AN: Hello! My friend and I had an inspiration to start writing this story and so we did. After several tenacious hours of thinking it up, we created Ian Cross(After Sherlock Holmes) and Scarlett O'Callaghan(After Irene). I write in Scarletts's POV and my friend writes in Ian's POV. Enjoy.

Chapter One

She is new. My classes at the university are very open to the students. I mean, being the youngest professor, I find it very frustrating to take control over my students when I'm just a year older, at the most.

But all the same kids show up, I should know, I've studied them all thoroughly. Now that may sound strange, but I cannot help but read people. People are so readable. They beg to be observed and exposed, and it is just so simple to me, like philosophy and trigonometry.

"Good morning everyone," I begin, my voice a little groggy with my Scottish accent seeping through—I only woke up an hour ago. I clear my throat. If my country bumpkin accent doesn't sound as crisp and posh as these city kids, I'll be looked down upon.

"I have just realized, you all know nothing about me! Imagine that, I've taught you all for a week, and we are complete strangers!" I lie, and smile all of my teeth, and my eyes dart to her.

Her gaze meets mine—well not so much meets, more like her glare sears into my soul like a thousand prodders. It's making me uneasy. Why exactly is she here?

"So..." I falter, and look back to my class. I look between them for a moment, briefly exalting the unbalanced vibes. Basic child psychology: a child would look to his mother when facing a strange situation, as a safe zone— something familiar.

My eyes set on John Milton, front row, third from the left to my right. As I speak fondly of my mother, he smiles slightly and averts his eyes downward. I speak a word of my father, and his small smile forms into a faint snarl. His button down is unwashed, possibly hasn't been for a day or two. Red wine stains the collar; he has bags under his eyes from sleep deprivation, forming creases in his forehead. I notice them all.

From this I derive that John Milton is a wealthy young man, explaining the red wine stain, who adores his mother but resents his father, likely because he wants him to take over the family business and sent him off to the university, explaining the dark circles around his eyes. He's stressing over the situation and drinking, provided by his dirty clothing and the overall stress by the creases. I grin to myself and continue.

Elizabeth Eldridge is perched in the middle row, fifth from the right and on my left. She is staring at my shoulder as I talk, and when I mention my early graduation from the university, her eyes grow wide in shock—then wash over with worrisome fear. She picks at her nails, as her eyes darts across the room. Her bottom lip has a maroon scar on it, and her brown hair is tousled into a bun.

So she has anxiety over graduating— nail picking and lip chewing all early symptoms of anxiety. She turned horrid when she heard about my achievements, maybe because we seem to be the same age, more possibly because she has low self-esteem judging from her erratic eyes. She spends most time worrying or studying, from her hair carelessly thrown up and the graphite marks on her left hand (note: Elizabeth is left handed; do more testing with her— left handed people are interesting). She is pressured to graduate because she is the only woman in my classroom—on most days. Highly likely she feels the weight of her gender's limits and freedom on her shoulders.

It is spectacular how sharing an excerpt from your own life can make others give you theirs unintentionally. "...and that is my story on how I, 20 year old Professor Ian Cross, became your guidance into philosophy, psychology, and beyond." I let a smirk twist its way across my face, as I glance back to her. This is what they must mean by 'eager to impress.'

My breath hitches in my throat. Unreadable. Her gaze is the same and she is completely still, I can't tell if she merely bakes for a living or murders civilians at night.

In my opinion, people are like canvases that are spilling and dripping with paint that express their lives and each one has different colors and different patterns. But she is a blank canvas taunts back at me. There is no color, no pattern, no paint drip or blotches of color, there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. She is a stranger.

When the class is over, all of my students rush out as I turn to clean the chalk board behind me. I hear footsteps so quiet I could have guessed it was a cat. I hear a small clearing of a throat, and I slowly pivot on my heels. I turn my head to the side then to the other, probably resembling a snake's swerving its neck. She smirked something mischievous, and took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. So is this a cat coiled in a cobra's trap, or a lion preying on a tiny lizard? My flustered brain suddenly calms. I am going to enjoy this, aren't I?

She has bright red hair that reminds me of fire, the way the sunlight is dancing on the strands from the windows. Such red hair, Irish— maybe Scottish? Perhaps she had it colored? No, no traces of dye or colored roots. She cleared her throat before; can I detect accents from a small gesture? No, I haven't read a book on that (note: find book or study accents to detect without speaking). She bats her eyes; green emerald drops with flecks of gold are gleaming at me— mirroring my gaze. She looks my age, no possible sign of wrinkles or aging on her smooth porcelain skin, so maybe 20— 22? She is smaller than me but her build seems to be muscled finely— to the point a woman can be in this era (note: test strength later for experimental knowledge of female strength).

"Have you heard of those short stories by Arthur Conan Doyle that were just in The Strand magazine?" She speaks in a fluid Irish accent that brings the thought of honey to mind. So Irish is correct, maybe from Dublin or possibly a village around Northern Ireland (note: travel and record information of the differential accents over extended areas). I swallow in her question and digest it for approximately two minutes and twelve seconds. One must take time in these sort of conversations, not too long or the idea of intelligence diminishes, but not too short otherwise the impression is found eager and vulgar and otherwise swiftly dropped. Plus, it gives me more time to plan what the layout of this conversation will go.

"I have heard of it, yes. Didn't read it. What of it?" It took much of my concentration to leave out hints of the Scottish heritage in my voice, tone, and movements. I pronounce every vowel and consonant with immense ease, careful not to stumble with rolling my R's.

"You remind me of a character." Her eyes pierce through me with a cocky sneer, as if it were an insult or a joke (note: purchase Strand magazine of Arthur Conan Doyle's latest stories and analyze thoroughly). "Have you read the myth of Narcissus and Echo?"

I hesitate, Narcissus and Echo? Of course I've read it, but this demolishes the path in which I had planned this conversation to go. Is she suggesting me narcissistic? I raise an eyebrow, without properly revising the gesture. This will be interesting.