Okay hi, this is based on a prompt from Nocturnias. It was supposed to be a one-shot, now it's a multi-chapter.
(Hint, the prompt is the first sentence)

If anyone had told Sherlock Holmes a year ago that one day he would be making out with Molly Hooper, he would have given them a scathing look and told them not to be ridiculous. Of course, part of this would be because he didn't know who Molly Hooper was.

She wasn't in any of his classes until this year, and he, not being a social creature, had not met her at a party (not as though she went to many parties). Now they were lab partners in their advanced chemistry class. They were paired because the teacher, Mr. Aktinson, believed it an unfair advantage to be stuck with one of the brighter kids—Molly or Sherlock would do all the work—so he stuck them together.

Oh yes, Molly Hooper was a smart little girl. She would be top of the class if it weren't for Sherlock. He suspected she harbored an intense resentment for him because of it, evident by her constant fidgeting and lack of speaking to him.

Little to his knowledge, she actually behaved this way due to a huge crush on the smoother, sarcastic brainiac. Okay, he knew, he just refused to acknowledge it. Crushes and romance were unnecessary.

It started on a dreary day, not much different from most dreary London days. It had to happen on an ordinary day; things like this always start when you least expect them. Except in movies. You can always tell in movies.

Sherlock and his roommate-best friend John Watson were crossing under one of the many roofed walkways to fourth block. It was unexpectedly cold, and Sherlock was now regretting his decision to ditch his blazer.

"So when are you going to stop leading her on?" John asked during a conversational pause.

"Who?"

He rolled his eyes. "Molly. She's practically falling over for you."

"Not interested."

"What do you mean, not interested? She's smart, cute, has a great a—"

"Not interested in romantic liaisons, thank you, John."

"At all? What about just physical things with girls?"

"No."

"…boys?"

"NO."

"Why not?"

Sherlock scrunched his face into a look of confusion. What kind of a question was that? "Because?"

"We're teenagers. Raging hormones?"

"Clearly not controlling me."

John frowned. "Then you could at least have the decency of telling her you're not interested."

"Why would I do that? It would further complicate our lab partnership, as would advancing our personal relationship."

John sighed. He wasn't getting anywhere. "Forget I said anything."

"Will do," Sherlock said with a cheery, condescending smile. He pulled open the door to the science building. "I'll see you for lunch?"

"Yeah, yeah," John grumbled.

Sherlock slipped into his chem class, taking his seat towards the back of the room. Chemistry was his specialty; he saw no reason to sit close to the front, especially when he barely paid attention.

"Hello, Sherlock."

He turned slightly to mousy little Molly. Her hair was drenched and hanging about her shoulders, having been thrown out of its regular ponytail, he assumed. Water dripped from the tips on to her soaking sweater. Her tie was crooked and her kilt was fastened at an uneven length. Sherlock furrowed his brow. She was a mess, but her last class was next door, biology. "You're wet."

"Well, yes, it's pouring." It was her turn to give him a funny look.

"Your class is across the hall, you have no reason to be outside, let alone sprinting, based on the less-than-pristine condition of your uniform, not to mention the state of your hair—which looks nice down."

"I—" she shook her head, confused. "Thank you? I forgot something in my room, I had to go back."

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing further.

Mr. Atkinson approached the front of the room as the remainder of the class filed in, wet and half-asleep. He cleared his throat and pointed a chalk-coated hand to the board where he had detailed a complex experiment. "We're almost to Christmas; it's about time you lot start putting equations to practice. You'll need the materials up here, and the lab sheets that are on my desk. This is a student-run lab. If you need help, ask Mr. Holmes or Ms. Hooper. Good luck."

Sherlock groaned. "This will be needlessly tedious. I'll get the equipment, you get the sheets."

Molly nodded and hurried off to one side of the room as Sherlock approached the cabinet where the glass objects were kept.

"What do we need?" asked Percy, a light-haired boy who was nearly Sherlock's height. "He's labeled them all in Latin."

"I expect it's on the sheet," he grumbled in response, picking out the correct equipment (and some incorrect pieces, knowing they'd all copy him).

He returned to find Molly already furiously at work, scribbling a plan of execution in her notebook. Her handwriting was surprisingly messy for a girl, Sherlock noted. It curled on itself, twisting and crooked. He could almost read her hieroglyphic scrawl.

"What does it seem to be?"

She shrugged. "Your Latin is better than mine."

It bloody well was not. He was pulling a B in that class. "It's an Aluminum-based lab."

