A/N: It's been a sad day today, and I didn't realise it until I'd finished the one-shot that I'd written about mourning. So interesting, isn't it? How real life bleeds into one's writing. For some reason, I ventured into the world of teen!lock. I've no idea why, because I normally never think about Sherlolly in this universe, but I absolutely adore the idea of them meeting as students and just absolutely hitting it off like they were always meant to be. I like to think that their chance meeting in their youth foreshadows the incredible significance they will bear on each other's lives. This is a strange, sad, but silly little piece. And I hope you'll find little moments to enjoy in this one. xx

Existence

It was one of those things where two people could co-exist in the same sphere for ages and ages and never know of said co-existence.

She knew his name, he knew her name, but so did everybody else in the classroom. Everyone knew everyone's name, at the very least. Anything more than that, well, that depended on the individual person. Molly Hooper preferred to be on her own, as did Sherlock Holmes. Both had theorised, in their own individual capacities, of course, that isolation was the greatest source of strength. With isolation, they found protection, solace. In the case of Sherlock Holmes, it also meant far less encounters with stupidity. Molly, who was far more tolerant of the foolishness of others, took to others a little more kindly than this young man did.

This morning, Sherlock had stolen into class a little earlier, studying a dead cicada he had picked up along the way to school. He was just about to slice off its dried-up little legs when he was interrupted by Molly's arrival. She had strolled into the classroom, neither paying attention to him nor anything else around her. She seemed to be clenching her teeth slightly and her gaze was low. Upon her arrival, the air seemed different. Something was wrong and it made Sherlock look up from the contorted insect, his little penknife suspended just above the unfortunate creature.

Molly, having not taken notice of Sherlock, or having chosen not to at least, merely sat down and began slowly preparing for class. Reaching into her satchel, she took out a notebook, her case of pencils and a science textbook. She began flipping through the textbook, only to start writing furiously in her notebook. Despite what she seemed to be doing, she did not quite appear to be studying, not to Sherlock at least. No, something was off and he was too intrigued not to investigate further.

"Molly Hooper, correct?" he said suddenly, pulling a chair up from the seat in front of her. He settled himself in the chair, sitting on it backwards so as to face her.

She nodded, smiled briefly, then resumed her writing. With a quick glance, Sherlock could see she was just mechanically writing out every single word in the textbook. She was reading sections of the textbook, studying them intently, then copying them out word for word from sheer memory. He was impressed. Her memory was good.

"Trying to forget something?" he asked bluntly.

She looked up with a start, her mouth slightly agape from shock at his odd but piercing question.

"Yes." she answered quietly, "But why would you say that?"
"Anyone who would try to memorise that is definitely trying to avoid letting something else get into their head," he said plainly.
"Good deduction," she said, that brief smile appearing once more before vanishing.
"So, what is it?" he pressed, folding his arms atop the back of the chair and resting his chin on them. His piercing eyes stared right at her, almost boring through her.

Molly put her pencil down and cleared her throat. She took a deep breath and leaned back against her seat, absentmindedly reaching for her ponytail. She did not realise it, but she untied it, re-tied it, then untied it again. When her hand reached up to tie it back up again, Sherlock reached out and caught her by the wrist, stopping her. The black elastic band was messily intertwined in her fingers and she looked down at it, before looking at the hand that held her wrist.

"What are you doing?" she asked.
"What are you doing?" he asked back, gesturing to the black elastic hair tie in her hand.
"Just…fixing my hair…."
"Yes, for the umpteenth time," he said, releasing her wrist.

Molly quickly fixed her hair up again and crossed her arms in front of her.

"Why've you come to talk to me? she asked, frowning at him.
"Why can't I?" he asked.
"I don't talk to people," she said, "And neither do you."
"Good observation," he said, with a smirk.
"It's frightfully obvious," she remarked with a slight chuckle.
"And it's very obvious you're in pain," he said, his bluntness sending a sharp sting right through her chest.

Sherlock was right, of course. He was always right. He knew it, Molly knew it and the rest of the class knew what a smart arse he could be. Sherlock always had the answers but Molly did not think his cleverness extended to such intricate intuition.

"So?" she asked, with a shrug. She half-smiled at him, but it was filled with bitterness.
"Have you anyone you can talk to?" he asked.
"The only one I could speak to about anything…" she said, taking a sharp breath, "has died."
"Your father."
"Yes, my father."

Molly looked away, forcing herself to smile, but Sherlock could see from the way her jaw muscles swirled beneath her skin how terribly hard she was clenching her teeth. She blinked, a little too rapidly, with that unsteady rhythm that only occurred when tears were behind withheld.

