#professor!lock

A Valentine’s Day special set in my Professor Sherlock and Student Molly AU :) This is part one of a two-part fic. The second part will be in Sherlock’s POV, I think.:p

Molly Hooper stared at the rose, and it stared back -or at least that’s what it seemed like to her.

When she opened her locker door that morning, she definitely did not expect to see a glass-encased rose, its petals pale as ivory, nestled among her books and sundry school supplies.

Sure, it was Valentine’s Day, but never in her sixteen years of existence had this day been anything other than an ordinary one for her. The only time she has ever received a Valentine was back in nursery, where a dark-haired boy whose name she could no longer recall gave her the ratty Valentine each of them had to make during art class, under their teacher’s supervision.

She looked around.

Students were milling about on the hallway, since it was a good ten minutes before the first bell, but she could not detect anyone who could be surreptitiously observing her.

She looked back at the rose, and noticed for the first time a small white square of paper at the foot of the glass case. Biting her lip, she took the card and flipped it over. On it, were two simple verses:

before he knew it

the Beast was enchanted by

the lovely white Rose

like the glass, he vowed

to shelter her innocence

and love from afar

Molly read the verse another time, then another, her cheeks heating up.

Could this really be for her? Surely there was some mistake. How could anyone even think she was lovely, much less be enchanted by her?

And for goodness’ sake, who could possibly know her locker combination?

Once more she went over the verses, and with a jolt realized that they were in haiku form. She counted the syllables in each line, and sure enough, they were in 5-7-5 counts. Just yesterday, Professor Holmes discussed haiku in class, so the lesson was still fresh in her mind.

Professor Holmes…

Molly shook her head. She was starting to think ridiculous thoughts again. That night at the party was a mistake, the mysterious stranger someone she is unlikely to ever meet again, and he could not possibly be who she fancied him to be.

She took her books, slammed her locker door shut, and headed to her first class, which was, as luck would have it, Literature.

As she neared her desk, her steps slowed down.

Thomas, the tall, dark-haired kid who sat behind her in most of her classes, was standing by her desk, holding a heart-shaped box. He was looking down at his shoes, fidgeting, his ears red.

Molly cleared her throat, and his head shot up. Upon seeing her, a flush crawled its way up from his neck to his cheeks.

“M-Molly, hi!”

“Uhm… Hello, Tom. Erm… You’re at my desk.”

He looked down at her desk as if seeing it for the first time, then, recovering himself, blurted, “Oh! Right, of course, right… I just… Well…” He thrust the box at her, and Molly stepped back to keep it from hitting her in the face. “W-will you be my valentine?”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Tom’s eyes kept darting back and forth between her and the ground, his face now violently red. Their classmates were staring at them, some of them jeering.

“Uhm…” She hesitantly reach out and took the box. She should be happy, really. Flattered, even. But why did her emotions feel so much like… disappointment?

“So… You must be the one who left the flower in my locker, then…”

This surprised him into looking back at her.

“Flower? What… I don’t know… I didn’t leave a flower at your locker.”

“Oh, but then…”

“Settle down, everyone.”

Molly’s spine stiffened at Professor Holmes’ deep, commanding voice. Around her, her classmates started settling into their desks. Tom shot her a look that was half worried, half hopeful, before shuffling off to his own desk.

For a moment, she stood there awkwardly holding the box of chocolates, not knowing quite what to do with it, before realizing that she was the only one not yet seated.

She look over her shoulder to see Professor Holmes regarding her with an amused expression. His gaze fell to the box in her hands, and his lips slowly set into a straight line, as all amusement faded from his eyes.

Was it just her imagination, or did his expression darken?

She took her seat, and chided herself for being silly.

“Today, we are going to discuss Cupid and Psyche, and draw the parallels between this work and Beauty and the Beast.”

Molly looked up to see Professor Holmes staring right at her. She frowned.

For the rest of the lesson, she couldn’t help but wonder, her rioting thoughts going places she knew were bordering dangerous territory.

Especially when it's Sherlolly.

Especially when it's Sherlock as the teacher and Molly as the student.

Especially when Sherlock is baffled by his mounting attraction to her, and Molly takes him by surprise multiple times with either her intelligence or her unconditional love.

The second part of my little Valentine’s special Sherlolly fic. I know I said it would be a two-part fic, but… heh. I’ll try my best to wrap it up by part three, but I make no promises. Professor Holmes has got quite a few things he’s struggling to deal with.:p Anyway, enjoy!^^

Sherlock Holmes was going mad.

That was the only explanation for his behavior these past weeks.

What was he thinking, slipping that invitation into her locker? And showing up like a stalker, just as she stood alone in the dark, pouncing on her like a predator…

Kissing her.

Then stalking off like a man pursued by demons.

Which he was, in a way. Except his demons came in the form of an angel named Molly Hooper.

