Note: I have no idea where Sherlock went to university, or what he studied, but for the sake of the story I have imagined that he studied Chemistry at Oxford.


Victor Trevor and Sherlock Holmes were not friends. As Sherlock was always keen to maintain, they were acquaintances – the word sounded fancy to everyone but him, because he used it all the time. Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends.

Sherlock's worst nightmare about going to university had been having to live with people. He didn't do living with people – or just people in general. He hoped that he would be able to hide in his room permanently, study if he needed to, read up on his interests if not, and generally be independent to the point of forgetting that others existed. For a few weeks, it was fine. Then the dog incident happened.

Few might have guessed that Sherlock was in fact a little afraid of dogs, but, in his words, he had his reasons. They were a bit like people in some respects – always trying to be friendly, but in a way that didn't suit him at all. He supposed that biting his ankle and forcing him to limp around on crutches for a week was probably friendly according to the dog. 'Don't worry, he's fine,' Victor had said as the dog made a beeline for Sherlock, like most dogs seemed to, and mauled at the flesh above his socks.

Victor was a perfectly ordinary individual who was in Sherlock's college and studied history. The two young men had not, however, met before then – indeed most people hadn't met Sherlock, and his existence was more of a fable than anything else among all but the chemistry students. But Victor was also a little independent, and had his own network of people he knew but whom he wouldn't quite call friends. Finding himself with slightly less money than he had hoped halfway through the first term, he took up dog-walking, and it was his first charge that spontaneously decided to attack Sherlock whilst the two were going opposite ways through the park.

'Oh, I say! Sorry!' cried Victor. 'Here –' And he offered a hand to Sherlock, who had crumpled and was clutching at his ankle. Sherlock took it carefully, as he was always diligent around those who claimed that their dogs were nice when in reality they were frankly evil.

With Sherlock leaning on his shoulder and so much of the lead wrapped around his hand that he was not so much walking the dog as dragging it, Victor called for help from those around; and eventually Sherlock got to the hospital, and his leg was bandaged and he was given a crutch to lean on whilst it healed. Though he was fond of taking brisk walks in the park when the weather was fine to mull over his thoughts, he was not entirely displeased, as he would have an excuse to stay in his bedroom for as long as he wanted.

His hopes were however shattered when Victor Trevor insisted on visiting the "invalid", as he called him. The poor boy had dropped his disastrous dog-walking job, and could not have been more apologetic about the incident, but he didn't quite understand that Sherlock had accepted his apology a long time ago and would prefer it if he stayed out of what many called his "introvert bubble".

There he was, lying on his bed with his hands clasped below his chin, his eyes closed, solving unsolved crimes that he had read about earlier in the library and generally having a splendid time, when there was a knock on the door.

Nobody had ever knocked on Sherlock's door before, but, as a whirlwind of thoughts swept through his mind, he guessed who it was and groaned inwardly, opening his eyes. 'Come in, Victor.'

'You knew it was me!' Victor came in with a look of surprise on his face, but he was smiling. He had heard of Sherlock's proficiency at guessing things – well, he called it deduction, but there were a lot of people who called it educated guesswork – but he had never seen it demonstrated before now.

'But of course. I don't get visitors. Except when I'm ill. And you would naturally be my first visitor, seeing as –'

' – it was my fault, I know, I know.' Victor sighed. 'Look, Sherlock, I'm really sorry.'

'I know you are. You don't have to keep apologising.' Sherlock rolled his eyes in a gesture that wasn't entirely friendly. 'Is that tea you've got?'

'Mm.' Victor set down the tray he was holding on Sherlock's bedside table (a rather overcrowded table, piled high with papers and books that, thankfully, formed a flat surface on which to place things) and offered Sherlock one of the cups of tea that was upon it. Then, without asking, he took Sherlock's second-favourite thinking-space – the chair with the embroidered cushion on it. Sherlock gave him a look, but he didn't notice.

'How are you finding your course? It's Chemistry, isn't it, that you're doing?'

