CHAPTER 3: (304): Factors Affecting Social Behavior

Sherlock Holmes was eight years old when his Aunt Violet got married.

Again.

While she had been blessed with the grace, charm and effortless beauty that were the hallmarks of the women in their family line, Violet Poppington-Rinaldi-Buchanon (née Molyneaux) unfortunately did not possess the same good fortune in love that her younger sister Rosamund had found with Sieger Holmes.

But where Aunt Violet was decidedly unlucky in marriage, her luck in divorce was another matter entirely. The circumstances of her birth afforded her quite a comfortable life, but it was the dissolution of three marital unions that made her a very wealthy woman. Wealthy enough that, upon leaving her third husband after finding him in a rather compromising position with his yoga instructor, Violet had sworn to her sister that as she had the means to—and was perfectly capable of—taking care of herself, she was officially swearing off the entire notion of romance and vowed that he she would never marry again.

So it came as somewhat of a surprise when less than a year after that pronouncement, over breakfast the morning after she arrived in Cornwall for a week-long visit, she casually announced her engagement to one Alexander Cartwright of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and asked if they might possibly hold the ceremony there in just under three weeks' time. And because Rosamund Holmes loved to throw parties almost as much as she loved her sister, a fortnight later the plans had been made, the house had been readied, and the guests began to arrive.

Sherlock had been transfixed by the spectacle of it all; the bustle of the household staff as they raced to prepare for the big day, the constant stream of deliveries and workmen going to and fro, and finally the seemingly endless parade of people filing into the house dragging suitcases behind them, invading the rooms and filling the halls with noise and voices and the constant hum of occupancy. Perched behind the long railing at the top of the main staircase, he watched with interest as the adults greeted one another. The sea of familiar faces of family and friends peppered with those he'd never seen before, many of whom introduced themselves in voices with American accents and exchanged hugs and handshakes with people they'd just met as though they'd known them all their lives.

He found that if he stayed silent he could wander amongst them mostly unseen, listening to the rattle of ice cubes against glass, catching snippets of conversation, feeling the heat generated by so many bodies, smelling the combined scents of perfume and aftershave and sweat. He stood there in the middle of it all amazed by the sheer amount of information that bombarded him from every direction, the endless stream of data—it was strange and new and overwhelming…and fascinating.

He'd been so lost in thought that when a large hand settled softly on his head, it startled him for a moment—until his father's familiar chuckle soon followed and the hand slid to rest affectionately on his shoulder.

"There's my boy," Sieger Holmes said jovially, raising his glass of caramel colored scotch to his smiling lips and taking a drink while looking down at his youngest son. "Your mother said you were upstairs at the children's party."

"I was," Sherlock answered with a grave look. "Dull."

As Sieger Holmes' booming laugh rang in the large room, several people around him smiled at the sound and joined in with chuckles of their own.

"Thought you might make a break for it," his father said merrily. "Better not let your mum see you down here."

"I don't know why I can't stay with you," Sherlock whined, brow scrunched moodily as he stared across the room where his older brother stood (looking terribly smug) conversing intently with their cousin Peter and a third older boy, tall and blond, that he didn't recognize. "Why doesn't Mycroft have to come upstairs as well?"

"Because he's nearly sixteen, Sherlock," his father replied patiently.

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock asked petulantly, stretching his shoulders and neck and standing as tall as possible. "I'll be nine next month."

"And ten a minute later, and all grown up before I've even had the chance to blink," Sieger said fondly, a smile tipping at his lips as he dropped to one knee and looked his young son in the eye. "Your mum is counting on you to help entertain your cousins and the other children, you know. It's a big responsibility, and it'd be a great help to her."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, looking quite put out before turning and walking purposefully (but definitely not stomping) towards the stairs. He paused for a moment at the bottom step and looked back over his shoulder to find his father's gaze, smiling as the elder Holmes shot him a wink before turning away and blending back into the crowd.

Relegated to the company of the other children for most of the week that followed, Sherlock had expected that while the information to be gathered from the gaggle of his young cousins and various other offspring of the wedding guests may not be as interesting, it would certainly still plentiful. But it very quickly became apparent that the regular tedious jumble of data—revealing who was angry with whom or who grew three inches over the summer or who wanted to talk ad nauseum about the ridiculous television programme everyone was currently obsessed with—had suddenly been replaced by the only thing that anyone seemed to be talking about at all:

Tristan Cartwright.

