Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything affiliated with said series.
Well, alright. So my sister was driving me to work a while back, and that song "I Love College" by Asher Roth came on the radio. Now, I never have and never will be a fan of rap, but I will say that the lyrics got some gears turning in this strange little head o'mine and before I knew it, the idea for this story was born. Because come on, with friends like Victor Trevor, how could Holmes have not had any memorable (if unrepeatable) experiences during his university days? This will probably end up becoming a series of disjointed one-shots.
Rated T for some crude language and alcohol references.
"If drinking is interfering with your work, you're probably a heavy drinker. If work is interfering with your drinking, you're probably in college." —author unknown
In my defense, I have done it only once and I would never dream of doing it again. I could certainly blame it on the individuals involved; I could say it was a moment of weakness or a lapse in judgment. However, I take full blame and responsibility for no one save myself, and so I readily say with any and all shame I owe that it was nothing but pure stupidity. Yes, I, Sherlock Holmes, was drunk.
It was on a baking evening in June, the year 1874. I was on my way over to Victor Trevor's room to provide him with some much-needed assistance with trigonometry. Trevor, as a rule, always had a terrible time with geometry. I was never quite able to ascertain exactly why—he had always done perfectly well in every other form of mathematics, occasionally even besting me by a point or two on our exams. Ask him to find the area of a triangle, though, and you might just find yourself explaining which of the three sides is the base. (Unfortunately, he never quite came to fully appreciate the irony in this, either; I found it to be very droll.)
I cursed as I ascended the stairwell in the suffocating building. Trevor's room was so conveniently located on the third floor, and every step I climbed seemed to carry me closer and closer to some invisible furnace that was turning the atmosphere into that of an oven. By the time I reached Trevor's door, I was dabbing at my moist and streaming forehead with my handkerchief; Trevor seemed to be in a similar state when he opened the door.
"You look like you've been swimming, Holmes," was his tolerant and confoundedly good-humored greeting.
"I wish I had been," I replied, moving past him and into the room, which, despite the open window, was not a single degree cooler than the hall.
"Where's that hell-hound of yours?"
I voiced the questions seconds before realizing that, to my abject horror, the animal was curled up upon Trevor's comforter, its chest rising and falling rhythmically with a low, grunting snore accompanying each breath.
"Percy is sound asleep as you can see."
"You let the thing on your bed!?"
"Percy is a 'he,' not an 'it,' Holmes, and furthermore, yes."
"That dog is a spoiled child, Trevor."
"He's a very fortunate canine, that he is," Trevor said fondly, taking a seat beside the mutt. Aside from a brief flick of the ears, it did not even stir as Trevor scratched it affectionately on the head.
"I got him five years ago, when I was just fifteen. I was staying in Sussex for a week with my father, and a bitch on one of the neighboring farms had puppies. Can you believe that heartless planter was actually going to drown the whole litter? He was only too happy to let me take one of them off his hands, though Father was not exactly thrilled."
"Well..."
My bitter tone faltered despite myself. Of course, with Trevor's financial status, if ever in his life he had wanted a dog, he had only to name the size, breed, and color to have it handed to him on a silver chain. (And it could have been a much finer one, as well, than the specimen that lay soundly asleep at his side.) But, no, he'd actually gone out of his way to adopt the horrid thing for the sole purpose of rescuing it?
"People actually do that?"
"Indeed. Horrible. Should be against the law," he muttered angrily, running a hand along the length of the animal and more than likely contemplating the fate of his poor beloved pet had he not been there. Indeed, waking up to find five or six hungry puppies living in your yard no doubt would be an inconvenience, but even I, my antipathy towards the beasts notwithstanding, could think of several exponentially more humane ways to deal with the problem.
"Shall we get to work?"
"Let's," he replied hastily, remembering himself. He got up and dragged the fairly small, cluttered table that acted as a desk over to the bed, which served as his seat. I grabbed the only chair and sat down on the other side.
"Don't mind Anderson's things, just shove them off to the side."
I shot a questioning glance at Trevor. It was very unlike him to be so inconsiderate of another's belongings.
"I know," he acknowledged my confusion with an easy shrug, "but Anderson is not exactly respectful towards my possessions, either. Last night I came in only to find five of my textbooks lying in a disarrayed heap on the floor as if he'd just swept an arm across the table without caring where they landed."
"Did you have words with him?" I knotted my brows, marveling at the obscene nerve of this brute to take advantage of my friend's almost painfully tolerant nature in such a way.
