John shifted uncomfortably in his hard-backed chair and waited impatiently for the headmaster to start speaking. He glanced at Sherlock, who was busy scribbling away on his forearm in deep green ink, and sighed. A hush fell across the hall as the headmaster stepped up to the podium, shuffling his papers distractedly.

"Boys." He took a deep breath. He paused and reached with tired resignation to rip a note off his waistcoat back, sniggers emanating from the back of the hall as he mouthed "kick me". John looked over his shoulder to see the culprits- Carl Powers and his gang- grinning from ear to ear and laughing.

The headmaster tried again. "Boys." He waited for the giggles to die down before continuing. "As you all know, next week on Friday we have the annual Valentine's Day dance in conjunction with Moffat House," Someone wolf-whistled and a new wave of giggles rippled through the crowd. "The girl's school."

"The usual rules apply, of course. If you want to go, you have to have a partner." John smiled half-heartedly, already sure that the upcoming information was going to be irrelevant. He hadn't gone to the dance last year, of course. Even if he had wanted to go along and sway to the mushy love songs, he would have had to find someone to go with, and John didn't usually go in for that sort of thing.

"...No alcohol, and no girls in the dorm block." The Head paused sternly. Another series of giggles, along with a cheeky comment about the head's own love life from one of the boys, and a snort from Sherlock- who didn't even look up from his inked forearms.

- "I don't see the point." Sherlock complained, viciously shoving his way down the hallways after assembly. "Aside from the great opportunity to 'play deductions' as Mycroft puts it, it's a complete waste of time." John nodded his agreement, before frowning.

"What do you mean, 'play deductions'?"

"Well, you know. Chances are at least one person's going to want to know who their 'anonymous' date is." Sherlock paused. "Well I say anonymous. It's always quite predictable really. Dull. Actually, a couple of people asked me last year if I'd help put names to their undisclosed lovers, but I was busy researching."

"Researching what?"

"Oh, just stuff. You wouldn't be interested."

John was slightly annoyed at this assumption on Sherlock's part, but also surprised that he had thought about the fact that it was probably not in John's best interests to find out exactly what he had been experimenting with at the time.

"Does that mean you might help out this year?"

"Maybe. With some of them. It depends if anything's worth my time." -

"Boys. I think I might need your assistance."

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again." Mycroft fidgeted uncomfortably before pacing over to the window and staring out at the rain that was pouring down in sheets.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair with a lazy air, "I'm a busy man." John snorted, then tried to turn it into a cough- a move which both of the brothers clearly noticed. He still wasn't sure why Mycroft had invited him along- he didn't do anything.

"None of your usual trivia, Sherlock."

"I don't have time for trivia."

John shot Sherlock a confused look. Sherlock met his eyes and grinned. "My brother is under the impression that I've decided to become a…"

"Detective." Mycroft finished.

"Consulting Detective, Mycroft! There's a difference." Sherlock interrupted.

"So you are admitting it, then?

Sherlock scowled. "I'll think about it."

Mycroft sighed and turned to John. "Can you reason with him, Mr. Watson?"

John shrugged noncommittally, aware that nothing he could say would change Sherlock Holmes' mind. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and walked over, handing Sherlock a slip of crumpled notepaper and leant back against his desk. John leaned over, trying to read it.

"What is it then?" John queried, peering over Sherlock's shoulder. "Is it a threat?"

"Even better." Sherlock grinned, holding the note up so John could read the scrawled writing, "An invitation."

Will you go to the Valentine's dance with me? - S. A.

Again John tried to suppress a laugh, earning a disapproving if slightly embarrassed glare from Mycroft. A quick glance at Sherlock showed that he had a similar opinion of the note and was grinning openly.

Once Sherlock had managed to wipe the grin mostly off his face, he continued. "Are you absolutely sure this was addressed to you?"

"What are you implying?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." Sherlock tried his best to look innocent. "It's just, I mean, you? You've been invited to the valentine's dance?"

"And your point is?"

"So what is it that you want us to do?" John asked politely.

"Find out who it is, of course. I've already been through the Moffat House school database and can't find anyone-" Mycroft stopped in his tracks. "Although you don't need to know about that." John grinned. "Just find out."

Sherlock stood up, stooped down, grabbed the piece of paper, and walked out of Mycroft's new Head Boy office. John shot Mycroft a vaguely apologetic look before dashing after his friend. -

Sherlock spread the note out on the table in front of him before plopping down in his chair with a smile. John paused uncertainly, hand on the back of his own chair, waiting for Sherlock to get up and run out again like he usually did.