When Aunt Violet's soon to be (fourth) husband had arrived in Cornwall that first night with his sixteen year old son in tow, the adults had been warm and friendly and happy to meet Violet's new beau, ready to welcome him and his charming son into the fold. The children in attendance, however, skipped right over friendly curiosity about the new arrival and moved on directly to losing their minds.

At dinner that first night, the air around the children's table was abuzz with speculation. The boys were impressed by his worldly air, speculating about his life (I heard he drives a race car…Eddie saw him smoking with the cooks outside the kitchen…My mum says he works at his Dad's company…I bet he has loads of girlfriends). The girls, however, seemed fixated on slightly different aspects of the young man. (Look at those blue eyes…His smile is so perfect…My brother Peter says he's in a band...Do you think he has a girlfriend?...I wonder what kind of music he likes… He smiled right at me! I swear he did!)

And then there was the giggling.

The next morning, after the older girls had spent most of the previous night skulking down hallways and peering around corners just to get a glimpse of his cousin-to-be—and then bursting into squeals of laughter and frantic bouts of whispering after they did—Sherlock overheard Alexander Cartwright laugh and remark that his son tended to have that effect wherever he went, saying:

"That's Tristan for you. The boys all want to be him and the girls all want to be with him!"

Which, Sherlock had to admit, did seem to be an accurate assessment of the situation. With the other children so preoccupied with tracking young Tristan's every move, Sherlock had more time to break away from the pack and wander around the big house alone than he'd expected he would. And so it happened that the night before the wedding he rounded the corner of the second floor hallway just in time to see Tristan Cartwright disappear, alone, into the library. Sherlock waited for a moment, anticipating the arrival of the ever present gaggle of girls that seemed to follow Aunt Violet's new stepson at every turn, and when they didn't come he crept down the hall and stood outside the library door, listening.

When he didn't hear any voices, his curiosity got the best of him and he quietly turned the knob, opened the door just a crack…and saw that Tristan wasn't alone at all.

He was standing next to the fireplace, backed up against the wall, being kissed (rather thoroughly, it seemed) by one of Sherlock's cousins. He watched for a moment longer, eye pressed tightly to the narrow crack, until a soft cough sounded from further back down the hall, making him jump slightly. Whipping his head toward the sound, Sherlock saw his mother standing next to the large spray of flowers sitting on a table nestled into a nook, two baskets of fresh cut blooms in her arms as she stared in his direction with a raised eyebrow.

Closing the door as silently as possible, Sherlock turned and padded down the hall toward his mum, stopping right in front of her and looking sheepish.

"What did your father and I tell you about spying, love?" she asked him softly.

"I wasn't spying," Sherlock assured her, squaring his shoulders with a bit more bravado than he actually felt. "I was observing."

"There's a very fine line of distinction between the two," she reminded him gently, setting her baskets on the floor and turning to pull the least fresh blooms from the arrangement of flowers beside her. "What was it that you were observing?"

"I saw Tristan going into the Library," Sherlock explained, with a shrug. "I wondered what he was doing in there."

"And what was he doing?" Mummy asked lightly, tucking fresh stems into the vase and arranging them artfully.

"Kissing someone."

"Oh, I see," his mother said seriously, a smile quirking at the corner of her lips as she plucked a drooping white rose from the vase and replaced it with a fresh soft peach bud. "Someone you recognized?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "Cousin Peter."

Rosamund Holmes froze for a moment, just a split second really—no more—before pulling another dying bloom from the bouquet and setting about replacing it deftly with a new one.

"Well," She said airly, a bit of a smile in her voice. "Agnes Carlisle's daughter Bitsy will be terribly disappointed. She's been making moony eyes at him for three full days now."

"Cousin Peter is a boy," Sherlock continued.

"That's true," she agreed, turning to look down at her young son, smiling softly as he stared back at her, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

"Do boys always kiss other boys?" he asked, tilting is head and looking up at her for an answer.

"Some boys do, yes," she told him with a smile, continuing to pull and replace flowers. "And some boys kiss girls. And some girls kiss other girls too."

"How do they know who they want to kiss?"

"That's something we each get to discover for ourselves, love," his mother had said simply. "One day you'll know too."

