Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using the realm and its characters of Sherlock, which was created Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss based upon the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes detective stories. I claimed nothing but my original characters.

Author's Note: This is a plot bunny that has been swirling around in my mind that I've been wanting to write and finally now have some time to do so! Whoot! Professor Holmes! Read, enjoy, where will this lead? I don't know, either ;)

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes' POV

When I would instruct the girl to play the instrument, I'd stand by the window thoughtfully gazing out the window as I'd listen attentively to the sound erupting from the girl's slender fingers. However, my mind was curiously preoccupied, wondering heedlessly around the verbally 'rabbit hole.' Procuring an allowance for any logical explanation, I could not fathom my sudden infatuation upon this . . . this girl? Then again, upon further speculation, obsession was normality and shouldn't be dismissed as unusual mentality.

I mentally shrug with indifference and returned my attention to the . . . silence? My brows furrow together upon the realization the girl had ceased playing. Fury arose inside me at the girl's insolence and, pivoting on my heels in a quick turn, addressed the girl immediately.

"Unless I've gone deaf within the last briefest of moments—of which is a highly unlikely scenario and as I am hearing myself speak, didn't happen. Thusly, I suggest you return to the prescribed lesson I instructed you to play."

She gazed up over her violin at me, momentarily inflicted with discontent before her eyes stilled and no longer elicited emotion. She appeared sadden by the fact that I reprehended her for the simplest of digressions. Her eyes flickered down to her hands resting in her lap before she returned them to the strings. Once again hearing the gentle music engulf the room, I turned back to the window. However concentration did not find me as my mind began to wonder again.

Blasted girl, I cursed underneath my breath. With frustration steadily seeping into my bones, I quickly dismissed the continuation of the girl's playing—without giving the decency to confront her directly; I continued gazing out the window with my hands neatly folded behind my back.

"A headache far too significant than the importance your lesson has deprived me from listening to another beat."

I could hear her bumbling underneath her breath in confusion. I was also quick to silence yet another infuriating quality she seemingly was fond of eliciting.

"Cease before you clumsily bite your tongue. Now shoo, you silly little thing. I insist you be more readily prepared for next weeks session. "

"But—"

"What have you so stupidly misheard?" I said, finally turning to the girl and, finding her risen from the seat, obtained a greater temper. "I will not repeat myself, Miss Whitmore."

I watched her mouth snap closed, struggling with the rising impulse to retaliate against me; however, she managed to abed those dastardly desires and swallow her pride. A brief moment of admiration welled-up inside me for the girl's self-control over herself. It was indeed, admirable; consequently, faulting in yet more thought-provoking images of the girl standing before me.

Why was I becoming plagued with inappropriate thoughts of one of my students? This constant affliction made me despise the girl even more. How had this girl come to hold power over me? It was wholly disconcerting. I was a once a concreted and steady man. And now, this girl had turned me into putty? Where had my self-control gone off to?

"Why do you hate me so much?"

The small, mousy voice delivered me away from my thoughts and brought my attention to the figure standing within inches of my person. Despite the gentle demeanor she usually displayed, Ms. Whitmore stood her ground and implemented such persistent I couldn't help but answer her.

I enclosed the gap that separated our bodies, strangely delighting in the slight quiver in the girl's bottom lip. The blush that arose over her cheeks procured this kind-of deep swell in my lower abdominal that I often did not feel. My control was slipping, and that notation frightened me.

"Hatred is not a characteristic I would readily describe my . . . feelings upon you, Ms. Whitmore. . . . Rather the contrary, I've unfortunately come to discover. . . . What have I become because of you, is the question."