'Yes.' Sherlock sipped at his tea and hoped that he wouldn't have to make too much small talk. None at all would have been preferable, but that was now impossible.

'Not really my area, I'm afraid,' laughed Victor.

'Nor mine,' admitted Sherlock suddenly.

Victor stared at him in slight astonishment. 'Why are you doing it then?'

'There wasn't a course called Deduction in the prospectus,' said Sherlock. A very quick smile crossed his face. 'And Chemistry could come in useful...'

He didn't sound entirely sure, and Victor felt he understood. 'So you just wanted to get away from your family for a bit?'

'Yes. Though really, the worst of them had already left home.'

Sherlock was making almost normal conversation but his eyes were still watching the tiny movements that Victor made, which was disturbing the latter rather.

'Who was that then?'

'My brother. Mycroft. He works in the government now.' Sherlock paused. 'A few more years, and he will be the government, damn him.'

Victor looked impressed despite himself. 'So he's aiming to be Prime Minister?'

'Not exactly,' Sherlock replied with an enigmatic smile that contained not a hint of humour.

Victor decided to change the subject. 'I don't suppose you couldn't do one of those deduction things about me?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'I already have done. You're from the north, probably Yorkshire, judging by the accent that you try to hide. You adopted a "posher" accent to try to disguise the fact that you used to go to a state school, and so that you would fit in at Oxford, but you still feel as if you stand out, and that's why you've been afraid to try to make friends. You –'

'Very good, very good,' Victor interrupted. Sherlock had struck a rather sensitive chord and he was regretting asking for a deduction. 'You're public school, aren't you?'

'Because of my slight disdain for state schools?' Sherlock smiled. 'I make a point of not judging people, don't worry. Not until I have solid data, at the least.'

Victor nodded, relieved. 'Anyway, I have an essay to do. I'll let you get on with – whatever it was you were doing.' It had not escaped his notice that Sherlock had been doing nothing when he had entered, and was even now stretched out still on his bed, not looking as if he would make a move any time soon.

Halfway through this conversation Sherlock might have been immensely heartened by Victor's last statement. Now, though he did want Victor to leave, he admired the boy's ability to guess that this was the case. So few people recognised Sherlock's need for short conversation and long periods of "alone time". Perhaps he could like Victor. He always said that he didn't need people, but if it had to be so that Victor became his acquaintance he wouldn't be completely annoyed.

'I hope your leg heals soon,' said Victor, with a look of the greatest guilt and regret, and he went from the room with a rather cheery wave that Sherlock, quite unexpectedly, returned.


Victor made a point of coming to visit Sherlock regularly. Sherlock managed to limp to lectures and practicals, setting off rather earlier than his peers (though that didn't matter as he was an early riser anyway), but otherwise he stayed in his room, burying himself in his pillows and reading or just thinking. He liked being alone more than anything, but he found he came to appreciate Victor's visits, for he knew that they were out of true kindness and concern, and that Victor, being more of an extravert, needed conversation and had few other people with whom to talk. He and Sherlock didn't have all that much in common, but they did share a love of reading, and also fencing and boxing, which Sherlock promised to take up when he could walk again – which he duly did so, and though Sherlock was by far the better in these sports, Victor proved a formidable partner for him, learning quickly and showing himself to be nimble and quick-thinking. They got to know each other better through this medium, and soon Sherlock numbered him among his good acquaintances – he had very few of these, and most of them seemed to have drifted away over the course of his life, and though he would never admit it, he was secretly very pleased that he had an almost-friend nearby, for when he wanted company.

The holidays were upon them before they knew it. Sherlock had planned to stay in Oxford, as he preferred it to home; but Victor was going back home, and, seeing that Sherlock would be almost the only one left behind, took pity on him and invited him to come with him and meet his father and sister. 'You can stay as long as you like,' he said; 'Dad won't mind.'

And so, on a day on which the first snow of winter was making a tentative appearance from the banking clouds, Sherlock found himself going to stay at another's house for the first time in his life, walking down to the station and holding a more animated conversation than he thought he was capable of, and happier than he had been in a long while.