"All the girls in this house want to kiss Tristan," Sherlock told her, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Should I tell them he'd rather kiss boys?"

"No, I don't think so," she replied, her voice kind but firm.

"But why not?" Sherlock asked her, curious.

"Because we all have our stories, Sherlock," his mother explained gently, reaching out a hand to fondly tame the wild curls at the side of his head. "And they are ours to tell…or not."

"But if I see it, doesn't that make it my story as well?"

"A very clever question," Mummy conceded with a proud grin, extracting one stem from the arrangement before her and deftly snapping off the perfectly formed soft pink rosebud and inch or two from the top, then crouching down before him and slipping it into the button hole in his lapel. "You're quite an observant young man, you know. But observing is not the same as participating. Everyone has secrets, love. And if those secrets aren't hurting anyone, best let them be kept. One day you'll share a kiss with someone special—and that will be your secret to keep."

"I don't want to kiss anyone!" Sherlock protested, with a scowl.

"You may change your mind about that, someday," Mummy told him with a knowing gleam in her eye, turning her head slightly and winking at her youngest child, who rolled his eyes and grinned before pursing his lips and pressing them to her cheek. With a smile, Rosamund Holmes smoothed her warm hand over the shoulders of his jacket, gently straightened his collar, then slapped her palms on her bent knees and stood back up to her full height. "Right, then. If you're finished observing for the moment, why don't you help your old mum carry these baskets downstairs and we'll freshen up the centerpieces before dinner?"

Wicker handle balanced in the crook of his arm, Sherlock followed his mother down the long hall toward the front staircase. And when Tristan Cartwright and Peter Bingley exited the library standing side by side and turned in their direction, Sherlock observed them—the careful distance they maintained between themselves, the pleasantly neutral expressions on their faces as they conversed, the polite greetings they exchanged with his mother as they passed by.

A few moments later, a group of girls appeared on the landing and began making their way en masse down the hall. And as Sherlock observed their high pitched giggles and breathless whispers and ridiculously deliberate hair tosses as they very obviously trailed after the object of their affection while trying (in vain) not to be obvious about it—he realised that he had a secret of his own:

If, one day, he ever did want to kiss someone…he felt very sure that someone would be a boy.

Sherlock Holmes was eight years old when his Aunt Violet got married, when he decided that the group of girls in attendance of that blessed event were the silliest, loudest, most irrational beings he had ever—or likely would ever—encounter.

Nearly ten years later, he is now forced to admit that he'd been wrong.

In the two years he's been a student at Morningside Academy, Sherlock can't recall a single day when the library has seen this much traffic. By his count there are currently no fewer than fourteen girls wandering around it at this very moment, huddled in groups of two or three, conversing in soft voices and pretending to browse the shelves while taking turns peering around (and through) them at the young man seated behind the circulation desk unpacking a large crate of books and chatting amiably with Mrs. Hudson.

He's not particularly surprised, mind you.

Annoyed, yes.

But not surprised.

The first bell had barely sounded that morning when his mobile phone alerted him to the presence of a "NEW CONFESSION" waiting to be viewed. Tapping the green skull icon out of habit, Sherlock knew how the day would progress as soon as the first words began to appear:

iConfess: I think I'm going to be spending more time in the library…

Before the last spark of the self-destructing message had even faded from view, the library door swished open and the usually quiet atmosphere that prevailed in this space was shattered by the first grating, high-pitched, girlish giggles of the day.

But not the last, by far.

"Voices, dears," Mrs. Hudson had admonished pleasantly, and the students attached to the aforementioned giggles scattered into the stacks, far enough away from his regular spot that their conspiratorial whispers and occasional hushed laughter were quiet enough not to be obtrusive, but just loud enough to disturb the normally hushed atmosphere of the one place where Sherlock Holmes finds respite from the constant noise and clatter and crush of the rest of the student body. He'd just managed to tune out the new layer of noise when his mobile phone screen glowed to life beside him once again.

NEW CONFESSION!

Reaching out to tap the screen, the dull sense of dread in the pit of his stomach sharpened as he read:

iConfess: What has blond hair and blue eyes and a killer smile? Come to the Library and find out!

Watching the message slowly blur and then dissolve into a shower of bright sparks, Sherlock imagined that he could hear the ping and whir and beep of countless mobile phones alerting his fellow students to the presence of the message he'd just read—and with a sigh sank down into his chair, bent over his notes, and prepared himself for the inevitable invasion.

