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Sherlock Holmes was a chemistry teacher at university, and he hated it.
Albeit, running chemical experiments and being paid for it was a perk of accepting the position that he couldn’t deny. But, still, he swore every day his students got more moronic. One day they had completely understood the valences of common elements; the next, they struggled immensely with enol tautomers.
The hours in front of the lecture hall passed slowly enough that some days Sherlock would do anything to be able to smoke while his students tried to keep up with the lessons he jotted down in white chalk. Much to his disappointment, smoking was prohibited while at the university. Something, something, you’ll rot the desks, Mr. Holmes.
Today had been one of those days when he would do anything to break that stupid rule and have his last cigarette. Thanks only to the grace of God, he was finished with his lecture and had sent his students off with a worksheet a little early. He had breezed past the topic, and the sheet would only take his lazy students five minutes if they had paid any attention to the lesson he was starting to brush off of the board.
If they hadn’t, well, it was their own fault. They were paying to be here; it was their fault if they played hooky all day instead of studying like some of these sons of rich aristocrats did.
When the last two boys finally filed out side-by-side—and kindly didn’t shut the door behind themselves—Sherlock collapsed into his desk chair. Sheets were still scattered across the desk in front of him, along with unmarked sheets from last weekend and nearly-gone pencils that he’d chewed on too many times. A bad habit while he was bored, much to the chagrin of the university’s pencil budget.
He grumbled some more just thinking about everything that displeased him at that moment. Only one more cigarette before he had to run to the grocers; a stack of papers to be corrected and sorted; he hadn’t eaten anything this morning and was paying the price; he hadn’t even been able to start a new experiment in days because he was too busy giving after-class lessons nearly every day.
”-alculate similarly an approximation to the cube root of 2 to six decimal places by considering-”
The muffled sounds of the next classroom’s professor always soothed Sherlock on days like these. Even as the harsh clicking of chalk against the board resounded loudly through the open door, Sherlock relished in the break in the awful silence.
The chalk halted, and Sherlock could only guess that the mathematics professor next door had written a problem out for his students. ”...where N is a suitable number.”
The room remained quiet, likely as his diligent students took notes, before the professor clapped once loudly and raised his voice enough that Sherlock could hear it more clearly.
“That is all for today. The problems we have discussed will be included in the paper on my desk for each of you to complete before the next class. Dismissed.”
Unlike Sherlock’s students, there wasn’t a single grumble about the work or silent cheering that his lesson was over. He would be jealous if he were a different man. As it stood, his heart leapt at the clicking of his door opening and the students filing out, and he rushed to join them in the hall.
Like a concise dance, he weaved in between the pairs and trios of students not paying attention to the teacher prancing past them and into the lecture hall. It was always a game to him to see if today was the day he could catch the mathematician off-guard and witness the unfamiliar sight of the sophisticated blond-haired, red-eyed teacher startle.
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”
He tisked and couldn’t help but frown. He hadn’t even made it halfway through the door, even though he tried to tuck himself behind the last lingering students. When they finally caught sight of the teacher towering over them, a disappointed frown evident, they scurried off.
“One of these days,” he muttered as he strolled over to the desk the teacher had sat down at.
The chalkboard behind him was still lined with simple equations, yet to be cleared. His desk, too, was covered in marked-up papers written by his students. Sherlock could point out the errors with ease, naturally, but unlike his students, the mathematician’s actually studied, and there were few to point out on the papers he could see.
“Staying late again, Mr. Moriarty?” He slid up next to the teacher and leaned over his shoulder to stare at the mess of papers that he was currently sorting and shuffling into neat piles. On rare days, he would go home and correct the sheets in the comfort of his flat, but most days, he would save his time and simply do it here.
“There isn’t likely to be a day when I don’t, I’m afraid.” Sherlock lived for the way the corners of his mouth crooked up into a cat-like smile. “I am told the board is unhappy that you don’t.”
Sherlock waved him off easily. “I do my best work at home; they know that.”
“Yes, along with your experiments, I am told.” The professor took the first worksheet and a pencil, placing both squarely in front of himself and beginning to work. “I assume they only let you take their supplies away because they worry you’ll set fire to the building.” Then he smirked up at him again, and Sherlock knew where he was going. “Again.”
“Ah, you set fire to a wood cabinet one time and suddenly you’re ‘a danger to yourself and your students.’” He huffed dramatically and leaned on Moriarty’s desk. The professor never seemed to mind. “They just won’t let it go.”
