In the days that have passed since the news reached me of the death of Sherlock Holmes - things have been difficult. It seems as if I have spent the last 72 hours systematically trying to relive every moment we passed in each others company. In a way I suppose I am hoping that writing it down will be cathartic, though I was resigned long ago to the fact that his memory would never be completely lost to me.

I suppose the very act of starting a story at the beginning is unoriginal but I'd much rather start here, unfortunately I myself am not much prepared for the unhappy ending which awaits us.

I doubt it comes as any kind of surprise to you that both Sherlock and I first made our acquaintance at school, both term time boarders, both from wealthy enough families that we avoided the purgatory of having to share a room with a dorm mate.
He was - even then - more than a little odd. Two years of lower forms without so much as exchanging a single word to each other. We were fifteen by the time we finally shared a class in which we were situated beside one another in the higher set for Biological Chemistry.

If it were ever possible to take ownership of a subject, then Sherlock possessed chemistry, formulae and reactions were imprinted upon him like birthmarks and I must admit to having congratulated myself on my luck for having scored the seat beside him. All the good it did me, or at least, not at the beginning.

In the very same way that Sherlock Holmes' blood sang of catalysts and equations, my particular love and talent was focused wholly on the consistent certainty of numbers. Mathematics.

If I had been a romantic I probably would have known then that we would compliment one another so perfectly.
As it was, we sat together for almost a full term without speaking a single word to each other that wasn't relevant to the class subject matter and even then any verbal exchange was brief and to the point. To me, he was an oddity and to him, I was just another face.

In the end it all came down to the very plain fact that I was failing chemistry and that, at the time, my morals were rather loose.

The day I stole Sherlock Holmes' chemistry notes from his bag would change us both irrevocably for the rest of our lives and yet the action itself seems so pathetic.

Of course he knew it was me, as it turned out he'd been mentally placing bets with himself as to when I would finally cave and ask for help- apparently my penchant for theft was a 'pleasant surprise'. Or so he informed me that evening when he appeared outside my room, arms crossed over his chest, dark curls sticking out every which way.

Neither of us had really grown into ourselves yet. I was thin, awkward and my thick black hair was untameable. Sherlock - well, he lacked much of the grace he adopted so well in the years that followed.

He stepped right past me and dropped down onto my desk chair without a single word. I simply shut the door with a small click and lent back against it, watching him carefully. The conversation that followed went something like this:

'My chemistry book'

I nod - there isn't really much I can offer at that.

'You have it.'

Another nod - no point denying it.

'How did I not see?'

I finally respond, perplexed by the question, a little entranced by the way his lips moved when he spoke. He notices, of course.

'You weren't looking?'

'Im always looking. I see everything.'

'Well. I guess you missed something.'

'Obviously.'

There's something of a drawn out pause then, he spins back and forth on the chair, picking up bits and pieces from the desk top. Papers, the rubiks cube next to my Oxford English. His slender fingers drift over my folio copy of Frankenstein - odd, how that particular fact sticks in my memory.

I just watch him until he speaks again, his eyes fixed on something I can't see up on one of my shelves.

'I could help you- obviously you're worried about your parents reaction if you should fail a core subject, and with your father being a chemist himself...'

I don't ask him how he knows, it doesn't seem important and besides - I'd heard enough rumours.

'Why would you help me? You don't even know me. We've been sitting together for an entire term and I doubt you even know my name.'

'Victor Trevor.'

I wouldn't realise until much later in our acquaintance just how much hearing him say my name for the first time had affected me. It was one of the few things I expect he never deduced and that I never had the opportunity to express.

I blink slowly at him and I have no doubt that he was considering exactly how much of an idiot I was. This was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. Stand offish, unapproachable, intimidatingly brilliant and painfully dismissive. This was Sherlock Holmes offering to help me pass chemistry. I wonder now If it wasn't more than that. If it was in fact, his was of reaching out to someone. Of finally risking a part of himself in the pursuit of friendship.

I say yes, not quite as eloquently as I would have liked but the whole experience had left me a little confused. I vaguely remember having the urge to offer him tea, which would have been ridiculous given the complete lack of tea making essentials. Instead, I go to the end of my unmade bed and fish his note book out of my bag, taking a few steps and placing it on my desk for him to take.

'It wouldn't have done you much good anyway.'

I incline my head, not even needing to ask why - he's already started telling me.
He flips the first page.

'The majority of this would be illegible to someone so...'

He pauses and I'm certain that he's consciously trying to search for a less offensive word.

'It's fine.' I tell him. 'I know I'm shit.'

He smiles. Oh he smiles. It's like a secret, one he always kept quite well hidden and I answer it with a small one of my own.

'Do you think you could bring yourself to dumb it down for a novice like me?'

There's a pause and I get the feeling that he's struggling with something. He opens his mouth and closes it again, looking determined down at the square graph paper strewn across my desk. When he next speaks it's a mumble and I miss every word but one - 'ridiculous'.

I scratch a hand through my hair. I don't need to ask him to say it again because he already knows I haven't got a clue. He seems to take a moment to steel himself before he tries again, each word enunciated perfectly, clear and utterly coherent, yet no less surprising.

'I find myself, despite my far superior intellect, having to...'

He pauses.

'I need help with algebra.'

I very nearly laugh but thankfully I think better of it. My response is quiet, friendly.

'I can do that.'

'Its not that I can't do it, I just haven't the time patience to waste my...'

I shake my head and interrupt.

'I can help you.'

He nods and clenches one pale fist before standing, shoving his chemistry book under his arm.

'Classes finish at four tomorrow, be in the library at five. I won't wait around for you.'

A few moments later I open my mouth to say goodbye but he's already pushed past me and shut the door behind him. I spend a good few minutes pondering the encounter and then an entire sleepless night considering what might happen during the next one.