A/N: To avoid confusion: this is Sherlock when he was younger, still attending school, around ages 15-16.

I'm open to suggestions, as this plot is everything but fixed.

Obviously (and sadly) I don't own Sherlock or his unfathomably intelligent yet stupid brain. All belongs to Conan Doyle/BBC.

The library was completely empty except for Sherlock. Warm afternoon light streamed through the paned windows and caught the dust motes making their lethargic journeys across the room.

Sherlock sat with his feet propped up against the back of a chair, his fingers steepled together, their tips resting on his chin. He gazed sightlessly at the tall, rickety bookshelves filled with volumes, weathered down in their leather covers from years upon years of perusing.

All afternoon he had been sitting there, completely absorbed in his own mental world—God knows what he was thinking. Not a muscle twitched, and one could only tell he was alive by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He hardly even blinked.

There was a click and slam as the heavy doors to the library admitted someone into its presence. Footsteps, light and rapid, but not harried, made their way across to the position of the librarian's desk. Considering their pattern it was a person of taller stature. Statistical probability pointed to female.

"Sherlock, is that you?" Even though Sherlock had been expecting the higher, more melodious tones of feminine speech, the voice still startled him.

It was Geneva.

Beautiful, intellectually stimulating, understanding Geneva. The skinny girl with the straight black hair and darting eyes. The only person Sherlock had ever had been, or would be, completely infatuated with.

Sherlock couldn't muster up a response for a moment, in which Geneva walked herself over to his small haven he had carved out for himself between the hard wooden desks. It was not until Geneva had approached the armchair he was reclining in when they both spoke at once:

"So it is you." "Hello, Geneva."

They both hesitated before Sherlock slowly turned his head and nodded it ever so slightly in her direction.

"What brings you here?"

"I was just returning one of the texts the Professor suggested for study. Found it fascinating," she explained.

"So did I" was Sherlock's meager attempt at keeping the conversation. Really, he had found it quite dull and riddled with contradictory theories, sometimes even false data.

"No you didn't." Geneva flipped over one of the books stacked on the mahogany table. "Just the other day you were complaining about how the author had no idea what he was talking about and you stood up in the middle of class and shouted how everyone was being brainwashed, et cetera."

"I suppose I did do that." He said distractedly.

God, she was gorgeous. The olive jacket she was wearing brought out the curves in her waist; from the way she was standing he could see her face in profile: hair drawn back from her large forehead, her straight nose prominent but flowing smoothly into her full lips, which were slightly parted, probably in the same way they would be if he were about to kiss her if—

Geneva snorted. Most likely she had found one of the titles amusing.

Sherlock's mind attempted to scramble back into focus.

"Do you have a watch?" asked Geneva.

"EssusemeI'msorrypardon?"

She smiled. "A watch? Do you have one?"

"Ah…yes." A small flick of the wrist so the watch face became visible. "It's five minutes to four."

Her eyes widened and she swore under her breath. "I've really got to go then. It was nice speaking with you."

Sherlock raised his hand in parting. "It was nice to talk to you as well."

He wanted to say so much more, but she had already passed through the doors, leaving Sherlock to himself.