Sherlock is trying to shelter himself from the pouring rain, while struggling to put his headphones back into his backpack. He'd been training himself to be able to make deductions and accurate observations without using his hearing sense, and it was working well, except that the storm had started and he had failed to listen to the sounds of the thunder. Now, he was soaked to the skin, but he needed to go home, or he would get in trouble.
His backpack was giving him a bit of a fight, as if wanting to provide its share of frustration into Sherlock's already fogged mind. He struggled with the zip, trying to get it to close. It ended up breaking in his hand, and Sherlock sighed, clenching his fist.
For a moment, the rain falling on him stopped and a shadow hovered over him. Sherlock's instincts kicked in immediately and he took in the scents it brought: lavender, honey and tea. Black tea. He looked ahead.
A girl, shorter than he was, faced him, looking up. She was carrying a big yellow umbrella and blushed when he stared back at her, surprised. Her eyes darted to her feet for a second and then darted up again, as she stuttered, "I study here, and you look like you are in a rush," and without waiting for a reply, she added, "Here, you can have my umbrella."
Astonished, Sherlock took the umbrella she was offering without realising it even, and saw as she disappeared in the rain, into the University building. His phone rang inside his pocket and Sherlock didn't even need to look to know who was calling him. Mycroft had invited his boss over for dinner and he had pointed out that it was important to have his whole family together, to make a good impression. Sherlock didn't pick up the phone, he started to run. He needed to get home before five.
Mycroft was already pacing from one side of the living room to the other when Sherlock arrived. He entered the hall like a storm, wetting everything in his passage.
"Where have you been? Dinner's at six!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft's reprimand but didn't stop. He took off his clothes whilst writing down some notes on a black moleskin notebook and then he went into the shower. The water was warm and Sherlock enjoyed that little time of peace. He couldn't care less about Mycroft's boss, but he would rather be at the dinner than having to hear Mycroft's remarks about his eventual absence in the future. Hopefully, the dinner would be over and done quickly.
It wasn't. It was long and boring and he had to pretend to be interested while everyone debated politics. Mycroft would look at him surreptitiously once in a while, and Sherlock would only roll his eyes in the same manner. In the end, and despite Sherlock's lack of participation in the conversation, the dinner was a success and his brother's boss seemed pleased with the evening. Mycroft shook his hand pompously before closing the door. Sherlock was going up the stairs when his older brother made him stop.
"I bought you something," he said.
Sherlock turned around and there was a grin on Mycroft's face. He went up the staircase and passed Sherlock, making a gesture with his head, a sign to follow him. Sherlock frowned, surprised, but he went after his brother. It was weird that Mycroft was taking him to his room; he never let Sherlock in there.
The division was well illuminated and smelled of varnished wood. The whole left wall, just like in Sherlock's room, was covered with a big shelf, filled with books. The subjects on Mycroft's books, though, were quite differently than those on Sherlock's. Sherlock couldn't care less about politics; he liked chemistry and science, and crime.
Mycroft paced into the room followed by his younger brother and pointed out at a very well wrapped box.
"I was pretty certain a work promotion was at hand for me, even before dinner, so I bought you a little something," he pointed out at the box, inviting Sherlock to open it.
Sherlock removed the wrapping paper methodically.
It was a microscope. He blinked a few times. There was nothing he'd been longing to have more than a microscope of his own. There were some experiments he couldn't do at school, but this would change everything.
Mycroft was smiling, satisfied with himself; Sherlock was in awe.
"It's okay," Mycroft said, holding the door, "You don't have to thank me. Actually, it's better if you don't."
Sherlock moved awkwardly, picked up the microscope inside the box with care – it was heavy – and walked past Mycroft.
"Thank you," he mumbled and then, when Mycroft couldn't see it, he grinned like an idiot.
He didn't sleep that night. He wanted to try the microscope, so he picked some bugs he had been collecting from his garden and that kept him awake until the wee hours of the morning. It was his mother's voice, calling him down for breakfast before leaving for work, which got him out of his trance. He sighed, but went down for breakfast.
