One word prompt suggested by MorbidbyDefault. The word: Witch

There was a knock at the door. "Are you two coming or what?"

Sherlock looked up from his cheesy horror novel. John was lacing up his boots, fake mustache securely on his still stubble-free face. "Almost ready!" He turned to his best friend. "Aren't you coming? Sherlock, you're not even in costume!"

"Why should I participate in this particularly useless holiday?"

"It's not the whole holiday, it is a party; it's fun and we get sweets."

"Or, rather, you have fun dancing and consuming sweets and I get bitter and intoxicated in the corner, rambling to whatever object looks the friendliest."

John frowned. "You can at least dress up?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'm under the impression that my usual self is frightening enough; you yourself said my personality can scare away small children."

"That was in jest."

"Duly noted," he said, going back to his book.

"Please, for an hour?"

There was another knock. "We're going to be late."

"You should probably get that," Sherlock said, turning a page.

John glared and opened the door. Sara was on the other side, clad in a floor-length red dress, her dark hair pinned up in waves. "Whoa…who are you going as?"

"Satine from Moulin Rouge," said John's girlfriend, giving him a peck on the cheek. "And you are…?"

"Charles Darwin, of course."

It was so appropriate she was Satine. Really, it was. Sherlock smiled at the irony.

"And…Sherlock are you even dressed up?"

"No, I'm not going."

"Sherlock!" Sara whined. "It's a party! It'll be fun."

"No."

"You're going to upset Irene."

Ooh, she was going to play that card. He winced. "Maybe I'll stop by."

"It's now or never," said John. "I know you—you'll just come as it ends."

Sherlock looked up from his novel again, glowering. "I hate you."

"You can fall over Irene and leave, if it suits you."

"I do not fancy her!"

John rolled his eyes. "Right. Intellectually attracted to her mind."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I really hate you."

Sara laughed.

That was the last fucking straw. He'd go, oh yes he'd go, and he would sit in a corner and drink until he inconvenienced John. It wouldn't take too long; he had a bottle of cognac around here somewhere.

"Are you actually bringing your own alcohol?" John asked as they left.

"I cannot stomach beer," Sherlock said snootily, tucking a flask into his jacket pocket.

"And you're just going to drink?"

"And talk to the parrot."

"…this sounds very un-Sherlock to me."

"In fact, it sounds very Sherlock to me, thank you." He wasn't actually sure he'd drink. Maybe he'd just fake being inebriated to listen in on conversations and bother John. That was the more intelligent option, no question. These festivities would be dull, no doubt, considering it was a social gathering and he detested anything too social. He could act the part when he wanted, but he had no desire to be a polite, well-mannered human being this evening.

The party was at one of the unused, abandoned houses beside the campus. It seemed to be a staple of St. Matthew's Halloween parties, to take place in these decrepit buildings. Sherlock could always hear them from his dorm room, irritated and disturbed by the noise. It was always a mystery that the teachers didn't shut them down almost immediately.

This year, it was hosted at Bates House, to the northwest. It used to be a grand old Victorian, with a great porch and four stories. The paint was peeling, the stairs creaked, and Sherlock was certain that there was something living in the basement—most likely raccoons, but the children tonight would peg it for a monster, a demon, a murderer.

Sadly, he would have enjoyed a good murder right now.

Oh, no, no, not like that, just as a case to cure his constant boredom. Murderers were more interesting than missing jewellery and disappeared pets. Not even eight o'clock and his circulating thoughts were of a morbid nature. He should have brought some Poe.

"Be on your best behavior," John warned as they approached the house. "Or so help me god I will—"

"—do something unpleasant. How was I even invited to this?"

"What do you mean?"

"The whole class hates me," Sherlock said with a slight smile. "What in heaven's name would make them ask me to join in a social situation?"

"Maybe because scaring people is right up your alley," John snapped.

