The fire alarm had gone off during second period.

Not the shrieking, smoky kind, but the slow, blaring one that made your head buzz and your thoughts fumble. Everyone had been herded back into the classroom with no explanation. Whispers flew like flies. Someone swore they saw police cars. Someone else said there was blood in the girls’ bathroom.

You just sat there. Quiet. Still. Watching.

Then the door slammed open.

A man in a dramatically long coat swept in like a hurricane of caffeine and contempt. He didn’t introduce himself—he never did. But you knew who he was the moment he opened his mouth.

“Right. You.” His eyes landed on a jock in the back. “Fake injury for attention. You don't limp with the wrong leg unless you're faking. Next.”

He moved through the rows like a predator, peeling apart lives with a single glance.

“You cheated on the math exam—calculator ink on your wrist.”

“You stole the art room’s paint thinner. Still smells like turpentine in your cuffs.”

“You’re sleeping with someone on the staff. Good luck hiding that from HR.”

Students stared. Some shrank. A few laughed—nervously.

Then his eyes met yours.

They paused there.

Something flickered.

John Watson peeked in behind him, clearly less thrilled to be here. Lestrade stood with the headteacher, rubbing his temples like he regretted every career choice he'd ever made.

Sherlock tilted his head, gaze narrowing.

“You,” he said slowly, ignoring the rest of the room now. “You saw something.”

You blinked.

He stepped closer. “You always sit at that desk. You arrive early. You listen more than you speak. And you don’t fit here.”

He pointed to the window. “The alarm was pulled at 9:07. You had a perfect view.”

Before you could answer, he crouched, voice low.

“I don’t need your teacher. I need you.”