Mycroft was already packing his things to leave when he reached the kitchen, black circles under his eyes, but deep down, satisfied.
"She's studying medicine," Mycroft said.
Sherlock needed a moment to realise his brother was talking to him. Mycroft picked up the yellow umbrella Sherlock had thrown into the umbrella stand the night before. He made a quick deduction.
"About 5'4, in her early twenties, right handed. Lives in the west part of town, has a cat."
Sherlock stood there for a moment, listening to his brother.
"Hum, am I right to assume you have succumbed to the claws of love?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked towards Mycroft, removing the umbrella from his hand with a harsh movement, "It was raining yesterday and this stranger gave me her umbrella. I will look for her and return it today," he explained.
His brother scoffed, "She likes pancakes and black tea, if you were wondering."
"I wasn't," Sherlock said, and he sat down at the table to eat breakfast.
Mycroft smiled again, a sly smile, then turned away and left. Sherlock was left alone to finish his meal. His thoughts ran to the strange girl who had been kind enough to lend him her umbrella, knowing now, after Mycroft deduction, where he could find her.
He put on his backpack, picked the umbrella and walked steadily to his first morning class. The school wasn't far away, and he liked walking. It allowed him to observe the world and the people around him. He did this so frequently that he could spill out the living patterns and habits of most people who walked by him every day.
He tried to find the girl before his first morning lecture, with no success. He had no idea if she was even in the building, as her schedule wasn't something he could deduce from her umbrella alone. He adjusted the straps of his backpack and shrugged. He would find her, eventually.
Molly was lacing her shoes, holding her notebooks clumsily between her arms, trying not to fall over the muddy terrain. She was wearing new shoes and had tripped over her laces a few times already. It was raining, and she was late to get her bus. Suddenly, something overshadowed her and she looked up. There, carrying her yellow umbrella, was the same boy who had been struggling with his backpack the day before. Molly was caught by surprise, and let her notebooks fall all over the floor.
Sherlock, who was about to make some remark, leaned down to help her, and started picking up her books himself. It wasn't as easy to do so whilst still holding the umbrella in one hand, but he managed it eventually. Then, he stood in front of Molly, staring at her. Realising she was again in the rain he extended his right hand, the yellow fabric covering her alone now. Molly held the umbrella he offered, blushing and smiling shyly, and then she retrieved her books from his cold hands.
"Thank you," she said.
Sherlock nodded, but he seemed lost for words. He wasn't good at talking to strangers. Actually, he wasn't good at talking to anyone. Molly didn't seem to have a good way with words either, and her next sentence surprised both, "I stole it from the dead."
Sherlock took a moment to realise she was referring to the umbrella. Molly blushed violently again and looked at her feet, mumbling some scattered words, "I mean, I found it on the morgue whilst we were having a lecture and I needed an umbrella. It was raining a lot, I needed to go home, and the buses were on strike. When I tried to return it, it turns out it belonged to one of the dead people, it was one of the items they had in their possession when they died, and…"
"Fascinating," Sherlock was fighting a strange urge to laugh. Somehow, and quite differently from the feeling he used to have towards people up until this day, he liked her. He read her story quite easily, recognised in her the same loneliness he tried to conceal in himself.
Molly looked up, embarrassed.
"Thank you for lending it to me," Sherlock said, "I am sure I found it more useful than any deceased person would."
Molly smiled, and seemed more at ease. She liked this stranger. She really liked this stranger. And she found herself asking him something she never thought she would have the courage to.
"Would you like to have some coffee?"
Sherlock inspected her for a second, before answering, hands in his pockets.
"Black, two sugars, please," he smiled. "I know a great place just around the corner. They have some delicious pancakes, too."
He took the umbrella off her hands gently and covered them both, shortening the distance between the two. Molly walked beside him, in the direction he was guiding her.
The yellow umbrella was passed from one to the other over the following weeks. On a rainy afternoon, however, it was closed by Sherlock's firm hands. Then, he pulled Molly close and he kissed her in the rain.