"Maybe." He stopped at the door. "Ladies first." Sara eyed him suspiciously as she entered. John pushed Sherlock inside and followed.

It was loud. There was no electricity in the house; instead, candles had been set up (in high, hard-to-knock-over places), along with flashlights and strings of battery Christmas lights. Sherlock could barely make out faces in the dim, fluttering light. It would be so easy for him to slip out of sight tonight. It was like the gods were smiling down at him.

Sherlock turned to go down an emptier hall and was caught on the shoulder by a slim hand. "Sherlock Holmes," purred his capturer.

He turned to meet the speaker, already knowing her face.

Well, her face was a bit covered in make-up. Just a bit…all over…completely white. Irene Adler smirked, her lips a bluish white. Her eye shadow accented her lips; hair was sprayed white and adorned with a little crystal tiara. She was in a long white dress embedded with crystal drops. She went all-out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware winter had come."

"Hush, I worked hours on this." She raised a paled hand to her chin, stroking it gently. "What are you doing here, and who are you supposed to be?"

"I got dragged, and I've come as myself."

"Yourself?"

"I frighten small children, apparently."

"I'll give you that." Her smirk grew feline, eyes sparking in that dark way they did when she schemed. "How about you accompany me for a drink, hmm?"

"Not interested, I have other plans." What plans? "Fitting costume, by the way, the Snow Queen. I always knew you had a heart of ice."

The good humor fled from her face. "I could say the same."

"The difference is of it I was previously aware." He turned and strode down the darker hallway. After a few turns, he ended up in what used to be the parlor. There was a grand fireplace parallel to the door. The furniture in this room was old and moth-eaten, but it was a perfect place to hide out.

That is, until the couples would come looking for empty places to hook up.

Ugh. Romance. Sexual relations.

He would defend his space. There were numerous things in the room to throw, not to mention a fire poker hanging on the mantle. Yes, his room would be well-guarded. He'd look like a madman, but, well he already did. Didn't hurt to add to the horror of fright night, right?

…

There was nothing to do. He planned out ten different ways to ambush intruders in the room, figured out how we would wield sixteen of the items, and composed his last will and testament if he were to get killed by someone else's stupidity or drunkenness tonight. Highly unlikely, but it was good to be prepared. He was always prepared.

It was nearly half-past nine when he saw his first other human since entering the room. He had succumbed to the cognac at nine, and had barely gotten to enjoy his alone time with his flask. (There were, unfortunately, no stuffed animals or parrots).

As the footsteps approached, he fixed himself in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, holding the fire poker like one would a sword they were polishing. They were carrying a light, and he was slightly blinded by the brightness, which was far greater than that of the moon, which had been illuminating the abandoned space.

"John said I'd find you hiding somewhere." It was a girl's voice. Not Irene's deeper, smoother voice, nor Sara's trill, airy one, but one he recognized well.

"Molly?"

Sherlock's lab partner turned off her flashlight. By the moonlight, he could see the smile on her lips. She, unlike Irene and Sara, was not donning an overly flashy costume. It was a simple, flowy black dress in an older style—Edwardian or later—with a big black-and-some-other-color belt (it was far too dark to tell pigments). She had a chiffon shawl—he thought it was chiffon, anyway—and a pointed wide-brimmed hat. "I didn't even expect you to be here."

I didn't expect you to find me, he thought with an internal groan. He liked Molly a little more than well enough and they got on, but she couldn't hold a conversation for too long without turning into a mouse. He was either going to have stellar company or no company at all. "You're a witch."

She nodded. "I wanted to go for something a bit older, but this was the best dress I found when I went out thrift shopping. What are you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

She laughed and sat down across from him. "I figured. It doesn't seem like you to dress up. Did John drag you?"

He nodded. "I threatened to get roaring drunk and harass him for the whole night when he suggested I socialize."

"How are you when you're drunk?"

"Insufferable."

She unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a grin. "Please don't tell me you were going to try that off the beer here. It's subpar."

