Chapter 7: The Quiet Before the Storm
The walk home from UA was a feat of physical endurance Sherlock hadn't prepared for. Every muscle in his forearms throbbed from the high-frequency vibrations of his Molecular Glaze, and his brain felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. The "Sugar Crash" had hit hard. By the time he reached the Sheets estate—a sprawling minimalist mansion of glass and steel—he didn't even bother taking off his shoes. He collapsed onto the suede sofa in the foyer and was asleep before his head hit the cushion.
A Clinical Review at Twilight
He was awakened three hours later by the rhythmic tapping of a fountain pen against a mahogany desk. He blinked, his crimson eyes adjusting to the dim study light. His father, Arthur Sheets, sat across from him, looking over a holographic display of the day's training footage from UA.
"You're late for dinner," Arthur said without looking up. "And your form in Match 5 was... inefficient. You relied on environmental drafts to maintain your cards. If the ventilation had been cut, you would have been forced to use 30% more glucose for active telekinesis."
Sherlock sat up, rubbing his face. "It worked, didn't it? We won."
"Success is a baseline, not an achievement," Arthur replied, finally closing the hologram. "I've reviewed the files on your peers. The Todoroki boy is the only one with a pedigree worth noting. His elemental output is superior, though he lacks the finesse of a technician. He is a blunt instrument. As for that Bakugo... he is a liability. High volatility, low emotional control. He's a lawsuit waiting to happen. He doesn't understand the concept of collateral damage."
Arthur leaned back, his eyes cold. "The teachers are even more concerning. Eraserhead is a pragmatist, but he has no eye for the market. And All Might... he is a relic. He teaches heroics as if they are a spectacle. Sheets Industries doesn't invest in spectacles; we invest in systems. Stay close to Yaoyorozu. Her Quirk is the only one that approaches the complexity of our own material sciences.
She has a high-tier intellectual ceiling. Now, go to bed. You
have a long day of 'heroics' tomorrow."
The Media Siege: Sensory Overload
The next morning, the entrance to UA was not a school gate; it was a battlefield of microphones and camera lenses. The press had swarmed the gates, desperate for a quote about All Might's debut as a teacher.
"How is he as a teacher?!" a reporter screamed, shoving a mic into Sherlock's face.
Sherlock stopped, his eyes narrowing. Sound pressure level: 95 decibels. Proximity: 15 centimeters. Threat level: Negligible but irritating.
"He's tall," Sherlock said flatly, pushing past the crowd. "And very loud. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a 0.5% chance of being late for homeroom, and my teacher has a 100% chance of expelling me for it."
He felt the physical pressure of the crowd—the heat of bodies pressing against his black coat. It was a chaotic, disorganized mass that offended his sense of order. To Sherlock, the press were just biological variables that hadn't been accounted for in the morning's schedule.
The Choice of a Leader: Political Theater
The atmosphere in Class 1-A was buzzing. The adrenaline of the battle trials had faded, replaced by the mundane reality of school politics.
"I want to be class rep! Pick me!" Kirishima shouted, his hand high.
"My campaign will be one of absolute order!" Iida declared, his arm chopping the air with such intensity it looked painful.
"I'll make everyone wear sparkles!" Aoyama added, a literal twinkle in his eye.
Sherlock sat at the back, his chin resting in his palm. He looked at the ballot paper on his desk. He didn't want the responsibility of leading anyone—that sounded like a lot of extra meetings and social interaction. However, he also didn't want a loud, incompetent leader making his life more difficult.
Who is the most logical choice? he wondered. He looked at Momo Yaoyorozu. She was organized, wealthy, and possessed a high-functioning intellect. She was a known variable. He scribbled "Momo Yaoyorozu" on the paper and folded it.
When the results were posted on the board, the room went silent.
Momo Yaoyorozu: 3 Votes
Izuku Midoriya: 2 Votes
Sheets Sherlock: 1 Vote
.
.
Tenya lida: 0 Votes
Sherlock stared at the single vote next to his own name. He felt a bead of cold sweat. Who on earth would vote for me?
