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Sherlock Holmes was smart, was raised in a well-adjusted family, and had a whole room of his own where he had the freedom to pursue his whims—conducting scientific experiments, reading books in solitude, and drifting into daydreams when everything else leaves him uninterested. For an average person, he already has the perfect life for introversion. There's nothing else to wish for but the permanent removal of these gnawing feelings within his gut whenever he'd hear praises about his older brother, Mycroft.
In the past, he had the confidence to challenge his older brother in nearly everything—studies, deductive reasoning, and most especially, in Science, which he was deeply passionate about. However, unlike Mycroft, he wasn’t always polished or refined, either in appearance or speech. Still headstrong, he did everything to surpass his brother – he dared, and without changing who he truly was as a person because he wanted to prove ‘em that someone’s unruliness won't affect their competence – just so he could eradicate the storms from forming whenever they’re being compared. At the end of the day, it’s the older brother who always gets the approval anyway.
“Sherlock is quite unruly and casual in his dressing, but Mycroft, that boy, is well-suited to be the older sibling. He sets a good example and is remarkably articulate, even at such a young age. Anyone would be proud to have him as a child, wouldn’t they, dear?”
“It's too early to say who's better between the two of them, but Mycroft is certainly going places. He always prioritizes his goals above anything else and often outpaces his teacher. You know, dear, I wonder how he gets along with his younger sibling, who's so willful?”
“It's because he is that good that he gets along with him, silly!”
“Oh, right!”
Whether it's family relatives, friends of his parents, or even busybodies, as irritating as it may sound, they constantly admire Mycroft whenever the conversation is about them two. Despite their parents being a hundred percent supportive as they were, for the younger Sherlock, those negative noises were totally jarring and just downright exhausting. It's not even his brother's fault that he stopped being driven to be better anymore. It's because of those ceaseless words of demotion and irritating meddling that he became jaded at such a young age.
And therefore, Sherlock chose to stop chasing for anyone's approval and just let life go on, without needing to care for achievements and just doing what he deems fun.
Not until the end of summer of his 16th year.
He was in his 11th grade, the morning orientation was being held outside and there, the trees seemed to dance and hum with the wind as it helped cool down the school grounds. Amidst the crowd of students sitting on their respective chairs, Sherlock sat still, blending with the normies’ awe as he also couldn't help his inner urge to just stare at one person, stating his greeting speech with perfection and elegance. In Sherlock's eyes, he unconsciously compared his older brother to that person, and in all honesty, Mycroft would look so stiff standing next to that beautiful blonde teacher, who introduced himself as “Mr. William James Moriarty”.
Sherlock’s hands clenched the edge of his chair. His eyes, though half-lidded in an effort to remain indifferent, traced the lines of the blonde’s posture – the ease with which he commanded the stage, and the sharp intelligence that flowed effortlessly from his lips. It wasn’t merely his eloquence, but the subtle grace, the way his hand gestured just so, like the flutter of a petal falling softly against the skin.
Sherlock had spent his youth in silent rebellion, refusing the world’s expectations of him, their constant attempts to mold him into a figure he had no desire to become. Yet, something in this man—this young secondary teacher—cut through that long-practiced apathy like a well-honed blade.
Sherlock had no reason to be captivated –as what he'd like to believe– no logical explanation for the racing of his heart whenever he dared glance up. But here he was, feeling the tremor of desire stir where he least expected it.
His thoughts drifted to Mycroft, that looming shadow whose excellence was a suffocating presence in every room they shared. Yet, this teacher did not remind Sherlock of his brother—not really. Mycroft’s perfection was cold, methodical, detached. But this man... this man seemed to carry his brilliance with a warmth, a light that reached out beyond the polished exterior, as if he actually saw the people he spoke to, felt the weight of his words against their hearts. One time, he actually made eye-contact with those scarlet eyes, and shivers were automatically sent to tingle all his nerves. It was brief but he felt fully scanned.
The teacher’s words were ending, applause rising in waves around him. Sherlock didn’t move. His pulse was thrumming, legs unsteady as he fought the ridiculous urge to rise and follow, to seek some fleeting connection that logic told him would be fruitless. Yet still, the thought lingered within his subconscious mind—what would it be like to be noticed by someone like him? To be understood by him?