Instead, he began to speak. "What do we have to go on?"

"Umm..." John paused, unsure of how he was meant to respond. But before he could say anything Sherlock continued.

"We have the handwriting, of course, and the paper. The initials are a clue, but…" he trailed off. "I wonder if I could borrow that microscope from the science labs?"

"What do you need that for?"

"To study the paper. Although I'm fairly sure there won't be anything of value to deduce from it that I don't already know… Pass me my phone. "

"Sorry?" John asked, still frozen with his hand on his seat back.

"I said pass me my phone."

"What can you possibly already know from the paper?" John questioned, refusing to be deterred.

"Oh, nothing much. Just their age, gender, initials and the fact that it was written by somebody in this school."

"What? How?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's incredulous expression. "My phone."

John sat down heavily, reached over to the other side of the table and shoved Sherlock's phone in his general direction. "How. Do. You. Know?"

"It's a Year Thirteen." Sherlock stated, at if it were obvious.

John frowned in disbelief and waited for the explanation.

"Oxford paper. Not any of the cheap school-provided stuff the lower years use. Anyway, it's clearly not from a book. It's been pulled out of a ring binder- look at the holes. The edges of the paper are battered and bent, so it's been in a folder far longer than the two weeks since the start of term. Which means our culprit is in their second year of a less intensive Sixth Form course. They used the same folder as last year rather than bothering to transfer all their stuff." Sherlock paused, looking more than a little pleased with himself.

"Fine. So it's a Year Thirteen." John leaned forward. "What about the rest?"

"Look at the paper. There's a slight mark on the back, dried but still smelling vaguely of…" he held the paper up to John, who gave it a hesitant sniff.

"Soap?"

"And not just any soap. Disinfectant soap, like the one in the labs."

"The girls use soap too, you know." John raised an eyebrow.

"And more regularly than the boys." Sherlock muttered. "Nobody ever uses the disinfectant soap unless they have Chemistry. And if you had stopped to think about it, you would remember that in the girls' school, Year Thirteen is in the Bio labs this term."

There was a pause while John stared at Sherlock in mild disbelief.

"Now S.A." He smiled. "Who's S.A.?" Sherlock showed John his phone, now open on the school student directory. "Sam Arkin, Year Thirteen." He stopped and scrolled a little way down. "Simon Atkinson, Year Thirteen." He slipped his phone into his bag and got up.

John stood up and laughed. "You idiot." He grinned affectionately. John paused and ripped a page out of his history book, grabbed a pen, and started writing. "S. A." He scrawled the initials onto the paper. "S for Secret. A for Admirer."

"Oh." Sherlock looked crestfallen. "Oh."

"You got anything else?" John asked hopefully, feeling a slight pang of guilt for calling Sherlock an idiot.

"Of course." Sherlock replied snarkily, his moment of weakness gone as quickly as it had come. "I'll explain later. Come on."

Before John could gather all his stuff, Sherlock had already left the library at some pace. He jogged to catch up, swinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Where are we going?"

"The chemistry labs. We might find something there." -

"Oh." Sherlock said, rattling the door to room G7. "It's locked."

"I can see that," John replied. "What did you expect? It's Saturday."

"Is it?"

"Yes, Sherlock, it is. That's why we don't have classes today."

"But you're away on Saturdays for rugby."

"It was cancelled; it's too wet. Wait- you keep track of days by my sports schedule?"

"How can we get in?" Sherlock avoided the question.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, sometimes I do use you as my personal calendar. You're more consistent than most people," admitted Sherlock, and then quickly moved on. "Who'll have keys to this place?"

"I don't know. We could always wait until Monday," John suggested.

"No, no, I need to have solved the case before then. Mycroft won't believe that I found out so quickly." His eyes took on a devilish glint. "Then he won't be able to doubt my skills of deduction."

"Is that what this is?" John frowned. "Is this all just an excuse to show off to your older brother?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"No, no problem. It doesn't matter to me, anyway." John answered, thinking that he should have guessed Sherlock wasn't just doing Mycroft a favour. "Wait- doesn't Mycroft have keys to all the restricted areas?"

Sherlock grinned. "John Watson, you are a genius. Follow me."

John followed Sherlock back along the corridor and up the stairs to Mycroft's dorm, a big grin on his face.

When Sherlock pushed open the door to the dorm, it was empty other than Lestrade who was searching through his trunk for something.

"Greg?"

John followed Sherlock into the room.

Greg turned to see who had entered, and his slightly hopeful smile disappeared. "Sherlock. John." he greeted. "You're not meant to be up here."