“I’d think having the building fumigated more than once would give them a good reason.”
With the paper done, Moriarty placed it to the side, marking the first sheet in the ‘finished’ pile and setting the next one in front of him. Sherlock glanced at this one for a moment, but there was nary an incorrect plus sign to be found.
Work always seemed to get in the way of the mathematician and any semblance of fun.
“One of these days, you should join me for a drink.” Sherlock took a sheet from the unmarked pile and read through it, likewise finding (almost) no errors. “Your students practically teach themselves. Mine could learn a thing or two.” If they studied even half as hard as these so clearly did, maybe Sherlock would have more time for fun experiments with them instead of worksheets and surprise tests. “They can’t even follow along with the simplest of concepts.”
Moriarty chuckled again, and he set his pencil down for a moment. “I’m afraid what you and I see as simple is anything but to these children.” For some reason, his voice faltered at the last word, and Sherlock turned to face him.
“Something bothering you, teach?” Even when Moriarty was displeased, he still smiled faintly. Not now. He had even stopped grading his students, merely staring down at the sheet like it had slapped him.
Just when Sherlock started to fear he might be pushing where he shouldn’t—though he liked the teacher, they hadn’t had much conversation about their homes, lovers, or any sort of personal lives—he broke the deafening silence.
“My brother is sick again.” Oh. Sherlock hadn’t really been expecting an answer other than a quick brush-off about catching a cold or something. “His body is weaker than most,” the teacher continued, “but he’s also the stronger of the two of us. I just worry too much.”
“I’m…” Sherlock didn’t know what a normal person should say to that. “Sorry to hear that.” Past that point, he didn’t know how to continue. When he tried to imagine his own brother sick, the thought only amused him. Mycroft, sniffling into a tissue and shivering like a soaked cat. Perhaps that was the wrong way to try and empathize better.
Moriarty shook his head and sighed, picking up the pencil again. “He will recover. He always does. I’m afraid I just expect the worst when he falls ill.”
“Well…” Sherlock gently grabbed the pencil from his hands and almost loathed that that was what caught him off guard. “It sounds like you should come drink with me, then. To take your mind off of it.”
When Moriarty started to shake his head forlornly, Sherlock decided to test the waters, grabbing him by the arm and starting to pull him away from the dreary, tedious work. “At least come smoke with me. I’m rather bored right now.”
Though Sherlock’s grip was loose enough that he could simply give the slightest resistance and break free, the professor let himself be pulled away from the papers still needing correction. “Very well. I have a lighter to replace the one you broke yesterday.”
This time, Sherlock was the one to falter. He hadn’t so much as said a single word to someone about that incident; when he was too distracted, pacing the halls, thinking about a murder in the papers, to notice the lighter in his suit slipping out and crashing to the floor.
“Hah! Nothing gets past you, huh?” When Sherlock let go, Moriarty followed along anyway. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the lighter, flicking it open and confirming it had broken, before stuffing the useless object back in its place. “Maybe in another life you could be a detective.”
Moriarty hummed a single tune, returning that Cheshire smirk to its rightful place. “Perhaps a life of mystery solving would suit you better, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Ah, enough with the Mr. Holmes, Moriarty.” Stuffy titles didn’t suit him, or at least not in the way every student at this boring place stiffly called him when they wanted something from him.
“Just Sherlock, then?”
“Mmm.” He bit his lip, thinking. “How about ‘Sherly’?”
Moriarty chuckled a little as they walked down the corridor, nearing the exit. “That might be a step too far, Sherlock.” He was right; dropping the formalities really was a lot better. “To you alone, then, I am William.”
“Hmmm…” Sherlock studied his face—a handsome one at that—before wrapping his arm around his shoulder. “I think ‘Liam’ suits you better. Can I call you Liam, professor?”
Whether it was the puppy dog eyes he was throwing his way or simply because he had managed to successfully lighten up his mood, the mathematician simply stopped their march, shook his head, and laughed a little.
“Not in university,” he said, and he stepped close enough that Sherlock could smell the lingering morning coffee on his breath. It smelled not sour but earthy and warm. “But perhaps after you’ve treated me to some wine and a smoke, we’ll see.”
Heat flushed Sherlock’s face, and he cleared his throat when Liam’s beautiful ruby eyes stared back at him, awaiting. “I’m a man of my word.” He started walking down the hall again, Liam trailing next to him with a playful smile once more tracing his face. “Let us drink while the night is young!”