Sherlock allowed himself one more look before turning away, mentally chastising his own foolishness. A part of him already knew, though—the longing had set its roots deep, and no amount of rational thought would tear it free.
As Moriarty descended from the stage, the sea of students parted, some smiling, others in utter awe. Sherlock’s breath caught as their eyes briefly met in the crowd once again. It wasn’t much—just a glance—but in that fleeting moment, he felt the weight of it, as if the teacher’s gaze held something more, something unspoken, lingering like the scent of rain before a storm.
Has he noticed him? The silly part of his mind assumed, but Sherlock told himself it was nothing—mere coincidence, a trick of his own desire. Yet, as the day wore on and the memory of that glance refused to fade, he found himself haunted by it.
For the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes found himself yearning without much reason. Yearning not for recognition. Not for approval.
But to be seen by that same gorgeous pair of scarlet eyes.
That day marks the very first time Sherlock realized he has a crush.
And he's afraid it will continue on for the following years.
°°°
For two years, Sherlock Holmes had perfected the art of lingering.
It started innocently enough—passing by the faculty building after classes, catching glimpses of the same teacher of 10th grade, William James Moriarty, through open windows or watching from a distance as the man walked across the campus grounds. Sherlock wasn’t proud of it, but neither could he deny the quiet thrill that fluttered in his chest each time their paths crossed, even if William never truly saw him.
Although Sherlock’s actions—stealing glances and all—seem minor from an external perspective, in actuality, they represent a larger internal journey for him, disturbingly, without him even knowing. Every glance is a moment of emotional risk, every lingering step a quiet hope for recognition. These actions, simple though they may be, symbolize the deeper emotional sacrifices Sherlock makes. He unconsciously surrenders control over his own emotional landscape by allowing his admiration for William to color his decisions—Sherlock spends more time following, observing, and thinking about Moriarty rather than forming connections with others or pursuing activities that might foster his personal growth.
By the time Sherlock entered his final year of secondary school, the routine was cemented. The morning commute was often punctuated by a brief moment of serendipity—Sherlock would spot William arriving at the parking lot, stepping out of his sleek black car with the same effortless grace that seemed to characterize his every movement. It was there, between the rows of parked vehicles, that Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of watching, even if just for a second or two. Sometimes William was deep in thought, unaware of his surroundings, and sometimes—just sometimes—his sharp scarlet eyes would glance up, scanning the grounds. Sherlock always made sure he was just far enough away to remain unnoticed.
In the library, it was the same. William would often be seated at one of the tables near the far windows, a stack of books spread before him, his fingers gliding over the pages with a purpose Sherlock found captivating. There was something about the way William inhabited space—as if he owned it, commanded it. Mycroft was the only other person Sherlock had ever known to wield such authority, but with William, it felt different. More... humane. More reachable.
Sherlock's fascination deepened over time, and though he never approached, he couldn't stop the tug in his chest—the quiet, constant longing that whispered for something more. And yet, all he ever allowed himself were these stolen moments. After all, what was he to William James Moriarty but a faceless student blending into the background?
Sometimes, Sherlock caught himself wondering if William had ever noticed him. Not in the way one acknowledges a stranger but truly seen him, if only for a flicker of a second. Sherlock would always shake off the thought every time it surfaced—surely it was impossible. And yet, there were moments—fleeting and rare—when William's gaze would seem to wander in his direction, as if searching for something or someone. And each time, Sherlock’s heart would pound in his chest, foolish hope blooming despite his mind's attempts to crush it. He acts like a high school girl with an obvious crush, and there's nothing more embarrassing than him realizing that on his own.
Time ticked by and Sherlock had become an expert in subtlety. He knew the exact time William would pass by the library on certain days, the rhythm of his footsteps as they echoed across the courtyard when he left the faculty office late in the afternoon. Sherlock, albeit his usual shamelessness when it comes to anybody, never approached William out of respect, content to observe from afar, not daring to disrupt the fragile balance of his quiet admiration.
