Well Actually...

This is the story of the boy who spoke back to the teacher, not to be funny but to prove him wrong. This is the story of the boy who decided that boredom was lethal. This is a story about Sherlock Holmes.

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2. Late

Chapter One: Late

The boy hurried down the cobble paths and backstreets, his feet pounding down on the rock with three books at hand and a leather satchel flying behind him as he ran past London’s grimy streets. His breath froze in the cold air as he panted, gasping up all the oxygen he could. He was late. His hair looked as though he had never combed it, or he had attempted to and the comb had either fastened itself in his hair or snapped. He was a tall and slender figure, lean but not acutely muscular; he was distinctly agile for his gangly frame. Small pieces of grit flew into the air only to crash to earth moments later as he skidded past yet another corner almost running into a supposedly ‘red brick wall’. More like ‘grey brick’, he commented while running past the house and not looking back.

The School Building was huge, there was no delicate, imaginable way of putting it; it was simply the biggest building many will ever see. It was a mixture of red and grey bricks that all formulated together to make the large building; large didn’t even cover it. Barely noting the buildings vast size, the boy ran through the wooden double doors beneath a sign that read: King’s College, London.
He slid through the corridors, his polished, black shoes were somewhat scuffed and squeaking against the wooden floors. He was nearing the door to which he was meant to have entered ten or so minutes beforehand. Alas, he had gotten tied up in reading The Odyssey and embarked, rather late from his home twenty or so blocks away. He hadn’t considered the train or the bus in his desperate attempts to get to school vaguely on time. His books were gripped firmly with his right hand and he pushed the heavy door open with his left interrupting the biology class that had begun a quarter of an hour prior to his arrival.

“Ah, Sherlock Holmes.” The Professor removed his glasses with an exasperated sigh, “You did decide to join us.” He allocated the boy his usual seat at the back of the classroom and carried on scratching diagrams onto the blackboard with a white stub of chalk.
“On the contrary,” Sherlock Holmes contemplated, surveying his Professor with a quick skim and then holding eye contact once more. “You must be worried out of your mind for Miss. Pinkerton. Your cat?”
A snigger rushed through the room like a wave of salty water and glittering, jumping sardines.
“Dog-. How did-.” He stopped himself, not wanting to give the student praise for baffling him so effectively. He coughed and looked to the board again as his cheek flushed an embarrassing shade of beet. “Right, boys. Copy what I have written on the board in silence your peer has put me in a rather bad state of mind.”
The class scribbled away on the pages of their lined exercise books, copying out endless facts from memory and the blackboard. The Biro ink which the class was forced to use glistened slightly in the dim, inexpensive lamplight.

Sherlock sighed at his Professors incompetence, “Sir.” He waved his arm in the air a little trying to catch his attention. It was not caught. “Professor! Earth to the Professor! I have a,” He searched for a plausible word to use. Comment, correction; many words sprung to mind. “Question to ask.”
The Professor turned around and took of his glasses in disbelief, rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times before placing them on the bridge of his nose once more and looking to Sherlock Holmes.
“And what would that be, Mr. Holmes?” The class had fallen silent, save the uneasy sound of shoes shifting along the floor with small shrill squeaks.
“Why have you said that all microorganisms are microscopic? Some can be seen by the naked eye.” Sherlock looked at him earnestly as steam seemed to explode from his ears, his professor was outraged. His face turned slightly red and the sinews in his neck bulged to a point it seemed as though they would explode.
“Out!” He signaled towards the door. “Now! Out!”

Sherlock Holmes hauled himself from the desk and pushed away the table, he grabbed his books and slung his bags over his shoulder only to trudge out silently, save a flustered sigh meaning something along the lines of: Why are people so stupid?
He trudged through the halls of the school with no remorse for what he had done, in Sherlock’s eyes he was simply returning his professors' kind, favor. The long LED lamps flickered nervously as he walked past on his way up to Mrs. Minho; the headmistress. His knuckled rapped at the polished wooden door as he stood outside; bored.
“Come in.” Her voice was tired, a faint sigh could be heard from the other side of the door. Sherlock pushed the door open and sat down in the chair in front of her desk and making himself comfortable.
“You again then, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded in response, he knew exactly what was going to happen. He would explain that the professor was wrong and all he had done was correct him; she would list some other faults he had made along the way and he would grumble and leave.
“And why do I have the pleasure of seeing you?” She asked, scribbling down his name on a notebook. “Again?”
Sherlock nodded once more, only to add, “Would you mind not lying? White lies are so dull and I can see right through yours. You are obviously not pleased to see me.”
Mrs. Minho shook her head in disapproval, she looked to Sherlock and sighed in annoyance, “You're such a smart boy.” She tilted her head gently to the side, placing her hands on her desk. “Why can’t you use a little common sense.”
Sherlock was about to open his mouth when he heard one word that was spat through gritted teeth. “Dismissed.”
So Sherlock left her office.

He walked out onto the abundant grassland that stretched for about five hundred meters; Sherlock strolled carelessly towards the oak tree near the back. Then the bell rung, the sound rolled through the property, filling Sherlock’s ears with the dreadful noise. He blocked his ears for a few brief moments, furrowing his brow; only to take the out the Odyssey and begin to read.
“Look, look, look.” Someone laughed, cowering over Sherlock in a superior manner.
“It’s awfully kind of you to try and prevent me from receiving any harmful UV radiation. But, I do like the sun; and I need it to read.” Sherlock replied, barely twitching a muscle; he had continued to read even though he had embarrassed his schoolmate, he was had even glancing up for a priceless reaction.
The man dragged Sherlock to his feet by his arm, jerking it upwards in a painful and unpleasant manner. Sherlock didn’t utter a syllable, all that could be heard was his steady breathing and the other peoples' breathing.
“Look, Holmes.” He explained menacingly, gripping his shirt and pulling at his hair, all whilst pinning Sherlock to a tree. “I realise you think you’re so great. But you got worse social skills then my grandma. What did you do at the last party?” He looked to his friends, “Oh yeah! You ran in, muttering, looked at a drink and ran out.”

“So?”

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