Hours later, the sudden flow of visitors anxious to avail themselves of the many services that Morningside library has to offer has yet to cease. While the traffic had understandably increased markedly during each passing period between classes (and saw a predictably impressive spike over the lunch hour), Sherlock is surprised by how many students are still here during scheduled class times. He can hear the swish of their footsteps as they prowl the stacks, the thump of fingertips dragging idly over the spines of books as they make their way and down the aisles, their hushed voices as they lean their heads together and discuss the single reason that has caused most of them to step foot into a library for the first time in their lives:

John Watson.

Who, Sherlock can only assume as he listens to John and Mrs. Hudson's steady stream of pleasant conversation as they sift through the contents of one of the crates dragged up from storage that morning, remains blissfully unaware of just how much interest his mere presence in the building has inspired in the students of Morningside Academy.

Well, the female students, anyway.

After the first few mentions of the new library assistant on the iConfess app, there's been a steady stream of new messages appearing regularly, the theme as consistent as the content is ridiculous.

iConfess: I am going to start reading more. A LOT MORE.

iConfess: I just heard him say he plays rubgy, he can tackle me any time.

iConfess: OMG HE TOTALLY SMILED AT ME!

iConfess: I don't see a ring on his finger

iConfess: I AM THE FUTURE MRS. WATSON!

He'd tried simply slipping his phone into his pocket to avoid seeing the NEW CONFESSION notification constantly blinking on the screen. But he soon discovered that even though his own mobile is set to silent it seems that every other phone belonging to every other person within earshot isnot, and it's difficult to ignore the impromptu symphony that sounds each time one of the new members of the John Watson fan club decides to express themselves via anonymous electronic confession.

With each new iConfess alert that arrives, Sherlock finds himself more and more agitated by the entire spectacle. Intellectually he knows that approximately 49% of the students at Morningside Academy are female, he just hadn't expected every single one of them to suddenly develop an intense desire to prowl around the school library peeking around corners in hopes of catching a glimpse of a perfectly ordinary, unremarkable twenty one year old librarian's assistant.

Well, not completely unremarkable.

Sherlock had learned quite a bit about the man just that morning, had even told him (out loud) exactly what he'd observed—and the way that John Watson had reacted wasn't ordinary at all. He hadn't been angry or defensive, he'd seemed…impressed. Said it was brilliant and amazing. John even recognized the equations he was working on, and even when Sherlock called him an idiot he hadn't taken offense, he'd laughed.

A laugh that started out as one thing and then lifted and changed into something else entirely. A laugh that surprised him and intrigued him and seemed to drag a chuckle from his own lips without his permission. A laugh that he can still hear the ghost of ringing in his ears...

The sudden, low rumble of a chuckle drifts softly through the air, the pitch rising steadily until it bubbles over into an unmistakable giggle, and it isn't until Mrs. Hudson's tittering laugh joins in that Sherlock realises he's not imagining the sound. He cocks his head and listens, the slow swell of warmth rising steadily in the pit of his stomach, until the moment is broken by the chorus of electronic alerts sounding all around him.

*ping*

*whir*

*bloop*

*trill*

*Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive…"

With a sigh he extracts his phone from the pocket of his trousers and looks at it wearily before hastily tapping the icon so the latest anonymous declaration appears:

iConfess: The new library assistant has the CUTEST laugh!

Oh for god's sake, he thinks to himself, shaking his head quickly from side to side to clear it. I'm turning into a teenage girl.

With a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes, Sherlock reaches down and pulls his earphones from the front flap of his bag, settles the buds into his ears, plugs the cord into the bottom of his mobile, taps his favorite playlist and gets back to work.

As it turns out, thumping bass and searing guitar and angry lyrics delivered by soaring vocals proves to be the perfect distraction. An hour later he's completed (and submitted electronically to his lit teacher's inbox) a very thorough essay on Chaucer that is insightful enough that it should merit not being harassed about his spotty attendance record in class. He's reviewed his French text with enough scrutiny that he feels quite confident he will ace the exam later this week. And now he finds he's anxious to get back to charting his reaction summaries—ready to start puzzling out the final set of equations that have given him such trouble over the last few days.

