Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
A guy his age shouldn’t have such childish judgment, especially not against someone who had no idea. But William was the exception—everything about him ticked Sherlock off. The perfect grades, perfect face, and height…it really gets to a point.
As much as this was a one-sided competition, it more or less turned into a fight for equality in everything. The goal was: same pencil, same notebook, eraser…hell, he’d copy it all if he could. The “first” in “first place” obviously meant one person, but in certain circumstances… it could also be a tie, with two winners.
This was, of course, hard if they were in separate classes, but even if they were in the same classes that year, Sherlock would never talk to him. He pissed him off way too much, and too easily. Adding to that previous list of perfect, William was also in clubs, his class representative in Year 12 for the second time, and loved by all teachers, even though he never tried to be. For him, peers asked for help instead of answers—the list was truly endless.
If Sherlock was this annoyed when he wasn’t in his classes, he could only imagine how it would be if he were in any of them. This unluckiness unfortunately caught up to him in their final year. It wasn’t every class, but they had study hall, math, chemistry, physics, and homeroom, if that could technically count as a class.
An idiot Sherlock was to choose another class that was heavily focused on math, other than the actual subject itself… he needed at least three classes like these for a chemistry degree, and he was safe from William last year, but now that nuisance was unavoidable…Within that first month of Year 13, they sat beside each other in math—Sherlock’s by far worst subject.
Their teacher quickly scanned the room, then talked as if he were an octave away from yelling, “We’ve got an even number, haven’t we? Switch papers with whoever’s to the right of you. If you happen to receive two, give one to me.”
The quiet class was suddenly filled with the sound of rustling papers, but William had his already out and passed it to Sherlock, then waited for the latter’s paper in return.
While trying to take it out of his bag, Sherlock began, “I’m to the window, so I pass left.” It was a stupid cover-up; most of the answers on the sheet were wrong.
“I won’t be grading two, right?”
His smile was the first thing that ticked Sherlock off. He couldn’t help but make a face. He didn’t care if William noticed or not, but then William took the person’s next to him and got stuck in a conversation.
He excused himself politely, then quickly, while the teacher was turned and William was at his desk, Sherlock took a fast photo of William’s work. It was like a font—perfectly spaced with letters you’d never mistake for another.
When he’d copy off the board, it would take any regular person at least five extra minutes just to get everything he wrote in under two…yet somehow, he had every topic and sentence down to the T.
When he came back, Sherlock’s phone had already been tucked in his pocket. He should’ve taken a much better photo…the blur didn’t help, but it was something. He didn’t even touch the actual paper. There was nothing to grade if it was already perfect.
From that day forward, he took photos of William’s work any chance he could. He didn’t use them for anything, but it became a habit.
…
Their club president, John Watson, was frantically darting his eyes across a presentation-sized paper at the head of the table, “So many options…it’s just…oh god, so many.”
Mary stood next to him, actively rubbing his back to calm him down—platonically, of course. “John, don’t you think this is a bit much? We don’t all need a competition to enter.” She picked up a random flyer, “Here. You and I could join this one. Sherlock could—”
“I’ll choose my own, thanks.”
John raised his head, “Sherlock, the point of our club’s final projects is to choose a topic you’re not familiar with. Knowing you, you’ll choose the exact opposite.”
“So then what would my ‘topic I’m familiar with’ be?”
John and Mary looked at each other, silently deciding who should say it. John, being their president, reluctantly began, “Y’know…you just take photos of whatever. Technically, every topic here except for…” John pointed at a flyer meant for beginners, “...this one, is for you.”
Sherlock acted offended, “How could something for beginners be meant for me? I take whatever looks good and is easiest.”
Lestrade was at the leftmost seat to Watson, except he was comfortably sitting, “You said exactly what John was trying to get across.”
“Who even are you, Lestrade? Last I recall, none of us were talking to you.”
Another member, whom Sherlock teasingly called ‘Ms. Hudson’, though she preferred to be called by her last name, picked a flyer for Sherlock, then laid it in front of him to show he had no choice of backing out, “You’re doing this one. John is only president because he founded the club, but as vice president, he’ll still listen to what I have to say.”
Sherlock quickly read the flyer, then immediately said, “No.”
John cut in, “Sherlock, I’m sure it’s not that bad, just listen to—”
“That’s right. You, Sherlock Holmes, are doing arts.” Hudson began walking towards him, “Whether it be photos of a painter painting, or sculptures, or even someone making music, you’re doing it.”
“Oh my god. Please, anything but theater…!”
“I gave you options, didn’t I?” She stopped beside him, “I even gave you suggestions. The arts is a pretty broad category, so in some ways, I made it all the more easier for you.”
Just as Sherlock thought to quit, to join another club where he could truly just sit there and do nothing, Hudson continued with her threats, “And don’t even think about leaving and joining another club. Everyone’s either prepping for finals or for their final project, so you’d still need a club. How could you join any if none would accept your application?”
Sherlock stayed silent while John turned the other way to keep from laughing. Lestrade, on the other hand, shamelessly laughed his ass off, “Say it, Sherlock! Say ‘this shit sucks’, like you always do!”
“I’d keep down since you pay me to give you photos for our projects, Lestrade. You’re lucky I let you take the fucking credit.”
All Hudson, Mary, and John looked at Lestrade as he seemed to grow smaller with those words.
With that last word, Sherlock took the flyer and his camera and left the club room, then started walking through the school for ideas, muttering to himself, “What even is the fucking arts…? It’s after hours, I shouldn’t even be here for a shitty club. Who even wants to see photos of someone painting?”
He grew more bitter by the minute. He needed an idea by today, so the only logical idea was to check any art classrooms that, by chance, were left unlocked by other clubs. He checked the painting room, the three fine arts classrooms, even decorative arts, but nothing ticked his mind.
The last option was filmmaking. Most classrooms like this were on the first floor, but this one had to be difficult and be on the second. When he arrived, it had a lined paper sign that read, “Filmmaking” in all, uneven, caps. As expected, the door was unlocked, but also expected…it had nothing useful. Nothing that made him want to stop in his tracks and take a photo. All there was was a shit-ton of cameras, a few green screens with some ripped, and a circle of desks. The entire place looked so performative that Sherlock walked out as quickly as he came in.
He quickly went back downstairs, planning to just leave at this point. Of course, he’d pass by the auditorium, and that was usually the first thing anyone thought about other than drawing when the arts were mentioned. But who in their right mind wanted photos of theater kids?
He walked to the entrance of the school defeatedly. But by that entrance where he’d exit, as much as he didn’t want to hear them, the theater club was never silent. He planned to ignore them just as he usually did, but a voice drowned out the others. That same one he hated, yet couldn’t get enough of.
Like a weirdo, he stood by the door. Only peaking his head out to get a glimpse of whatever they were doing. Under the stage lights, there was a group sitting in chairs, each reading different parts from a paper that could only be a script. It was awfully thin, though, so whatever it was, it couldn’t be their final project.
It looked as if the lighting were perfect. That one spot on the stage fully lit while the seats of the auditorium were empty and dark. The epitome of juxtaposition, it was. Begging Sherlock to take a picture.
Thoughtlessly focused on that one person, Sherlock immediately took a photo, practically enthralled by his subject's words, even if they were clearly from a page.