Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, otherwise I'd be off actually writing cannon, rather than this odd AU. And series three would be out by now as well.

Background: this is based off of a Tumblr post, which can be found here: gaytectives . tumblr . com /post/39918208082/mr-holmes-can-i-see-you-after-class

- A Lesson in Biology -

From the moment they met, Sherlock Holmes had completely profiled his teacher. He had catalogued every detail, from the size of his shoes to the type of scone he liked to eat every Saturday from a local bakery. It wasn't as if the man made it difficult, and it helped relieve the hours of boredom Holmes often felt as he twiddled his thumbs away in class.

Professor John H. Watson. Thirty-seven, unmarried (though engaged once, at least three years before). Currently single. Lived with no pets, although a stray cat had the habit of dropping by his flat every occasional weekend to lounge at his doorstep. He took two cups of coffee each morning, one before the shower, and one on his way to work. No sugar, though a touch of cream (about a tablespoon, to be exact, though Watson never measured) was tolerated on mornings after a particularly tough night of grading.

Professor Watson turned on the telly as he ate every evening. Alone. He was in the habit of watching romance dramas, his favourite currently being a comedy that aired every Friday evening, six to seven thirty. He had a strong penchant for reading, but he disguised his texts behind false covers, putting up the front of reading Jane Eyre, when in reality, he was perusing through the latest trashy romance novel to hit the shelves. Honestly, the man ought to invest in an e-reader.

Professor Watson adamantly believed that he was not lonely, despite the fact that his phone showed wear around the edges from how he held it, as he often contemplated the idea of texting somebody, but then wearily put it away once again after realizing he had nobody to text. He tended to write long comments when grading research essays, a trait which many students deemed as the mark of a wonderful and dedicated teacher, but some students—namely one student—saw it instead as a trait of desolation. That student knew better.

Although, to be honest, Sherlock Holmes always knew better.

And as such, the curly-haired biology major was not surprised in the least when he was requested to remain behind after class the day they took the midterm exam. He had anticipated this development, although he had honestly expected it to have occurred sooner. His prediction had been skewed by four days—a fact which caused Sherlock no small amount of irritation. Rarely did any man elude Holmes's precise hypotheses. But then again, they were not talking about just any man; they were talking about the highly capable, ever intelligent, wry-humoured Professor and Doctor John H. Watson. And Sherlock Holmes was surely not taking this class on the molecular evolution of African pathobiology because he needed the knowledge. He was taking it because he was interested in the man, just as—Sherlock knew—the man was interested in him.

"You wished to see me," Sherlock murmured as he approached the desk after the rest of the students had filed out. It was a statement, not a question.

Professor Watson looked up from jotting down a few thoughts on his notepad. "Yes, Sherlock. I wanted to say—"

"Note, professor, that I did not say 'you wished to talk to me.'" Sherlock placed his palms on the desk and leaned in, his eyes already studying every aspect of the man before him (as Sherlock was in the habit of doing every class). He swiftly scanned through and catalogued all the information he needed, far before the professor could even recover from his confusion and shock at being interrupted. And well before the man was able to form a coherent reply, Sherlock continued.

"It would be better if you shifted your wardrobe to the other side of your bedroom."

The professor colored at the sudden change of subject, especially at the mention of bedrooms. His eyes widened as they averted in a manner that Sherlock almost deemed comical.

"I beg your pardon?" That confused expression really was quite… endearing. Sherlock racked his dictionary of a brain for the right phrase, and this seemed to be the most fitting. Nevertheless, the young man was unsure as to what other emotions or reactions the term "endearing" brought with it. And here he saw an opportune chance to do some fantastic field research.

"You are still capable of hearing with standard precision through your right ear, professor. And your left is almost perfect, though it did sustain some damage during a grenade blast in the war. Thus, I know you heard what I said." Sherlock couldn't help a small, smug smile. "Am I right?"

John Watson gave his student a most bewildered expression, tinged with a bit of amusement and a touch of… Sherlock's mind catalogued it as physical attraction, although he did not have much experience in that realm of facial recognition. Thus, further research was necessary.

"… Yes, I suppose you are," Professor Watson replied after a moment, chuckling and taking off his glasses to polish them with his pocket kerchief. Shaking his head, John put his glasses back on and gave his student a calculating look. "And pray tell, why must I do that, Sherlock?"

The student shrugged, picking up a small ball on the table and tossing it up in the air, only to catch it and throw it up once again in a repetitive cycle. "You should move that cabinet so that you will stop hitting your elbow anymore every time you reach to turn off your alarm clock." He stopped his tossing and looked straight at his professor. The two of them gazed at each other in silence for exactly one minute and twenty-three seconds before Professor Watson turned away, chuckling once again, his cheeks flushed with just enough crimson for Sherlock to deem it a reaction of attraction. As he had expected, of course, though further data was still necessary before Sherlock could turn his hypothesis into a working theory.

"Amazing... Yet again," Professor Watson murmured softly to himself, involuntarily rubbing his right elbow. Sherlock watched on wordlessly as the man picked up a stack of papers and once again fixed his glasses. Rolling his shoulders to shake himself out of that oddly riveting moment with his star student, John Watson began, "Now Sherlock, I called you to—"

"You should also move your bed four inches away from the wall."

The professor froze, his mouth hanging open as his brows furrowed once again. Closing his lips, John lowered the hand that was holding the stack of papers and looked up at his admittedly handsome student, eyes shining through his glasses.

"And why would I do that?"

Sherlock's lips quirked upward ever so slightly, his trademark one-sided smirk. "As I said, I did not start the conversation with 'you wished to talk to me,' professor Watson." His eyes glinted with some predatory excitement which John could not mentally comprehend, but his body was already reacting to it in a variety of alarming ways.

The student tossed his ball up one last time and caught it deftly before stowing it away in his pocket. For what he was about to do, Sherlock felt he deserved to keep this memento, as a reminder of… hard research, for the greater good.

"I know why you called me here," Sherlock continued, amused that his professor was so enthralled by his gaze. "And I had suggested that you move your bed four inches away from the wall because," his smirk widened ever so slightly, "I will be doing the honour of moving it four inches back."

Turning on his heels, Sherlock shouldered his pack and walked right out the door. "Now come along, professor Watson! We haven't got all night."

The professor needed no further urging, and before he knew it, he, too, was dashing out the doorway, chasing after his gorgeous student. His briefcase and paperwork were left forgotten on the table, but that was of no consequence. Work, he could definitely do later. This, he most probably could not.

Professor Watson caught up to his devilishly cunning student in a few seconds, and as he breathlessly latched a hand onto the man's surprisingly well-muscled arm, all he could say was, "Please, call me John."

Author's Comments:

I know it's really short, but I sort of really liked it. I usually don't post my drabbles on here, but this one made me all warm and fuzzy, and I'm actually a little proud of it, despite its short length. It's also my first time writing Sherlock, so it was a fun experiment, and I want to keep it here as a nice memento that I did do something once upon a time at some point for the fandom I love so much. Hetalia sort of takes up my writing capacity almost all of the time. xD

Hope you enjoyed! Please drop a review if you can. =]

- Gal