"Sorry," John offered as an apology. "We came to see-"

"You." Sherlock cut him off, giving John a reassuring nod. "Mycroft received some letters from mummy this morning. You don't know where he might have put them, do you? It's just, last time she sent a letter to us I never got to read it. Even though it was addressed to both of us."

Greg gave him a sympathetic smile, obviously falling for the slight quiver in Sherlock's voice. "I think I saw him with a letter this morning. I'm sure he's not keeping them from you, he probably just forgets. He often does," Greg added with a hint of regret.

"Do you know where he is? I want to ask him if I can have the letters." Sherlock said.

Greg gave the boys a smile. "I'm not sure. He's busy at the moment. But I think I know where he keeps his letters..." He stood up, walked over to one of the beds- even John could tell it belonged to Mycroft- and pulled a large bunch of keys out from under the mattress.

John glanced at Sherlock, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and stepped forwards to take the keys from Greg.

Lestrade hesitated before handing the keys over. "The biggest key's for his office, and I'm pretty sure he keeps his letters from home in the filing cabinet by the desk."

"Thanks!" Sherlock called. He was already making his way down the stairs, and John hurried behind him with the keys.

"Bring them back soon," Greg called to the rapidly disappearing figures, already regretting his decision. - John handed Sherlock the keys when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Thanks. So, Mycroft's office or the chemistry labs?" Sherlock inspected the keys.

"Uh, the labs. Why do you want to go to his office?"

"Just a hunch. I think he's keeping something from us." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The chemistry labs it is then. Lead the way." He immediately set off, striding along the corridors with John almost running to keep up.

"Perfect." Sherlock slotted the key into the lock and gave it a twist. The door swung open to reveal the darkened lab, the only light creeping between the slots of the closed blinds.

Sherlock reached for the light switch, but John grabbed his wrist before he touched it.

"No. If anyone catches us in here, we're going to get in massive trouble. I bet they'll phone home." John bit his lip. "If we turn on the light, anyone in the staff room is going to get a clear view of our silhouettes through the curtains."

"We'll have to adjust to the light a little, then." Sherlock sighed. "Alright, you check the front of the room and I'll check the back."

"What are we looking for?" John questioned.

As a way of answering, Sherlock pulled the anonymous note out of his pocket and flipped it over. The back of the note was covered in pencil.

"I can't see." John squinted at the paper.

"Hang on a minute." Sherlock dashed over to the teacher's desk at the front of the room and rifled through the drawer. He returned moments later with the box of matches that were used to light Bunsen burners.

"Down here." Sherlock ducked behind a row of desks and lit one of the matches.

John glanced around; making sure the faint orange glow couldn't be seen from the rest of the room, crouched down beside Sherlock.

"I ran a pencil over the back of it to see if I could bring out any indents in the paper. Luckily for us, our secret admirer has a heavy hand."

Now that he had mentioned it, John noticed the lettering in the page where the culprit had pressed into the paper. The part where the note was written on the other side was indiscernible, mingled with another set of words, but at the bottom of the page the indented text was fairly clear.

"At the bottom of the page you can see bits of their chemistry notes. They were writing on another piece of paper that was on top of this one; hard enough to leave most of it scratched into this sheet. That's what that writing is." Sherlock pointed to the lower part of the page. "The top half is the same class notes but mingled with the lettering of the note."

"So are we going to try and match handwriting?"

"No. The writing of the note is clearly not their natural handwriting, and the indenting on the back is too difficult to recognise. No- we're going to try and find the ring binder that has an exact copy of these notes inside." Sherlock ran his finger lightly over the bottom half of the page.

John glanced round at the shelves and shelves of folders all around the edge of the room. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"It won't take that long. No, really. We know that it's a year thirteen, which narrows it down to those shelves. We also know that this person is using the same folder as last year, so we're looking for a more bashed ring binder that's at least a year old. And we know that whoever it is uses Oxford paper and writes with a lot of pressure. If you see a folder that matches that description, just check the last few pages of notes and see if you can find a match of that writing."

John nodded and leant forward to blew out the match, which was now burning dangerously close to Sherlock's fingers. "I'll check the front shelf, then." He headed towards the part of the room Sherlock had pointed him to earlier and carefully laid an armful of folders on a nearby table. - John had just finished sorting the likely folders from the ones that were obviously new when Sherlock called him over.

"John." his voice seemed far too loud in the silence, disrupting John's concentration, eyes flitting to the door to see if a teacher's silhouette was visible.