But as his own graduation neared, Sherlock’s resolve began to crack. The thought of leaving this part of his life behind—this careful dance of watching and yearning—was becoming unbearable. He would see William more rarely, if at all. He told himself that it was best this way, that it was just a passing infatuation. Yet the thought of losing those quiet moments—those stolen glances—filled him with a deep, aching sense of loss, it's infuriating.
It was a warm spring afternoon when Sherlock found himself lingering by the faculty office once again, his gaze drifting toward the parking lot. William was there, leaning against his car, deep in conversation with another teacher. Sherlock kept his distance, as usual, though his eyes never left the elegant lines of William’s form. The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of flowers in bloom, and for a moment, Sherlock allowed himself to imagine a life in which he could simply walk over, start a conversation, and be noticed.
But the moment passed, as it always did. Sherlock sighed, turning away as William’s laughter—warm and rich—reached his ears, setting his heart into another unwanted flutter.
One more year, he thought. One more year, and maybe then... maybe things would be different.
°°°
Sherlock had always believed in planning. No matter how haphazard his life may have seemed from the outside, there was always an underlying method. It’s why, when he’d finally left his secondary school behind, he had nurtured a single, daring thought: to return one day, to see William James Moriarty again, but this time not as an unremarkable face in a crowd. No, Sherlock had envisioned himself walking back into those familiar grounds, a university student now, more mature, more confident, finally ready to make his presence known.
In his mind, it seemed like the perfect plan. A quiet visit, an innocuous hello—perhaps even the beginnings of a conversation that might lead to something more.
But fate, as it always did, had other ideas.
Sherlock hadn’t expected to see William until some point far off in the future. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of encountering him before then. And yet, on his very first day at the university—his university—he felt the world shift beneath his feet when a familiar figure strolled into the lecture hall.
William James Moriarty.
Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat, and for a moment, the room around him blurred as the enormity of what he was witnessing settled in his mind. William wasn’t at the secondary school anymore. He wasn’t a distant memory that Sherlock could visit when he was ready. He was here. Now. And not just here—he’s in the same room. A professor in his class.
Mathematics.
Of all the courses Sherlock could have taken, of all the professors that could have filled the role, it had to be William. His mind, usually so sharp and methodical, could barely process the coincidence—or was it fate? The irony was not lost on him that the man he had spent years admiring from afar was now standing at the front of his classroom, effortlessly commanding the attention of every student, including Sherlock’s.
He didn’t hear the lecture that day. Couldn’t. His mind was too busy racing, his thoughts tangled in a mess of disbelief, wonder, and—most unexpectedly—dread. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He had planned for an encounter years from now, when he would be more prepared. Instead, William was right in front of him, and Sherlock was still just a quiet, half-hearted student with mediocre grades on subjects he held no interest with.
For weeks, Sherlock kept his head down. Despite the fact that his admiration for William had never been stronger, he couldn’t bring himself to speak to him. The thrill of seeing him up close again was overwhelmed by the fear of disappointing him. Every time he handed in a poorly scrawled homework assignment, every time he failed to raise his hand in class, he could feel the weight of his own inadequacy pressing down on him. He wasn’t excelling in his coursework, especially not mathematics. His mind, usually quick and eager to solve puzzles, simply refused to engage.
It wasn’t until the end of the third week that fate decided to twist the knife further.
Sherlock had just finished packing up after a particularly lackluster lecture, his mind adrift with half-formed regrets, when he heard a voice—his voice.
"Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock froze, every nerve in his body standing on edge as he turned slowly, unwilling to believe that Professor William James Moriarty was speaking to him. But there he was, standing at the edge of the lecture platform, one hand resting casually on the desk, his scarlet eyes fixed intently on Sherlock.
"May I have a word?"
Sherlock’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he considered bolting from the room. But his legs betrayed him, carrying him forward with a traitorous kind of obedience, until he stood directly before William, staring up at him, trying desperately to appear composed.
"Your grades," William began, his voice even and calm, "are not reflective of your potential."
Sherlock blinked. He had expected criticism—disappointment, even. He had not expected this.
"You’re intelligent," William continued, his gaze unwavering. "It’s obvious. But intelligence without effort will only take you so far. You’re not trying, Mr. Holmes, and that’s a shame."