"As of yet, no. I do wish to avoid any confrontations, so I had hoped I could just send him a message simply by..." he left the sentence open, flushing a little.
"Returning the favor? Quite right. Probably the most effective course of action."
No sooner than I had finished the sentence, I raised my own arm to swipe the odd assortment of books and papers off the desk. Most of the heavy volumes fell unceremoniously to the ground with a heavy thud, but I had smacked a few of the lighter ones with enough force to send them sailing into the wall with a resounding thwack. This, in addition to the small tornado of paper that was in the process of gracefully drifting its way to the floor, left me feeling most satisfied that Trevor's boorish flatmate would soon be getting what he so rightfully deserved.
"Holmes!" Trevor cried, aghast, cupping a hand over his mouth.
"It was your idea, Trevor! If the imbecile wants to treat your personal property with such disregard, then this is what he'll get in return!"
"Oh..." Trevor practically whimpered, fidgeting.
"I do hope you didn't damage anything of his, though."
"Oh, for the love of heaven, Victor! Must you really be so bloody tender? He's the one who is acting out of order, not you."
"Alright, alright! Can we... Can we just start the math now and get it over with, please?"
"Indeed."
Taking one last apprehensive glance at the disheveled mound of books on the floor, he rolled his eyes and reached for some unseen object behind him. When his face betrayed obvious confusion only a moment later, however, I got the indication that whatever item he had been searching for was not there. He reeled around, eyes scanning over the bed frantically.
"I swear," he murmured, "I put it right... Oh, Percy. You silly boy."
I was on the verge of asking Trevor what the deuce he'd meant by that, but before I had the chance to speak, he'd slipped a hand just under the belly of the snoring beast and began to pull slowly out from underneath it what very soon appeared to be a book—his maths book.
It was my turn to roll my eyes in disgust as Trevor fought and lost the battle not to dissolve into a chuckle.
"Troublemaker," I muttered as he brushed a few stray stands of white fur from the cover.
"He's got a sense of humor."
"Yes, just like the time he lashed onto my foot. I'm sure he found that to be very hysterical, indeed."
"Oh, would you come off it? Here," he said, handing the volume out to me. I was careful to grab onto it with only two fingers and dropped it onto the table before disdainfully flicking it open.
"Honestly, Holmes..."
"I do not wish to end up with fleas!"
"This dog has never had fleas in his life."
"Well, it is still an animal, nonetheless."
"Exactly. That's why I like him so much."
I decided to ignore this last statement completely until a later date, for Trevor had made such a regular habit out of bewildering me with odd remarks that I had simply learned how to ignore it. After flipping the book open to the correct chapter and page, I was in the middle of reading aloud the definition of "secant" when I was interrupted by a rather insolent giggle.
"In general, secant lines intersect a circle at two... And just what is so funny, Victor?"
"Did you really refer to me as 'tender' just five minutes ago?"
"Yes. Too much so for your own good, in fact. May we now continue?"
"Oh, good Lord, Holmes. You have not seen me when I'm ill-humor as of yet."
"Likewise, Trevor, likewise. May I continue reading?"
"Fire away."
"Alright, let's try this again, Victor. ABC is a right triangle. We are given that one angle of triangle ABC is thirty-six degrees and the radius of the circle is ten. We may assume that all lines that appear to be tangent are tangent. Using this information, we must find both sides and the hypotenuse of ABC."
"So, we start off by halving the thirty-six degrees to get a pair of angles measuring eighteen degrees each... Which constitutes the third angles for these two additional right triangles we produce by drawing in two more radii here."
"Good. Keep going."
"So, now we take the... sine of angle C?"
"No."
"Cosine?"
"You're guessing again, Victor. Use your reason!"
"Sorry, sorry! So it must be tangent, then?"
"Yes, but the tangent of what?"
"Angle C."
"Incorrect."
"Angle..."
"I'm not telling you."
"I know that! Just give me a second to think, will you!"
Trevor propped both elbows on the table and rested his forehead on clenched fists, staring intensely at the problem. A single bead of sweat pooled on his sopping, glistening forehead and dripped onto the page. With an exasperated growl, he bolted upright in the chair and slammed one palm down on the table furiously.
"Assaulting the table will do nothing to accomplish solving this problem nor dispelling the heat."
