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Chapter Text

The Dewalt DWE575SB 7¼ inch lightweight circular saw with electric brake, moving at fifty-one hundred revolutions per minute. Cuts through plywood, siding, even concrete with ease.

The Shop Fox W1820 3HP 10 inch table saw with riving knife, heavy case hand wheels, magnetic switch, mitre gauge, flip stop and dust collection port.

The JET JWL-1221VS 12-inch by 21-inch variable speed wood lathe so vicious, it even slaughtered AM frequency radio stations in its wake.

The Shredder, the Amputator and the Skinner, respectively.

-o-

These were amongst the tools that, for reasons I could scarce explain outside of mankind’s obsessive need to seek control over plant, animal, and mineral, took residence in the bowels of my secondary school, waiting eagerly to butcher the young of our species.

Or, as administration preferred to call it, shop class.

I had desperately avoided shop at all costs. I’d take a myriad of extra curricula in order to avoid the oddly masculine expectation that shop be considered a staple of my education. It seemed insane, given that home economics, with its focus on budgeting, cooking and keeping house seemed far more relevant to life in the 1990s than building my own log cabin should the apocalypse hit. If the apocalypse hit, where would I get power tools from?

It was nonsense, all of it. I simply refused to sign up for the class.

So of course, the spiteful gods of childhood education found fit, in their cruel and unusual ways, to assign me to 5th hour shop.

-o-

As I descended into the dungeon, the stale scent of wood shavings, old sweat and the copper tinge of blood flooded my lungs. I walked into the classroom, the disgust evident on my face. Why, in a world where there were nearly a half million ways to kill yourself before breakfast, would one seek out power tools to nearly triple their risk? It seemed excessive, especially given society’s eagerness to grieve over the loss of the young, those who ‘had so much left to live?”

If they cared so much, why were they trying to kill me now?

It was hard to tell, though, which was worse. The tools themselves, the socket heads, or the shop professor, Professor Adler.

The socket heads were mostly high school lifers, those who’d grown a full beard before they’d left year 9, who would never make it to uni and called each other ‘guv’ and ‘poofter’ as though their own names ceased to exist any longer.

And yet, among their ranks, stood Jim “Mental” Moriarty, in his tailored grey suit, a devilish look in his eye and nary a fleck of shaved wood nor hint of grease on his hands. Yet he ruled over the socket heads, having endeared himself to Professor Adler. I had no clue how he’d done it.

Within ten steps of entering the classroom, I saw Seb Moran trying to press David’s head into a vice. I walked over, and requested blandly, “Please don’t put his head in a vice.”

Seb sneered at me, “What are you, his dad?”

Stifling an eye roll, I looked directly at him without a trace of humour, “As a matter of fact, I am his father.”

Seb paused, confused, and let go of David’s head. At least some of the socket heads were easily duped. Jim stood at the front of the classroom, frowning in my direction, though I couldn’t determine if it were me or Seb his displeasure was directed towards. Regardless, he began to address the class as though he were its professor, not Professor Adler.

“Do not misunderstand. Professor Adler may be here to teach you, but this room belongs to me. If you need anything. A nut, a bolt, safety glasses, plywood, a helmet, anything, you will come to me. I own this room, I own these tools, I own it all, and you will defer to me. Or else, you'll be assigned the special project." Jim's voice dripped with eager cruelty, "Is that clearly understood?”

Seb circled the room as Jim spoke, and as such, the class nodded readily when Jim asked. Jim smiled, wickedness behind his eyes, and as I was about to turn to John and complain, we heard the steps of Professor Adler down the stairs.

She was the only woman I’d ever seen who wore steel tipped high heels. It made a touch of sense, her working in the shop class, but it begged the question why heels were necessary at all.

But Professor Adler would have it no other way. She was the source of fantasy for half the boys and at least a quarter of the girls, and I knew it was no accident. She wore deliberate outfits to enhance her appearance, and her very nature was flirtatious and disarming. However, I’d seen the facade, though not the mask behind it, and was not easily swayed. As a general rule, there were only ever a few of the female persuasion to ever intrigue me (Anthea having been one such delight) but alas, Professor Adler was not one of them, making it easy for me to see her for who she was; or more accurately, who she was not.

Speaking of other men, I looked to John, who seemed unnecessarily enamoured. I frowned. We’d decided that we were just friends, but I didn’t need to see him looking at her like that. In fact, as I look around, I found that nearly everyone seemed under her spell.

Of course, some of that might have been fear. Professor Adler didn’t just entice her students through her sharp appearance, but also through the mystery of her right hand. Or, to be specific, her missing right hand. Rumours abounded as to how Adler lost the appendage, and they were all equally ridiculous.