"Shut up!" John replied in a harsh whisper. He walked over to Sherlock, eyes now adjusted to the lack of light, and peered over his shoulder at an open folder.

"Is this it?" Sherlock whispered, much quieter this time. He pointed to a page of notes on isomers that appeared to match his description.

John held up the anonymous message and compared the ridges on the back to the one in the folder.

"Looks like it. Wait, yeah- the headings are in the same place. That's it." John flipped the cover of the ring binder and checked the name on the front.

"Gregory Lestrade?"

"Yep." Sherlock grinned. "Can't wait to tell Mycroft." He collected his pile of folders together and piled them messily back onto the shelf. "Greg, though? I can't believe someone sensible like Greg would have a crush on my brother." He gave a short laugh.

"Really, Sherlock? I thought you knew! Honestly, you can be so oblivious sometimes. Everyone in the school knows he likes him- seems that the only exceptions are you and Mycroft. God, even the teachers have noticed!"

"Really?" Sherlock's grin faded and he met John's eye. "How did you know?"

"The was Greg acts around him. The way he signed up to be Sports Captain just so he could share a dorm with Mycroft and the rest of the school council. The way he goes out of his way to spend weekends helping Mycroft with his duties. Mycroft barely goes anywhere without Greg following behind- hadn't you noticed?"

"I don't pay attention to such things."

"He's your brother."

"Unfortunately I am aware of that." Sherlock collected the rest of the folders and dumped them back on the shelf.

John turned away and started tidying his desk as well, rolling his eyes at Sherlock. As soon as John showed signs or rivaling his knowledge he always got so protective.

As he reached up to shove the last ring binder into place, he knocked the shelf and a couple of folders fell. John swore as they hit the floor with a crash, glancing towards the door to make sure no one was walking past.

One of the folders had burst, and Sherlock rushed over to help gather scattered paper from the floor.

"Um, John?"

"What?"

"You might want to have a look at this." Sherlock was holding a collection of sheets that had fallen out of the folder.

"What are they?" John took them from Sherlock's outstretched hand and gave them a curious stare. "More anonymous notes?"

"Even more confusing. Drafts. Our anonymous confidant made a couple of practice notes before writing the real one. Look, that one's been scribbled out, and that one has initials on it."

"G.L." John read aloud. "They are Greg's initials. He was obviously going to send it with his initials and then decided it was too obvious." John paused. "But if Greg wrote the note, then why are they in Joseph Long's folder?"

"And if they were written by Joseph, it's odd that he took the paper from Greg's folder."

John and Sherlock exchanged a curious stare, both trying to work out what was going on.

Then Sherlock shrugged and stood up again. "There's only one way to find out. Find Greg's ring binder again."

By the time John had got hold of the right folder, Sherlock had already filled three test tubes with water and was tearing a strip off the original anonymous note.

"I need a sample of Greg's writing and Joseph's writing as well. Make sure that they both always use the same pen." Sherlock said distractedly. John tore similar strips from a handwritten page from each folder and handed them to Sherlock.

"Are you testing the ink?" John asked.

"I'm trying to. The conditions aren't ideal. Chromatography only works if the paper is absorbent enough to carry the water up the page." He looked so frustrated in that moment than John had to fight the urge to laugh.

Sherlock placed the test tubes carefully into a rack and dropped a slip of paper carefully into each one. The water started to rise up the strips almost immediately and John watched as the ink separated into different pigments.

"Hopefully one of those will match the ink of the note," Sherlock explained. "Each pen has a slightly different ink. Depending on the individual pigments making them up, different colours will rise up the paper in different ways. It's likely that both inks contain the same colours, as they are both black, but the slight differences in the chemical composition of the pigments mean that the colours form different patterns."

John nodded, surprised that Sherlock had managed to pick this up during chemistry. He spent most lessons reading under the table- college level material generally.

After a few more moments, Sherlock pulled the dripping strips out of the test tubes and laid them alongside each other.

"This one was the anonymous note." John pointed. "That one is Greg's pen and that's Joseph's."

"I can't see well enough to tell if any of the patterns match."

John poured the contents of the test tubes away and shoved them on the drying rack, not bothering to rinse them out. "Come on then- we'll take them to the library and work from there."

It took Sherlock all of two minutes to set out the strips and, by gently placing them on the windowsill, watch them dry: edges crinkling and curling as the sun warmed them.

"A-ha." he muttered, bent over the papers. John glanced up from his copy of Grey's Anatomy.

"What?"

