Sherlock Holmes does not think of Victor Trevor for years.
In fact, Victor is little more than a snow globe on a shelf in the back closet of the farthest room of his mind palace. There, whole and full of flakes of memories and a figurine of times gone by, but dusty and padded deep under a blanket woven of dark things that Sherlock has rejected in favour of others. Victor Trevor is not an extraordinary human being by any standards, certainly not Sherlock's, though if that snow globe were to fall off it's shelf and shatter, there would certainly be some consequences.
Sherlock does not think of Victor until John Watson says, "A boyfriend then? Because that's fine."
His mind at that point is already busy and occupied with many things - he's not bored, not in the slightest, and that's certainly saying something. At the point, it's been months since he's been less than weary with disinterest, and the fact that John Watson managed to change that certainly piqued his interest. John Watson had already taken the shape of a new wallpaper along the wall of his mind palace, the patterns new and riddled with disruptions that Sherlock didn't recognize. It'd be a while before he understood what made up John Watson, he knew. So how the snow globe that contained Victor floated off it's shelf and came flying at him down the hall, almost shattering in an explosion of crystalline glass and prism of colors is beyond him. He caught it though, just in time, and that's why he bites back, "I know it's fine."
But then John Watson's wallpaper ripples again and the snow globe is left under a coatrack.
~X~
The second time Sherlock Holmes thinks of Victor Trevor is when he's staring down the handle of a gun and at explosives.
His mind is a race, a galloping horse that streamlines through wind and rain, and the wallpaper that is John Watson is familiar enough now, taking on a comforting shape and size and texture that Sherlock didn't think was possible. An umbrella that resembles Mycroft Holmes rests against his leg, and a teacup that is Mummy is held in his hand. In his other, is Victor Trevor, and his breath hitches in his throat. Because these are the things that matter, even if they shouldn't, and while he's all but signing his fate over, they are the ones that he thinks of. He thinks of governmental affairs and tea, he thinks of peaches and expensive perfume, he thinks of warm jumpers, and almost as much, he thinks of sunshine and the taste of cigarettes on his tongue.
But then the opening bars to Stayin' Alive are ringing through his mind palace, and the snow globe falls from his hand.
~X~
The third time he thinks of Victor Trevor, is when the words, "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof," falls from his mouth and onto the floor, skittering away in different directions.
It's just a brief flash this time, but unlike the others, it is alone. It is alone, and it is like a brick wall that slams him to the floor, and in the outside world he feels himself waver but does not let Irene Adler see. He knows Mycroft can, he can see it in the crinkle of his eye, in the twitch of his mouth, but he's not going to address that issue at this precise moment. With the thought comes a voice, husky and dark and tasting of ash and peppermint breathing the word, that word, "love", like it's the most frail object in the world. In a way, it is. Sherlock's handled it himself, held it in his hands and watched with awe as it squirmed and moved and expanded and contract, but then he twitched and it shattered.
He'd rather not revisit that, and that's why he stashes the snow globe deep into a crevice behind a bookcase. But it's in a room that looks like 221B, and so it's too close to home. He'll deal with it later, he decides, he'll deal with it like he deals with the concept of John Watson and sentiment, and he'll solve the puzzle.
He doesn't, though.
~X~
The fourth time Sherlock Holmes thinks of Victor Trevor, he's standing on a rooftop.
Below him is laid out his entire life. There, reflected in a car window, is his birth. Gleaming across that woman's umbrella is Mycroft Holmes, jumping around the library in a pirate hat with a plastic sword and laughing like he hasn't in his whole life. If he squints at that stoplight, he'll see being pushed down the steps at school, his mother screaming. He isn't going to look at the sight of his father walking out the door on that man's trench coat pocket.
He sees john Watson, a whole person, down below, and he takes up so much space and room and the wallpaper in Sherlock's mind palace isn't confined to a single wall. It's all around, all encompassing and suffocating and everything's all blurry and, oh God, is this what sentiment is like?
He sees Victor Trevor in the bars of that window. He sees University days, he sees a boy with a large grin and a curl of hair and too-green eyes. He sees a cigarette and cocaine and he sees something breaking apart, and he sees kisses and there's that sunshine again, and there's a siren there, too, hauling victor Trevor away.
This time, when the snow globe breaks, it doesn't return. The wallpaper around him is screaming and pleading and sobbing -
He jumps.
~X~
The fifth time, Sherlock Holmes doesn't think of Victor Trevor at all.
It's dark, it's raining, it's cold. There's a snow globe tucked into his coat pocket, but it's real this time, physical in all it's presence. the glass is smooth against his palm, and the bottom edge cuts his index finger, but he doesn't mind. There's clamoring all around him, and he deduces too many things about the guards that look sideways at him, but they let him pass. They let him step through without a word because Mycroft Holmes knows how to pull strings without Sherlock even asking him too.
There's a pane of glass that separates them.
Victor Trevor does not look up when Sherlock folds himself into a chair and picks up the phone hanging off the hook. He taps two fingers against the glass in a rhythm that only Victor will recognise, and takes a deep breath as the other man's fingers wrap around his own phone, yanking it from the wall and pressing it to his ear.
"It's been a while." Sherlock closes his eyes.
"That it has," Sherlock replies, smooth, and without question, because he's not going to let victor see him stumble.
"I heard you were dead," his voice breaks on the last syllable, but he's bites hard into his bottom lip as if to stop himself. It's no use, and Victor knows it, judging by the way he releases his own lip, teeth edges rimmed with blood.
Sherlock doesn't reply.
He takes the snow globe out of his pocket and slides it across the way. The edge hits the glass with a ping, but Victor's eyes brighten and he leans forward, a smile breaking out across his features. "Looks like home," he whispers, and there's a bitter laugh that comes with, sending blood to Sherlock's neck and ears. He hasn't heard that laugh in a very long time. Victor's fingertips press against the glass, almost desperate in the way the pads turn white and his knuckles red. "I've missed you, Sherlock."
"And I, you," Sherlock says because it's what Victor needs to hear. "I'm going back tomorrow. To -" he stops. He won't divulge the information.
"I'll expect to see you on telly then," Victor laughs again and Sherlock's breath hitches just slightly. They make eye contact then, through the glass, and there's a billion things besides silica and quartz sand that seperate them. Something in the emerald of Victor's irises soften. "What's his name, then?"
Sherlock taught Victor that. That's not something he'll forget.
"John."
"And there's room for him, then? Up there?" Victor's fingers tap against his temple.
Sherlock almost laughs but he catches himself at the last second, biting it back with a curt, "Yes."
There's a long stretch in which they just sit there, phones cradled to their ear, and stare, and stare, until Sherlock can't take it anymore, and he stands, fixing his coat.
"See me again, yeah?" Victor asks but there's no hope in his eyes.
He leaves without a snow globe in his mind palace.
Sherlock Holmes does not think of Victor Trevor again.