He's spreading out his notes with one hand and leaning down to retrieve his pencil as the last few rough notes of the song currently playing in his ears ring out and gradually fade into silence—and in the brief pause that follows, he catches a snippet of conversation coming from the next aisle.

"So you're saying that's him?" a deep voice asks, and Sherlock's ears perk up at the sound, the obviously male voice somewhat out of place given the events of the day. Sitting back up, he reaches out and quickly taps his mobile screen as the next song beings, pausing it as the voice continues. "You're full of shit."

"I'm not," a second voice (also male but with a distinctly nasal tone) insists. "That's the guy."

"You've got to be joking," the first voice continues incredulously. "That short little tosser is what all the girls won't shut up about out?"

"I don't think he's that short, Seb," the second voice answers sceptically.

"Are you blind? He's gotta be at least eight inches shorter than me," the first boy insists, and Sherlock stretches his neck up enough so that he can peer through the gap above the neat row of books on the shelf and confirm that the two voices belong to Sebastian Wilkes and Philip Anderson.

"According to Sally, that's part of his charm," Anderson says moodily. "She called him 'goddamn adorable'. Says she wants to carry him around in her pocket."

"Yeah, well that makes sense," Wilkes says, huffing out a laugh. "She's your girlfriend, so we already know she's used to tiny things."

"Fuck you, Seb!"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Anderson," Sebastian says, affecting a world weary tone. "I am not gay, you'll have to find someone else to fuck you."

"Christ, you two," a third voice interrupts, and Sherlock spine stiffens suddenly, freezing him in place as he listens to the cadence of familiar footsteps rounding the far corner of the shelf and approaching the two other boys where they stand. "Keep your voices down, this is a library you know."

"Sorry, Vic," Sebastian answers, his affected stage whisper dripping with fake contrition and seeming somehow even louder than his regular voice, as he crouches down and tries to find a gap in the shelves with a clear view of the central common space.

"Seen enough yet?" Victor Trevor asks, stepping up beside Sebastian and bending over to peer into the open spaces above the rows of books.

"Look at him," Sebastian says, lifting his chin and tilting his head toward the center of the room where it's barely visible between the shelves. "I don't get it. What the hell is so special about this guy?"

"How should I know?" Victor answers with a shrug, "Why don't you ask one of the girls?"

Sebastian Wilkes opens his mouth to protest, but then stands up suddenly, slaps his friend on the shoulder and grins broadly at him.

"Vic, my boy," he says, starting to walk purposefully towards the far end of the aisle. "You are a genius."

Sherlock watches as Phillip Anderson trails after Sebastian immediately, and it suddenly registers with him exactly where they're headed. He sees the exact moment that Victor Trevor realises it as well—when he turns his head quickly to the right, stares through the gap in the shelf, and directly into Sherlock's eyes—holding his gaze for the briefest of moments before turning away and following his friends.

Sherlock looks quickly down at his desk, takes a deep breath, and stares at the page of meticulously constructed formulas before him just as Sebastian Wilkes rounds the end the aisle and strolls towards him where he sits, Philip Anderson and Victor Trevor in tow.

"Hello, Sherly," Sebastian says brightly, a malevolent little smile playing on his lips. "Fancy meeting you here."

Sherlock turns his head slightly as if to study the next page of notes laid out on the desk, then affects a look of moderate surprise as he raises his gaze to meet Wilkes'. He stares at him for a moment, at the rather pleasant features that are sullied by the decidedly unpleasant personality that lurks beneath them. He turns turns and regards Anderson's beady eyes and hawkish nose, then lets his gaze slide to Victor's face, eyes scanning quickly over caramel skin and high cheekbones and long curled lashes shielding impossibly dark eyes that refuse to meet his own. Looking back up at the ringleader of the group, Sherlock pulls the headphones out of his ears and stares at him expectantly.

"Is there something I can help you with, Sebastian?" he asks politely.

"Yeah, actually, there is," Wilkes says, stepping forward and casually pushing the papers on his desk aside and sitting down on the edge of it, crossing his long legs before crossing his arms over his chest. "Seems the new library assistant is causing quite a stir with the ladies in this school. Phil and Vic and I can't seem to work out what's got them so hot and bothered about the bloke."

"Perhaps you should find one of these ladies you mention and ask them for an explanation," Sherlock suggests.

"That's what I'm doing right now, Holmes," Sebastian says snidely, looking very pleased with himself.