"Aluminum to alum. We need to be very careful about mass-mass relationships."

He nodded. "Right."

"You forgot the ice water," she noted, counting over the materials. "Do you want me to go get it?"

"Might as well."

She got up, taking one of the large basins with her. He took her brief absence as an excuse to look over the writing in her notebook. It was neat, but completely illegible. She had translated each step to perfection, and from as far as he could tell, there were no inaccuracies. Funny. All she displayed around him was clumsiness with glass and the fumbling of words. Strange girl.

"Molly, we still need the chemicals," he muttered when she returned.

"I'm awareeeeeeee—"

He looked up just in time to watch her fall.

The floor—the rain—rubber-soled shoes—she went tumbling down and the bowl—the bowl flew from her grasp. Instinctively, his hands shot out to catch the glass before it shattered, diving out of his seat, and smacking into the floor. He landed hard on his back, bowl safely on his chest. He was soaked in the freezing water. A few ice cubes were scattered around them.

Molly groaned—she had landed on her side and was more bruised than he, having slid a few feet into a table. "This is so embarrassing," she whispered.

Sherlock tried to sit up and found his head throbbing. So much for an uneventful Tuesday. He could feel the classes' eyes on him, on them—the perfect duo reduced to a puddle of pain on an unfortunate rainy day. "Mr. Atkinson, permission to escort Miss Hooper to the nurse?" he called from the floor.

"I think you need some escorting yourself." He could hear the laughter in his voice.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine." He pushed himself up in an attempt to convince both himself and his teacher that he was, indeed, okay. "I can take her. The rest of the class needs to focus, don't they?"

"Then I have to actually teach," Mr. Atkinson mused. "Permission granted. Just make sure you both make it back or you'll be making up this lab."

"I honestly do not mind taking the make-up," Molly said through gritted teeth.

He lands on his back, but somehow she ends up more injured. Figures. "Do you need help?"

"I'd nod, but I'm afraid it'll hurt."

Oooh boy. How was he going to do this? Should he carry her, or just yank her up by the hand? Maybe lift her to her feet then do the casual arm-around-the-shoulder stabilization?

No carrying.

Sherlock Holmes did not carry anyone.

Ever.

"I fear I'm going to hurt you."

She pushed herself into a sitting position and held out her hands. "Slowly."

He took her hands and gingerly raised her to a standing position. She was a good head shorter than he, and that would make any sort of support awkward. She'd have to tough it out.

"Aren't you freezing?" she asked after they entered the hall.

"Yes. Very much so." His shirt was sticking to his body, transparent, and cold as his stare. He wanted nothing more than to tear it off to dry. "Where even is the nurse?"

"You've never been?"

He shook his head; he took care of his own injuries.

"It's over in the athletics building."

"That's across campus."

"It's a bit of a walk, yeah."

"Are you sure you're okay?" This was the most talkative he'd ever seen Molly. He wondered if she had hit her head as well, her nervous demeanor lost to the injury.

"Yeah, yes I think I'm okay. My side hurts and I'm pretty sure I'll have bruising on my hip, but other than that I'm fine."

"Didn't you hit your head?"

"…yes. And that still hurts. But I'd rather the nurse make a judgment on my head wound. What about you?"

"I'll be fine, my back just aches."

"Attack of the Torrentially Treacherous Tuesday," she muttered.

He laughed. She smiled.

"Can't say I was expecting to be beaten and bruised before athletics. That's what you get for going back to your room between blocks."

She swore. "That's right! God, I went all the way back only to leave it in my bag. I've done nothing but goof up all day. First I forget my Latin textbook, next I trip on my way to second block, then I royally screw up my biology lab, leave that in my room, retrieve it, and spill a bowl of icy water on you. Sorry about that."

"It's fine." It wasn't as if he were developing hypothermia or anything. "Just water." Goddamn cold water.

"Can I do something to make it up to you?"

"Don't bother, it's not worth it."

"Not even a coffee?"

He thought about that. He didn't see Molly at breakfast—he was never up at breakfast—and a latte-turned-iced-coffee fourth block was not the most appealing idea. "It's really fine," he assured her as they slipped down the stairs to one of the underground tunnels that connected the campus. "Just come to the make-up at the same time as me, I'd rather not sit there and listen to Mr. Atkinson prattle off about his glory days."

"He does that with you too?" Her face lit up, a grin spreading like butter on hot toast.

"He always goes off on these rants about his time working in the military, and how it impacted him. And the stories are never coherent."

