AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hi! I realised I completely forgot to do this when I uploaded it so this is an edit with this note added in. This is my first fic so any and all feedback Is very welcome. I'm still in the process of writing and uploading but I have the whole story planned out – basically I was watching Normal People and realised how badly I needed a Sherlolly fic that had similar vibes and Sherlock's mum telling him she's disappointed in him for not asking Molly to the debs. Tropes included: childhood academic enemies to friends to estranged to lovers Sherlolly, Johnlock besties, Mary and John dating, Teenlock, will become Unilock later, first case etc etc. Rated M for later chapters – will include drug use and sexual references. Hope you all enjoy reading!

CHAPTER ONE

Molly Hooper was not particularly popular at St. Bartholomew's College. Granted, things could have been worse and there were certainly students lower than her on the social pyramid, but even now in her last year of secondary education there was one incident she couldn't quite outrun. See, St. Bart's was one of those primary to secondary institutions which meant that you were pretty much stuck with the same group of people from the ages of 5 to 18. If you made a social faux pas as a child, chances are you would still be taunted for it as you were preparing for your A-Levels. Molly's form of quiet social suicide happened right before the transition to primary and secondary schooling at the age of 11. All year she had been seated behind the same boy ever since Peter Hondel had moved schools which meant her name was directly after his on the roll call. She liked the way their names always came one after the other every morning during attendance. Sherlock Holmes. Molly Hooper. She spent that entire year mesmerised by the back of his head, all dark brunette curls and the collar of his school blazer turned up until a teacher ordered him to flatten it and fascinated by his quiet disposition. They never spoke, only interacting when they were told to swap notebooks after a quiz and mark each other's answers. Molly was and had always been a bright girl, excelling particularly in science and mathematics, but if there was ever a question she failed to answer, this boy always had it right.
So there they were, one spring afternoon towards the end of the school day, Molly's mind beginning to fade as she checked the clock every few minutes. She was doodling absent-mindedly in the margins of her work while other students were still completing theirs.

Flowers. Blue eyes. Vines. SH. Curls. Clouds. Molly Holmes. Molly Holmes. Molly Holmes.

'Alright everyone, time's up. Please swap your work with your neighbour and mark with a red pen, we'll need to get through this quickly before the bell.'

What? No. The teacher's voice snapped Molly out of her daydream, dropping her pen on the carpet. She bent to the side, fumbling nervously under her seat until she had hold of it, attempting to furiously cover her scribbles.

'Molly! Pens down please.'

Molly heaved a sigh of defeat as she sheepishly passed over her notebook and prayed he wouldn't notice. Of course he would notice. She may not have ever had the nerve to speak to Sherlock herself, but she did eavesdrop. He knew when Mrs Peterson changed her hand cream, and how that meant her cat had died. He made Olivia Marrkesh cry when he told her that the Valentine she had received from Davey O'Reilly was a fake made by her best friend Kitty because it was written in the wrong kind of ink.
Sherlock turned to face her, and she noted that it may have been the first time they had ever made direct eye contact.

'You've written your name wrong. You're Molly Hooper, not Molly Holmes'.

The class erupted in taunting laughter. He had said it so matter-of-factly, without any hint of malice or awareness that children doodle hearts and different names when they have a crush, as if he truly just believed she was stupid and forgot her own name for a moment.
As best she could at the age of 11 fighting over the voices of twenty other students, Molly tried to come up with a reason for her blunder and argue that it was a joke, but the damage had been done.

Now, at the age of 17, this was Molly's greatest claim to fame at St. Bartholomew's. She hadn't spoken a word to Sherlock since that day, but if the students were ever asked to partner up for an assignment, she would hear the taunting calls of teenage boys asking if she wanted to work with Sherlock. That was mostly the worst of it, save for the one time she arrived in the morning to find an unflattering and graphic cartoon of the both of them scrawled across her locker in Sharpie.

Despite the fact that they never spoke, there were fewer degrees of separation between herself and Sherlock than there had been when they were kids. Molly shared a few classes and sometimes ate lunch with Mary, the cool, tough and yet unwaveringly kind girlfriend of popular rugby player John Watson, who was Sherlock's closest and only friend. She was still unsure how that particular relationship worked.
Even still, she would never have imagined that she'd be spending the afternoon at Sherlock's house.
It had all happened rather quickly and without much discussion. Mr Nielson had called her into his office a few days prior, informing her that Sherlock was failing chemistry, physics and biology, and given that she was the top student across all science subjects, she would be tutoring him for the remainder of the term. He ushered her out of his office before she had time to argue how much she was uncomfortable with the idea, assuring her that it had all already been arranged.