"Oh, I see," Sherlock answers with a slight roll of his eyes. "I should have made myself more clear. Perhaps you should go and ask your girlfriendto tell you exactly what it was that she found so appealing about him while she was busy stalking him all around the building yesterday afternoon."

"What are you on about?" Sebastian asks, his disinterested tone at war with the slightly worried creases forming at the corners of his eyes. "Dora hasn't even laid eyes on the man. Told me so herself."

"Did she?" Sherlock inquires, his tone curious. "That version of events is a bit at odds with the fact that she and her two best friends forever were squealing over how 'gorgeous' he was just one aisle away from here not twenty four hours ago. In exactly the same place where you three were doing practically the same thing just now. What a coincidence."

"You're lying," Sebastian says, eyeing him angrily.

"I could be, that's true. Then again, Dora might be the one lying to you," Sherlock says lightly. "You might simply ask her."

"Maybe I will," Wilkes fires back.

"An excellent plan," Sherlock agrees. "Though before you confront young Ms. Lancaster regarding her whereabouts yesterday afternoon, you may want to concoct a suitable alibi for your own."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sebastian demands, raising a hand to worry at the collar of his button down shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

"I am merely suggesting that before you question your girlfriend about the veracity of her statements regarding her impressions of a certain recently hired library assistant, you should take care to conceal the purpling love bite that rests just above your collar bone so that Dora doesn't think to question where you were at approximately the same time she was standing not ten feet from here and ogling someone who was not you."

"I'm not cheating on my girlfriend," Sebastian insists defensively, looking around at each of his friends and then back down at Sherlock. "Dora did that. She's possessive, you know. And a bit of a biter."

"I've no doubt that she is," Sherlock assures him. "But the depth of the color of the bruise in question would suggest that the precipitating injurywas suffered approximately twenty four hours ago. And while it is entirely possible that your girlfriend could have both been here in the library shrieking at improbably high decibel levels over the library assistant she has insisted never to have laid eyes on and then very quickly met up with you for a heated snog within the same small window of time, it does seem unlikely. Unlikelier still, when one considers the miniscule abrasions occurring at very specific intervals apart on the surface of the skin over the hemorrhage in question, suggesting that the mouth that delivered the requisite suction belongs to someone wearing braces…and as I recall, Dora does not have braces on her teeth. But it seems to me that her younger sister does, isn't that right?"

"Now you listen here," Sebastian Wilkes says through clenched teeth, standing up suddenly and staring down at Sherlock with fury in his eyes. "I don't care how smart you think you are. You better not say a word to anyone about—"

"Oh don't worry," Sherlock says dismissively, picking up his headphones and sliding one speaker into his ear. "I have no interest in outing your minor indiscretions. We all have our secrets."

"Yeah, and yours is that you're a little faggot!" Sebastian growls, sweeping one hand over the surface of the desk and scattering his notes onto the floor.

"Really, Sebastian," Sherlock replies wearily. "That's hardly a secret."

"You're right about that," Sebastian snarls, lip curling up in a menacing grin as he looks over at his friends and then back down at Sherlock. "Everyone knows you're a cocksucker, practically gagging for it, really. Even tried putting the moves on Victor last year, but he showed you what happens when your kind barks up the wrong tree, didn't he? And you can be sure there's more where that came from if you say one word to anyone about—"

"Sebastian Wilkes," Martha Hudson says sternly, commanding the attention of the four boys she stares at from the head of the aisle not with volume, but with the quiet steel in her tone. "Is there a reason you're in my library at this moment and not in your customary seat at in the fourth row of Madame Renaud's French class?"

"I was just…" Sebastian begins, looking to his friends for help and finding them staring pointedly away. "I was just talking to Holmes here. That's all."

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson agrees icily. "I heard. I trust that your conversation is now over?"

"Yeah," Wilkes agrees quickly. "All done here."

"Excellent," the librarian replies, the stony tone evaporating as she clasps her hands and rubs her palms together. "And as it appears that you and Mr. Anderson and Mr. Trevor are not otherwise engaged, you may come with me and put that free time to use by carrying several very heavy crates up three flights of stairs from the storage room in the basement."

Sherlock stares at her for a moment, lips tipping into the ghost of a thankful smile. He sees the twinkle in her eye, a quick flash of affection before she lifts her gaze to the three young men behind him.

