You could sneak out of uni and come and join me. SH


"Enough?" Molly asked Sherlock, passing him the vial as he stuck a plaster right where she had drawn his blood from. He peered at the crimson fluid curiously for some time, wondering how this was responsible for giving away the signs of attraction towards for another person. Molly settled down on the couch with the laptop on her thighs, browsing through loads of research material, "Sherlock, are you sure that this will be accepted? I mean, this isn't strictly legal-"

Sherlock gave a hollow chuckle, his heart rate starting to lower as minutes passed after he had made that phone call to Dr. Watson. He had made sure that Molly had her ear plugs on while he talked to him. He really didn't want her to know that Dr. Watson wasn't exactly in high spirits about his job, or the fact that he had a girlfriend. Molly would start lecturing him if she heard the second one.

"I'm experiencing attraction to someone for the first time, Molly," said he, as he started taking down notes into his book, "I might as well take some advantage of it."

She heaved an exasperated sigh, wondering whether Sherlock really had anything for Dr. Watson, or if he was just messing with her. She shook those thoughts away. She had seen the way Sherlock's eyes had lit up when he had been talking to Dr. Watson, and she was pretty sure the man on the other line had been fairly entertaining in his conversation. Sherlock was laughing, and Molly had to give it to the professor, the man who made him laugh instead on a small smile and a chuckle. She refrained from asking him anything about what he had said. She wasn't going to pry. Sherlock would surely tell her if she needed to know about it.

It was actually weird that Sherlock could deal with this so easily and so naturally, and yet when it came to the knowledge that Molly considered him his best friend, he had gone into a silent panic attack.

Or maybe, Sherlock was just experimenting. That was more probable. No one's really serious about their first crushes. Even though Sherlock looked quite happier than she had ever seen him, he could've been just doing what he always did: analyse. She wouldn't be much surprised if Sherlock came up to her with a full project upon how attraction developed in human beings and how evolution was a key factor in deciding how the signs differed from one species to other. She found herself giggling silently at that.

"Molly," was the only warning she got about the fact that she was thinking too much and that she really needed to go back to studying, "I'll do the synthesis, you do the paperwork."

That was always the way. Sherlock would do the required research and leave the burden of typing the report upon her shoulders. She saw him put the vial down on the table and stand, preparing the apparatus. There was total silence in the flat except for the clink of glass as she stared blankly at the screen, wondering what exactly he was up to. Then turning back to her work and placing all her trust into Sherlock, who could do impossible things when it came to chemistry, she opened Pages and then, her typing was all that filled the flat in resonance with the clinking glass and the hiss of chemicals that she didn't bother asking where he had got them from.

Sherlock's fingers were focused on the agglutination process as his phone lay beside his notebook, every fibre in his body screaming to him to call Dr. Watson again, and ask him if he was going to reconsider his answer, but he felt that it wouldn't be appropriate. He wanted to get started on the synthesis, and this was the first time he had been starting on any assignment before the deadline had passed. He wanted to not feel the doubt that had been filling inside his head, but he just couldn't stop. He knew right from the first Thursday class that Dr. Watson had a girlfriend who had a horrible fashion sense when it came to men's watches, but he hadn't known that they lived together, and the thought that the nights which he had spent thinking how to ask him out could've been the nights that she and John...

He always missed something, and he hated it.

"Sherlock?" he heard Molly's voice from the couch. Mrs. Hudson had been calling and he hadn't been responding, "You alright? Mrs. Hudson's asking for you and about what you've done with the milk."

Sherlock heaved a sigh, not bothering to reply as sat down on the chair, his fingers absently brushing over his right wrist, remembering the only physical contact he had ever had with his professor, as he turned thoughts in his head. He hated the fact that he was inexperienced in this, that he had to turn to Molly. That he was so unsure about something for the very first time in his life, and that he was entertaining so many negative 'what-ifs' to intrude into his mind. Only he knew how many doubts were cramming inside his mind as he went with what the world called "the gut feeling" for the first time. With a clear of his throat, he rose and wrote down the reactions he would be needing for isolation of the chemical compound of the desired nature, hoping that the experiment would distract him from everything.