"The Class Representative will be Yaoyorozu," Aizawa droned from his sleeping bag. "And the Deputy will be Midoriya."
Momo stood up, her face radiating a mixture of pride and relief. "I am honored by your trust! I shall strive to lead this class with the utmost diligence!"
The Secret Exchange
During the transition to the next period, Momo leaned over to Sherlock's desk, her voice a soft, elegant whisper.
"Sherlock-san," she began, a slight blush on her cheeks. "I wanted to thank you. I suspected you might be the one to cast that third vote for me. Your logic is always so... consistent."
Sherlock looked up, blinking slowly. "You were the most efficient choice, Momo. I have no interest in being led by someone who shouts in the hallways."
Momo giggled softly. "I appreciate the honesty. Though, I must confess... I was the one who voted for you."
Sherlock's pen froze. "You? Why? I spent the entire Battle Trial leaning against a wall."
"Because," Momo said, her eyes turning serious, "you were the only person in this room who didn't raise your hand to ask for power. You saw the situation, analyzed the weaknesses, and executed a plan with the least amount of wasted movement. That is a quality a leader needs. I thought... perhaps you should see that in yourself."
Sherlock stared at her for a long moment before looking back at his blank notebook. "That sounds like a lot of work, Momo. But... thank you."
The Lunch Hour Sanctuary: Penne and Peace
The lunch bell was the only sound Sherlock truly enjoyed. He found himself back in his "Blind Spot"—the shadowy corner behind the pillar.
He had gone back to his favorites: a plate of Penne Arrabbiata with extra spice to kickstart his sluggish metabolism, and another can of black-cherry soda.
As he twirled a noodle, two shadows fell over the table. He didn't even have to look up.
"The light is particularly harsh today," Tokoyami said, sitting down. "The cafeteria's aura is turbulent."
"The media is outside," Shoji added, his multiple ears twitching. "They are trying to get a statement on All Might. It's creating a lot of static."
Sherlock popped the tab on his soda. Hiss-crack. "They're like vultures. They don't care about the school; they care about the headline."
The three of them ate in that beautiful, heavy silence once more. It was the only time Sherlock felt his brain actually cool down. But the peace was short-lived.
The Breach: A Stampede of Panic
"SECURITY LEVEL 3 HAS BEEN BROKEN. ALL STUDENTS, PLEASE EVACUATE IN AN ORDERLY FASHION."
The alarm blared, a piercing, rhythmic screech. The peaceful cafeteria transformed into a mosh pit of panicked teenagers.
Sherlock was swept up in the crowd. Pressure gradient: 400 newtons per square meter, he calculated, his back slammed against the glass of the corridor. The crowd density is approaching the critical point for a trampling event.
He saw Midoriya being crushed, and Uraraka struggling to find footing. Ahead of them, Iida was caught in the swirl of the exit. But then, something happened. Iida used his Engine quirk to propel himself above the crowd, spinning through the air until he slammed into the exit sign above the door like a gargoyle.
"EVERYONE, CALM DOWN!" Iida bellowed, his voice commanding the room. "IT'S JUST THE PRESS! THERE IS NO EMERGENCY! WE ARE AT UA! ACT IN A WAY BEFITTING THE BEST ACADEMY!"
The panic subsided. The students looked up at the "Exit Sign Iida," and the chaos turned back into a line.
Later that afternoon, the class gathered back together. Momo stood at the front, having regained her composure after the scramble.
"Iida-san," Momo said, looking at him with respect. "The way you handled the panic today... it was exemplary. If you wish, I would be happy to have you as a lead officer in our class council."
Iida took the position with tears of joy. Sherlock, however, wasn't looking at the front of the room. He was looking at the charred, crumbled remains of the UA gate through the classroom window.
That gate was made of reinforced titanium, Sherlock analyzed. The press couldn't have done that. Someone used them as a distraction to test the security. Someone with a disintegration quirk.
He felt a cold chill. The quiet life he wanted was slipping away.
"The USJ is next," Sherlock whispered to himself, his hand reaching for a fresh deck of cards.