Saturday night, very late, and John might have been out with the team, celebrating a recent victory over Saint Patrick's School, but he found himself studying. Sherlock was suspiciously—it pained John to even think the word—absent from the dorm.

Weeks ago, John might have set out in search for Sherlock. They would have eaten dinner together, and Sherlock would have pretended to be interested in John's football-related ramblings, and John would have feigned great interest in Sherlock's latest scientific exploits.

And now, there was nothing left for Watson and Holmes. John, usually optimistic, was forced to admit that there wasn't a relationship left to salvage. He and Sherlock had gone their separate way: Sherlock made a habit of coming back to the room very late, after John was asleep, and John went out of his way to avoid Sherlock in the halls and cafeteria. What few conversations they did have revolved around football, schoolwork or impending spring exams.

This isn't my fault, John reprimanded himself, highlighting a phrase in his history textbook. I can't trust Sherlock anymore.

But wherever the blame lay, John felt inescapably guilty. Against his will, he dreamt of Sherlock. In rare moments of silence, he fought the urge to apologize.

Two weeks had passed since Lestrade had given to John the unavoidable blow that had ended things.


"I don't believe this."

"No one else wanted to be your partner," Anderson said stiffly. "I'm not wild about it either, Holmes."

Sherlock stared through the biology classroom's window. The campus's trees were green again. Blue skies, and the thought of snow was impossible.

"It's only a research project," he said, although that felt like relenting. "Shouldn't be difficult." Adding a silent for me, at least. Anderson made some notes about said project in his binder: perform a series of brief lab experiments, extrapolate data, present finding to class. His handwriting was absolutely abysmal.

"We should start today. I don't want to be rushing at the last minute."

Anderson shrugged. "Every lab station is busy today. We'll wait until tomorrow."

"It's your grade, too," Sherlock muttered, and folded his arms. He knew, of course, that he was being unnecessarily cruel to Anderson. But recent events had put him into a terrible, angry mood.

Worse, Moriarty had been conspicuously absent from classes. There were no clues as to where he might be; the casualness with which faculty remarked upon these absences led Sherlock to believe that Moriarty was ill—but he wasn't under the care of the school nurse. The only possible conclusion was that Moriarty had returned home—wherever that was.

Suspicious.

And distracting.

Sherlock would not let himself be afraid.


"I need to talk to you." John stood in the locker room doorway, shrouded in shower steam. Lestrade sat shirtless on the bench, unlacing his cleats. The other team members had departed, John was glad of this.

"Is this about Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"You had a falling out?"

"Yes."

Lestrade smirked sideways. He didn't look happy. "Figured."

"That's not about—this isn't—really, anyways. I need to talk to you about the fire."

Lestrade didn't look at him. "Well?"

"Are they going to go after him? After Sherlock?"

"Probably. There's going to be an investigation. Sherlock's name will come up."

"Fuck," John muttered. Lestrade stood, shoving his jersey into his backpack.

"Look, John. I don't care what kind of falling out you two had. I've never said anything but I see it, what you feel for him. And you have to face the reality that Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much you love him, might not give as much in return. You can love Holmes as much as you want, but you can't protect him."


"I think that the data will show a positive correlation." Anderson scribbled a few notes in his notebook, sunlight slanting across the page. He and Sherlock had holed up in a corner of the library, intent on forming a hypothesis for their research project. Unfortunately, and much to Sherlock's dismay, Sally Donovan had shown up after only ten minutes, bearing a stack of textbooks and a six-pack of highlighters.

"No, it won't. There's going to be a negative correlation."

"Really? I don't think..."

"Trust me, Anderson. I think I know what I'm going on about."

"Well, I disagree, Holmes. In fact, I think that..."

"Oh, honestly." Sally Donovan tossed her pen aside. "Will you boys stop fighting like kids for five minutes? In case you two haven't noticed, there's something much more serious happening at this school!"

Anderson crossed out his written notes. "You mean the fire."