"Right," he exhaled as Molly followed him with her eyes, "Don't disturb me unless you're having a heart attack."

"Sherlock Holmes!" came a scandalised exclaim from Mrs. Hudson, as Molly tried not to wince at that. He was simply glad that he had the older woman on semi permanent mute. He lit the burner, and set the blood for coagulation, collecting the colourless leftover fluid from it, his mind keeping John and his smile in the back of his head as he began separating the components...


By half-past-eight, Molly decided to let Sherlock work on his own accord. Knowing how Sherlock could go on for hours and not register her absence, she left a note indicating the time she had left under the bunch of notes she had made for him. She was just about to hail a taxi when a black fancy car pulled up in front of her. Sighing to herself as the door was opened for her, she climbed in, finding that Anthea woman beside her.

"You know, Mr. Holmes could just phone me, on this." She displayed her pink phone, every inch covered with 'Hello Kitty' stickers. Anthea glanced distastefully at it, and returned to her seemingly never-ending texting. Molly wanted to peep at the screen, just to annoy her, and then she wondered how hanging with Sherlock was starting to affect her as well.

As always, the car pulled up in front of an abandoned power station, with Mycroft Holmes standing there, twirling his umbrella in his fingers and smiling pleasantly at her, which she only managed to return half-heartedly, "Good evening, Ms. Hooper. I hope your journey was pleasant."

Molly shrugged her shoulder as she sat down on the chair that he directed her to, "It would be if you had an assistant who could make conversation for a change."

As the car drove away, giving them complete privacy, Molly's fingers curled around the pepper spray concealed inside her bag, but Mycroft only tutted at her, "Really Ms. Hooper? You're Sherlock only... friend. I wouldn't let any harm come to you."

She chuckled, despite herself, "Sorry."

Mycroft smiled insincerely as their surroundings were draped in silence again. Molly remained completely lifeless as Mycroft finally gave in, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Have you got one?" She asked, mustering as much courage as she could. Despite knowing him for two years, Mycroft Holmes still scared the shit out of her. Surprisingly, Mycroft's hands roamed around his suit, as if he were actually searching for a penny. But all he found was a gold credit card out of his wallet. He showed that to her, as Molly let herself enjoy the moment a little bit, "Will this be adequate?"

"Keep that. Sherlock's got plenty at his flat."

This time, he let out a laugh, "Yes, of course. But you know why I've called you here, don't you?"

"No," she lied.

"Does the name 'Watson' ring any bell?" he asked, trying to look busy as he drew out a pocketbook, going through the pages one by one. Molly knew that it was no use lying to him.

"Yes. Dr. Watson is our anatomy professor," said she, trying to keep her voice even. Could Mycroft not keep out his brother's life for this time just for once? It was already too complicated, and the last thing he needed was Mycroft coming over and "investigating" into it. Then she remembered that Mycroft was his family, that he had every right to do so, but the way he approached her instead of Sherlock made her forget about that fact a little too often.

"Only a professor? Are you sure?"

Molly wondered if she should tell him. That would be doing the right thing, because she couldn't bear to see Sherlock pining away after an impossible crush. Although she wasn't sure if he would do that, after all, he was Sherlock...

"Yeah, why would you think otherwise?"

And instantly, she was subjected to the most intense scrutiny that she had ever experienced, that dared to rival even that of Sherlock's penetrating stare. She tried not to cower, and Mycroft looked away first, making her feel victorious, but she assumed that he did that just to make her feel at ease, "Because in my experience, I've never seen Sherlock take such an interest in another human being. Quite attractive, this Dr. John Watson is, don't you think?"

She scowled at him, "So?"

Mycroft smiled again, giving her a faux-surprised look, "I thought I was going to be asking you questions here, but if you prefer it the other way round, I'll be very... happy to oblige."

"Just," her jaws clenched and her knuckled whitened as she restrained herself from slapping him across the face, "get on with it."

"I'll ask you again. Who is Dr. Watson?"

"I told you, he's our anatomy-"

"I meant who he is to Sherlock. His crush, or simply his new distraction?"

