Dorm 221B: Teenlock Fanfiction

Part One: Chapter Five

"The first text we will be studying is Harper Lee's 'To Kill a Mockingbird'," said Mrs Canterbury with a drawl as she handed a copy of the text to each member of the class. Sherlock barely glanced at the title and rolled his eyes. He had read this years ago! Were all his classmates so illiterate that this was the reading material they must be presented with? Or was the education system in such a hurry to pass every student that walked through the door, that they lowered the bench mark this far?

He flicked his gaze to his left, to gauge the response of the boy seated next to him. His fair-haired roommate was flicking through the first few pages with an expression of mild interest. John's eyes met his and he said with a nervous smile, "I've always meant to read this. I've heard it's one of the great classics."

Sherlock curled his upper lip. "I wouldn't go so far as to call it great. An interesting insight into the nature of man, but a little infantile."

"Infantile?" repeated John, his eyes widening with disbelief. "I highly doubt a book as successful as this could be called infantile."

"The Twilight Saga was highly successful. Please enlighten me as to how that is a well crafted piece of literature."

"Mr Holmes, I don't think we need to sully the good name of Harper Lee, by dragging her work down with other such titles," interjected Mrs Canterbury with a tight smile. Having finished having out the novels she moved to the front of the classroom, her enormous rear threatening to escape the confines of her tight black skirt.

"So," she began, turning to face them with a taut expression on her wrinkled face. "How many of you have read this before?" The room was silent as only one hand was raised. Mrs Canterbury sighed, looking a little aspirated. "Well I suppose that's to be expected." With the same stern expression she asked, "So who, at least, has heard about this text?"

A few more hands were raised now, John's included. The teacher scanned the faces that belonged to the extended arms. She paused at a petite, blonde girl, "Ah ... Jenny, isn't it? What can you tell me about the novel?"

The girl seated one row before him. From this angle he couldn't determine much about her, although she was wearing her scarf, despite the warm summer day and the stuffy confines of the classroom. She was most likely covering a bruise or a hickey. Given her short skirt, he assumed the later. Jenny seemed to consider a while before finally saying, "Erm ... it's about a little girl ..."

"Very good," said Mrs Canterbury dryly. Good? thought Sherlock derisively. I hope that was sarcasm, because that was one of the vaguest answers I've ever heard!

"Yes, our protagonist is a young girl named Scout, and we are told the story from her perspective," continued Mrs Canterbury. "Anyone else?"

"Her dad's a lawyer," said John, earning a scowl from Mrs Canterbury for not raising his hand to speak. He continued anyway, though a little less confident, "And he's defending a black man, but because of when it's set it's seen as a bad thing."

"Indeed," smiled Mrs Canterbury, revealing crooked yellow teeth. She was obviously a long term smoker. "Now, we'll read chapter one for the rest of the lesson, and chapter two and three is homework." Murmurs of complaint arose but Mrs Canterbury acted like she couldn't hear them. She opened her copy of the novel and made a pained smile, the sort one makes when wearing your uncomfortable 'best' clothes to impress a distant and quite frankly grotesque relative (And goodness knows how well Sherlock knew that feeling). "Let's begin. 'When he was nearly thirteen my brother Jem ..."

Sherlock tried to follow the text at the same pace as the class, but he soon grew tired of their snail like speed. He read ahead for a few pages, but soon grew bored of this too. What was the point in reading something he had read before, and hadn't really liked the first time? It was a waste of time, much like most of the subjects he was forced to undertake. He let his gaze flick about the room. It was a standard classroom; desks arranged in neat little rows that faced the teacher's desk and the whiteboard. A few posters dotted the room, displaying vaguely motivational quotes like, "Hard work beats talent if talent doesn't work hard," printed in comic sans on fluro paper. A projector hung on the ceiling; a symbol of the school's 'state of the art' technology. There was probably a better chance of the projector falling and killing the boy in the second row than there was of it even turning on.