"Well, someone did it, didn't they?" She stared at Sherlock, unblinking. "Someone with a reputation, that's who they'll be looking for first."

"I'm sure." Sherlock stared hard at his assignment sheet; the unease rose like a sickening wave. "And I'm sure they'll discover that it was the work of a student."

"Yeah." Sally licked her lips, slowly. "I'm sure they will."


The next morning, John ditched chapel. He did this discreetly; didn't slip out through the back halfway through the church's service, he just never showed up. There was a kind to thrill to ditching the Sunday routine and John, who found a weird comfort in following orders, began to feel distinctly unsettled but also very satisfied.

He waited.

Sherlock had risen before dawn and disappeared, leaving his heavy jacket behind.

John wasn't entirely certain where Sherlock had gone off to, but he was willing to bet heaps of money that Sherlock was most definitely not going to be attending chapel.


"Mycroft."

A sigh. "Sherlock, this really isn't a good time."

"It's going to have to be. At any rate, I refuse to apologize for keeping you from your friends. Even if you miss this train, there will be another in fifteen minutes."

Mycroft paused. Sherlock heard the telltale clacking of train wheels against iron tracking.

"Fine. Proceed, Shirley."

"I—don't call me that," Sherlock huffed, quietly. He'd sought refuse in a copse of trees behind the library. "I assume that you've been keeping up to date on Moriarty."

"The Irish boy? No, Sherlock. I really haven't. Sorry to disappoint, but I've got my own work to attend to."

"That doesn't matter. You know the situation. The fire."

"You told me this weeks ago, Sherlock. While I realize that it's an unfortunate incident, I'm afraid that I can't be depended on for much help. Look, I've got a meeting this morning at—"

"Mycroft, they're trying to pin it on me!" Sherlock heard his voice rise with something close to panic, hated himself for it. Cheeks burning, he inhaled sharply. From Mycroft's end, silence.

Then, "Really."

"Yes. Yes, Mycroft. And don't cast this aside as one of my stupid deductions."

"I wouldn't." A moment of brotherly...affection?

"Good. Because I—I'm worried that...the administration, they're all idiots, really. Don't know how to run a school, but who does these days, anyways?"

Mycroft said, "Phone me if you need help, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't care that Mycroft made a poor excuse about his business meeting and hung up too quickly. He cared only that Moriarty was missing, and that the school was becoming suspicious, and that his alibi was wearing very, very thin.


John crossed the central quad, attempting to look as innocent and unhurried as possible. The weather really was very nice, and as he passed the science buildings a mockingbird sang liltingly in one of the trees. Such lovely weather, he thought. Such very lovely weather. And if only Sherlock hadn't—

"John!" A sort of loudly-hissed whisper. "Hey, John!"

He turned. Molly was sprinting across the lawn, waving, hair falling around her shoulders. He slowed and she caught up to him, pulling her long school skirt down.

"Molly. What're you...?"

"Ditching chapel." She pulled a face. "I know, tsk-tsk. Nothing we haven't all heard about a thousand times, anyways."

"Sure."

"Well, what's your excuse, Watson?"

"Ah. Just...out for a walk."

Molly scoffed. "I don't believe that."

"You shouldn't."

"Nefarious. Never pegged you for the type."

John tried to laugh. "Well."

They walked in silence beneath the silent green arms of the trees. After some time Molly said, quietly,

"You and Sherlock have had a row, then?"

"Why is everyone asking me this?" John fought the urge to throw his hands in the air, exasperated. But Molly blinked back at him, and he couldn't. She was too good, Molly Hooper. "Yes," he said.

"I see him alone. Always, alone. You two used to go to all your classes together."

"Things change. We had a falling out. It's what happens with...friends."

Molly tilted her head back, let the hair fall away from her face. In the green light her eyes glowed clear and bright.

"He used to walk you to your classes, you know, even if they were in the opposite direction from his. Even if it made him late, he'd walk with you."