Rhys insisted it’d been bitten off by a shark off the coast of Corsica.

David heard she’d once been a magician whose illusion had gone awry.

Henry thought she’d cut it off herself so that she could create her own tools; like some sort of home grown Cyberman.

Looking around at the torture chamber around us, I suspected Occam’s Razor to be in play. The simplest solution was the most likely; she’d been maimed by the power tools’ thirst for blood, and now chose to sacrifice us to them instead, in lieu of losing further body parts.

Professor Adler’s most common attachment to her prosthetic was a riding crop, which she used to scare the devil out of the class several times an hour. You would think, with the margin of error so risky when using these tools, her penchant for whipping loud surfaces for dramatic effect and attention would be considered some sort of crime. Mutilation by negligence; I hadn’t indulged in law review yet, but I imagined that must be a thing.

Professor Adler turned down the lights in the front of the dark, windowless hole of a classroom, and started up the overhead projector. She stalked the room as she spoke, the clack of her heels against the cement floor the only sound outside of the scribbling of pencil and the whir of the projector.

She slapped at the wall, at the words ‘Wood: Theory and Practice’ and smirked as the class jumped.

“Today, my friends,” she started with a practiced charm, “We will be discussing various types of wood. Hard woods, those that are soft to the touch, which make the best chairs and bed frames and stocks. The goal of this lesson is to learn which woods are best for which task. Once you know what you want, you’ll know what to ask for, and then, I can give you what you need.”

I rolled my eyes at her words, the near blatant innuendo a childish tactic to keep the class’s attention. I scratched out geographical diagrams in my notebook, trying to memorize the location and names of all the nation states. Something that might actually provide me benefit in the future. Something other than the spice racks that 90% of the class would decide to make. I’m not sure there is anything in life quite as pointless as a spice rack.

I couldn’t believe I had to sit here and listen to this faux seductress ramble on about wood, as if it were sexy or alluring. I looked around, trying to share my agony with someone, anyone. But they were all watching her. I couldn't figure out if everyone else had been lulled into a hypnotic trance by Professor Adler’s slideshow or if they were seriously into it.

I tried to catch John’s attention, but his eyes were firmly on the professor. I called his name out in a low whisper, but I caught Professor Adler’s attention instead.

“Holmes!” Her voice grew sharp and cruel; she knew her charms wouldn’t work on me. “What type of wood is best to make a nice, round paddle,” she slapped her hands together for emphasis, “A ping pong paddle, of course?”

Bollocks. I scanned my knowledge, and knew that Ash was most commonly used for making bats; paddles should be similar. I answered as such. The class turned and looked to me as though I’d offered to paddle Professor Adler, and my eyes grew wide. I wasn't sure what I had said that was wrong.

“The ply, Iceman,” she sneered. Fantastic; she’d spent enough time around Mental Moriarty to adopt his nickname for me. I was toast. I was doomed. There was no way I was getting through this class; all I wanted was to pass. I’d take a ‘C’ if necessary; I knew which battles were worth fighting.

I had to shrug; I wasn’t paying attention at all, and it wasn’t a skill set I ever hoped to learn; the makeup of sports equipment. I’d leave that up to Sherlock, scientific deviant that he was.

My mind whirred, knowing that plywood came in varying thicknesses, and imagined that like every sport, there were proponents of each. Imagining the variety in thickness, I guessed, “There are proponents for 3-, 5-, and 7- wood ply, based on the player’s strengths.”

Professor Adler looked put off. “Very good,” she begrudgingly admitted. And I knew that even as I had won that round, I was going to lose the game.

Just like the missing hand, the “special project” had its own theories.

Jeanette thought it was a torture device, a St. Andrew’s cross, where Alder tortured the students that failed her classes.

Sarah had heard it was a doghouse, and that Adler would insist on you crawling in, like a dog, to prove it was big enough.

Mike thought it was an improvised explosive device. When the class gave him blank stares, he explained, “An IED? What? You’ve never heard of that?”

I groaned. “We aren’t going to be making bombs in shop class, Mike.”

Adler, every year, had a “special project” and I knew, if I couldn’t get off her radar, the project would end up mine. I loathed the thought. Even so, I hope I never had the poor fortune of finding out exactly what it was that Adler had plannned.

Chapter Text

As I was suffering in Shop, Sherlock was still enjoying the long forgotten entity that was recess. But he was having his own set of problems.

Sherlock sat by his typical tree, away from his peers. Even the neighbourhood kids he played with at home knew better than to bother him once he’d sat himself by the tree. He was searching for the perfect memorisation technique. Two years ago, he’d insisted that our childhood home would be sufficient for anything he might need to know, but he was finding it difficult to retain information without it overlapping, merging or deleting itself, which was unacceptable.