He said nothing, but flashed savage eyes at me for just a moment as he reached into his coat pocket, which was now on the floor, and fished around for a handkerchief. Due to the overwhelming temperature of the room, we had both deemed it fit to remove our outermost garments and were down to our waistcoats.
"Take the sine of eighteen degrees," he declared distractedly, mopping his head.
"What did I just tell you, Victor?"
"You mean about the futility of brutalizing the desk?"
"That is not what I mean and you know it."
"Take the... the tangent of eighteen degrees."
"Why?"
"It's cosine, then?"
"I didn't say you were wrong, I'm asking you to explain why the solution could only be tangent."
"Oh, for the love of... It just is! What further explanation do you need?"
"We are taking the tangent of eighteen degrees, are we not?"
"Yes, I do believe we've established that."
"Besides our given angle measure, what two additional elements do we need in order to solve for tangent?"
"The... The opposite side of the triangle and the hypotenuse."
"Which are?"
"Ten and... Unknown."
"Alright. Tell me the equation."
"The tangent of eighteen degrees is equal to... is equal to..."
"Forget the problem for a moment. What is the formula for tangent?"
"Er... Adjacent over opposite?"
"Some Old Horse Caught A Horse..." *
"Taking Oats Away. Opposite over adjacent, then."
"Right. Now tell me the equation for the tangent of eighteen degrees."
"Ten over the hypotenuse."
"Now rearrange it and solve."
"The hypotenuse is equal to ten divided by the tangent of eighteen degrees."
"Precisely."
Trevor blinked.
"What?"
"I said 'precisely.' You have only to solve the equation, which I believe you already know how to do."
"Oh."
Several more thunderstruck blinks accompanied a small but satisfied ghost of a smile.
"Well, I'm far from being an expert, but I begin to vaguely understand where this is all coming from."
"I am glad you think so Victor, for there are still seven individual steps remaining to complete this problem."
The tiny trace of joy that had graced his expression just seconds beforehand whithered without further delay.
"Oh—"
At this point, he affirmed his displeasure with a certain profanity which I dare not repeat here. It was several moments before I could even regain my composure enough to breathe again.
"Pardon the expression," he waved off my astonishment with such indifference that I had to wonder whether or not such language was a regular part of his vocabulary.
"Fine. Let's... Let's just move on."
"And for the final step, what is the length of the hypotenuse?"
"Fifty point four inches."
"Correct."
Upon reaching this conclusion, we both breathed a heavy sigh of relief, Trevor with an exhausted "whew!"
"If at all possible, could we take a break for now, Victor?"
"I think we can take a break forever, Holmes."
"You do realize that we only covered half of the first section of the chapter?"
"I know. I'll just have to fail tomorrow, that's all. Seems I just wasted two and a half hours of your time, Holmes. Sorry."
I dug around in my own coat pocket for my watch. Ten-thirty.
"S'fine," I assured him breathlessly, leaning back and stretching my legs out rather indecently. Even I had to say, I was spent.
"Move over, boy. Your master's rather fatigued himself," Trevor addressed the dog as if he'd actually make it appreciate why he felt the need to gently but firmly scoot the jaded beast out of its comfortable spot so he could recline himself.
"Holmes," he said, breaking out into a fit of snickering.
"What?"
"I do believe that geometry is going to be the ruination of our friendship," he declared, the snickering giving way to a keen peal of laughter.
"I have no objections to assisting you, Victor, but you must realize that I am perhaps the least patient man on the face of the planet—a trait which is not on kindly terms with tutoring."
"Or the most geometrically challenged man on the face of the planet."
"That, too."
Trevor dropped listlessly onto the bed, inhaling deeply and sighing. I was not feeling so vigorous myself, of course, but Trevor was far and away worse off than I. His entire face had already taken on the hue of a steamed lobster and, much to his chagrin and my amusement, his now-saturated collar had refused to stay in place over the course of the evening and was now splayed open rather widely, never again to conform to the shape of the wearer's neck.
"Where is this roommate of yours, anyway, Victor? The hour is rather late to be wandering about with any good intentions."
"I have no clue. One night last month he came in at three in the morning, and none too quietly, I might add."
"Buffoon."
"Well... I am not so certain."
"Eh? What ever do you mean? The fellow sounds ghastly enough to put up with to me."
"I know, I know, but he is so... solemn. Brooding."
"Has it occurred to you that you've just aptly described the man sitting across from you?"