The words hit Sherlock like a wave of cold water. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and forced himself to speak. "I… I’ve never been particularly passionate about the subjects I'm not into."
A faint smile touched William’s lips, one that was equal parts amusement and challenge. "That’s clear. But tell me—what would it take for you to care?"
Sherlock wasn’t sure how to answer. He had spent so long avoiding the very thing that had once driven him—pushing away the expectations, the comparisons, the ceaseless pressure to be something he didn’t want to be.
"I don’t know," Sherlock admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.
William studied him for a long moment before nodding, as if coming to some private conclusion. "Well, I hope you’ll find something that makes you want to try, Mr. Holmes. It would be a pity for all that potential to go to waste."
Sherlock didn’t respond, and yet, standing before William now, with those sharp eyes seeing through every one of his excuses, Sherlock felt something stir within him that he hadn’t felt in years.
A flicker of ambition.
As the professor turned to leave, something inside him shifted. For so long, he had avoided putting effort into his studies, content with being the underachiever, the rebel who refused to be molded. But now… now it is different.
He didn’t want to impress his parents, or anyone, even Mycroft.
Now that he was given an opportunity, Sherlock wanted to be seen—truly seen—by the one person who had looked at him and recognized something more than what he presented to the world.
As the door clicked shut behind William, Sherlock felt the beginnings of something unfamiliar—a hunger not just for knowledge, but for excellence.
For the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes wanted to be more than just a casual observer. He wanted to prove himself once again, not for those ceaseless words of demotion to be erased, but for a person with scarlet eyes to only look his way.
°°°
In the midst of mathematical proofs and late-night study sessions, Sherlock would find himself unraveling in ways he had never anticipated.
It was subtle, this shift in his life. Subtle, like the way William James Moriarty would offer him a quiet nod after class, the fleeting brush of their hands when handing back a graded paper, or the way William’s voice seemed to resonate just a little deeper when he addressed Sherlock directly. There were no grand declarations, no sweeping gestures of affection. Instead, they existed in a space just between the ordinary and the profound, where everything and nothing could be said with a single glance.
Sherlock had never felt a need to impress anyone. William… William was different. For reasons Sherlock couldn’t fully explain, he wanted to be recognized by him, not merely as another promising student, but as someone who mattered.
He threw himself into his studies with a newfound fervor, devouring textbooks with the same hunger he once reserved for chemical experiments and criminal puzzles. His grades, once indifferent, began to climb, and though William never made any overt remarks, there was a satisfaction in his eyes that Sherlock couldn’t ignore. He lived for those moments—the quiet acknowledgments, the unspoken understanding between them.
They never crossed the line into anything that would be deemed inappropriate, but their connection grew. Sherlock found himself lingering after lectures, just to ask a question he already knew the answer to, or to hear William speak a little longer. He noticed the small things—how William’s fingers would absentmindedly trace the edge of a piece of chalk, or how his gaze would soften when their conversations dipped into science and philosophy, mathematics forgotten for a while.
In return, William began to look at him differently too. Sherlock could see it in the way he would wait a moment longer before dismissing the class, as if expecting Sherlock to stay behind. In the way his feedback on Sherlock’s work was no longer just a critique but an insight into his mind, into the potential William saw in him.
It wasn’t love, not in any traditional sense. It was something deeper—an intimacy that was forged not through touch, but through intellect, shared words, and the quiet moments they spent in each other’s company. And Sherlock… Sherlock was falling. Alarmingly harder.
By his second year in university, Sherlock had transformed. His reputation as a brilliant mind was loud and transparent. Professors spoke of him with a hushed kind of admiration, and his peers often found themselves trailing behind, struggling to keep up with his sharp wit and relentless pursuit of knowledge. But Sherlock didn’t care about any of that. None of it mattered, so long as William noticed.
And William did. There were times when Sherlock would catch his professor’s eyes on him for a fraction too long, or when their conversations would dip into personal territory—hobbies, philosophies, dreams. It was never much, but it was enough to keep Sherlock tethered to something he could not name.
He knew, in the depths of his mind, that this delicate connection couldn’t last forever.
