Freak - Teenlock/Johnlock AU

Part 3

English was held in the old part of the school; a dingy block which looked like a giant upturned brick. Mrs Carson was a blonde haired, pale skinned English teacher who, unfortunately for her, also looked like an upturned brick. It was something about her ill-shaped figure (something not helped by the fact she insisted on wearing what I could only describe as a roll of curtain material) and vibrant hair colour.

"We've a poem to look at today," she said, squashing herself through the rows of desks like a red blood cell in a capillary. She paused over every desk, bestowing us with a poem entitled 'Cousin Kate' by Christina Rossetti. I glared at the offending sheet for a few minutes before taking against it. Mrs Carson, on the other hand, was gazing at it as if it were a cheque for £50,000.

And then without any warning the same swirl of grey wool I had encountered earlier that day strode into the room.

"Sherlock Holmes," he announced, throwing his coat down by the door and practically jumping onto the chair next to me. He pushed himself back into the confines of the rough red plastic and then sprung his feat up onto the edge of the seat, knees against chin. He bore an uncanny resemblance to one of Mr Rogers' frogs. I wasn't sure what to make of him. I found myself a little wary of the boy and the presence he managed to naturally command in every room, but on the other hand I didn't dislike him. He hadn't insulted me, pushed me into a bin, or irritated me by lack of brain cells yet, so that was saying something.

No, more than anything, I decided, I was curious. Sherlock was unlike anyone I had ever met. Ever heard of.

I stole a quick glance at the boy who was still in his ridiculous perch position. He had hawk-like features, hair like octopus ink and cheekbones and philtrum which looked as if they'd been chiseled out of a rock face. And his legs, well, if they weren't tucked up against his chin, would probably far surpass the space under his desk.

Mrs Carson on the other hand was looking at Sherlock like he was an escaped walrus. Sherlock seemed oblivious to this; he waved a lithe, slender hand in her direction.

"Don't mind me Mrs Carson," he said. "On you go."

Mrs Carson floundered for a minute, briefly taking over from Sherlock as resident walrus.

"I found the way you entered my class room quite rude and disruptive actually, Sherlock," she managed, looked flustered. Like a brick at 2200°.

"Oh? I thought myself rather unobtrusive."

"Well, I beg to differ."

Mrs Carson stretched to her full height and consulted a file.

"You're to sit over there."

"Why?"

"Because, Sherlock, that's where I decided to put you."

"I fail to see how my moving positions is going to make this lesson any more rewarding for either of us."

I found myself staring at Sherlock, marveling at his integrity. Mrs Carson appeared to be marveling rather at the insult towards hers.

(A/N: do not insult the integrity of the crime scene. Sorry, I couldn't resist )

"Miss, we've wasted 15 minutes already," someone said. "Don't bother talking to him. I heard he got kicked out of his last school for hanging dead squirrels out of all the windows in the science block."

"OK, Phillip, enough information," Mrs Carson said. "But you're right, let's move on, shall we? Cousin Kate, by Christina Rossetti. A personal favourite. A lot of emotion in this one, particularly bitterness."

Dead squirrels?! I thought. Where the hell had Anderson got the idea that Sherlock had hung dead squirrels in the science block? He was weird, but I didn't think he was feral.