"You do not stare blankly at me as though I'm not here! You are pensive. This man is... vacant, and most eerily so."
"Well, it hardly matters. His issues are not your issues, and if he cannot bring himself to realize this, then he is even more boorish than your description of him leads me to believe."
"But it's not as though we've ever had occasion to quarrel. No, I've never argued with the man once. It's more like... He simply refuses to acknowledge the fact that I exist. It is most unnerving, to be quite honest. I worry for him sometimes."
"Didn't I tell you you're too softhearted for your own good?"
"And you're the devil's advocate!"
I only gave a low guffaw as I continued to fan myself with some random paper of Anderson's I had salvaged from the floor.
"Why is it so damned hot in here?" Trevor muttered rhetorically, shutting his eyes for a moment.
"It would probably have something to do with the fact that it is so damned hot outside."
Quite spontaneously and with a remarkable burst of energy, Trevor sprung from the bed and immediately dropped stomach-down onto the floor with such speed that at first I thought he had fainted or suffered a heatstroke. That is, until he began to rummage around for something underneath the bed.
"Victor? What the devil are you doing?"
"Ah, found it!"
I could only watch, dumbfounded, as Trevor emerged from the ground with nothing more than a simple suitcase in his arms.
"I opted to stow this in an at least semi-hidden location when I realized how far-gone Anderson was," he informed me, unclasping the fasteners on the satchel.
"Why?" I could not help but question somewhat nervously. To repeat and reinforce one exhilarating yet congruently disconcerting characteristic of my friend, Victor Trevor had made a practice out of mystifying me on a fairly regular basis. For all I knew, he could pull out a stick of dynamite from that case just as easily as he could a toothbrush.
But no, it was neither of the above-mentioned items. What he did withdraw from the trunk, however, was no less stunning.
"Victor...? You?"
"Not as holy as you thought, eh?"
"But... Is that even allowed on campus?"
"Probably not."
As many would be able to conclude from this conversation, the content of this cavalier's suitcase was, in fact, a bottle. A very fine-looking and aesthetic bottle, actually, of gin.
"Where did you get that?"
"Well," he chuckled, "you should have seen me the day before I left home. I was positively giddy at the prospect of no longer living under anybody's thumb. I just grabbed this before leaving. I'm not really sure why, actually. Call it an impulsive move."
"Impulsive, I should say!"
And it was true, although I could seamlessly relate to Trevor's longing for freedom. Words cannot adequately describe my relief (I dare say happiness) upon stepping out of that house for the last time in order to commence constructing the foundation of my own life. This was the time for determining one's role within the world. This was the time to cease being molded and shaped like so much clay. This was the time to establish one's sense of self and to compose the map for the duration of one's existence. This was liberation; this was the meaning of destiny—and for me, this was, in and of itself, monumental.
"Do you want the jigger or the bottle?"
"What?"
"Well, I could only find one whiskey glass, so we'll just have to improvise."
And this was just plain absurd, so I suppose it is just as well that I terminate the poetry before I humiliate myself even further. In actuality, I was contemplating the bottle with no small amount of skepticism... and curiosity. I had had meager experience with alcohol, at most, up to that point. In fact, to be most embarrassingly blatant, one of the last times I could recall drinking was when I had contracted a case of the measles at twelve. My parents, or my mother, at least, seemed to be under the impression that blackberry brandy did much to fortify the immune system. She administered nips of it to my brother and I like medicine whenever we were ill or when sickness was going around—and we enjoyed it as much as we did any other medicine at our early age. Of course, very few people relish the taste of liquor upon first trying it; it is an acquired taste that grows over time. I began to understand as much in my early teens, when I realized the capabilities of alcohol's intoxicating properties. I came to welcome and even anticipate these doses.
However, in no way do I wish to imply that I received the stuff on a regular basis. On the contrary, these measures were quite sparse, and any opportunities to otherwise happen upon booze were, likewise, few and far between.
"What is this stuff, anyway?"
"London dry."
I leaned forward on the table and grabbed the neck of the bottle, turning it so I could read the label.
"Eighty-three proof spirit... Aged forty-four years!? And you're sharing this with me, Victor?" *
"What, you think I'm going to drink alone?"
"But what if your roommate comes back?"
"Didn't I tell you the fellow doesn't even notice that I exist? I severely doubt he'll care one bit. Or, if he does, he can have some, too. It might even coax him to talk, for once. That is, if he comes back."