So here she was, standing nervously outside the Holmes household trying to muster the courage to ring the doorbell.
The house was large, grand but not tacky or ostentatious. The grounds were sprawling with well-maintained cottage flowers, and the red brick exterior with painted wooden fixtures were kept in pristine condition. The Holmes family had money but were not the people to spend it on trends or unnecessary grandeur. Molly rang the doorbell and took the opportunity to check her appearance in the glass panelling either side of the door. It was a Saturday which meant she couldn't get away with wearing her uniform, and the thought of having to pick an outfit to visit Sherlock Holmes' house had been plaguing her for the last 2 days. She settled on new jeans, paired with a red floral blouse and a cream cardigan, her hair loose but tucked neatly behind her ears.

Stupid. He doesn't care what you look like. And even if he did why do you care if he thinks you tried too hard or too little? She thought to herself, straightening her back and ringing the doorbell for a second time.

Molly tapped her foot, waiting impatiently for six minutes before trying the doorknob. Open. She pushed her way inside and suddenly became very aware of the overflowing bag of schoolbooks on her back threatening to knock over a delicate ceramic ornament at any moment. Her ears were immediately filled with the sound of violin playing somewhere within the house, which was deceptively larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside.

'Hello?' She called out. 'It's Molly, the door was open…It was 2 o clock wasn't it?'

She followed the sound of the violin, leading her past a vast array of bookshelves and antique oddities lining the walls and up the staircase, to the doorway of what she could only assume was Sherlock's bedroom.
It occurred to her that it was the only time she had ever seen him outside of school and it was almost startling. Something about Sherlock Holmes in denim jeans, bare feet and a casual linen shirt untucked and rolled up to his elbows seemed like a character that had been placed in a world they don't belong. He was facing the window, his back turned to her as he kept playing and she wondered whether he had even heard her. His furniture was plain and neat, probably picked out by his mother, but his walls were chaotically filled with random trimmings of articles, photographs, post-it notes and the occasional string connecting two clippings together.

Oh god he's going to think I'm a creep letting myself into his house.

'Uh, hi…Sherlock? I'm here for our tutoring session? Mr Nielson said it was all organised and that you'd agreed on this time at your place.'

No response.

'Um. It's Molly. Molly from school. Molly Hooper. Sorry, can you hear me? I'm really sorry to barge in, the door was open-'

He abruptly stopped playing and swung himself around dramatically to face her.

'Yes, I know, I heard you the first time. You can sit over there', he huffed, using the bow of his violin to point her in the direction of a reading chair in the corner of the room.

In all these years of trying to not be known as the girl with a pathetic crush on Sherlock Holmes, Molly had avoided looking at him as much as possible within the walls of St. Bart's and was stunned to find out that he no longer looked like a little boy. He had the same thick lashes and ice blue eyes, but his limbs were awkwardly long and a recent growth spurt has caused his ankles to poke out beneath the cuffs of his jeans. His curls were messy and too long, but his voice was deeper. He had sprouted cheekbones that almost seemed to take over his face, full lips and lean muscle that was just visible beneath the confines of his shirt.
Molly made her way over to the reading chair and began taking out her schoolbooks as she chatted mindlessly to take her mind off the flush in her cheeks.

'So what happened If you don't mind me asking? From what I remember when we were younger you were always the smartest kid with the perfect test scores and I just figured you were still top of the class. Was there one course component that you found especially difficult? We can work on that first if you'd like.'

'No, it wasn't difficult. It was quite tedious actually', he responded lazily as though it was a chore to converse with her. 'I was failed on a technicality when I stopped attending because I realised none of it was new information. So you see', he said with a fake smile, 'I really won't be needing your assistance'.

Arrogant arsehole. She opened her mouth to speak but was soon cut off as he once again turned to face the window and picked up his violin to resume playing, increasing in intensity and volume with each bar of music.

Molly's face burned even hotter as she fought to be heard over the instrument. 'Right well I've actually travelled quite a long way on the bus to be here and Mr Nielson still needs me to sign off on these sessions so if you could just give me a MOMENT OF YOUR ATTENTION SHERLOCK HOLMES TO COMPLETE THESE WORKSHEETS SINCE IT'S APPARENTLY SO BLOODY EASY FOR YOU I'M SURE IT WON'T TAKE LONG-' she shouted over the music, giving up on the power of her own voice and smacking her chemistry textbook down on the floorboards, resulting in a loud thud and the cease of music.

Sherlock turned to her once again, placing the violin down gently into its case. He seemed amused by her outburst and almost, she thought it strange to admit, impressed? He perched himself on the floor at her feet, cross-legged and barely hiding a smirk. 'Of course', he said curtly, picking up a pen and removing the cap with his teeth. 'Where shall we begin, Miss Hooper?'