"Our culprit is Joseph Long." Sherlock straightened in his chair and peered over John's shoulder and out the window. "He's sitting outside."

- It was a warm day and Joseph Long and his friends were sprawled out in the shade of a tree, lazily lobbing balls of crumpled paper and empty drinks cans at each other. One of them sat up as Sherlock and John approached, surveying them with a disdainful expression.

"What do you squirts want?" he called, and the rest of the boys instantly joined in, echoing his cry.

Sherlock stepped forward and opened his mouth, no doubt ready to deliver some scathing remark. John reached over to him and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned and shot John a look- a 'don't interrupt me when I'm deducing' look- and hissed a quiet "What?"

"I'll take this one, Sherlock." John let his hand drop and took a step forward. One of the boys wolf-whistled.

"Joseph Long?" John questioned.

"That's me." The boy who had initially addressed them propped himself up on his elbow and looked curiously at the two of them, sizing them up.

John paused, unsure of how to proceed. He hesitated. "Um. Can we talk to you alone please?" he asked finally, hearing Sherlock's impatient huff behind him as Joseph Long failed to respond immediately.

"What is it? Anything you have to say you can say in front of these guys."

"Uh-"

"Why did you ask out my brother?" Sherlock interrupted, finally losing his patience. There was a wave of giggling from amongst the other boys.

"Shut up!" Joseph Long snapped, face bright red. "Greg was never going to get round to it, was he?"

"Greg?" Sherlock asked, nonplussed. "Oh you mean Gavin."

John nudged him. "It really is Greg, Sherlock."

"I don't- why would you do that?"

"Little bit of Valentine's Day fun, isn't it?" Joseph Long smirked, earning himself a round of high fives from his friends.

"You mean you sent the invitation to my brother on Greg's behalf?"

"Well yeah." Joseph Long grinned. "Bit slow, are you?"

"Come on." John insisted, firmly steering Sherlock away from the group of boys.

"Runs in the family, does it?" He heard one of the boys whisper and his ears turned bright red.

- When they got back to the library, Sherlock grabbed his stuff and headed for the exit. "Come on John! We should go and tell Greg."

"Sherlock. No."

"What do you mean no?"

"You can't just tell Greg!"

"Why ever not?"

"Because that's not... That's not what people do!"

"Sentiment?" Sherlock frowned.

John shook his head. "No. Sort of. It's embarrassing."

"Why?" Sherlock frowned. "He didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Greg has nothing to be embarrassed about!"

"Sherlock!" John groaned, stopping half way up the stairs. Sherlock turned and set down his bag, plopping down on the steps next to John. "You don't understand."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "John, I think it's fairly safe to say-" "There's very little-"

"Nothing."

"Very little," John continued doggedly, "That Sherlock Holmes does not understand." He looked Sherlock squarely in the eye. "But human emotions is one of those things."

Sherlock looked disgruntled. "It's this," he said smugly, "or Mycroft."

"Oh no we are not telling Mycroft about this."

"Then-"

"Fine." John conceded. "But let me handle this."

- They found Greg by the rugby pitch. Sherlock kept to his word and let John explain the situation to a very incredulous Lestrade.

"You haven't told Mycroft, have you?" he asked nervously as soon as John had finished his narrative.

"No." John reassured him.

Greg let out a shaky breath and released his grip on the rugby ball he'd been holding. "Well that's something, at least."

- "How are we going to tell Mycroft?" Sherlock asked on the way to the Head Boy's office.

"We're not." John said shortly, hoisting his bag a little higher onto his shoulder.

"Then what-?" Sherlock frowned.

"You're going to tell him that you couldn't figure out who it was." John said determinedly.

"No I will not!" - "I couldn't find out who it was." Sherlock said, avoiding Mycroft's disbelieving stare and opting to look instead at the school announcements board, decorated this week with posters inviting students to the school dance in pink lettering. "Whoever it was covered their tracks well."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. "Dear me, brother mine, dear me."

They got up to leave but Mycroft, who was comfortably reclined in his chair, called them back. "Are you two going to the dance?"

"No." John answered quickly. "We- we haven't found dates yet."

- "Thanks!" Greg said earnestly, clapping Sherlock heartily on the back. "Is there anything I can do to repay you for that?"

"Actually, yes." John answered sheepishly. "We were thinking of maybe going to the dance ourselves. But we can't-"

"You can't." Sherlock grumbled.

"We can't- we don't have dates. Can you get us dates?"

Greg smiled widely. "My sister goes to the girl's school." He winked conspiratorially. "I can get her to set you up with some of her friends." He frowned. "Year eight, right?"