I was trying to think of any and all possible worst-case scenarios that might ensue if we were to be discovered. Well, I thought, I most definitely do not plan on becoming rip-roaring drunk. It as not as though we'll be making any more noise than we usually would, anyway. And seeing as where this other fellow is evidently nothing to worry about...
"So, what'll it be, then?"
"I'll take the whiskey glass, I suppose," I concluded, so that I would be able to know unmistakably exactly how much I was imbibing.
Foolproof.
"As ever, the picturesque archetype of society," he teased me, uncorking the decanter without a trace of difficulty and pouring me the first round. My impulse to grab the glass and drain it at once failed most uncannily to register in my arm, and I sat there dumbly for a moment regarding the spirit with some apprehension.
"What shall we toast to?" Trevor asked wistfully, tapping his chin. An odd question to put forward when we were both so clearly just waiting to pounce on the stuff, in my opinion, but I raised the glass on a whim of mischievousness.
"Pythagoras."
"Splendid idea!" Trevor readily responded with far too much enthusiasm, baffling me to no end as he brought the decanter to meet my drink.
"May he burn in the realm of Satan for the rest of eternity," he announced zealously, clinking the rather cumbrous bottle against my tiny glass before I could even get the chance to snigger at how cruelly he had twisted my words. We certainly must have painted a most questionable picture, that. My earlier misgivings virtually vanished, I brought the rim of the drink to my lips and downed the spirit rather more quickly than was probably wise. I had rather foolishly been under-prepared for the burn that invariably accompanies the stuff's trip down the esophagus, and the sensation sent me into a mild coughing fit that took me a moment to recover from.
"Too hard for you?" Trevor smirked at me, raising an eyebrow mockingly. Apparently, it had gone down easily enough for him.
"Just went down the wrong way, that's all."
"I'm sure."
My only response was to brashly slam the whiskey glass down on the table, beckoning him to an opportunity to try saying that again. I believe he understood my gist as he rather sportively poured me the second shot. I downed it no more slowly than I did the first, but this one turned out to be much less painful and very smooth. I could actually perceive the flavor of the liquor this time. Trevor took another swill of the stuff to match my two.
"This is rather good, actually," I could not help but comment.
"Did you think I was going to serve you poison?"
"What's this flavored with?"
"Juniper, coriander, and angelica. More?"
"Er... Not just now, thank you."
Oh, but I wanted more, though. I was already beginning to feel just mildly relaxed, although the warming nature of the drink had done nothing to reduce my already soaring body temperature. It is truly quite astonishing, is it not, just how much damage such a little amount of the stuff can do. Not to mention the fact that it was going into an empty stomach. If only I'd known then what I know now...
Nevertheless, I didn't, to put it punctually. Actually, come to think of it, I haven't the faintest idea what I was thinking (if I was at all) when I decided that, being significantly larger in frame than most fellows my age, I could tolerate a fairly liberal amount of the stuff. (Did I mention that I weigh less than thirteen stone?)
Regardless, on the grounds of politeness and whatever shreds of self-control were holding me back at that point, I refused another helping of the drink... Until ten minutes later, (surely it was longer than ten minutes?), only when it was offered. As I toppled the third spirit, though, I perceived something for the first time that had gone unnoticed by me before. As I have already said, the drink had started to make me feel rather hotter than I already was. However, the stinging sensation in my throat had left it sensitive to the relative coolness of the air—much like the abating effect of perspiration evaporating on skin. This was considerably relieving in the incinerating heat of the room, and of course only served to fuel my fondness for the stuff.
It was about this time, as well, that my barriers began to slowly crumble like a wall of sand against the rising tide.
Well, don't just sit here staring like a recluse, say something!
As the thought passed absently through my distracted mind, I could not help but grin at the scene that lay before me.
"Where does it come from, Victor?"
"Where does what come from?"
He posed the question just seconds before belting his third drink. Even in retrospect, it was certainly something to behold, that—watching this finely-dressed, perfectly complacent mess of a gentleman slinging back straight gin from the bottle with his ankles crossed on the table.
"This... This indecorous swagger of yours," I gasped, for I was outright laughing by this point.
He simply gave an apathetic shrug, pulling a most nonchalant expression at me. Oh, yes, his tethers were beginning to loosen as well, but even still, he was not so affected as I (yet.) He was, after all, a football player, and while not altogether as brawny as his teammates, he still had considerable mass on me.
"Don't know. Maybe it runs in the family or something."