And now, he was standing in front of her locker at 5:00 am in the morning, carrying a glass case that held a preserved rose, its petals a white as pure as Molly Hooper herself.

With hands that trembled only very slightly, he entered her locker combination (easy to deduce, really - her favorite number written on her jersey uniform for PE classes, followed by the last two digits of her year of birth), opened the door, took the briefest of moments to catalogue the contents of her locker (a family photo -Molly favors her mother, though her smile is her father's -stuck to the inside of the door, school books, a case holding pencils and pens of different colors, a yellow eraser, a small yellow pencil sharpener, and a six-inch ruler with a cat sticker on one end, and a leather-bound journal with a pink ribbon sticking out from between its pages), moved things around a bit to make space for the glass case before carefully placing it at the very middle, closed and relocked the door, and quickly made his way to his office before anyone chanced upon him standing in front of one of his students’ locker at a suspiciously early time of the morning.

Once inside his office, he shut the door and leaned against it. He lifted his hand to cover his eyes, massaging either temple with the thumb and middle finger.

He was a self-admitted sociopath.

Was he a pervert too?

He pushed himself off the door and moved to sit behind his desk. He stared at the lesson plan for the day, Cupid and Psyche vis-a-vis Beauty and the Beast, and chuckled sardonically. Yesterday, he talked about the Japanese traditional haiku. Now this. Molly was one of the brightest students he has ever had. It wouldn’t be difficult for her to make the connections, no matter how much her mind might tell her how improbable the conclusion was.

After all, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

But did he want her to know?

With a groan, he dropped his head into his hand, clutching at his hair.

He didn’t know the answer to that himself. He knew that it was, from society’s viewpoint, wrong. He was a fully grown man, a professional entrusted with the molding of these students’ minds. She was his student, and 10 years his junior to boot.

And yet, what he felt for her…

What did he feel for her?

He bounded up from his chair and started pacing in front of his desk.

What did he feel for Molly Hooper?

He was… fascinated by her, he would admit that. She was very bright, yet blind to her own light. In fact, it seemed that most people were. But then again, most people were idiots. But Molly wasn’t. She was different, more like him than she was like them. He knew that while she did not speak her thoughts out loud, she observed more than most. From her writings in class, he could tell that she had an insight into human nature that was advanced for her age -in fact, for most people of any age. She was kind, but she had a backbone. She would yield and give way most of the time, but she stood up for things she believed were worth putting up a fight for. She was giving to a fault, but had a strong moral compass. She was driven, but unwilling to step on others to achieve what she wanted. She was a study in contradictions, in the most beautiful way imaginable.

He also felt a fierce protectiveness towards her. She possessed a rare sort of innocence, untouched by the world and all its corruptive influence. It was so rare that he wanted to preserve it.

Yet at the same time, this dark, twisted part of him wanted to tarnish it. He clenched his fists. No. No. No. That night… That night was a mistake. It was a lapse in his much valued self-control. He cannot, must not touch her again, not in that way.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Once she reads that poem, she will know. Perhaps the poem might only plant the idea in her head, but after today’s lesson, she will know.

He will proceed with the lesson, but that’s as far as it would go. He would keep his distance, as he said in those verses, and be content with that.

Having settled this, he went to class in a more or less even mood. He was pretty determined to carry out his plan too, until he saw the heart-shaped box in Molly’s hand, and the hopeful glances that tall dark-haired classmate of hers -Tobias? No, Thomas, the one he has noticed has obviously been interested in her for a while now -kept throwing at her.

That was the exact moment, Professor Holmes was sure, his resolve flew out the classroom window, his reason following closely behind.

Bacchanalia

noun

Trying very hard to keep herself from continually tugging at the hem of her white Greek-style tunic dress, Molly Hooper nervously looked around at all the… revelers before her. She gripped her cup (still half full with spiked punch) tightly as she backed herself further under the shade of a tree, just short of hiding behind its trunk.

She had found the invitation in her locker. The card (thick, plain white, unscented) merely contained basic details of the party, such as the time and date (doors open at 7:00 pm Saturday), venue (the old Crawford mansion up the hill), theme (Bacchanalia Masque) and dress code (anything Grecian/Roman). It all seemed rather exclusive, as it was an “invite only” sort of affair.

Molly had never been to a “grown up” party (read: not one involving Birthdays or Christmas and New Year celebrations with family) her whole life, and she came more because of curiosity than any actual desire to mingle and “have fun”.

Just 10 minutes into the whole thing and she was already starting to regret her decision. There seemed to be no one else there from her school. Most probably because this was obviously a Uni party, and she was in all likelihood the only high school student there. Which made her wonder even more who could have slipped the invite into her locker. Maybe it was slipped in there by mistake? That would make more sense. In which case, she should not be here at all.