"And they're never interesting."

Sherlock laughed. "Mr. Atkinson is a mess."

"And clumsier than me."

"No."

"Yes! He drops everything!"

"How come I've never seen this?!"

"He doesn't do it around you." Her demeanor switched rapidly, something about the sentence pulling the quiet, diminutive Molly back into the light. "No one makes mistakes around you."

"What do you mean?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes, top of the class, little brother of Mycroft and Sherrinford Holmes, two of the brightest students the school's ever had. Everyone's touchy around you. You're bound to end up just as smart, and we're all sitting on their hands to find out what it is. No one wants to come off as incompetent around a genius."

He wasn't a…"You don't act that way."

She laughed humorlessly. "That's because I—it's not important."

He opened his mouth to protest, but found her paces ahead, jaw clenched and fists balled. She was upset, but about what, exactly? Something about girls always threw him off. There was a reason Sherlock avoided social situations as much as possible.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the nurse. Molly was taken off to one room and Sherlock to another. He was stripped from the waist up, his back and head examined (though he flinched and snapped whenever the nurse laid her fingers on his skin). It was determined he was, in fact, fine. He could have made that diagnosis. Some minor bruising, his shoulders would kill for the next day or two, and his headache should subside within the next few hours.

He exited the tiny room with a towel wrapped around the upper half of his body (the nurse's office was bloody cold), shivering and still wet as a dog. Molly was seated on the bench outside, her shirt and sweater replaced with white terrycloth. Two sets of skinny straps were the only things on her shoulders.

"Are you fine?"

She shook her head. "Could have a fractured rib. It hurts when I breathe."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't think it was so important."

He shook his head. The stupidity of the human race sometimes. "What are they doing about it?"

"Go in for x-rays at St. Bart's later today? I've never broken a bone before." She took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. Shaken, obviously, not to mention scared and nervous. He couldn't exactly sympathize with her.

"I hope for your sake that it isn't broken, then." Shit. Was that good? Should he say something more? He hoped? He must have taken a worse blow to the head than he originally thought.

Molly gave him a weak smile. "Thanks, me too."

Ah. So that was an acceptable response. Thank God.

He was sent back to class after a few minutes longer with a fresh shirt and a towel (his hair was still sopping wet). Molly was kept down in the office, a phone call being made to her father about her current predicament.

She didn't return to class later.

"I heard about what happened fourth block," John said as he slid into the seat across from Sherlock. They were in the back of the cafeteria at their usual small round table.

"From whom?"

"One of the Jess' was gossiping about it fifth." He twisted the cap off his drink. "You all right?"

He nodded, pushing the food on his plate with a plastic fork.

"What about Molly?"

"Could have a broken rib. Getting x-rayed."

John was quiet. Sherlock looked up to find him gaping. "Broken rib?"

"Hairline, most likely, if anything. Shorter recovery time, can't participate in physical activities for a set number of weeks, needs to be wrapped—"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Dictionary, I've had a fractured rib before."

"You have?"

"When I was a lot younger I used to play football in a brutal league. Got kicked. Hard."

"Ah."

"What are you going to do about Molly?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Work alone, finally get something done efficiently, not talk for a period—"

"That was not what I meant. She's hurt on your behalf—"

"How is that on my behalf?"

"You're the one who asked her to get the water!"

"Oh, she would have slipped anyway, the floor was wet, she was wet, the floor is linoleum, mind you—"

"It could have been you though, and it wasn't."

"I fell too. Do you want to see my bruises?"

"But you don't have a possibly broken rib!"

"Oh possibly broken! It could be perfectly fine!"

"And what if it's not?! What then?"

"Well then I guess she's going to be taping her ribs, isn't she?"

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"Why should I do anything about it?!"

"Stop being a prick and take a hint! God, Sherlock, you're so smart but sometimes you're so dense. Bring her something nice. A coffee, a stuffed bear, flowers, something."

"Why? So I can torture her with the slightest idea that we could be more than just lab partners, even though that will never happen? Tell me how that's better!"

"Since when have you cared?"

"I don't, I'm just exposing the flaws in your logic!"

John slammed his fist on the table. "Just. Fucking. Do something. Nice. As a lab partner if you must. Your smile will only get you so far, Sherlock."

He folded his arms, cross. "Fine," he spit. "I'll get the best goddamn flowers or coffee or something."

John smirked. "John one, Sherlock zero."

Sherlock swore. "That was your intent, wasn't it?"

His smile grew wider. "Of course it was."