His next attempt was the school building. Surely, a classroom for every topic he’d possibly need was sufficient; all sciences should fit into his science room, all physical activities into the school gym. I’d tried to talk him out of a such rigid ideal, but alas, Sherlock often was certain he’d best me some day and rarely took my advice to heart.

But today, it wasn’t a bothersome professor nor quarrelsome student that interrupted his filing. A small black puppy began to nip at his laces, and while he mindlessly shuffled his foot to scare the animal off, the nuisance was enough that it pulled him from his mind entirely. He tried to be cross with the puppy, but as it bounced around him, he found it difficult.

The puppy followed him around, chasing the stick Sherlock threw, even bringing back an old action figure toy of Sherlock’s that he’d lost two years ago in the woods. In fact, over the duration of the recess, the puppy had found nearly half a dozen of Sherlock’s long lost toys, leaving them in a pile before running off again to find another. After each find, the puppy climbed into Sherlock’s lap, and beamed until he’d received a pat on the head, then ran off in search of another gift.

“You’re a brilliant thing, aren’t you?” Sherlock complimented one last time, and as the bell rang, he scooped up the small dog and shoved it into the pocket of his sweatshirt. When he returned to his desk, he slipped the puppy into his book bag, alerting his friends to stay on guard.

“Wills, have you something to share with the class?” Ms. Donovan asked sharply; noticing her least favourite student not paying attention.

“You didn’t spend the night at your own house. You wore that outfit yesterday, though today you aren’t wearing the black jacket. You hoped we wouldn’t notice.” Sherlock took one look at her and answered factually, and tactlessly, back and found himself on the way to the principal’s office immediately. He gave Molly and Billy anxious eyes, and Molly nodded, sliding Sherlock’s bag to her side, zipping the bag tightly.

The dog whimpered, and Molly’s eyes grew big. As Ms. Donovan’s head snapped in her direction, she feigned her own whimper.

“Molly.” Ms. Donovan reprimanded, not amused.

“Sherlock’s my friend, Ms. Donovan, and I don’t want-“ the puppy gave a terrible whine, and Molly responded with a terrible whine in kind, “ I don’t wannnnnnt him to be in trooooubbbbblle!” Her fake sobs wracked her body, and she was careful to cover each of the puppy’s noises with her own.

Ms. Donovan sighed, this was more than she needed to deal with right now. “Fine. Hallway. Sit out there until you can control yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Molly sniffled, and shrugged Sherlock’s bag on, going to leave the classroom.

“Molly?” Ms. Donovan demanded, and Molly was sure she’d been caught.

“Yes, Ms Donovan?” she sniffled, giving an exaggerated sob.

“Come back once you’ve calmed down,” Ms Donovan instructed. As Molly exited the door, she smiled. She’d tried to tell Sherlock there were benefits to pretending to be teacher’s pet, but he never believed her. She hoisted the bag on both shoulders, and walked toward the principal’s office. She was sure she’d meet Sherlock on the way.

-o-

Headmaster Pitts sent Sherlock on his way with a detention for the following afternoon, and he met Molly in the hall to relieve her of his pack. He unzipped the top, allowing the puppy to pop out its head.

“Tell Miss Donovan that I was sent home for the day,” he instructed Molly, “She despises the Headmaster enough that she won’t confirm it with him until it’s too late.”

Sherlock ducked out a side door, and slowly made his way back to our house. It was a few kilometres, but it gave the gave the pup time to run and play. Sherlock never felt strongly about dogs; they were typically too happy, too easy to amuse, and with little to no complexity. But this pup intrigued him; if nothing else he must have a highly developed sense of smell. Who knows what they could find together?

Sherlock was watching the pup tease a rabbit. The rabbit was far too quick for him, not to mention twice the size, but it was practice, and Sherlock was watching to see how instinctive the tiny predator’s hunting skills were. Suddenly, behind him, he heard a bellowing, “Sherlock! Thank t' heavens I've found ye!”

Sherlock smiled as he turned, “Redbeard!” He whistled for the pup, caught it with one hand and climbed up rope ladder into Redbeard’s ship. Redbeard sailed his ship through the neighborhood, pulling into our port.

Mother and Father had to build a separate driveway just for Redbeard and his ship, else he pulled into the driveway meant for the car, and that made Father rather cross. But Redbeard would only sail into “port,” and Sherlock was adamant that Redbeard be welcome enough at our home to have his own port, if he weren’t allowed to use ours.

We were the only house the village that had it’s own port for Redbeard’s ship. But then again, Sherlock was the only kid in the neighborhood to have his own personal pirate.

