Life is a Maze -Reader x Moriarty- Prologue

AUTHOR'S NOTE
    Keep in mind, Richard Brooks = Jim Moriarty! Alright, Enjoy c:

   He watches you. You don't know it, but he really really watches you. It could be considered creepy I suppose, if he wasn't so attractive. I don't know how you haven't noticed it yet, it's pretty blatant, the way he treats you so much better than the others, giving you privileges no other student has. But you know, sometimes you spend so much time covering up your own feelings, that you just don't have time to notice that maybe, they feel the same way. Unfortunately for you, those feelings happen to be for your history teacher, Mr. Brooks.

    Your schedule goes as follows:

Period 1: Art, 8:15-9:15 (a skill you excel at)
Period 2: Anatomy Sciences, 9:20-10:15 (yay! Human bodies!)
Period 3: Honors British Literature, 10:20-11:15 (Your very best subject)
Period 4: Pre Calculus, 11:20-12:15 (you fucking hate math.)
Period 5: Lunch, 12:20-1:15 (ayyyyyyye, food!)
Period 6: Newspaper, 1:20-2:15 (they recruited you after you won a national writing contest)
Period 7: AP World, 2:20-3:15 (the class that Mr. Brooks teaches)

    It might sound strange to say, but you genuinely enjoy school. You're a senior now, and your classes are fair amounts of easy. You love your friends and enjoy seeing them each day. You're already secured into several colleges. Also, there happens to be a very attractive teacher who teaches your last class of the day. All of that mixes together to form a storm of good grades, and genuine enjoyment out of life.

    But you know what might take the enjoyment out of life? Being late to Mr. Brooks's class.
   
    And so our story begins in the halls of (insert highschool here), with the heroin of our story, Ms. (f/n) (l/n), sprinting down one of the many halls, on the second floor of one of the many buildings, that make up your lovely highschool.

    Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

    The last bell has just rung.

    SHIT!

    The door you are aiming to enter is literally at the end of the hall, and you are half way there. So so clossse!

    And yet, so far.

    The door begins to close.

    The messenger bag that carries all your things flies behind you, just barely holding on as you sprint towards the door. It bangs into your side several times making you groan and sputter swear words until you finally reach the door, which has JUST snapped shut. You screech to a halt a foot from the door. Unfortunately, your bag decides otherwise, and due to the suddenness of your stop, your 40 lb. bag continues on it's merry way, slamming itself into the door, and in turn dragging you along with it.

    You fall to your knees immediately, clutching your now throbbing, and probably bleeding, forehead. Your trying desperately hard not to let tears pour down your face, and you are biting your lip so hard you taste copper. But that doesn't stop the door from opening. Mr. Brooks stands in the doorway before you, staring down at you with an amused expression gracing his face. His lips are quirked up, and one eye brow is arched. But, you're too busy wallowing in your throbbing pain that you have yet to even notice his presence, let alone his attractive facial expression (unlike the rest of the female students inside the room, who are at this very moment swooning and giggling silently. There are very few people in that room who you do not hate with a firey passion.)

    "Sooo..." Mr. Brooks sings as he leans against the door frame, "(Y/n). How are you today?"

    You don't even look up. "In pain," you groan.

    "Well that much I can see." He is Irish, Mr. Brooks is, and that just makes his teasing you about six times more sexy. "Did you smack your face on the door again?"

    It has literally only happened one other time. No one will let you forget it, either.

    "Shut up," you mutter. He laughs. It is a beautiful laugh. A Beautiful, genuine laugh.

    "Alright (y/n), let's get you fixed up, c'mon." He holds out his hand to help you up, and you take it gratefully. You close the door behind you as you walk in and deposit all your stuff at your desk, but before you can sit, you hear your teacher.

    "Class, start your warm-up. (Y/n)," he beckons you over to his desk with a finger. You walk over to him, still clutching your forehead. "You're late again." It's still in a sing-song voice, so you can tell he isn't angry. You weren't that late, after all, and you've already pretty much punished yourself, what with your forehead and all.

    "You shoosh."

    He laughs again, holding his hands up in mock defeat. "Alright, take your hand off." You do as he asks, and a small steady trickle of blood trails down your face. He tenses, but you don't notice. His face registers amusement and shock as he observes it. That, you notice. "Well, that is definitely worse than last time."

    You roll your eyes. "One other time. Let's not forget that this isn't a regular thing."

    "And I hope it won't become one." He's teasing you. He does that a lot. You can't stop the grin from spreading across your face, and he finds it infectious, one spreading on his own as he rifles through his desk, grabbing a spare napkin and pouring a bit of water from a waterbottle on it. He hands it to you and says mockingly, "Clean your face, student."

    You do so, rubbing the damp napkin over your skin, attempting to cleanse yourself of blood. You look to him, silently asking if you missed a spot, and he takes the napkin from you dabbing at your forehead a little more before unwrapping a band-aid and gently pressing it over your battle wound.

    Dat teacher though.


    You grin sheepishly and step back, and Mr. Brooks gives you a smile, nodding back towards you desk. You gratefully oblige, finally letting yourself blush, and await the day's lesson through the chatter of the rest of the students. Mr. Brooks stands, and the class goes silent.

     "Alright, class. Let's begin."