as he did so. She had almost finished gathering her things he noticed with a slightly grumpy pout (which didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t like he cared, so what was wrong with him? Maybe he was coming down with flu or… Something…), and it took him a few moments longer than it should have to realise there was another note folded neatly on the desk. Opening it, a slow, involuntary smile spread across his face as he scanned the few short lines.
- I would have thought that would have been reason enough to stare at someone.
It’s Irene, by the way.
Glancing up, he realised with a jolt that the student – Irene – had finished packing up and was already on her way out of the classroom with a small gaggle of students. Part of him wanted to let her go, to distance himself and pretend the note-passing hadn’t happened, while another (worringly) stronger part of him wanted nothing more than to chase after her, to find a way to hold onto the feeling their exchange of notes had ignited in him. It was with some chagrin that he gave in and, grabbing his bag, he hurried after her.
“Irene!” Gratified to see her pause and turn towards him with her already startlingly familiar half-smile and a slightly raised eyebrow, it took him a moment before he realised he had nothing to say to her.
“Yes?”
“Erm…” Intellect deserting him as he gazed at her, panic beginning to bubble up in his chest, he simply said the first thing which came into his mind. “Who told you about me?” Sherlock was surprised at the light, genuine laugh his question brought forth, though he couldn’t help but echo the amusement with a slight smile of his own.
Watching as she slowly sauntered towards him, he felt his heart rate kick into a higher gear as a sly smile began playing at the corner of her lips. He found it increasingly difficult too to drag his attention from them as she moved closer, until they disappeared from his immediate view as she stretched up to whisper in his ear.
“Oh, Sherlock… Where’s the fun in telling you that?” Taking a step back she treated him to another slow smile, before she turned away, calling casually over her shoulder as she went. “Until next time, Sherlock…”
With that, she was gone, leaving Sherlock with a pounding heart and the lingering sense that this year might just prove very interesting after all.