Backing up a few more steps, intending to make her exit soon, she came into contact with something solid and warm behind her.

She quickly twirled away, sloshing a bit of the punch onto the grass, and the stranger reached out to steady her.

She looked up at his masked face and uttered a surprised, “Oh.”

Even with the mask covering half his face, she knew he was beautiful. His hair was a wild mess of curls, that seemed utterly fitting with the revelry going on around them. Unkempt, free, with a hint of savagery. Even his scent was musk and tobacco and something faintly wild.

She had never before understood how, in the novels she’s read, the writer would describe eyes as “twinkling” or “dancing” or some such nonsense. But now, looking up at this mysterious gentleman’s eyes, even in the dark, she could say that they were… glimmering.

He was tall, very tall, so that she had to crane her neck to properly look up at him. And his form, what she could see of it underneath his thin white shirt, the top buttons undone, was lightly muscled. His trouser encased legs seemed to go on for miles.

‘He’s so fit,’ was all Molly could think.

He was definitely fit. Fit and… vaguely familiar.

His mouth (with that distinct cupid’s bow that her mind tells her she’s seen somewhere before but it’s just so hard to recall with the way he was staring at her) curled up in a half-smile.

He stepped forward, causing her to take a step back, her eyes still held hostage by his. He took another step, and another, and she kept matching his steps until she felt the rough surface of the tree trunk against her back. He braced his left arm against the trunk, and placed his right hand (large and warm) on her waist.

As he bent his head, his face drawing ever closer to hers, she could only flutter her eyes shut. 'He’s going to kiss me,‘ Her mind whispered, but she was surprisingly unafraid. All she could feel was a pleasant thrill at how deliciously forbidden it all seemed, letting this dark, mysterious stranger kiss her in the shadows, as other masked strangers performed all sorts of wildly inappropriate acts not too far from where they stood.

The moment his lips touched hers, the pleasant, tingly warmth she felt was quickly transformed into a scorching heat that seemed to burn her at every point of contact between them.

He softly nipped at her lower lip with his teeth, then sucked on it, and her mouth fell slack at the sensations she was bombarded with. He slanted his mouth, and his tongue darted out to swipe at her lips, before slipping in between them, seeking her own.

This was nothing at all like what she had expected her first kiss to be. She had always envisioned a blue sky  with fluffy clouds and a field of flowers, and sweetness and butterflies in her stomach. Never would she have thought that it would be darkness and heat and her stomach twisted in knots and a current sizzling under her skin.

Then suddenly, he lifted his mouth from hers and pulled away.

She dazedly opened her eyes to find him staring at her with an odd expression. His nostrils flared as he took heavy breaths, and his eyes had a wild glint in them.

“Go. Go home, little girl.”

Her eyes widened beneath her mask. His voice was low and raspy, barely above a whisper, but like everything else about him, it was achingly, elusively familiar.

She opened her mouth but before she could say anything, he turned on his heel and strode away, into the shadows, like he couldn’t bear to even have the same moon shining down on them, when just a moment ago he was kissing her like she was dew drops and he a man who has been stranded in the desert for days.

Molly tried to catch her breath. Shaking, she just stood there for a while, leaning against the tree for support. Then, she pushed off of it and slowly made her way out.

As soon as she got home, she quickly ran up to her room and threw herself into bed.

The more she thought about the identity of her mysterious stranger, the more her mind formed such an improbable answer that she ended up just more and more confused.

Molly Hooper stared at the ceiling for hours, her mind running in circles. She finally drifted off to sleep as the first rays of dawn lit the sky, one word on her lips.

Two Months Later

Although neither of them knew it at the time, that stolen hour in the supply cupboard was to be their last intimate encounter before the case utterly consumed Professor Holmes’ time and energy. Although he took a few moments here and there to reassure her that it was, indeed, the case that was keeping them apart, she couldn’t help the feeling that things had changed permanently between them – and not for the better. Another man appeared, supposedly a visiting lecturer, a medical doctor from London, but he vanished almost as quickly as he arrived and never so much as spoke to a single student. He did, however, spend a great deal of time closeted with Professor Holmes, and Molly felt a ridiculous stab of jealousy, quickly followed by a private hour spent weeping as she finally acknowledged that, now that the case was coming to a head, things between herself and her Professor were irrevocably altered.

That became entirely obvious when, two days before the graduation ceremony, one of the teachers disappeared and was later found to have absconded with a large portion of the school’s donated funds. Professor Holmes vanished as well, not long after, without a single word to her or, from what she gathered, anyone else, even the headmistress, whose tension levels seemed almost at the breaking point. When he returned a few days later, it was obvious that he’d somehow been involved in the embezzlement scandal. At least it was obvious to Molly that he was the one who’d found the woman and returned the money to the headmistress. However, although she instinctively knew that this matter was somehow connected to the case he was here to investigate, it wasn’t the main event, so to speak.