But he never thought it would end so abruptly.
By the time Sherlock entered his third year, the rhythm of his life had shifted yet anew. He had grown used to William’s presence in the background of his world, a constant anchor in a sea of uncertainty. And so, when William was suddenly gone, it felt like the ground had been pulled from beneath him.
It began innocently enough—a missed lecture here, a canceled office hour there. Sherlock thought little of it at first. Professors had lives outside of their classrooms, and William had always been somewhat elusive. But when a week passed, then two, without a word, a feeling of unease began to settle in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.
He tried to rationalize it. Perhaps William had taken an unexpected leave. Perhaps there was some administrative issue that had temporarily removed him from the faculty. Sherlock went through every logical explanation he could think of, but none of them quelled the growing sense of dread that gnawed at him.
The whispers began soon after. Rumors floated through the halls—Professor Moriarty had left the university. Some said he had transferred to another school; others claimed he had taken a research position abroad. But no one seemed to know for certain, and no one had a definitive answer.
Sherlock, for all his intelligence, was left with nothing but questions. He had no personal contact with William—no phone number, no address, nothing to bridge the distance that had suddenly opened between them. It was as if William had been a dream, something fleeting and intangible, slipping through Sherlock’s fingers the moment he tried to grasp it.
The absence was unbearable.
Days turned into weeks, and the emptiness William left behind only grew. Sherlock found himself wandering the campus aimlessly, his mind a storm of thoughts and half-formed theories. He had never realized how much William’s presence had grounded him, how much he had come to depend on those small, subtle interactions to keep him steady.
Without him, Sherlock felt adrift. His studies, once a source of pride, became hollow, devoid of the passion that had driven him to excel. The lectures that had once excited him now seemed tedious, and his mind, once so sharp, felt dulled by the weight of his own confusion.
Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he said anything? Was it something Sherlock had done?
The questions haunted him, and with no answers in sight, Sherlock found himself spiraling into a state of frustration and quiet despair.
For all his brilliance, for all his ability to deduce the most intricate of puzzles, Sherlock could not solve the one that mattered most—the mystery of William’s disappearance.
And so, with nothing left but the echo of what had been, Sherlock Holmes was left feeling something he hadn’t felt in years.
Clueless and…
Utterly empty.
°
°
°
The myosotis is a delicate thing—small, unassuming, but with a quiet will that refuses to fade. It grows where it can, reaching towards the light, always yearning to be seen. Sherlock was that flower, quietly persistent, yearning for the fleeting touch of someone who, to him, was a world away.
For years, Sherlock stood in the shadow of William James Moriarty. Watching, waiting, like a flower desperate to catch the professor’s attention. But how does a flower, so inconspicuous and easily overlooked, make itself known? How does it touch someone whose gaze is so often fixed elsewhere?
It sacrifices. The flower pulls from itself, letting go of what is precious—its own petal—just to make the lightest contact with the one it seeks. Sherlock, like the myosotis, let parts of himself fall. In stolen glances, in the quiet longing that tightened in his chest, he let pieces of his soul slip away, all in hopes of brushing against the professor’s life.
Each fleeting encounter felt like a petal falling—soft, unnoticed by the world, but to Sherlock, it was everything. The brush of their hands as papers exchanged in class, the accidental meeting of eyes across the library—small moments, insignificant to others, but to Sherlock, they were the touches he craved. They were the sacrifices he made to be felt, to exist in William’s world, if only for a moment.
But petals fall, and flowers are fragile things. They bloom and wither, often unnoticed, their beauty fleeting. Sherlock’s heart knew this. He knew that, just as the myosotis bends under the weight of its own longing, so too did he bend under the weight of his emotions, so utterly out his character. Yet, even knowing this, he could not stop. He could not stop yearning, could not stop pulling his own petals to reach for something he feared he could never have.
In the end, it wasn’t about being loved. It wasn’t even about being understood. It was about the touch—about being noticed, even if just for a fleeting moment.
Sherlock was the myosotis, always giving parts of himself for that one touch, that one chance to be seen by the one who captivated his soul.
Even if it meant his petals would fall, unnoticed and forgotten.
To be continued…