John nodded confirmation. "That's right."

- John gave himself one last check-over in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. Sherlock was in the dorm, expertly tying his bow tie.

"You ready?"

"Just about." Sherlock replied, doing up his cufflinks with one hand and straightening his bow tie with the other.

"Nice bow tie."

"Bow ties are cool." Sherlock said defensively. "Ready." John looked Sherlock up and down. He was wearing a very fitted tuxedo, obviously made for Sherlock's slim frame. He looked... good.

"Where did you get the suit?" John asked. His own suit- bought for him last year for a cousin's wedding- was drab in comparison.

"Specially tailored for my Aunt Edith's funeral- Mycroft has an identical one. Grown ups like that kind of thing. No idea why." Sherlock rolled back on the balls of his feet and gestured to the door. "Lets go."

John shot a last glance at his reflection, ran a hand through his hair, and then gave Sherlock a nervous smile. "Ready."

- "Boys." Greg walked up the steps to the school building and to where Sherlock and John stood in the shadows beside the entrance. He was leading two girls behind him, both of whom where giggling quietly.

"Sherlock, this is Molly. Molly Hooper." Sherlock gave the mousy-haired girl a curt nod and she blushed deeply and began to fiddle with the material of her dark blue dress, hair falling to hide her face a little.

"And this is Sarah Sawyer!" Greg grinned, pointing to the tall blonde who stood beside him.

"Any relation to Tom Sawyer?" John asked jokingly.

"No."

"Oh."

They stood there somewhat awkwardly for a moment, stubbornly avoiding each other's eyes. The school had tried to theme this year's dance "Southern Belle", but since none of the girls had been willing to show up in hoop skirts, they'd had to abandon that idea.

"Well I'll be off then." Greg said, breaking the silence before turning and disappearing into the hall. John gestured to the dance floor. "Shall we?" he asked, and he and Sarah vanished into the melee of dancing students.

Molly turned to Sherlock and gave him a shy smile. "Hi!" she waved.

"Hi." Sherlock replied. He paused, gave her a once over and swallowed. "You look... nice?" Without further ado he turned and walked briskly into the party, Molly following at his heels.

- The dance is lit- carefully- by an abundance of lanterns and paper streamers, throwing luminous shadows down on the school of teenagers below. The girls from Moffat house mingled with the boys, chatting and, occasionally, dancing. Sherlock was instantly bored. He made his way over to one of the small tables by the edge of the dance floor and sat down, Molly soon following his lead.

"He shouldn't be talking to her." Sherlock nodded towards one of the teachers from Moffat House, who was chatting with Miss Betula, the sixth form English teacher. "His wife's having an affair with the P. E. teacher and she's going out with Miss Rerum, the history teacher."

Molly gasped. "How did you know?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

Molly shook her head in a muted no, and Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "What it is like your funny little brain? It must be so boring..." He trailed off, eyes fixed a table on the other side of the room, half hidden in shadow, lit only by the glow of one- no two candles. Sherlock stood up quickly and marched over to the table, leaving a surprised and slightly baffled Molly behind.

As he got closer, he suddenly realised that the second flame was not a candle at all. A small piece of paper was burning gently, singing the table with every step of the dancing flame. Quickly, he slammed his hand down on top of the paper and held it there until the fire was completely smothered. A last flame curled round his finger and dissipated, causing a tiny breath of smoke to spiral up to the ceiling.

"Sherlock!" John's exasperated voice rose above the noise of the crowd as he squeezed his way through the crowd and into the space that had been left between the students and him. John gingerly lifted Sherlock's hand off the table and winced at its blackened state.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Somebody did this on purpose." Sherlock glanced furtively over his shoulder, but nobody was paying them any attention. He grinned excitedly.

"Never mind that." John looked towards the door. "We need to get this under some cold water and then find some cream."

"John, you don't understand!" Sherlock gesturing wildly, seemingly ignorant of the raw flesh on his right hand. "This paper-"

Sherlock peered at it for the first time. It was typewritten and curling at the edges, blackened but still partly legible. "-lock Come and play. The Lake. - JM"

"Somebody left this here for us." Sherlock stated.

"It could have been for anyone!"

"Who else has a name ending in 'lock'?" he asked, grabbing John's hand. Sarah and Molly exchanged a glance as the pair sped past them and out of the dancehall.

- Greg leant against the door and breathed out a bored sigh. His date had left him in favour of his classmate Joseph Long, and there didn't seem to be any chance of her returning. He spotted Mycroft standing by the edge of the stage and made his way over.