At the last word, Molly stood up, unable to control herself anymore at having suggested such a heartless thing, "Tell me that we're done, because I'm seriously fighting an impulse to punch you in the face."

Mycroft let out a deep rumble of laughter at that, "It's amazing how many people want that, but they never succeed. Not even Sherlock."

She stepped up nearer to him, but Mycroft didn't back away, "I'm more than willing to change that."

"Hmm, I believe you... is it that serious?"

She wanted to sneer at him, but she only turned on her heel and started to walk away, "You don't need to send a car. I'll find my own way."

"I won't do anything, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft called after her, "I promise. You should know that more than the most. I worry about him."

"Spare me that, Mr. Holmes," she turned angrily to him, "If you're so concerned, you shan't have to come to me like a spy or something!"

Instantly, Mycroft looked down at his over-polished shoes, his fingers reaching out to pick up imaginary lint from his otherwise pristine suit,"If I had to pry into his life, don't you think that I'd have, as you put it very kindly and completely inappropriately, "kidnapped" Dr. Watson instead of you?"

She swallowed as she saw the lines of his face grave and concerned for the first time. Mycroft looked his age, and yet much older at the same time, and suddenly Molly felt much more vulnerable than she had ever found herself. If Mycroft could look so uncertain, she had no idea what her position was, "Is Sherlock sure about this, Ms. Hooper? That's his teacher."

She took in a sharp intake of breath, her mind thinking up the best possible response to throw in his direction, "I'm telling you for the last time, Mr. Holmes. You're mistaken."

However the look on Mycroft's face told her that he had all that he needed to know. The car arrived behind her. With a last look, she clambered into the car and typed in a text to Sherlock.

Mycroft knows. He had me kidnapped again.


For two days, Sherlock did not attend university. He remained in his sitting room from day till night, his mind completely occupied by his newest experiment, comparing his blood sample with that of an average human being who was not in love, and that of a drug addict. He had made Molly bribe one or two students to "donate" their blood for some good amount of cash he had acquired from one of the debit cards that he had stolen from Mycroft, and which the latter had probably forgotten about. As for the addict, well... no one needed to know how he had obtained that. It should suffice to say that he was just glad that Raz still remembered him. Although he knew that serotonin was a neurotransmitter, he wasn't searching for that because it was obvious that it had to be there. He was hoping for something new. Mycroft had paid him one or two visits, asking him why he wasn't attending uni, and thankfully, he hadn't asked anything about anyone, seeing as he already had figured out that Molly had told Sherlock about what had happened. But, all in all, there was one thing which was quite unusual and surprising.

Only two days and he was missing Dr. Watson. Sherlock sighed to himself, wondering how he would spend Christmas holidays if this was what he was going to have to prepare himself for. He longed to pick the phone up and text him, or better yet, call him just to hear his voice. He didn't remember the last time he had wanted to call anyone. He preferred to text. Always.

Meanwhile, in St. Bart's, John had hoped to ignore Holmes and if the latter tried to talk to him in any place other than a classroom full of students, he would strictly tell him that he needed to stop staying after class, or stop calling him, although he had done that only once, only to find Molly with her girlfriends that day, and no tall lanky boy in jeans and shirt and jumper with her. He tried to tell himself that he really needed Holmes to stop whatever he was doing or whatever he was expecting from all this, and he also tried to convince himself that telling Holmes off wasn't simply an excuse to see him. He wanted to tell Holmes that he was wrong about him, that he was perfectly okay with Jeanette and that he didn't need a student ten years younger than him to make inferences about his personal life.

During lunch, his phone buzzed. He groaned upon seeing the name and the initials, and the way at how it sent blood rushing through his ears.

How's the boring lunch going? SH

No one was looking at him. John's fingers itched to send a reply, but he didn't, instead laughing at the lame joke one of the professors were telling them.

I'll give you two clues as to where I am. SH

John rolled his eyes, and finally managed to send a text back instead of switching the phone off, blaming Harriet for that because he needed hourly updates on her from Clara.

Why?

You could sneak out of uni and come and join me. SH

He frowned at the audacity of the text. He was a goddamned professor, and he was expecting him to come out of the campus?! He knew that Holmes was expecting him to, because otherwise he wouldn't have taken the "pains" to type it at all.

