A/N: Because you're all so lovely, I've decided to post this now. I was going to wait until I'd actually made a start on chapter five, but chapter five can go hang (I'm currently not painting my lounge and am actually writing chapter nine). Anyway, I'm back at work tomorrow, which leaves little to no time for writing during the week, so don't expect much before Saturday. I will try and update but I'm starting a new project which basically means I'm going to be working until 2am pretty often. That aside, thank you for all your lovely reviews and your birthday wishes. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your support with this story. I'm blown away by the response. :) Oh and one more thing, Molly ventures into Sherlock's world this chapter, rather than him venturing into hers. It is significantly darker for that. Just a warning.

Schoolgirl Crush

by Flaignhan

She's told her mum she's staying at Caroline's tonight. She doesn't like lying, but she can hardly tell her that she's taking a fifty mile train journey to go and stay with an eighteen year old boy at his boarding school where guests, especially female ones, are strictly forbidden.

It's dusk when the train pulls into the station, and rain is hammering at the windows. He meets her on the platform, doesn't utter a word in greeting, and they climb the steps up to the station. He takes her hand when they exit, and her heart hammers in her chest, despite the fact that she knows he's only doing it because the streets are busy and he does not have any desire to look for a lost teenager today. As soon as they find themselves on a quiet pathway, the street lighting growing less and less frequent, he drops her hand, and shoves both of his in his pockets.

After a mile or so, Molly is getting tired. The strap of her bag is cutting into her shoulder, her legs are so cold that they're numb, and her hair is soaked, water droplets dripping down the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades and down to the base of her spine. Her teeth are chattering, though Sherlock does not comment on it. Instead he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag on it.

"How much longer?" she complains, hoisting her bag onto her other shoulder, to try and even out the discomfort.

"Not long," Sherlock mutters. He's right. As usual. They round the corner, and Molly can see the impressive building that is Sherlock's school. "Come on." He holds out his hand and she takes it, without question.

He guides her around the edge of the grounds and they enter the building through an ancient door that leads to a deserted hallway. They climb a wooden staircase, and Sherlock practically throws her into an alcove on the landing when a group of third years round the corner. They take one look at Sherlock and hurry down the stairs without looking back. Sherlock nods to Molly and she follows him again, to the door at the end of the corridor.

"My private room," Sherlock says, opening the door and allowing her to step inside ahead of him. "The best thing my father has ever done for me."

Molly smiles, and sets her bag down on the handsome leather armchair that sits beside the fireplace. Jealousy burns in her heart for a moment or so, but then she remembers Sherlock's inability to co-exist with the rest of the population with any sort of ease. Being from a wealthy and distant family has a price. One that Molly would not be willing to pay herself.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asks.

"Starving," Molly says.

"Good, I had my dinner brought here. It should still be warm." He gestures to the small table on the far side of the room, on top of which there is a large silver dome, covering what Molly assumes is Sherlock's dinner. She can't believe that this is an everyday occurrence for him, that he can just toss orders around and have them seen to without having to utter so much as a please or a thank you.

"Don't you want it?" Molly asks.

"Not tonight."

"Tomorrow then?"

"There'll be a different dinner tomorrow. Good grief, how poor is your school? What is it? One meal a week and a starter if it's Christmas?"

"We never get starters," Molly says, frowning. "It's a school, not a restaurant."

"What do you have then?" Sherlock looks genuinely baffled, and Molly can barely believe his ignorance. It's almost endearing, but it's also slightly worrying. He knows so little of the world, the real world, that is, that she's not sure he'd last five minutes in her shoes. Not that he'd be able to fit into her shoes. She's only a five.

"Burgers, chips, pizza..." Molly shrugs. "All sorts really."

"All sorts of rubbish," Sherlock retorts. "Sit," he says, pulling out the chair.

Molly obliges.

"Eat." Sherlock lifts the lid from the dinner and Molly's jaw drops when she sees it - soup to start, and not just any old soup, proper home made soup. Soup with real bits of real things in it. The main is a seafood risotto, with prawns as big as Molly's fist scattered amongst the rice. And, for dessert (he gets dessert, the lucky bastard) there is a steaming chocolate pudding covered in a gleaming thick sauce. Raspberries are scattered around the edge of the pudding and Molly cannot stop herself from picking one up, dipping it into the sauce, and popping it into her mouth.

"Oh my God..." she mumbles, closing her eyes and sliding downwards in her chair. "I hate you."

"I could always eat it myself," Sherlock says, a slight edge of threat to his tone.

Molly sits up straight and opens her eyes immediately. He can try and eat it, but as far as she's concerned, he won't get a look in. She picks up her soup spoon and begins to eat, while Sherlock practically throws himself onto his bed and opens a book on pathology.

Molly swallows a mouthful of soup and looks up at him. The book is new, she knows that because she had asked about its release in the local W H Smith a few weeks ago. It's a sizeable thing, and Sherlock is nearly at the end of it, though she knows he can't have had it more than four days. It's also very expensive, though she knows that's not an issue for him. She had almost fainted when the woman in Smith's had told her the price.

