Heroin sped everything up. Made everything become both still and moving at the same time- so that everything around him became limpid and fleeting: colours, words, shapes, people, deductions, all awhirl in his mind in a beautiful maelstrom of intellect. Emotions faded: he could work in peace, cutting himself of from the world around him by lying on the couch for what Molly told him was literally hours, his hands steepled serenely underneath his chin, eyes closed in assiduous concentration.

That worked for Sherlock, most of the time. Off drugs, after all, that wonderful feeling, and the incredible boost they gave his already powerful mind, making him feel incorrigible, disappeared. Not only was the world back to its dull, lethargic pace, but awareness caught up with him and held him back. He spent a lot of time brooding, rather than organising his thoughts, because the emotions and the transport of outside life cluttered his brain, and made his brain work as if stuffed painfully full of cotton wool.

But he did have to stay off the drugs, sometimes: and not just for when Mycroft came nosing around his room on the university campus. No; there was one other reason.

John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why John intrigued him so. He did think about it, alot- it played on his mind almost constantly, an ubiquitous niggling, even when he was so full of ideas he was shaking.

John was the complete opposite to Sherlock, in just about every way imaginable. For one, he was a good boy. He attended lectures (studying to be a medical man, Sherlock had noted); had a plethora of friends and played on the university rugby team. Rugby, not football- and he saw the temptation with the other sport, John being slightly more delicate than his often thuggish teammates; there seemed to be a fixation with being perfect with John, and, in his mind, rugby was the better sport to be seen playing. And he was good too- good enough to make Team A. He was generally admired by teachers and students alike, for his amicable personality and hardworking mindset; a concept that puzzled Sherlock, who hated both people and his dreary lectures.

Sherlock was one of those people John would be told to stay away from. John was one of those types of people Sherlock would be ridiculed for trying to relate with- for being too naïve, too weird, too much of an outsider, a bad influence. And yet, Sherlock was trapped.

He simply could not forget John.

It was one of those days where Sherlock was clean. It was also one of those days that John played rugby: throwing himself about on the pitch in the drizzle, grazing his thighs with mud, grit and grass. And the fact that those two things happened at the same time was no coincidence- Sherlock didn't believe in coincidence. The fact was, Sherlock didn't need drugs on days when John Hamish Watson was playing rugby, or could be seen doing any number of things, from cadaver dissections to reading literary classics in that vast library where Sherlock, too, spent many hours; devouring books on science and psychology and criminology and whatever else looked interesting. He would watch John through the bookshelves; or from the very back of the public viewing gallery, or, like today, from the commentator's box in the little-used seating over the turf, where he had broken in quite easily.

The wide glass panelling in front of him was perfect: it kept out the cold as Sherlock watched the tiny figures beetling about on the pitch. Rain was falling in sheets. Slow sheets- they turned everything into a wet, grey haze. If he concentrated, he'd be able to slow time until he could capture each and every droplet falling individually, with their individual shapes, angles and trajectories. But he wasn't interested in the rain. Not today.

John never liked to play the same position. Sherlock didn't know the positions, but he knew that while John kept the same putrid yellow bib, he would take a different area of the pitch: some days he was at the front, facing down the other team with an admirably fierce look on his face; others, he would keep near the posts, looking for a pass from one of his larger, uglier friends. He played by the rules- yet, he wasn't afraid to get dirty either, Sherlock observed, as there was a rather nasty tackle and the shriek of a whistle cut the air.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. Blew his unruly fringe. Changed his position on the chair so he was a tight ball, knees clutched to his chest in a way he'd been told looked childish, but nevertheless did, when no one was looking. His mind was craving for nourishment- well, not quite craving, more nagging. He wasn't addicted. The moment he became addicted, the limitless power he felt when he had a hit would no longer be his to control.

Not to mention, he would have lost sight of the one thing that kept the real world intriguing. That flaxen-haired man, absent-mindedly tossing the rugby ball from palm to palm as he muttered something to himself. Sweat and rain running down his nose. Sherlock wanted to paint it on one of his messy conposition sheets, but he hadn't bought them, nor his violin, to the stand. Just himself, and his oversized coat, huddled away from the elements.

Except he wasn't alone.

"Molly," he drawled, not looking round. He heard a scuffle.

"Sherlock, it... um... really creeps me out when you do that."

Sherlock probably should have apologised, but he was determined not to waste his energy doing so, and kept his eyes fixed on the game.

"Thought I might find you here," Molly said quietly after a few seconds, perching carefully beside him. Slightly too close for Sherlock's comfort, but he restrained himself from twitching or moving away. Molly may have been ditzy and overly protective of him- though her role was minutely to do with Mycroft's meddling- but she knew his secrets. Well, she knew what Sherlock tended to get up to while he wasn't attending the majority of his lectures, and, despite her drab exterior, she had a sharp eye; and, although she'd never mentioned it outright, he was aware that Molly knew why he did the things he did. Or why he came to odd parts of the campus at perculiar times.

"You didn't go in again?"

Sherlock didn't need to answer. There was a sufficient proportion of sighing in the question itself for Sherlock to let Molly chug to her own conclusion, no matter how slowly.

"You would have liked my lecture. I can show you some stuff, if you want to... And Robert left some notes, too, on your desk, just... Are you hungry?" Molly mumbled.