"Mycroft? Where's your date?"

"I oversee the dance. I don't partake in it." Mycroft said flatly. Then his lips quirked up at the corners. "Sherlock's always been the expert in that area."

"He dances? Really?"

Mycroft nodded fondly. "Yes. He's always liked dancing. Dancing and music. Funny little kid."

They looked at the crowd in companionable silence for a few moments. "Can't you dance?" Greg asked finally.

"Of course." Mycroft said, looking affronted.

Sensing a chance- although not much of one- Greg took a step forward and offered his arm to Mycroft, who looked at it in pericombobulation. "May I have this dance?" he grinned jokingly. Mycroft's eyebrows rose.

"Can you be serious Gregory?"

Greg shrugged and lowered his arm. Perhaps he'd spend the evening alone. He gave Mycroft a small smile and turned away, hiding his rising blush, and mumbled some excuse to the floor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "I don't recall saying no."

The lake was more black than blue in the light of the moon. John and Sherlock sprinted down the embankment and skidded to a stop at the bottom, breathing heavily. The grass was slick with dew and they both very nearly ended up on their backsides. Sherlock looked around wildly. There was no one there.

"This can't be right," he muttered distractedly. "no."

"Who did you say called us?" John asked, scanning the lakeside for any signs of life.

"JM."

"What's that?" John looked back at Sherlock.

"No idea." Sherlock admitted, still not meeting John's eyes.

"What is it? Initials? A name? An organization?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "It could be anyone."

"Great." John groaned. "I was getting on quite well with Sarah." He straightened his tie importantly.

"Never mind that, John, we've got ourselves another anonymous note-writer!"

"So you think this is like Joseph Long's notes?" John questioned. "Essentially harmless?" There was a glint in Sherlock's eyes.

"Well someone wanted to get us away from the dance. Maybe they're not waiting here at all; maybe it's a distraction. Or a test-"

An owl hooted, making both the boys jump.

"A distraction? From what?" John looked up at the school. "You think something's going to happen up there?"

"Maybe." Sherlock frowned. There was a breath of wind and they shivered.

John swore under his breath. "The girls are up there." He turned and started to head up the hill again. "Come on Sherlock!"

"Why?"

"There are people up there, Sherlock. Someone wanted to get rid of us. It's not safe." John slipped on the dewy grass and fell, but was soon on his feet again.

"No John!" Sherlock shouted. "I know your father's time in Afghanistan has made you fear the worst but the best way to end this is to figure out who sent that note."

"But you said it was a distraction." John's brow wrinkled in confusion and his eyes kept flicking back up at the school. He did, nonetheless, stop his efforts to scramble up the hill.

A twig cracked behind them and Sherlock whirled around, hand immediately going to his hip, as if expecting his hand to find a gun rather than thin air. John froze.

"Show yourself." He called out.

"Hiii." A voice said from behind them and they spun around again to see a shadowy figure from their preschool days, resplendent in a flashy Westwood suit, standing on the hillside.

"What are you two doing out alone by the lake?" he asked teasingly.

"Jim? Is that you?"

"You guessed it."

"Why are you here?"

"I followed you." He said awkwardly, holding his hands out, palms up in apology. "Thought there might be some interesting gossip…"

John blushed. "We're not-"

"Although you do both appear to have got quite dirty down here." He gestured to their muddy suits, smirking.

Sherlock interrupted the rapidly thickening silence. "What do you know about the note?"

"Note? What note?" Jim's voice was sickeningly innocent.

John's shoulders slumped. "Sherlock." he hissed, "We need to get up to the school just in case-"

"That suit looks good on you Johnny-boy." Jim grinned, interrupting. "Even with mud splashed all up the back."

He received a disapproving glare from Sherlock, who then turned to John and gave him a curt nod. "Whoever sent that note is long gone." Sherlock shot a nasty glare at Jim before continuing. "But return to the school would be advisable. Come on." He took off up the sloped bank.

The last notes of the piece sounded and the music faded for a moment. Greg dropped Mycroft's hands and took a step back, embarrassed at his poor dancing skills. He peered at Mycroft, who was, oddly enough, still there.

"Sorry." he apologized quietly.

"What for, Gregory?"

"I never really learnt to dance."

"Well, in that case, you were amazingly good."

Neither of them noticed that the rest of the room had gone silent, nor that they were being watched from all angles. A yell caught their attention and the room turned as one in time to see Joseph Long, valentine note writer, toppling down the staircase that lead into the dance hall from the upper floors.