"I take it you know from experience."

"I may have had a glass."

"Not as innocent as you appear, are you?"

"Hey!" She threw a small pillow at him, giggling. "I've never been nearly as innocent as you peg me!"

"I guess I miscalculated somewhere. To answer your question, no, I brought my own brandy. I expected John to cart me around by the arm to talk to people. He has decided against that option, thank the heavens."

"What kind?"

"Molly Hooper! Do you mean to tell me you're into hard liquors?"

"Sherlock Holmes! Are you failing to deduce something?"

"Touché. I always figured girls went for the sweeter drinks."

"That's such a generalization. Can't I like both?" She got up and kneeled beside his chair. "Now I ask again, what kind?"

She must have had more than one glass. She was calmer now than she usually was around him. She tended to drop objects and fumble her words, but now she was open and…holding a conversation. He breathed in heavily. "You smell of strawberries."

"Okay, you caught me, I had one daiquiri."

"Just one?"

"Can't you tell by the strength of the scent or something?"

"No; you use a vanilla shampoo that overpowers the strawberries."

"Ten points to Slytherin," she said, a hand now resting on his knee. He wasn't too sure how he felt about the touching.

"Ravenclaw, actually."

She rolled her eyes. "Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw? Sherlock, you're ambitious, and frankly, all the things you do are about you. When was the last time you stopped to think about anyone else? You're a Slytherin. Also, I didn't know you read Harry Potter."

"I don't read much of any novels."

"Except those crap paperbacks you bring to Chemistry every day."

"They are not crap."

"They are cheesy airport bookstore-grade novels, if they even deserve to be called that." She made a face. "If you're going to read horror, why not read a good author, like Stephen King or Cynthia Asquith?"

"Because I like the crappy, cheesy novels?"

She shook her head, smiling. "I may never understand you, Sherlock."

"I doubt anyone truly will."

"So anyway, back to my question, what kind of brandy do you have?"

He pulled out his flask from where it had slipped between the cushions, dropping the poker to the floor. "Martell Cognac."

"May I have a sip?"

"If I didn't know you any better, Molly, I'd say you're trying to score free alcohol off me."

"No," she said smoothly, "I fancy you way better than the alcohol."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Company. Your company. Wow, sorry, that was phrased all wrong."

"Freudian slip, Miss Hooper?"

She lay down on the floor. "Let me die alone."

"That would be far from gentlemanly of me."

She snorted. "Since when have you been gentlemanly?"

…he had to give her that. Sherlock lowered himself onto the floor, sitting beside the now-curled up Molly. He opened the flask, took a swig, and laid a hand on her arm. "Here, have a sip. I didn't hear anything that you didn't want me to."

She looked up through her auburn locks. "This nice you is freaking me out. You're not nearly snippy enough tonight, it's starting to worry me."

"It's the alcohol. I'm insufferable drunk but decent when tipsy."

"More decent than normal, you mean." She sat up, taking the flask from his hands. "You're sure this is okay? Martell is expensive."

"It's perfectly fine; we're lab partners, right? If it weren't, I'd glare at you until you left the room."

"Hurray, lab partners," she said dully. "Just what I want." She raised the flask to her mouth and stopped, bringing it back down to examine in the poor light. "This is engraved. The whole thing. Are those leaves?"

"It's the Tree of Life from Norse mythology, Yggdrasil. It was my great-great grandfather's."

"And your parents gave it to you? Even though you're underage?"

"Nah, nicked it from my mom's room when I was ten."

"You're an interesting case, Sherlock Holmes," she said and took a sip.

"Thank you, I try. Or rather, I don't, and I happen to be an interesting case anyway."

"That's really good," she said, handing him back the ornate flask.

"I only acquire the best, I assure you. No reason to settle for poorer quality."

"You obviously haven't seen my love life."

That was a…rather unexpected comment. "I have, and I feel as though you can do better. We've been lab partners for a year and a quarter now."