“I be glad ye see ye've rescued Pearl, but we've a host o' other mongrels t' save,” Redbeard told Sherlock, lowering the gangway so they could disembark.

“What? Why?” Sherlock demanded.

“A pack o' pups were livin' in th' empty lot nigh th' Tesco's in Natwich, 'N they were discovered by Pugchomper. He's been huntin' th' lot o' them, 'n we needs t' save them from his gnashin' teeth,” Redbeard explained.

“Pugchomper?” Sherlock frowned.

“Aye, Pugchomper. He'd been a normal bloke 'til he got a taste fer cur. 'N now he roams th' shores fer strays, comin' on land - land ! Me territory! - if he be starvin' fer more. These pups live on me territory, so 'tis me job t' protect them. But I could use yer help.”

“Can’t the dog catcher help?” Sherlock asked, rightly assuming the dog catcher would be better suited to this task than himself.

“By the gods, no! Pugchomper be payin' her twenty quid fer every pup she catches 'n hands o'er!”

The black puppy, who Sherlock knew now was Pearl, tugged at his trouser cuffs and whined. He looked down, into her big green eyes, and looked at Redbeard, determination on his face. “How many are there? How is Pugchomper traveling? What are his methods of entrapment?”

Sitting in the front garden, Sherlock continued to quiz Redbeard, and together, with Pearl at their side, they began to plan their defense.

-o-

Over the next several weeks, Sherlock and I both faced our challenges. For me, I was discovering that not only was I the only kid in the class who only cared to scrape by with a C, but that John, my own best friend, was becoming thoroughly “Addled.”

He’d always been known to get a touch enthusiastic; but this was ridiculous. We’d moved on from just wood, onto steel and welding. John spent hours after school, dragging me along to the shop dungeon to work on his midterm.

“This is brilliant,” John exclaimed, “Look at it melt! Like raindrops; giving life to flowers, but instead, I can make drops of molten metal give life to sculptures, tools, anything I could want!”

I rolled my eyes. “You are such a romantic, prone to such ridiculous prose,” I teased from over the top of my advanced civics book.

“And you’re going to fail, if you don’t do anything besides criticise me,” he quipped.

“I’m not going to fail, I’m going to just enough to get a C,” I announced, “I’ve examined the projects and grades she’s given for the last three semesters. I know exactly what I need to do.”

And I did. John may have built a steel framed garden table and chairs, the effort of which was A worthy, but the technique, being common and uninteresting to Adler, would bring him down to a B+.

I, on the other hand, was going to paste together some wood scraps, the effort of which would be worth a failing grade, but I planned on mimicking the style of a 16th century woodcutter I knew Professor Adler adored, thus securing my C.

“I don’t get it,” John muttered, “You’re a genius, you could ace anything you wanted to. What’s your grudge against shop?”

“It’s a worthless excuse to maim children,” I protested. “And you’ve been Addled. You know you have.”

“Not Addled, just-” John shrugged, pulling the welder’s mask back over his face, “Interested.”

I rolled my eyes, “Tedious, John. You’ll see. I’ll get my C, and all’ll be well.”

“You’d better hurry. Adler’s a tough grader.”

“No one knows better than I,” I commented, and John nodded.

“Exactly.”

I eyed John oddly, but he was too engulfed with his metal work to notice.

-o-

The day of the midterm, I look around at the projects surrounding me. Mike was looking a D+, David a solid B. I’d tailored my project to be a solid C, but I was surprised when Adler came by my workstation.

“Look at this,” she marveled, and I could scarce tell if she were being sarcastic or not. She was rather clever, though I hated to admit it. “Class, look here,” she demanded, “Do you see what he’s done here?”

She circled around me, her whip hand stroking the half-cocked sculpture I made. I knew I was in trouble. “It’s magnificent. It tells me everything I could possible need to know!”

“Jim!” she called across the room, and Mental Moriarty’s head snapped up, “Yes, Ms. Adler?” he asked, as he carved the head of a snake from a block of wood.

“Do you see?” she inquired, “Why it is so perfect?”

Moriarty thought for a moment, looking at my project. “Because it’s shite?”

“Exactly!” she agreed, and I thought I was well on my way to getting my C.  Instead she instructed, “Up, Mr. Holmes. You’ll be completing the rest of the semester there,” she pointed to the seat next Mental Moriarty, “working on my special project.”

I could here the room echo.

“Him?” John said, disappointed.

“Him?” David said, fearful for my life.

“Him?” Jim Moriarty said, dismayed at having to work with me.

“Yes, Him,” Professor Adler announced, and dragged me up to my feet. “To your new seat, Holmes,” she ordered, and, with a heaviness to my step, I obeyed.

What evil would be bestowed upon me now?