Hmm, whether or not certain personality traits can be innately passed from parent to offspring? It would make a fascinating monograph study...
"No, on second thought, that's bosh. I'm just a profane brute by nature."
The wall cracked and buckled as we sat there roaring. I thought I actually heard it breach, until I realized that the poor fellow who resided in the room adjacent to us was very forcefully pounding on the real wall.
"Keep it down!" someone demanded most vehemently.
"Sorry!" Trevor instantly responded.
Keep it down? Oh, go to hell. Five past eleven isn't that bloomin' late, anyhow.
Three had been the gateway. Four was the point of no return. The wall collapsed.
"You're slipping, Victor!"
"Damn!"
"Yes! Ha ha!"
I slammed my free fist down on the table in celebration. (When I say "free," I refer to the arm that had not been engaged in the arm-wrestling match from which I had just emerged victorious.)
"My God, Holmes! Even with your left you're a heavyweight!"
"I know, I know," I grinned, grabbing hold of the sixth shot Trevor had just poured for me after taking another drink himself. Pulling it away from his lips, he studied the bottle with a most comical expression of perplexity. He squinted and held the bottle closer to his face first, then moved it further away.
"Huh. I can't read the writing on this anymore," he said casually, placing the bottle back down on the table, "which is a shame, because now I suppose I shall have to get spectacles. What do you think?"
He connected his index fingers with his thumbs and then placed them over each respective eye, and in my impaired state all I could do was tap my chin thoughtfully and scrutinize him, pondering how spectacles, indeed, would probably ruin his appearance.
What happened next, (or, more accurately, what I proceeded to do next), is something that I cringe and shutter about to this day.
"Ohhh, Victor," I slurred, positively grinning, "if you think that's bad, you never met my father!"
Yes, I actually said it. Out loud. (Has anybody fainted yet?) In answer for my nigh-on psychotic actions, I can only say that... Well, I simply did not think it could happen! Perhaps the reason I so longed for the stuff in the first place was that its effects reminded me so greatly of that of the cocaine. At first, the reaction had almost been an exact parallel—a slight rise in temperature, the feeling of tranquility, and an overall sense of euphoria. By the time I realized how much I was chattering on, however, it was far too late to simply stop. I was not thinking for myself anymore; the gin was doing it for me. And it did not plan on releasing me anytime soon.
It was so foolishly naïve of me, really, not to figure I would wind up divulging exponentially more than I ever intended to while locked in the stuff's grip in the first place. The information I was now spitting out for all the world to hear was (and still is) a subject matter buried so deeply within me that I could not even fathom a drug powerful enough drug to make it surface. Burn me, whip me, stretch me on the rack 'till my legs break, and you would never hear one word of what I was presently telling this man whom I'd known only four months. But give me a few nips of gin and all hell breaks loose, apparently! It simply is not fair for God to have created a breed with such strength of willpower and then outfit them with brains that can be so easily scrambled by nothing more than a few drops of poison!
"Now he wore these big metal-rimmed glasses, thick... thick as windowpanes! Blind as a bat without them."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes!" I continued on merrily, pausing to gulp the drink.
"Couldn't even tell my brother and I apart when he wasn't wearing his spectacles!"
Another explosion of laughter followed. Who cared if I was candidly disclosing intimate details of my personal history? We were both having a good time, were we not? Was that not all that mattered?
"One more?"
"Just one more," I agreed, holding my glass out. Trevor tilted the bottle to pour me drink number seven, but hesitated, a most irked expression crossing his face.
"Quit moving it."
"I'm not!"
Although he was probably seeing doubles by then, anyway.
"You're drunk, Holmes. You don't even realize you're moving it!"
"I am not drunk!"
It was certainly a laughable denial, although I was more far more entertained than miffed by his accusation.
Me! Drunk! The very idea of it!
All things considered, however, I was fractionally correct about one thing, for I was indeed not drunk—I was smashed.
"You definitely are. You're three sheets to the wind, Holmsey," he chimed, seeming to figure out which one of my stationary glasses was actually there and pouring me one more round.
"You're one to talk, Victor. You're the one with the bottle! A gentleman exercises moderation," I somehow found the audacity to chide him, draining my seventh and last drink.
"Is that why you never quite made the ranks?"
"No. I just have no money."
At this, Trevor threw his head back in one of those uncanny, hysterical, near-silent laughs, water welling up in his eyes. To look at him, one would think I'd just said the funniest thing he'd ever heard, though I spoke with complete honesty.