That's the first clue, by the way. SH

He looked around him, the only one immersed in his phone except for those group of girls who kept taking selfies and texted each other from one end to the table to another. He leaned back in his chair, angling the phone such that anyone walking behind him would not be able to distinguish anything on the screen because of the lights.

That was obvious.

Not to everyone, John. SH

He gritted his teeth, but if anyone cared to look at him, they would've seen a silly smile on his face. I'm your teacher. No first names.

Instead, John was rewarded with a text consisting of only his name written over and over again. Now, even he knew that he was smiling.

I used copy/paste, by the way. SH

John burst out laughing at the screen of his phone, imagining Sherlock saying that to him meekly. All the other professors stared weirdly at him, and John realised that one of them had been telling them about his recent divorce. He excused himself out of there awkwardly, and rushed to the nearest lavatory, afraid that if someone saw him, they would know, they would surely know what a wrong thing he was doing. John hated himself for always liking the thrill of doing something that no one was going to like, and Sherlock was simply playing on that. John wondered whether he really was that obvious. And before he knew it, he had dialled Sherlock's number and was holding his breath before the other person picked it up.

"Sherlock Holmes," came the smooth reply from the other side of the phone. John slumped against the wall upon hearing his voice. How come Sherlock had that effect on him? He shouldn't be doing this. He really shouldn't. He should be ashamed of himself that he had even thought of telling Holmes off for calling his mobile, when he was doing the exact same thing.

"Hey," was all John could manage. There was no answer from the other side, "Holmes, you there?"

"Hmm... So eager to talk with me."

John cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. This was wrong. This was so wrong, "I've called to ask you to stop texting my number."

There was a beat after which Sherlock replied, "You had to call for that?! I don't believe so, John."

"Stop... calling me John," he sucked in a breath and tried to lower his voice further, "It's not appropriate."

He knew Holmes was rolling his eyes at him, "Okay, professor," and John hated the way he said 'professor', "You could've simply texted me. Why - did - you - call?"

"You need to stop calling my phone, Mr. Holmes," John tried to sound strict, and surprisingly he did. But it had no effect on Sherlock, as usual, "The second clue is-"

"Sherlock, please," John sucked in a breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "You're ruining my life."

There was a long pause, but this time John did not ask him whether he had hung up or not. Finally, Holmes replied, the usual confidence in his voice gone, "I... didn't mean to..."

"No!" John blurted out before he could think properly, and then he looked around to see if anyone was there in the staff lavatory. No one. He retreated to a corner, and whispered into his phone, "Okay, give me the first clue."

And the poise was back in his voice. John wondered if Holmes had simply tricked him into feeling guilty, "You've already had your first clue, professor."

"Oh, really? I can tell you're at home, wherever that might be."

"Yup," said Sherlock, popping the 'p', "But I want you to work out the location. But I suppose you can't, given how placid your mind can be..."

Now John felt really offended, even though he was quite used to his insults. He didn't get a Ph. D just like that, "Hang on, now-!"

"- so straight forward, barely used..."

"Oi!" John instantly turned around to see if anyone had heard him from outside. He peeked out as if he were a refugee. The bell rang outside, signalling the end of lunch. He returned to the corner, his heart hammering insanely, his lips twitching up in a small smile. "What're you doing now?" He asked him breathlessly.

"Completing my project. It's due after two weeks," Sherlock sounded amused, maybe at his own feat. John felt his eyebrows going up on their own accord.

"Really? As far as I remember, you never submitted your assignments, let alone on time, when I let them out."

"This one's... different."

"How so?"

"You'll see. Anyway, the next clue-"

The final bell rang. John grabbed his bag, almost about to say "I'll call you later, Sherlock", and then instead responded with a different goodbye note, "Stop calling or texting me, Mr. Holmes."

The smoothly delivered "will do" told John that Holmes was not going to give up so easily. He looked at himself in the mirror and washed his face, wondering what he had got himself into.


I was writing a long 8th chapter instead of the 8th and the 9th, but word limit got in the way.