Short Fill: The Necessity of Atheism 1/1
anonymous
September 12 2010, 22:34:49 UTC
In 1811, Percy Shelley was expelled from University College, Oxford for writing a heretical pamphlet. In 1893, they erected a statue to his memory; the students of the college used to rub its penis before exams for good luck, until the great poet’s member shown signs of erosion and the college constructed a fence to protect the memorial.
Sherlock keeps this in mind as he sits facing the Sub-Rector, the Senior Tutor and his Moral Tutor, the last of whom looks rather anxious at the direction these proceedings have taken.
“It is not that we have any doubts about your intellectual ability,” the Sub-Rector is saying. Sherlock does not look at him directly. His eye is distracted by the light passing though the stained glass window behind his interrogators, projecting fragments of colour onto the table that lies between him and them. “Your tutors write glowing descriptions of your work,” the Sub-Rector continues. “That is, the work that you choose to hand in, which is less than half the work you are set. Far less. But we might have been able to overlook even that had you bothered to turn up to your examinations.”
The Sub-Rector pauses, making it clear that Sherlock is supposed to respond. Sherlock knows exactly what he is supposed to say, because Mycroft - who is waiting on a bench in the cloisters - has drilled it into him. He is supposed to say that he was under a great deal of strain, that he wasn’t thinking straight, that his family doctor in London has sent a letter to his Moral Tutor explaining everything. He is supposed to assure them that he is dedicating to passing resits at the end of the summer, and that he is very sorry for any trouble he has caused.
Sherlock says nothing. It is the second week of July and all of the undergraduates have left. College is eerily quiet. Outside of the Sub-Rector’s window, a blackbird is singing.
“Well,” the Sub-Rector demands. “Why did you only turn up to two of your five exams?” He looks down at his notes. “And one of those two you didn’t even complete. What was going on?”
“They were boring,” Sherlock said, simply. “I sat the first paper because I thought it would be interesting - and it wasn’t even distracting. I thought the second paper might be better, but I got halfway through before I realised that it wasn’t worth my time. I don’t give third chances.”
“Sherlock,” his Moral Tutor begins hesitantly. He is a small man who specialises in Anglo-Saxon sermons. Sherlock had tea in his office in his first week at the college and has not spoken to him since. “Your brother and your doctor wrote to me to explain that you’d had some kind of nervous breakdown. College would be sympathetic to any medical reasons why you-”
“They’re lying,” Sherlock interrupts laconically. “Well, my brother is, certainly. I’m not entirely sure what he told Dr. Maloney, so the doctor might have been acting in good faith. Or my brother might have paid him. Mycroft is waiting in the cloisters if you’d like to ask him.”
“Your older brother’s reputation in this college is the only reason why you haven’t been sent down already,” the Sub-Rector barks. His face is turning a startling shade of puce. The Senior Tutor shuffles the papers on his desk awkwardly, and Sherlock thinks that Mycroft might have also provided a pecuniary reason for this meeting to take place. “Your insolence is astounding. You are aware, Sherlock, that you have to pass your preliminary exams if you intend to progress to the final honour school?”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I do not intend to progress to the final honours school.”
*
Mycroft is waiting outside the door, tapping his umbrella impatiently. Sherlock steps into the quad and fishes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one and says nothing.
“Well?” Mycroft demands. “What did they say?” Sherlock takes a deep drag on the cigarette and slowly exhales the smoke.
“They’re sending me down.” Mycroft jabs his umbrella into the ground with particular vehemence and swears loudly. The sound echoes through the cloisters and Sherlock smiles. It is not often that Mycroft resorts to language like that and in his voice the words sound odd and faintly humorous.
“You are going to have to explain this to Mummy,” Mycroft snaps, dragging Sherlock towards the lodge.
Sherlock keeps this in mind as he sits facing the Sub-Rector, the Senior Tutor and his Moral Tutor, the last of whom looks rather anxious at the direction these proceedings have taken.
“It is not that we have any doubts about your intellectual ability,” the Sub-Rector is saying. Sherlock does not look at him directly. His eye is distracted by the light passing though the stained glass window behind his interrogators, projecting fragments of colour onto the table that lies between him and them. “Your tutors write glowing descriptions of your work,” the Sub-Rector continues. “That is, the work that you choose to hand in, which is less than half the work you are set. Far less. But we might have been able to overlook even that had you bothered to turn up to your examinations.”
The Sub-Rector pauses, making it clear that Sherlock is supposed to respond. Sherlock knows exactly what he is supposed to say, because Mycroft - who is waiting on a bench in the cloisters - has drilled it into him. He is supposed to say that he was under a great deal of strain, that he wasn’t thinking straight, that his family doctor in London has sent a letter to his Moral Tutor explaining everything. He is supposed to assure them that he is dedicating to passing resits at the end of the summer, and that he is very sorry for any trouble he has caused.
Sherlock says nothing. It is the second week of July and all of the undergraduates have left. College is eerily quiet. Outside of the Sub-Rector’s window, a blackbird is singing.
“Well,” the Sub-Rector demands. “Why did you only turn up to two of your five exams?” He looks down at his notes. “And one of those two you didn’t even complete. What was going on?”
“They were boring,” Sherlock said, simply. “I sat the first paper because I thought it would be interesting - and it wasn’t even distracting. I thought the second paper might be better, but I got halfway through before I realised that it wasn’t worth my time. I don’t give third chances.”
“Sherlock,” his Moral Tutor begins hesitantly. He is a small man who specialises in Anglo-Saxon sermons. Sherlock had tea in his office in his first week at the college and has not spoken to him since. “Your brother and your doctor wrote to me to explain that you’d had some kind of nervous breakdown. College would be sympathetic to any medical reasons why you-”
“They’re lying,” Sherlock interrupts laconically. “Well, my brother is, certainly. I’m not entirely sure what he told Dr. Maloney, so the doctor might have been acting in good faith. Or my brother might have paid him. Mycroft is waiting in the cloisters if you’d like to ask him.”
“Your older brother’s reputation in this college is the only reason why you haven’t been sent down already,” the Sub-Rector barks. His face is turning a startling shade of puce. The Senior Tutor shuffles the papers on his desk awkwardly, and Sherlock thinks that Mycroft might have also provided a pecuniary reason for this meeting to take place. “Your insolence is astounding. You are aware, Sherlock, that you have to pass your preliminary exams if you intend to progress to the final honour school?”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I do not intend to progress to the final honours school.”
*
Mycroft is waiting outside the door, tapping his umbrella impatiently. Sherlock steps into the quad and fishes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one and says nothing.
“Well?” Mycroft demands. “What did they say?” Sherlock takes a deep drag on the cigarette and slowly exhales the smoke.
“They’re sending me down.” Mycroft jabs his umbrella into the ground with particular vehemence and swears loudly. The sound echoes through the cloisters and Sherlock smiles. It is not often that Mycroft resorts to language like that and in his voice the words sound odd and faintly humorous.
“You are going to have to explain this to Mummy,” Mycroft snaps, dragging Sherlock towards the lodge.
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Oh my god.
I could totally see this whole thing happening too. Good job, anon. C:
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