"My dear friend, you really must listen to yourself sometime," he said, wiping the tears of hilarity from his face, as if finding the fact that somebody could possibly have less wealth than him utterly preposterous.
"What's going on in here?"
An entirely new voice had barged into the room, and I reeled to find a rather short, irate-looking chap standing just inside the doorway.
"Oh. Good evening, Anderson. Would you care to join us?" Trevor offered most serenely. Anderson, for apparently this less-than-impressive figure was the neurotic Trevor had warned me about, was not in the slightest bit receptive.
"And who the hell is this!?"
"Hallo," I responded sanguinely with a small wave, for nothing could have spoiled my mood at that point.
"This is a good friend of mine, Herlock Sholmes. Or... Yes, that's it. Do have a seat."
"My books! Trevor. Get him out. Now."
"An-derson, do stop being a prude. There's plenty of room for-HIC!"
In a spasm so violent he slammed the back of his head against the wall, Trevor let out a hiccough that sent us both into yet another laughing fit. Anderson's face was beginning to glow crimson, and not from the heat.
"That's enough! You—whatever your name is, leave."
"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you," I replied, genuinely failing to detect the hostility in his voice. As far as I was concerned, all was right with the world and everyone in it.
"You know, Anderson," Trevor more or less slurred, albeit taking on a serious tone, "I've put up with you and your whining for six. Whole. Months. And did you ever once even deign to ask me how I was doing every now and then? Oh, no! That's right—you don't even look at me if you can help it!"
It was about this time that things really started to take a turn for the worst.
"Hold on... Wait, Trevor, just... Just calm down," Anderson sputtered, raising his hands defensively as my friend rose menacingly from his seat. This Anderson really was a small fellow, indeed; Trevor was only a few inches shorter than me, and still held at least four or five on this chap.
"Don't tell me to calm down! You know, I really couldn't give a damn when you spontaneously up and decide that treating my things with such thoughtlessness is perfectly fine, but how dare you barge in here at quarter to one in the morning and insult my friends!"
"This is my room too, Trevor! Now get this drunkard out of here before I report you both!"
"Before I report you both," Trevor taunted him mercilessly, moving not towards Anderson himself, but to the other end of the table.
"Of course. You go ahead and do that, Anderson. This is how much I care."
And with that, Trevor roughly grabbed hold of one of the weightier volumes in the disordered pile on the floor and promptly hurled it out the open window.
"What are you doing!?"
"Were you not watching me? Here, I'll do it again."
"No! Trevor, don't you dare—let go of me!"
True to his warning, Trevor seized yet another book and disposed of it in a similar manner. Meanwhile, this Anderson fellow and I were engaged in some kind of bizarre, spiraling minuet. When he realized that Trevor was going for yet another one of his precious books, he made nothing less than a mad dash for him, but his attempt was thwarted when I proceeded to grab the back of his shirt. He was twisting and turning about in every which way to try and throw me off, (I had him hooked by the collar with two fingers, for heaven's sake!), but instead of struggling against him, I kept moving right on with him. And it was driving him mad.
"You dumb bastard, get off!"
Of course, in my tipsiness, it never occurred to me that this fellow was in fact insinuating that I was a 'dumb bastard,'as he had put it, for I was far too busy thinking of how much he reminded me of one of those music boxes with figurines that spun like clockwork whenever they played. Only this was a swearing, flailing music box that would be liable to kill me when it stopped spinning, so I held on tight and continued to match his jerking movements.
After only about a minute or two, however, even this became simply too much for me to keep up with. Against my will, I began to slow down and grow very, very dizzy. I finally had to stop when my sight began to blur. Anderson took this opportunity to deliver me a surprisingly forceful shove which sent me sprawling—face first—into the wall.
And then, there was blackness.
I moaned. There was something cold and hard on my head—crushing my head. One hand flew up to my forehead in an attempt to push whatever the thing was off of me, but it landed on nothing but skin. My eyes flew open.
I was no longer on the floor, but on the bed opposite of Trevor's. The desk had been returned to its proper place against the wall, the chair behind it. On top of the desk in a neat stack were five books; from what I could see, the topmost two appeared to be in a positively ruined state. Those must have been the two (or among the two) that Trevor let fly last night. But Trevor himself was nowhere to be found.
"Ow!"