No, that was reserved for the graduation ceremony itself, when the groundskeeper had been arrested for blackmail and attempted murder. The police chief and the keynote speaker – a visibly uncomfortable Detective Inspector Lestrade from the London Metropolitan Police, a choice that, amongst her classmates, only understood – had taken the man into custody, but Molly saw the sharp nod Professor Holmes had given them before the man was led away in handcuffs. She saw him leaving the disrupted ceremony not long after that, and knew that he was the real mastermind behind the arrest.

She watched sadly as he walked away without so much as a backwards glance. Not that she’d expected anything in so public a venue, but he hadn’t sought her out before the ceremony, either. Not to say good-bye, or to ask her to continue seeing him – foolish hope though she knew it to be! – or to somehow acknowledge the end of their relationship. She understood, she really did; the arrest and resultant disarray had kept him very busy, but that didn’t stop it from hurting.

Disappointed, she tried to keep her feelings to herself as she and the other jubilant graduates left the temporary stage and joined their families, most of them still buzzing with excitement over the arrest. Her mum was there, of course, offering her tight-lipped approval of Molly’s success at reaching this milestone virtually unsupported. She’d been busy building her new life in Australia with her new husband, and Molly tried very hard to be happy that the two of them had at least shown up for this important event. She supposed it was because they would have to help her set up her temporary living quarters in one of her step-father’s housing blocks, until she was able to move into the dorm. None of them had even broached the idea of her simply coming back with them to Sydney for the summer.

After the obligatory congratulatory dinner, Molly returned to her room for the last time, making sure all her belongings had been properly packed and that everything was ready for the movers to put into the truck her step-father had hired to bring everything to the flat she’d be occupying for the next month or so. Then he would hire another crew to bring everything to her dorm, and her mum would be able to wash her hands of her yet again for another school term.

Molly shoved her bitter thoughts aside – there was nothing new about the strained relationship between herself and her mother, after all – and opened up the lap drawer of her desk, making one last check for any misplaced notepads or mobile chargers.

Inside she found a plain white envelope, with her name written on it in an achingly-familiar scrawl. Miss Hooper. Her breath caught as her heart began to beat double time; she sank into the plain wooden chair before lifting the envelope out of the shallow drawer with shaking fingers. It wasn’t sealed, and she slid one finger beneath the edge and opened it.

My life, as you’ve witnessed first-hand, Miss Hooper, isn’t one that is either safe or predictable, she read by way of salutation. She let out a choked laugh at that understatement, then read on, tears filling her eyes as she saw what else Professor Holmes had to say.

Bearing that in mind, please also know that I very seriously considered asking you to remain a part of my life in spite of those drawbacks. However, when I broached the subject with my good friend John Watson – yes, I do, indeed have a good friend and it is he who was the sender of the majority of those texts you saw my positive reaction to – he rather bluntly pointed out that it was wildly unfair of me to do so. After he first blistered my ear with the fact that I had entered into such a relationship with you when the laws against such are quite clear and with severe consequences. But you know that, having pointed it out to me after our first intimacy, and I digress from what has, quite distressingly, turned into a rather painful attempt to explain why we cannot see one another again, even though you have graduated and I am no longer your professor.

Simply put, I cannot in good conscience allow our relationship to continue beyond this point. I have made enemies during my time as a consulting detective, and I would never forgive myself were something to happen to you due to your association with me.

Molly stopped reading, although there were more words; the ability to breathe escaped her for an unknown period of time as she stared blankly at the bare wall ahead of her. He’d considered asking her to stay with him, to continue their relationship, but was nobly stepping aside like some hero in a romance novel, protecting her with his distance.

“Damn you, Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered to herself. “I hope that if we ever see each other again, you know what an earful you’ll be getting from me.” Then she forced herself to read what little remained of the letter – regrets, praise for her, more protestations regarding the dangers of his life.

If she ever saw him again, she resolved when she’d read the final salutation – ‘My deepest regards, Sherlock Holmes’ – she would slap him. Three times.

A/N: I'm gonna make a choice here, and since I'm short on time (besides wanting to deliberately torture people with my on-going word-document 10 000 and counting), here's number 3 teacher/pupil au, or, well an excerpt from Broken Wings (wip). 

Professor Holmes’ quarters were easily distinguishable by the hacking cough beyond the oak door, but she still asked Professor Leyton who walked past with a harried look on her face before briskly nodding to the door.

When Molly finally approached the door with a knock, there was no answer. “Professor Holmes?” she said after another knock, but yet again there was no answer. 

She braved trying the handle and was relieved when it opened easily. Instantly she was greeted with the scent of cigarettes causing her to grimace, but she powered through, soon closing the door behind her.