Chapter 1: Weakness


It was on an uncharacteristically sunny November day that Molly Hooper realized she had an unfortunate weakness for men of the tall, dark and handsome persuasion.

This was when the living embodiment of the male counterpart in her daytime – and if she was being honest, all of her – fantasies strode into the classroom, glanced nonchalantly around and sat himself down calmly in the empty seat in front of her. Coincidentally, this was also the moment she realized that her grades were going to take a beating.

Granted, from the quick peek she took as he sauntered towards the desk, his handsomeness was a bit strange, but in its irregularity was its beauty. She glimpsed his aristocratically high cheekbones and impossibly clear blue eyes. Those eyes were perfect for drowning in. Was it possible for year 12 students to look like the love child of the Greek god Apollo and a hot alien?

Breathe Molly. Remember to breathe. Breathing is good.

She sucked in all the air that her lungs could hold, recognizing that it was the first breath she took since she clapped her eyes on this boy. Placing her palms on the table in front of her to steady herself, she tucked her head down slightly, shut her eyes and tried to discreetly regain control of her renegade lungs.

"Are you quite alright?"

She was noticed. She failed.

Her head popped back up, wide brown eyes trying their very best to belie the sexual turmoil she found herself in. It was him. He was speaking to her.

Speak Molly. Words. English. French. Afrikaans. Anything.

"Yes I'm fine," she managed to squeak out.

What she hoped was a reassuring smile followed her statement after a pause, but all it did was elicit a cocked eyebrow from Mr. Fantasy. Oh god, wrong word choice. She felt her cheek and ears go scarlet at the thought.

"Your breathing is irregular, your face and neck are flushed and you're beginning to sweat. Do you have any history of deep vein thrombosis? Because you may be suffering from an onset pulmonary embolism. Which, if not treated immediately, may be fatal. Or you could be having an allergic reaction to the prolonged exposure to lead based paint, which," He regarded the walls with disdain while continuing his rapid-fire rationalization. "If the dreadful shade of yellow is any indication, this institution is using in an attempt to cheer up this godforsaken hell hole."

He looked down at her expectantly, waiting for a response.

"Pul – pulmon –? What? Pardon?" Smooth, Hooper. Smooth.

"Pulmonary embolism," He spoke slowly, enunciating the words as if speaking to a small child. Molly, stop looking at his lips. "It's when you have – "

He had caught the quick movements of her eyes down to his mouth and back up again.

Damn.

Peering at her face with squinted eyes, he continued his observations.

"Your eyes are extremely dilated. Are you on dru –" As if a sudden realization crossed his mind, his features reassembled from curiosity to a portrait of disinterest. "Never mind."

He straightened up and whipped around to face the front of the class, just in time to see Mr. Owens, the portly history teacher, walk into the room, trusty coffee cup in hand.

An abrupt snort of laughter came from Molly's right. It would seem that her friend Mary had been scrutinizing the exchange furtively. She chortled under her breath in the most indelicate manner, her shoulders carelessly heaving. Molly glared at her, willing her own eyes to form laser beams, before her forehead slumped onto the table in front of her with a soft thump. Would that this table were a time traveling table, she thought with a groan.

"Ms. Hooper, are you quite alright?" The same question, but coming from Mr. Owens, carried more emotion and concern than Handsome Face Cheekbones Boy's entire monologue did.

Molly cleared her throat and tried her second attempt to smile in the past two minutes, but only managed a weird sort of grimace.

"Yes, sir. I'm alright," she tried to recharge her 15% grin. "Thank you."

Unconvinced, with worry lines etching between his grey eyebrows, he gently offered to give her a pass for the nurse's office.

It was then that Curly Haired Hottie deigned to speak again, and while she couldn't see his face, Molly would later swear he was wearing the most obnoxiously condescending smirk.

"She only had an orgasm," He explained calmly. "Some girls are able to do that, did you know? Mentally give themselves a physical orgasm."

The class erupted in a din of guffaws and cat-calls. Mr. Owens looked flabbergasted and was almost as embarrassed as Molly. She sunk so low in her seat, her posture so aggressively poor, that for a moment she feared she was developing scoliosis. But she was determined to take up as little space as possible, trying to condense her body till she disappeared into a tiny point and thus proving the big bang theory in one fell swoop – well it's reverse at least.

"That's quite enough!" The rotund teacher tried to regain control of the rowdy 16 year olds, which any secondary school educator knows is a task easier said than done. Come to think of it, no one ever said it was easy. Poor Mr. Owens damned their raging hormones. All that testosterone and estrogen and lord knows what else. He should have paid more attention in biology. "Class, that is quite enough! Young man, what is your name?"

"Holmes, sir," The boy replied languidly. "Sherlock Holmes."

"To the headmaster's office with you! I won't have that sort of language in my classroom," Mr. Owen's jowls were shaking violently. "Out!"

The boy stretched his legs out lazily and proceeded to push himself off the chair, grabbing his notebook and pen in the process. The only sort of school supplies he brought with him, Molly noted. From her vantage point with her chin on the table, Molly saw him turn slightly and give the class a jaunty salute before he disappeared around the corner of the doorframe.


Molly didn't see him again till the end of the day.

She stopped to tie her shoelaces in front of the school's main entrance when she spotted him – Sherl... something or other – arguing under one of the oak trees on the school's lawn with a man that looked to be in his mid twenties.

The man was wearing a crisp black suit and shiny leather looking shoes, appearing very official and very much like an angry parental figure. Though he was clearly too young to be the boy's father. Brother, then? Or uncle?

"You can't keep firing your mouth off like a goddamn cannon every time someone asks you a question, Sherlock!" The man castigated, his hands emphasizing the word 'cannon' with a violent upward motion.

Sherlock, that's his name.

Molly untied and retied her shoes, trying to assuage her conscience that she wasn't eavesdropping. Clearly, she was.

The man continued with his chastisement.

"It's your first day here. This is the third school in two years. Don't make Mummy have to put you in a fourth," A warning tone colored his voice. "You can be thankful that I was allowed to leave work early. I know you don't want Father to be the one to deal with the headmaster."

Sherlock responded with silent belligerence, shoving his hands in the pocket of his trousers. The man sighed and smoothed out his suit jacket. He glanced towards the main gate and motioned with a subtle jerk of his head for Sherlock to follow him.

"You go. I'm going out for a smoke," Sherlock spat out. "Oh and Mycroft, you can tell Mummy whatever the hell you please, but just know. I. Didn't. Do. Anything. I merely said what I deduced."

The man named Mycroft, who was probably Sherlock's brother, rolled his eyes, saying, "Yes, but you can't just say these things. These plebeians get so touchy when you draw conclusions about them." He paused, eyeing the throng of students heading home. "Be back by supper. You know how Mummy worries about you."

He left after a final look consisting of pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

Without shifting from his spot in the shade of the tree, Sherlock turned his head to the side and locked his angry eyes on Molly Hooper.


AN: Welcome!

This was inspired by the OTP Boot Camp Challenge started by Exceeds Samspectations (and in her words, "shamelessly stolen from the multitude of Boot Camps in the HPFC forum that originated from Gamma Orionis' OTP Boot Camp") on the BBC Sherlock Fanfiction Challenges forum.

The prompt is the chapter title. This will - hopefully - be a series of interconnected snapshots of Sherlock and Molly growing up.

And yes, I'm aware that Sherlock is supposed to be older, but I'm going to take some artistic liberties with their ages. Go with the flow, my friends. :)

Also, kudos to you if you caught the references I snuck in here!
(One is from
Community and the other from John Green's book, The Fault In Our Stars.)

With love,

Skye aka EphemeralxEternity