~Fully Set~

Lucy slammed her locker closed and briefly rested her head against the door. Math problems...History reflection...English paper...French worksheet...dinner...shower...probably ought to exercise at some point...Sleep was, naturally, out of the picture entirely.

She sighed with frustration and shouldered her pack. A lot to do and not much time for it. Best to start as soon as possible and get it all over with.

Muttering about the injustices of the public school system, Lucy maneuvered through the student-choked corridors till she reached an exit and escaped into sunshine. It really was a beautiful day; she ought to go for a walk around the block a few times, get some fresh air, clear her mind; it would be so lovely—

"Oof!"

"So sorry—!" She began to stammer, steadying her victim of collision. "I wasn't looking..." She glanced up into the person's face and quieted.

"Oh," she said flatly. "It's just you."

The man's eyes narrowed with annoyance.

"You know, you're far too ungrateful for a goddaughter, Lucy Watson."

"For a detective, you're far too easily miffed, Sherlock Holmes."

The two glared at one another with half-serious intent for a moment before Lucy cracked a smile.

"Aright," she said honestly, grinning. "I'm sorry."

"And to think I was going to give you a ride home," he said in a lofty voice as he turned on his heel and began to walk. With no other choice but to follow, Lucy tagged along at his side.

"Do I need to worry about why you're here?" she asked. "The only other times you've come to pick Grace and me up were when Dad was MIA due to two bullets in his chest and again when that avenger from his time in Afghanistan wanted to hold the two of us hostage."

"Hmph. I'd like to leave you suspense."

"Sherlock."

The detective sighed.

"Unfortunately, no. All is fine at Baker Street and apparently in all the rest of London. No murders in a week Lucy, a week! Not even a little, silly one. Did all the killers go on a bloody, jolly holiday together?"

"My apologies on behalf of the killing community of greater London," she said with a teasing bow. "They all decided Majorca was nice this time of year, postcards should be arriving for you any day now."

Sherlock only sniffed derisively.

"Any particular destination in mind?" Lucy asked as they reentered a school building.

"There's an older girl that lives with you. Seventeen. Blonde hair. Fancies herself a writer. Goes by the name of Grace Watson—you might know her. I was instructed to bring her home with you by your parents, both of whom are safe and busy, John with work, Mary with a broken down car, though she tried to make sound like she was getting her hair done. Apparently, she doesn't know how to change a tire but wasn't intent on letting me know that."

"Sounds like her," Lucy muttered. "So we're just going to wait outside Grace's door till she's done with class? She's taking a test today, you know what that means."

Sherlock closed his eyes in anguish.

"...She'll be double-checking her answers for half an hour after being dismissed. The one day I've got to be here...!"

They were rounding a corner now, Lucy on the outside, Sherlock towards the middle, and as they did so, a single action occurred. Able to see Lucy first in her turning, a boy, coming down his corridor, simply nodded and grinned at her widely.

"Hey Luce," he said pleasantly. And immediately knowing what would follow, Lucy's stomach clenched.

For then Sherlock came into view, instantly glaring down the other teenager, eyes flicking over him, observing, analyzing, and deciding; a knowing smirk curling his lips within nanoseconds. The boy's resolve visibly crumbled—like anyone else in England, he knew good and well who Lucy's escort was and was fully aware that Sherlock Holmes now knew a few too many secrets about him

Nevertheless, Lucy did her best to cover for her classmate.

"Oh, hi Daniel," she said, her voice dismissive but not unkind. It gave him an outlet to get away and save face. Red-faced and eyes resolutely fixed on his feet, Daniel smiled briefly in response and hurried away till he was out of view; Lucy still trotting along to keep up with her godfather's long strides, her own eyes boring into the ground and cheeks feeling suspiciously warm.

"Don't give me that look," she said after a moment without bothering to glance up at him.

"He fancies you." It was stated as a fact. Lucy swallowed, aware that she was now on damage control duty.

"I know," she said woodenly.

"Quite a lot," continued the detective. There was barely restrained mirth in his voice, like a child knowing it mustn't pull a dog's tail and yet doing so, and enjoying it, just the same.

"Feeling protective?" she said, trying to shift his focus.

"A bit," he allowed.

"Dad can shoot him for you then."

Lucy chanced a glance at Sherlock, who was watching her with raised eyebrows.

"You don't like him back?"

"You know I don't," she replied adamantly. "Look at the worn fingerprints he's got from pressing buttons and the way he holds his hands, like there should be a console fit directly in them—that means he plays video games, statistically silly ones where you make pixels look like they're blowing things up, but that's hardly relevant. There are dark bags under his eyes; in order to maintain that he's got to stay up late and it must be on gaming since he spends so much time on it, how else would his hands come to habitually hang that way? In the life of a student that leaves no time for homework ergo he has terrible grades. Not my type."

Lucy crossed her fingers in her pockets and hoped that Sherlock would let the matter go. Unfortunately, they were silent for only a moment before Sherlock put in thoughtfully:

"He doesn't just play video games. There's football too, judging from the scuffs and stains on his bag—you get that from throwing it down in the grass or across concrete bleachers, football's in season, and with that thin set of shoulders, there's no way he plays rugby."

"But he isn't very good judging from the way he walks: he's worn out, trying to get into shape; and the coach has him doing extra drills because he's holding the team back. Only plays for the bragging rights of being on the team."

"Still devoted to it though, give him that. He does it for love of the sport too."

"Sure. Fine," she admitted. "But there's also the annoying business about incessantly popping his knuckles—not that I know because he does it in class, but, again, just look at the hands."