"How well do you know your table of ions?" he asked, suddenly.
"I could recite it backwards, hanging upside down from a tree," she answered swiftly, without turning to face him.
"Good."
"Why do you ask?"
"We're going to be learning about oxidation numbers today, in the lead up to balancing chemical equations," he answered.
"And so?" she asked, finally turning to look at him.
"Since you seem so well-versed, and you're brilliant at Chemistry anyway, class today would be most redundant,"
"What are you on about?" she asked, unknowingly reaching to undo her hair again.

Sherlock stood up and grabbed her wrist again, stopping her from this nervous habit of hers. For a moment, they remained suspended in this tableau, Sherlock standing up and leaning over her with his hand gripping her wrist that he had halted. Her eyes went wide with shock, then softened when she realised he meant no harm.

"Come on," he whispered, smirking, "Let's get out of here."
"What? We'll get in trouble…"
"What do you like doing? What makes you happy?" he asked excitedly.

A fascination with her had taken hold of him, and it caused his eyes to sparkle. Molly caught the glint in his eye and that rather dashing smirk of his. Anti-social smart arses were not supposed to be adorable, but here she was, finding herself rather beginning to adore this strange young man, who was slowly beginning to cut off the circulation in her hand.

"I'll tell you, if you'd let the blood flow into my hand again," she said with a little laugh. He dropped her hand from the sudden realisation, and then he too, laughed. Sherlock walked over to his desk and looped his leather satchel over his head, completely forgetting about dissecting the dead cicada. He then returned to Molly's desk, standing in front of her like he had before.

"Is this better?" he asked, offering his hand to her properly.

Molly stared at his open palm, admiring the lithe fingers on his beautiful hand. She wondered if he played music, the violin, perhaps, or the piano. It would be mesmerising to watch with fingers like his. Automatically, she followed suit. First, she swept all her books and pencils into her own satchel, looping it over her head. With a mischievous smirk, she slid her hand gingerly over his open palm. The moment her skin touched his, he curled his fingers around her hand, firmly keeping her hand in his.

"So, what makes you happy, Molly Hooper?" he asked, his gazed fixed on her as his inexplicable fascination with her continued to grow.
"I don't know," she answered, smiling, but a stray tear slid down her cheek, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

If Molly was being honest, her heart was quite ready to explode with grief. That one rogue tear was but the tip of the iceberg.

"Well, that shall be our task for the day then," said Sherlock, running his fingers across her knuckles, "Let's make you happy, Molly Hooper."
"How do you plan on doing that?" she asked, grinning, although a few more tears inadvertently escaped.
"It shall be an experiment," he declared, "An experiment in happiness. Certainly more interesting than balancing those lousy equations."

She laughed. Sherlock was right. Chemistry class was far too easy for them both. Besides, she was well-ahead, having done her own independent study.

"What if you fail?" she asked, moving to stand closer to him, "What if we never find what makes me happy?"
"I never fail," he said, smiling proudly at her.
"But you might," she said, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Molly Hooper," he said, facing her squarely and peering into her eyes, "I never fail."

His determination amused her, and the brightness in his eyes caused her heart to skip a beat, momentarily forgetting how terribly it ached.

"Won't we get in trouble?" she asked.
"Ah, that's where we're lucky," he said, leading them out of the classroom.
"What do you mean?"

He did not answer her. Instead, he continued leading her down the corridor, out of the school gates and onto the first bus that would take them to the heart of town.

"I've never skipped school before…" she said, her heart now pumping a little from anxiety.

Sherlock felt the change in her pulse and brought her hand up to his lips, kissing it. It shocked her, which in turn made her forget her anxiety.

"My brother works for the government," he whispered to her, "Well, in a sense, he is the government."
"So?" Molly asked, trying to shake off the tingling underneath her skin.
"It means we won't get in trouble." he said, grinning at her. "I'll get a shelling, as usual, but we won't get in trouble."
"Well, I shouldn't like you to get a shelling because of m—"
"Not another word," he said, cutting her off.

Molly looked at him with a mix of confusion and wonder. Just thirty minutes ago, they had been Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, two of a whole class of students who merely co-existed. He was but a name and a face to her, and she was exactly that to him as well. Now, thirty minutes later, one day after the death of her father, she was on a bus to town, her hand held firmly in his and they were currently playing truant.

"Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" she asked quietly.
"Because you're sad."
"That doesn't matter," she said.
"Of course it does." he argued.
"We're strangers. We've always been strangers."
"Not anymore," he said.
"Not anymore?" she repeated with a laugh. "What's changed?"
"You exist now," he answered.

Sherlock gave a shrug and turned from her to look out of the window, but not once did he let go of her hand.

"And for that, it will never not matter." he continued, turning back to her, "You will never not matter."

END