Molly turns her attention back to her soup, her heart aching. She could get her dream job so easily if her family had the same sort of wealth as the Holmeses. She could go to university and her parents would foot the bill without batting an eyelid. She could have all the expensive textbooks her heart desired, and, she wouldn't have her science lessons in a prefabricated building in the school playground, she would have them in a proper lab. They would have bunsen burners, and no one would try and set her hair on fire because even if they'd all been raised as complete snobs, they'd still been raised with some manners.

By the time she finishes her meal, she realises that private school is not for her. Well, it's actually perfect for her, but if she were to have a three course meal every night (and by God she would) she'd be the size of a small house.

She goes over to join him on the bed, perching herself on the edge, not wanting to invade his personal space. (Actually, that's absolutely what she wants to do, but she knows how bitchy he can get about that sort of thing, and so she refrains, the lovely girl that she is.)

Eventually, he snaps the book shut.

"Done." He thrusts it into Molly's hands and she takes it. "You can have it."

"What?" Her eyes are as wide as dinner plates, and as soon as she realises that he mouth is ajar, she snaps it shut.

"You can have it. I'm finished with it," Sherlock repeats, his words taking on a staccato style.

"But won't you want to use it again in the future?"

Sherlock frowns at her. "No. I've read it. Why would I need to read it again? It's all in my head."

Molly looks down at the book's shining cover, and frowns. She wants this book, more than anything, (well, maybe not more than she wants to throw herself at Sherlock right this second, but more than anything reasonable) but she doesn't feel as though she can take it. It's so expensive and he's not just lending it to her, he's just giving it to her, as though it's an old cassette of a band he's since grown out of.

"Molly..."

She looks up at him, and tries to remember to breathe when his eyes bore into her own.

"It's yours now."

"Thank you," she says softly, hugging it to her chest. "I love it."

"Excellent," he says, as though they've just finalised some sort of business deal. He leans over the edge of his bed and takes out a tin from under his bedside cabinet. He opens it, pulling a strip of cloth from inside. He begins to tie it tightly around the crook of his arm, and Molly watches him silently.

"Are we doing an experiment?" she asks, her eyes fixed on his veins, bulging under his skin. There are tiny needle marks dotted around, and she wonders just how many experiments he's done on himself.

Sherlock pulls a needle from the tin, and removes the cap with his teeth. He then takes a small brown bottle and jams the needle through the top, slowly pulling up the plunger, his eyes never leaving the scale on the syringe. "In a manner of speaking, yes..."

Molly's stomach feels heavy. She's not sure she likes where this is going. She doesn't know what's in that brown bottle, and even though Sherlock appears to know what he's doing, she doesn't feel like it's right.

"What is that?" she asks, her voice not much louder than a whisper. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

He plunges the needle into his arm and his thumb pushes the plunger steadily downwards. He groans and falls back onto his pillow, the needle still in his arm.

"Sherlock?" Molly can feel the panic rising inside of her, as though she's drowning on the inside. She pulls the needle out of him and rips off the tourniquet. She throws it all back in the tin and tosses it across the room.

Sherlock doesn't say a word. His hand reaches for her, and when it finds her, he pulls her down next to him, and she lays with her head on his chest. His heart beat is slow, steady, and his muscles are relaxed. Molly doesn't know what to do, and so she holds onto him, trying not to think about what is staring her in the face.

"What's it like?" she whispers. She needs to understand. She needs to know how a man with so much intelligence can go so badly astray, can make so many poor decisions.

"Peace," Sherlock murmurs. "It's the only way I can switch off."

"Couldn't you have had a bath instead? Or watched some telly?"

"Not enough. I'm far too complex for that to be remotely effective."

"How do you feel? Right now?" she turns her head so she can see his face. He has never looked so calm, so relaxed, so happy. Her heart aches for him. Her mind, on the other hand, wants to know the reason for the soft smile on his lips.

"Glorious," he says. "Fucking glorious."

Molly lays her head back down on his chest. She skews her lips from side to side as she thinks, the cogs turning and turning in her brain. She wishes she was switched off right now. She stares into the fire, the orange flames the only source of light in the room, and watches it get smaller and smaller until just a few glowing embers remain. She's not sure of the time, but Sherlock hasn't moved, nor made a sound for a long while. Her head rises and falls slowly with his chest, and she can still hear his heartbeat, so she knows she doesn't need to panic just yet.

"Molly?"

"Yes?" Her voice is soft, but she still feels as though she is shattering the quiet with a hammer.

"Promise me you'll never touch the stuff."

"I'm not stupid."

Sherlock chuckles softly. "I know. But just promise me."

"I promise."

He rubs her back, and Molly tightens her hold on him. She's scared, and even though she's sure he'll still be alive in the morning, she's terrified that one day, she will be running a tox screen for Sherlock's autopsy, and she'll find a cause of death in those results that won't surprise her one little bit.