"Yeah, like who?"

"I'd say John, but he has Sara."

Molly laughed. "First, John comes to me with all of his girl problems, and I'd really, really rather not get involved for that reason. Two, he barely has Sara."

"Ah, you're aware of it too?"

She nodded. "She's been meaning to break up with him for a month now. Not the way I'd go about things, personally, having another chew toy before finalizing things, but hey, not my business."

"That will be delightful to clean up after," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'll be doing more work than you, he doesn't much like talking about that sort of stuff with you because you just throw logic in his face and complain about emotions."

"…ah."

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, I'm sorry I didn't mean to imply you're a bad friend. I'm sure you're perfectly fine—I mean we get on perfectly sound—"

You also fancy me, he thought. But that factor did not make him extremely uncomfortable around her, like it did with every other female to show an interest…

"—but John just needs more emotional support than you're willing to give. And anyway, I think it won't be so bad."

He looked at her, confused, watching the way the moon caught her hair, her figure, the soft curves of her face. "It won't be so bad? Molls, they've been dating for a few months now."

She blinked. "You just called me Molls."

"Shit, did I?"

"Freudian slip, Mister Holmes?"

"Shut up." He grinned and gave her a light shove. "You were saying?"

"I saw him talking to Mary tonight—Mary Morstan? She's dressed like some American president—and they seemed to hit it off rather well. Of course, Sara, the hypocrite, wasn't having any of it."

"Serves her right, cheating on him like that."

Molly leaned back against the chair with him, their shoulders touching. "Question. You're his best mate; you know his girlfriend is cheating. Why haven't you said anything?"

"Well…" Sherlock sighed. He took another swig of cognac and handed it to Molly. "I guess because I do not want to hurt him, even if that leaves him in ignorance."

"And you don't feel guilty?"

"I mean, I do. Contrary to popular belief, I do have emotions, you know."

"You just choose to hide them because it reduces the pain." She gave it back, her fingers lingering on his. "And you'd rather not feel broken when you need to look strong. You're a dam, Sherlock. You can only sustain so much damage before you crack and everything floods." She looked nervously up at him. "And it will flood. The harder you try to hold it in, the harder you'll fall."

He stared at her, slightly too stunned for words at the way the conversation jumped off a very high and very fatal cliff. "How do you know?"

"I've been watching it happen to my dad for years. He doesn't understand it though, so I'm not sure if he'll ever get better."

And then, Sherlock decided to show compassion. "Give me a hug."

Molly squinted at him. "What?"

"You heard me. I don't want to say it again."

She reached out and laid a hand on his forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I'm slightly intoxicated, I drank the majority of that flask by myself. Please do not make me repeat it."

She gave him a cautious look and sank into his arms, burying her head in his chest. "I'm sorry; I know it makes you feel uncomfortable."

Her warmth lit a fire he'd been repressing from his conscious since August. "No, it's…it's nice."

"Are you drunk?"

"Slightly intoxicated, Molly, only slightly."

Sherlock felt the weight of her body as he breathed, watching the rise and fall of her chest. She was cute, he guessed, in her mousey little way. Surprisingly less mousey now that she'd broken out of her meek exterior. She wasn't unattractive either, by any standards—

No, no, he didn't like girls like that. He didn't like boys like that. He had no time for that, not with school and cases and his mind and oh his powerful, powerful mind. It wouldn't let him be attracted to anyone else, no, that would impede its process.

His body was another matter. He was a teenage boy; they generally liked kissing and touching and sex because of hormones. He wasn't exempt from the hormones, as much as he wanted, and Molly pressed against his chest was causing his skin to prickle, and his mind was giving in, defenses crumbling.

He could do worse, he figured.

"Who do you suppose if not John, then?"

"Pardon?" She rested her head on the flat of his chest below his clavicle. Her breath tickled his neck.