"We haven't got all day," she tells them pleasantly. "Get a move on!"

She turns on her heel and walks back out into the library, and one by one Sebastian, Philip and Victor begin to follow. Sherlock watches each of them as they go, Sebastian Wilkes throwing one last baleful glance over his shoulder as he turns the corner, Philip Anderson not looking back at him at all before he disappears as well, and Victor Trevor looking straight ahead as he walks away, then stopping just before the end of the aisle. Sherlock watches him stand there, sees him start to turn back, catches his striking profile as he turns his head and looks over his shoulder, dark eyes tracing the distance between them on the floor before flitting up to meet his gaze—and for the briefest moment Sherlock remembers soft cinnamon skin and the silky slip of hair through his fingers and the wet slide of lips and the warmth of breath on heated flesh—before Victor drops his chin, turns away, and is gone.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins gathering up his notes and then depositing them back on the desk before beginning to put them back in order. He's nearly finished when a flash of movement at the end of the aisle catches his eye, and he looks up to see John Watson, backpack slung over one shoulder and an arm full of books, walking towards him.

"I haven't seen you at all since this morning," John says by way of greeting. "You been back here this whole time?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirms, wondering if John—like Mrs. Hudson—had heard the exchange between him and Sebastian Wilkes.

"Sorry I didn't have time to come and say hello," John tells him, rolling his left shoulder and wincing slightly. "Things were a bit busier than I expected. Didn't even have the chance to go to the loo until just five minutes ago. Do you know where Mrs. H. went?"

"She said something about the storage room," Sherlock says vaguely, breathing a silent sigh of relief that John had been out of the library for the last several minutes.

"Well damn," John says, looking down at his watch. "I was hoping I'd get to check in with her before I left—but if I don't go now I'll be late, wellmore late, so I'd better get a move on."

"I'll tell her that you needed to leave," Sherlock offers.

"Thanks," John says with a smile, then begins to walk away before stopping short and turning back to face him, taking the top textbook off of the stack in his arms, and holding it out to Sherlock. "Oh, I almost forgot. Here."

Sherlock takes it from him, reading the title: Principles of Organic & Biological Chemistry, 12th Edition. He runs his fingers over the smooth cover, then looks up at John quizzically.

"I don't have that class until later this week, and I thought you might enjoy a little light reading," John tells him, with a shrug and a grin. "I've marked the section on aliphatic organic compounds, it might be shit compared to what you already know, but I figured you could find something useful in there."

Sherlock stares down at the book for a long moment, then back up at John who is looking at him expectantly.

"Thank you," Sherlock says softly. "I…this…is good. Thanks."

"You're welcome," John replies, a broad grin stealing over his friendly features, and he begins to back away down the aisle. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Don't read it all in one night!" And with a wave, he's gone.

Turning back to his desk, Sherlock carefully clears a space on the surface and sets the heavy book down. He opens the front cover, reads the hastily printed text scrawled onto the first page: Property of John H. Watson.

He runs the pad of his finger over the name, feels the slight indentation where the tip of the biro pressed itself into the paper leaving a trail of ink that formed letters and words declaring that this book now belonged to someone. Settling his earbuds into place, he taps play and the song he'd paused earlier starts back up. He sets the phone aside and is about to open the book to the section John marked for him, when a flash of light from his mobile screen catches his eye.

NEW CONFESSION!

Sherlock picks up the phone, taps on the green skull, and the message begins to reveal itself:

iConfess: The hot blue eyed blond has left the building and the library is BORING again.

Shaking his head, he watches the message disappear in a shower of sparks, then moves to set his phone back down on the desk…but at the last moment he picks it back up, opens a new session, taps out a short message, and then pauses for just the briefest of moments before pressing send. He slips his phone into his pocket, flips the textbook open, and starts to read.

At that very moment, mobile phones all over the building are alerting their owners that a NEW CONFESSION is now available to view. And if they tap on the icon of the acid green skull with a small number "1" floating in the corner, they'll see the following message appear, briefly, on the screen:

iConfess: John Watson is not boring.

If you enjoyed these first three chapters, I hope you'll come and read the rest!

In order to comply with this site's rating standards, this fic (rated MA for some later scenes) can be found in its entirety at AO3, direct link available in my profile. THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING-I HOPE YOU'LL COME OVER AND CONTINUE THE ADVENTURE!