Sherlock nodded as if her deductions sufficed for him. They turned another corner, thankfully without event, and arrived outside of Grace's classroom. Sherlock leaned against the wall and said dismissively:

"Of course, of course. All in all, he's a bit of a nobody."

"Exactly."

Lucy swallowed and allowed herself a hefty mental pat on the back. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd just pulled off the impossible. She'd actually just successfully lied to—

"...And yet you find him attractive."

Damnation!

"Sherlock!" She hissed.

"Didn't think I'd notice the color of your neck?" He said, grinning devilishly. "The ponytail doesn't hide it, you know. Another thing, you become so adamant when you're hiding something, you'd never make it In Her Majesty's Service; and your eyes are too shifty. You find him very attractive—you've got a thing for brown eyes did you realize? There was that other brown-eyed boy from a few years ago—Mathew, wasn't it...?"

"Stop it!" she peeped, casting her eyes about wildly and hoping against hope that none of her classmates were nearby. "Stop it right now! People can hear you!"

"He looked you in the eyes," Sherlock continued, cheerfully ignoring her, "That's uncommon for people your age, and despite his usual timidity and anxiety, blatant in the knuckle popping, he conquered his fear just to speak to you. Quite the knight in shining armor then."

"You're just doing this because there haven't been any good murders lately."

"That, and it's so much fun to watch young people squirm. What else then? His posture straightened the moment he saw you, trying to look bigger, stronger, more appealing to you, perhaps in comparison to another boy, have you been flirting or joking with anyone else lately?"

Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was bloody transparent wasn't she!? And just when she thought she was getting better about concealing a detail from him every now and then…

"Leave it," she said. "Please. Just leave it." Not surprisingly, her words went unheeded.

"You are flirting—Playing hard to get then. So you've liked him a while. Should you please you to know that there was a half-smile when you responded to him, very fleeting but still a conscious action, despite the fact that he's scared of me. You boosted his confidence and cheered him up tremendously with just three words: Lucy, I'd say the boy's gone and totally lost himself over you.

She was aware that her neck was warming up again—no doubt Sherlock was too, and identifying it as the joy that it was—but she still managed to imbue her words with some level of intimidation.

"I will hit you," she growled. "Don't think I won't." Again, her words were overlooked.

"Let's examine the boy himself, not just his feelings, and whether or not John ought to, as you said, shoot him." Sherlock continued. There was a great degree of enjoyment in his voice now: strangely enough, the famous consulting detective was indeed having fun watching his young person squirm. "There's the woven band on his wrist, old, the colors faded together. It means something to him, something special, from long ago; therefore he's a sentimental fellow, sensitive—girls like that don't they?"

Despite the fact that she knew it was an empty and pointless comment: "My father has taught me how to shoot a gun. Consider that in your calculations."

"...And the decorative button pinned to his pack, surely you saw it? It had a coconut split in half. He enjoys the tropics? Probably not. Winter hols just ended, if he really loves islands, he'd have gone, gotten a tan. His family's well off enough to do so, look at this clothes, but that's not the case. He hasn't been to a real beach in a long time."

"Sherlock, I swear, if I didn't need a ride home—"

"...Also, the pin's new, bright. Couldn't be an article from a fond old vacation. Therefore, the coconut represents something else, not tropical, and I think we can hazard at what that might be."

"This is why you get death threats every day before breakfast," she muttered.

"It means that he's partial to that annoying movie you love so much, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. ("You can be deported for saying that here.") So that means you have similar, if juvenile, senses of humor, something most commentators agree is necessary for a compatible relationship. We've got physical attraction, his bolstered confidence, a sensitive streak, a nigh-on infatuation with you, and a shared love of idiots going about the moors of Scotland wearing knight costumes. May I send out invitations to the wedding or should we wait till the end of the week?"

She glared at him for a moment before the classroom door between them opened, breaking the eye contact.

"Oh," said a startled Grace, emerging from the room, "Oh you've come to, ah..." She glanced between the two warily, clearly noting the tension in the air.

"You know what," Lucy said, never looking at her sister. "That's it Sherlock. There's a shortage of consulting criminals in the world, I'm signing up. You've turned me off of the side of angles, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh relax," he scoffed, though she could tell he was amused. "No one heard…Had a nice day, Grace?" The last part was a compulsory convention directed at the elder Watson, who smiled brightly.

"I did. You should hear what happened in my first class—"

"I'd rather not. Coming?" He turned and struck off down the corridor in the direction of the exit, his charges collected, job completed.

"Honestly, are we just parcels?" Grace grumbled. Lucy ignored her sister; she and Sherlock had never got on well, something Lucy credited as the detective's aversion to older siblings in general.

She scampered to catch up with the billowing great coat, her presence marked by a clipped sentence.

"...For the record though," Sherlock admitted. "He plays Minecraft, a waste of time to be sure, but not, as you say, a silly one where you only make pixels look like they're blowing things up."

Surprised, she fell back behind him again, a grin pulling at her mouth.

Perhaps he treated them like parcels, obligatory jobs on his to-do list, but every now and then the facade melted just enough to be peered through. He bothered enough to scrutinize boys like Daniel, and furthermore to elevate said boys' status from idiotic-gamer to strategy-gamer for the sake of her respect. That, and he had a made a special effort to wait for Grace outside her door when it would have been just as prudent to call her from the car.

Maybe Grace couldn't see it, but, Lucy thought as he swept the door open and held it without looking at them, the detective had a heart in their somewhere and despite doing his very best to hide such a thing, it was fully set on his goddaughters.