I shielded my eyes with both hands. Why was it so deucedly bright in there? The weight was back, crushing my skull as I lay there trying to sort out my thoughts. It was no good trying to completely organize them, however, for between the lingering effects of the alcohol and the migraine, I had gone completely scatterbrained.
There was a young tease from Mount Chesser who'd smile as men would assess her. So flirtatious was she, she'd invite them to tea, and then not allow one to undress her.
What? Where did that come from?
The obscene rhyme rang in my head several more times as I desperately tried to recall the events of of the previous evening. There was gin, I remembered that much, but what had gone on?
Ohh, Trevor, you never met my father! Now he wore these big metal-rimmed glasses, thick as windowpanes! Blind as a bat without them!
I ceased breathing when I finally came to the horrifying realization that the voice slurring its way through the latter statement was none other than my own.
No. Impossible.
But indeed it was. I had said it myself and of my own free will.
The doorknob turned and clicked. I only recited a silent prayer that it was Trevor and not his horrid roommate.
"You're finally up, Holmes?" he asked me as soon as he saw that I was awake, albeit devoid of his normal good humor.
"Victor? Your roommate...?"
"It's been settled," he cut me off, turning to face me for the first time. I saw that he had the beginnings of what was probably going to develop into a very painful black eye.
"What's going to happen to us?" I asked, my heart rate doubling itself.
"Nothing."
What?
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. Anderson never reported us. Probably too afraid to after what you did to him... And me, of course. But it's been agreed that I will cover the cost of the two books I destroyed, in addition to giving my solemn word that this shall never happen again."
"And I left you to face the consequences alone," I said, although I will admit I never quite forgave him for giving me the stuff in the first place, or at least for doing absolutely nothing to stop both of us before we became hopelessly intoxicated.
Although knowing what I drunkenly revealed to him last night was more than enough to deter me from even touching a glass of beer for years to come.
"No. No, you didn't. This is my fault, Holmes, all of it. Don't you feel responsible for any of it."
"Mostly, yes, but since you at no point actually forced the stuff into me, the fact remains that I, as well, am also to blame for last evening's fiasco which could have easily gotten us both expelled."
"It's a horrifying thought," he mused, taking a seat on his own bed, "so much wasted for the sake of a drink."
I nodded my agreement and we sat in silence for several minutes.
Ohh, Victor, you never met my father! Now he wore these big metal-rimmed glasses, thick as windowpanes! Blind as a bat without them!
If you were going to say something about your own father, you could have at least made it a bit more flattering than that!
"But I will say that it was quite gratifying to watch you make Anderson tie himself up in a knot," Trevor gave me a weary smirk.
"And you were right, Victor. I should not want to fall afoul of you when you're in ill-humor."
At this, he flushed and averted his eyes for a moment.
"Well, that was months and months of bottled-up tension finally releasing itself in an explosion."
"And you've known me for how long now...? Four months? How do I know that I don't have some unconscious little mannerism that is driving you just beserk?"
"Oh, come on, Holmsey—"
"Come on, now, Victor, what is it? Is it the way I walk? The brand of cigarettes I smoke? Is my necktie crooked?"
"Will you shut up!" he fairly yelled, bursting out into a fit of relieved laughter.
"At any rate, you'll find out when you wake up one day with a pitchfork through your stomach."
"A pitchfork, Victor? That was remarkably gruesome to come up with on a dime. Just what else have you got in that suitcase?"
END CHAPTER 1 AND A BOTTLE OF GIN
* "Some Old Horse Caught A Horse Taking Oats Away." Nifty little mnemonic for sine = opposite/hypotenuse, cosine = adjacent/hypotenuse, tangent = opposite/adjacent.
* In Victorian England, alcohol content was measured in units of "proof spirit." To convert alcohol by volume (ABV) to "proof spirit," simply multiply by 1.75. So the gin mentioned in the story is 47% ABV, or around 95 proof, as most people will be familiar with. Lots of math in this story, huh?
*ASSUMING that Holmes is around 6"4 and 180 pounds, having drunk 11.9 ounces of gin (a British jigger is 1.7 ounces) over the course of two hours, his BAC would be approximately 0.19. The DMV classifies this as "Definite Impairment." I think they're right.
* Unrelated, I came thisclose to entitling this chapter "Two Guys, One Bottle," but changed it virtually last second, having reconsidered whether the joke would go over well with most sane members of the fandom. REVIEWS are always appreciated!