John swallowed hard. He tried to find the words to reply, but he couldn't.


Sherlock bent double over the filing cabinet, sifting through it at a frantic pace. He muttered under his breath, low curses.

Moore, Moorston, Moonson, Morah, Moraghan...Moriarty.

He pulled the file free, spread it on the secretary's cluttered desk. A thin sheaf of papers, a school identification photo. Moriarty, lips twisted into something like a smirk, grainy black and gray and white.

Transcripts. A boarding school in Ireland. Remarkable grades. Letter of recommendation from the headmistress.

Sherlock skimmed the first few pages. Then—there! At the bottom of a transcript sheet:

Violations of School Honor Code.

Shit. The sheet was empty. Moriarty had no transgressions on his record.

Sherlock hissed 'fuck', closed the file, shoved it back into the drawer. Opened the folder marked 'Student Absences'. Moriarty: marked down for the most recent absence.

Moriarty, James. Absent by request of extended family.

What? Sherlock glanced over the paper, closed it, pushed it into the drawer. The office was full of the scent of coffee, heavy and familiar.

He left at a run.


"I can't just apologize. I can't just say that I'm sorry and that we can...go back to normal. It doesn't—wouldn't—work like that." John shredded an elm leaf. He and Molly had camped out in the shade of the central quad, banking on the fact that practically the entire school was attending chapel at the moment.

"Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why?"

"Long story. You know Sherlock. We all know Sherlock. We know..."

"I know." Molly smiled humorlessly. "You know, for a long time I really fancied him. Fancied the hell out of that boy. Made a right fool out of myself, too. He was so clever, and I was just hopeless around him. Because he's cruel, John, although he doesn't mean to be, he's so cruel. He doesn't think about the way that words sting, or bite, he just says them, he makes his deductions and they just cut through all the bullshit, because if there's one thing—one thing—that Sherlock Holmes does well, it's tell the truth."


Sherlock hid in the library.

He was scared, felt trapped. The library was empty, and the shelves seemed like walls, like a maze. A student was working in the back copy room, pasting labels onto books and laminating paperback's covers. Working in the library was traditionally a punishment for breaking curfew too many times, or poor academic behavior. Sherlock had always liked the idea of volunteering to do the work; it might provide a respite from the rest of the school. Silence in the library—he loved the silence.

He prowled the empty stacks for a while, trying to move quietly. Of course Jim Moriarty wasn't about to ambush him with a knife or pistol, but Sherlock was on edge nonetheless. He thought of John in the dormitory, alone, probably studying, and felt a sharp and extremely unpleasant stab of something close to guilt.

Sherlock loitered in the history section, checking his watch far too often. He raked his hands through his hair, licked his lips: all nervous habits. He hated nervous habits.

He went to the window, looked out. Saw the black sedan swing around the side of the building, two men exit. Sherlock didn't need to see badges or handcuffs; he knew without knowing.

He turned, heart clenched up inside his chest—shit, he thought. Shit.

So Sherlock returned to the only place he felt safe.


John's pencil scratched out a crude sort of face, a boy's face, upturned. He looked at the drawing, etched in the margins of his notes. Felt something like shame. Without meaning to, all of his drawings wound up looking an awful lot like Sherlock.

He fought the urge to ball the notes up and lob them into the waste bin. The dormitory room felt too big, glaringly empty. There was enough space for another figure, a boy's lanky form to lean against the desk or sit on the other bed or sprawl on the floor, throwing a rubber ball against the wall or the closet door...

A key turned in the lock. John stiffened in his chair, as if bracing himself. The door opened: an inch, and then another.

A boy's voice in the hall, just outside.

"Hello, John."


Hey, folks! I know that it's been SO LONG since the last update, and I'm sincerely sorry for that! I left this fic abandoned for months because of school, and came back to it during the early summer. Then I left it again. And now I'm back to finish this story! To all the people who left comments and messages asking me to finish or update: this is for you! You are all awesome and very faithful readers! Rock on.