"You were complaining that you could do better than your past relationships, and you shot down John. Did you have anyone else in mind?"

She mumbled something into his shirt.

"…I didn't catch that."

"What about Gilbert, the ginger boy at the table across from us?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Oh please, not him. He has serious commitment issues; he's been through more relationships in the past three months than you and John for the past three years."

"Watch it."

"What? It's true. All it means is that you and John have entered a fair number of relationships, which is completely of your choosing."

"I've only had four boyfriends since I've gotten to Saint Matthew's and three of the four happened last year."

"Remember when you dated Joshua?"

Molly slapped Sherlock on the chest. "Can we not?"

"What about Greg in the class above us?"

"Noooo, no I've had my poor experience with older boys, let's not."

"Charlie in our English class?"

"You know people in our English class? I always assumed you slept through the whole thing."

"I do, that's why I've got lower marks in that class. Anyway, Charlie."

"He has a long-distance relationship with some girl from his hometown."

"Davie, sits with John sometimes?"

"Kind of a douchebag, not my type."

"Tom, same table as Gilbert?"

"Gay. So, so gay."

"Peter who was in our Latin class?"

"He does drugs. I'm not too into that."

"I've noticed. I'm running out of suitable boys."

Molly sighed. "Me too."

Sherlock gave her a sly look. "You know, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right?"

"I have never heard that before but I will pretend I have for the sake of your point."

"I made it up; I doubt you've heard it. But when you get rid of things that cannot happen, whatever's left is the right way to go, correct?"

"I…guess?"

"None of those boys work, but there's one left."

"Enlighten me, O Great Oracle."

"There's me."

Molly sat up, facing him straight on. "You."

"Me."

"You, Sherlock Holmes, who scoffs in the face of romance, who detests when people flirt with you, who mocks couples?"

"I figure it might be worth a shot."

She snorted. "Yeah, right, when the seventh circle of hell melts."

"I'm serious."

"I—I'm…well, I'm surprised, and I'm really flattered, but I'm also…confused. What do you gain out of it?"

"I get a smart, pretty girl with whom I can have civilized, intelligent conversations."

"And I get the most attractive boy in our year, if not the school."

"Molly—"

She was blushing profusely. "No, I don't care, you're very pretty, Sherlock. You're practically a genius and you're interesting and off-putting but witty and satirical and also cynical and serious. And you're playing head games with me." She moved to stand.

He caught one of her wrists. "Molly, wait!"

"Wait what? For you to tell me it was a jest?"

"No, it—Christ, Molly. I haven't been good to you for the past few years, have I?"

"Not one bit, Sherlock."

"Well, I'm sorry. I'm not good with people."

"I'm aware."

He pulled her closer to himself. "I apologize for whatever I've put you through, I do, I'm being honest right now. I…I want to make it right." He took a deep breath. "I'd kiss you, but I'm not sure how."

"A kiss won't fix everything, but it's a step in the right direction…you've never kissed someone before?"

"…No?"

"Okay, erm." She was nervous, her hands shaking. "You sort of…" Molly clambered on top of him so their heads lined up. "You tilt your head and you…this is really hard to explain. Just…follow my lead." She leaned in close, head at a slight angle. Sherlock copied her, closing his eyes.

Her mouth was warm, gently tugging at his. She tasted of strawberries and cognac, smelling of vanilla. She melded into him at the lips, encasing him with sensory detail. His senses—they were exploding. God, if this is what it felt like to kiss someone, he could see a point to all the excitement. He never wanted to stop.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around her and he pushed backwards, pinning her to the ground. Her hands tugged at his shirt, finding their way to the warm skin on his back.

He pulled back to look down at Molly, severing their connection. "Is this okay?"

"This is so much more than okay," she whispered, one hand coming forward to stroke the black curls dangling over his forehead.

"I'm afraid I'm not good at this."

She giggled. "Practice," she said slowly, bringing his mouth back to hers. "Practice."