Joseph landed with a sickening crunch on the floor. For a moment there was deafening silence, and then uproar. Mycroft forced his way through the crowd, head boy badge in hand, and knelt down beside him. The front doors burst opened and John and Sherlock dashed inside, covered in mud.

"Who's hurt?" John asked, making his way over, Sherlock in tow. "We need to get him to the nurse right away."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, bright eyes alight with curiosity.

People exchanged glances. "He was drunk, I guess," One muttered. There was a general murmur of assent from the gathering crowd.

John had already roped a few burly year tens into carrying Joseph Long and beckoned Sherlock to follow him. Mycroft stood up, brushed down his suit, and escorted John. Greg and Sherlock trailed behind.

Mrs. Hudson clucked disapprovingly as the party showed up at the door to the hospital ward. "What's happened this time?" she asked curiously, opening the door wide. "He looks more than a little tipsy to me."

"I think he's got a broken wrist from the fall, and possibly a concussion." John said. "He's unconscious, and as drunk as a skunk. But he wasn't unconscious when he fell, though." He turned and nodded to the year tens, who left, along with Mycroft.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and gave John a motherly pat. "He'll be fine dear." She said, taking his pulse and, torch in hand, opening an eyelid taking a look. "He's got a concussion, and a rather nasty blow to the head, but he'll live- it looks like he took most of the fall on his wrist." Mrs. Hudson bustled over to her cupboards and began to see if she could find something. "We'll keep an eye on him dear, okay?"

John breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on one of the chairs in the office. Sherlock was not so easily satisfied and approached the hospital bed they had placed Joseph Long on with a critical eye. Joseph Long's brown, chin-length hair hid some of his neck, and his shirt collar hid the rest. Sherlock, with a wary eye on Mrs. Hudson, who was still searching the cupboards, swept Joseph's hair away from his neck and slid the collar down a little. He sucked in a breath.

"Look John!" Sherlock breathed. He bent closer to Joseph Long's unconscious form and peered at it suspiciously.

John looked up. "What?" he asked, standing up and joining Sherlock at the bedside.

"Small needle mark on the back of his throat. Dangerously close to the spinal cord." John gasped. "But why Joseph Long?" Sherlock said, more to himself than John.

"Whatever the reason," John said grimly "You need to get that hand of yours seen to."

"Congratulations to another fine generation of students who sadly leave us this year to become our new teachers, politicians, lawyers, writers and so much more. We say goodbye with heavy hearts but with a firm push into the future." With that the headmaster took a small bow and shuffled off the stage, yielding the microphone to the head of the student council- Mrs. Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for the Graduate Awards- although god knows leaving this school is reward enough." There were a few titters from the crowd. "Anyway, lets begin with Best Smiles."

The whole school was gathered for the last assembly of the Sixth Formers. They would be going on study leave soon, only coming back for their actual exams. There was an air of unrest in the great hall, as the older students were simultaneously nostalgic and excited to be able to finally leave after seven years of schooling.

"The award for best sportsman goes to…"

The students applauded thunderously as each name was called out. Sherlock was inspecting the back of his hand disinterestedly, and John was trying hard not to zone out of the monotonous speech. They were on the other side of the room to the older students, and over here the general vibe was more of boredom. The boy sitting in front of John let out a loud snore and there was a ripple of subdued laughter as heads turned his way and the person sitting next to him gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. He jerked awake with a gasp.

"And finally, the award for the cutest couple goes to..."

Suddenly, where before there had been an undertone of quiet whispering, everyone was silent. Sherlock looked up at the stage, curious, and John craned his head to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on.

"Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade!"

A positively evil grin broke out across Sherlock's face as the entire room of the school erupted into deafening cheers and applause. A very confused Mycroft stood up from the front row, swaying slightly, and made his way onto the stage, face soon composed into his custom mask. Greg trailed behind him, burning red, and obviously confused as to whether he should be ecstatic or mortified.

Mycroft stepped up to the microphone. "It's very flattering that you all voted for us as the... cutest couple," he seemed to struggle to get the words out. "Very flattering, yet Gregory and I-"

Everything went silent.

"We're not-"

There was a collective groan from the audience, and someone somewhere yelled out, "Just kiss him, for goodness' sake!"

Greg hesitated for a split second, listening to the rush of encouraging shouts from the front rows. He grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. The room burst out into enthusiastic cheering again and even some of the teachers stood up and joined in.

"About time!"

"I Ship It!"

"Again?" Greg smiled, pulling back for breath.

"Again." Mycroft smiled.