Sherlock tore his gaze to meet hers- two soft brown eyes meeting sharp green ones, words passing between them unspoken. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

"I... Sherlock...? Not in here, at least." She nodded up to the sign on the panel above their heads, and Sherlock huffed with irritation. He'd yet to burn anywhere to the ground with a cigarette, and yet nowadays, he was forced to stand outside lobbies and doors with other bitter-faced smokers coughing and shivering as they pressed their yellowing fingers to their novelty lighters.

Smoking also annoyed Molly, which is partially why he insisted on standing, waiting until his long legs had become less stiff, before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and stalking outside, Molly following with her backpack straps loosened and her arms weighed down with an exemplary number of books.

Sherlock used a match to light his cigarettes. He liked matches better. Sometimes, when he needed to think, he would drop one on something so he could watch the flames dance, inspiring a thought.

The game was nearly over now. Not that Sherlock had been counting, or that he was aware of the score, if they were keeping one- he could merely read the lethargy in the players' muscles, and the way the scrums were less violent, that practice would be cut short today. Clearly, it wasn't just him who found the unrelentless rain soporific.

Sherlock and Molly kept to the places Sherlock knew were out of sight to the players on the pitch. There was silence as smoke curled in front of Sherlock's face, cigarette hanging idly from his mouth as he let his mind wander.

"There's going to be a house party this weekend, they say."

"I hope my brother's not been talking to you about how I ought to broaden my social horizons."

"I don't talk you him as much as you think," she giggled quietly. "I do care about you myself- and anyway, um, that's not why. I know you don't like socialising, and it's impossible to convince you with anything. But... I... The med students are going. Well, y'know... Everyone is, but, I..."

Sherlock was staring at Molly.

"What?" Molly panicked, rubbing her face to see if there were anything on it. After, however, she'd established that Sherlock was actually reacted to what she'd said, she broke into a small, meek smile.

"Hit a nerve?"

Sherlock turned away quickly, feigning ignorance, but Molly had already copped on, and grinned a grin only Sherlock would ever get to see, and rarely, at that. It was mischievous and cat-like, and reminded Sherlock why he let Molly get so close in the first place.

"I think I know who you're always looking at," she said, returning to her shy persona. Sherlock furrowed his brow, in a look far too serious for someone as young as he: aged concern etched within the soft, shallow lines of his expression.

"Enlighten me," he deadpanned.

"I think you're after the one all the girls are after- little blonde heartthrob there-" Molly pointed, and Sherlock grabbed her hand, lest anyone see, or worse; that they grab someone's attention. Molly gave Sherlock a poke. "John Watson. Am I right?"

"Um..."

"Oh, look. Little Sherlock, speechless. I should call your brother, he'd want a photo," and she laughed a little tinkly laugh, like a brass liberty bell on the counter of a hotel reception desk.

"I'm not little, Molly," Sherlock protested, but it was weak. He wanted her to go away now- she'd ruined his time watching the practice.

"Littler than everyone else here. 17, with baby-smooth skin."

Sherlock gave an angry puff of his cigarette in her direction, making it clear that he was not amused with her bringing up his age, or, in fact, his interests in that wonderful boy- who was, as a first-year, two years older than Sherlock. Sometimes, he regretted coming to university early, as, he was sure, Mycroft did, when he heard stories of how Sherlock had exposed a teacher's affair, or stole equipment from the labs for use in his private bedroom experiments.

Once Molly had finished coughing, she continued in her quest to get information about John out of Sherlock.

"Why not... go, then?"

It had taken her long enough to notice who it was Sherlock was following on days like this. He could have, and should have, made it less obvious, he was sure.

"I hate parties," he spat, "And I don't want to talk to him."

"What?" Molly raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to talk to him, but you follow him around and everything and watch him do things? If you like him, just... say hi."

"I don't like him."

"...That was a really crappy attempt of convincing me otherwise," she giggled.

"I just find him interesting." Sherlock frowned as the whistle blew once again, and the activity on the pitch changed- boys picking up equipment and sprinting for the changing rooms. In less than a minute, all that remained as evidence of the practice was the newly ploughed marks in the mud, and a lone plastic cone, forgotten in the far corner of the field.

"Then talk to him." She made an attempt to get up, but Sherlock held her down. They couldn't be seen leaving at the same time the practice ended- especially as there were a group of girls already heading for the stand's exit. Sherlock knew that. He wasn't to be seen, ever.

"They say he only has the rugby team as male friends. So it won't do either of you any harm."

"It will, now you've said that. If people have picked up on his lack of male friends then it's something that's ridiculously obvious, that he doesn't hang around with intellectual males or anyone who can't kick a stupid muddy ball. Hence, he will be defensive in my presence, either to keep his reputation or because he genuinely thinks like that- the latter being something I doubt, judging by his conversations in the library. Not to mention, if he's as popular as you say or as his online profiles suggest then we will be seen together and he will be warned of my reputation of being... all sorts of things. It will have been a pointless and destructive exercise that will ruin me every getting to talk to him again."

"Y-You've really thought it through."

"Of course," Sherlock scoffed. His mind didn't merely mull ideas over- it was a machine, ceaseless in its search for answers. Only when he had answers was he calm- hence, why he stalked John Watson- because he had no answer to why he interested him so, and it frustrated him to great length. He was to collect more and more data about him until, he hoped, he would find the answer and put the ghost to bed.

His problem being, that the answer eluded him. It had been eluding him for a good few months now, and, at the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that if he didn't step up his game, the lack of an answer would begin to pull him back, and, potentially, start to destroy him.

He threw the cigarette down on the ground, much to Molly's disgust, and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe, before lifting himself effortlessly off the seat.

"I need to think."