Where do I even begin, really.
Do I start when I first met him, or when I first fell in love with him, or when I first knew I was in love with him?
…well, I’ve spoiled it all now, haven’t I?
I first met him in school – I’d seen him before – but I first met him the day he decided to hide from the Dean, who wanted to cut his hair.
I was in chemistry class, standing in an apron and setting out the things I’d need for class, when he walked in the room. I must’ve been the only person who saw him come in. And he looked at me. He looked at me so intently I think I went bright red. He slinked over to my bench and stood impossibly close to me, his elbow touching mine.
I saw his eyes first. Felt them first, I should say. All clear and green and blue and violet like sea glass polished clean.
“Hello,” I said.
“Oh, hello,” he said, off-handedly, “Suppose we should talk, shouldn’t we?”
“I’m Victor,” I offered, trying to resist the urge to look over my shoulder and check the whereabouts of my teacher.
“I know,” he replied dismissively. And then, as if thinking better of it, “Sherlock Holmes.”
“…what’re you doing?”
“Hiding from the Dean. My hair is far too long and needs to be sheared until its considered acceptable,” he said flatly.
Sherlock’s hair was beautiful. It was thick, and curly, and dark and perfectly rebellious. I wanted to sink my fingers into it.
“Well you’re…hiding in plain sight, then?”
“Precisely. It’s part of a new method I have in mind,” his eyes flickered over the room, but they always came back to mine.
And his method did work. Until we both started to giggle.
And, rather than be caught, Sherlock curled his long fingers into a fist and punched the nearest fire alarm on the wall.
“Come along Victor,” he said, taking his hand in mine and filing out with the rest of the students.
“Sherlock, you’re bleeding,” I protested, watching blood drip down from his sleeve and onto the floor. “You need a doctor.”
“My wound is perfectly superficial, Victor, nothing to worry about,” the not-quite detective replied, but he turned into a hallway and moved swiftly down a flight of stairs, walking through crowds of boys to the sick bay with me still attached to him and pressing into his shoulder.
He started to rummage for bandages but I suggested he hop up on the bed, and had a look myself. I cleaned the wound meticulously, trying to find a reason to keep touching his long, pale fingers. He taught me how to wrap up the bandage properly. He said something about learning or creating a new fighting method but I was too busy memorising his hands to notice.
I adjusted my glasses, as was my want to do around him, and he smiled at me.
Sherlock leaned forward, then, and kissed me on the mouth. It was awkward and brisk and his nose left prints on my glasses but it was the best kiss – my first, his first, – that I had ever had. Before I could take my glasses off to kiss him again, or even touch my bottom lip, he leapt down from the raised bed and whirled out of the room, hair and all.
“You’re very good,” he said as he whirled out the door, hair and all. He winked at me.
I wasn’t sure if he meant the kiss, or my apparent skills in nursing and I don’t think he wanted me to know. I was late, to the emergency fire drill. Very late. I was given appropriate consequences. But I didn’t mind.
The thing about trouble, is that it’s worth it for Sherlock Holmes.