"Hey, buddy. How've you been these past few years?"

Sherlock stood, frozen, in the doorway of the flat. There he was, sitting in a chair; no, not just a chair, John's chair, right across from Sherlock's. He glared at the back of the head in front of him. "What are you doing here?" he asked frostily, conveying coldness in every sense of the word.

The head turned around to face him. "What, can't I visit an old friend?"

Sherlock walked over to stand in front of the man. He studied him carefully. It had been quite a while since he had last seen him, but he would recognize him anywhere. Stiffly gelled black hair, dark brown eyes, fair skin, and a thin, beaky nose. He wore a pair of dark denim jeans with a light pink shirt and a black blazer. He shifted slightly under Sherlock's stare. "What's with the staring, buddy?" He leaned back and stretched, showing a tantalizing bit of skin as his shirt rode up. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock repeated in a cold, calculating voice. "Why are you back here, sitting in my flat, in John's chair?"

The man raised his hands in the air. "Okay, don't get defensive, buddy. I'm just here to talk to you, that's all. Just talk." He leaned forward and looked Sherlock in the eye. "And what I'm here to talk about starts with one question; who the hell is John?"

Sherlock raised his chin stubbornly. "John is my flatmate. We are…he is my…" Sherlock trailed off. What were they, exactly? They had shared some kisses (and more, Sherlock thought, but he didn't want to think about that right now, not with this vile man here), and both had expressed interest in taking their relationship further, but had never really talked about what to call themselves. What were they, anyways? Partners? Lovers? Boyfriends?

The other man cocked his head. "Your what?" he asked innocently. He shook his head. "Sherlock, I came here to tell you I was back in town and ready to try again."

Sherlock glared hard at him, fire in his gaze. "No. Never. You abused me, abused my trust and betrayed me. Remember? A few years back, when I walked out with broken ribs and black eyes and cuts and scrapes and…" he broke off, breathing loudly. He could have growled, he was so angry. "I will never be ready to 'try again', Victor. It runs too deep for that."

Sherlock felt something hard hit his face and his world exploded into stars and pain. He staggered backwards and fell into his chair. The next thing he knew, Victor Trevor was on top of him, pinning him to the lounge. Victor's leering face peered down at him. "So you remember that evening, do you? Well, try to remember what I can do if you displease me, pet." Sherlock felt a hand hovering over his belt buckle.

Sherlock's mind palace went into overdrive, focusing memories of Victor Trevor and their not-so-perfect relationship.

One evening, Sherlock decided to go to the pub. He didn't, normally, but this day had been different than others. He had been working in the university library, when he met a strange individual behind one bookshelf. The man was mysterious and smooth-talking, two things that instantly drew Sherlock to him. He had given him the address of this pub, in case he 'wanted to find out a little more about the elusive Victor Trevor'.

So he went, and had a few drinks. Victor showed up at the fifth, flirting madly with him. Sherlock, naturally, had been flattered. The combination of the alcohol and the fact that no one ever complemented Sherlock Holmes would cause Sherlock to make a choice he would always regret.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up, half-naked, in a small, seedy drug alleyway, mind fighting off the after-effects of the various drugs Victor had offered him. The man himself was lying draped across Sherlock, shirtless, trousers wrinkled.

Victor had woken up and winked at Sherlock. "How was your first shoot-up, buddy?"

Sherlock remembered the rush, the adrenaline, the absolute joy all at once. He sighed. "Brilliant."

And so began the rise of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock thought of it that way whenever the subject popped up in his mind palace. The rise and fall of Sherlock Holmes; it sounded like a bad novel. The drugs, the sex, the intoxicating drunkenness that was loving Victor Trevor; that was the rise. It was all a game, a brilliant, never-ending game of pursuing that joy, that ecstasy that he could only find when he high. It was like going up on a roller coaster. The upward journey is adrenaline filled and fantastic. And then you get to the peak and sit for a minute, before your fall begins. The fall of Sherlock Holmes began one cold night, several years back.

Sherlock remembered that night, oh yes. They had been on their way back to the tiny bedsit they shared in the seedy part of London, high on who knows what. Victor had wanted to have some fun that night, but Sherlock didn't want to, not that night. He just wanted to lay back and enjoy the high before it was over all too quickly.

Victor didn't like that.

All Sherlock remembered next was pain and violence and a never-ending spiral of doubt and betrayal. He woke up the next morning in bed with Victor, one hand tied to the bedpost, the other broken as part of Victor's 'convincing'.

That was where Sherlock's life began to come apart at the seams. That was the night he began a downward spiral, the night that marked the beginning of the fall of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock exited his mind palace to see Victor staring at him. "Well?" he said impatiently. "Do you remember?"

Sherlock nodded. For the first time since he had left Victor, he felt scared. He tried to speak, but it came out as a whimper. He could have hit himself; never show signs of weakness, that was the first rule of thumb when dealing with a situation such as this. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Very well, and graphically."

Victor stood up, easing himself off of Sherlock's lap. He looked down at him and chuckled maliciously. "Well? Don't just sit there…run off to the bedroom and get things ready, Sherl, and I'll be there in a minute. Just going to make myself a piece of toast with that lovely jam on it…" he said, voice trailing off as he entered the kitchen. John's jam, Sherlock thought. That was John's jam he was eating.

His face grew hot. John. What was he going to do? John wouldn't be home for another two hours; maybe he could just get Victor off quickly and he would never have to tell John. It wasn't honorable, his inner voice said. Why don't you trust John? He loves you, and if you tell him about this guy he'll stop him. You'll never get beaten by Victor again.

Sherlock sighed and bowed his head, a silent tear dripping from his eye. No, he could never tell John. John was so…so John; so loyal, so kind, so beautiful. Sherlock was sure that anything like this would scare him off, and he would never see his army doctor again. No, the best thing to do was to just get it over with. More than likely Victor would disappear after one quick shag and he would never see him again. It was better than suffering the pain that would come if he said no.

He sensed movement and looked up to see Victor standing by his bedroom door, holding a piece of toast with liberal amounts of jam on it. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "I'm waiting, Sherl."

Sherlock wiped away the solitary tear. "Yes, Victor."