Victor watched from afar as a scrawny, dark-haired boy scrawled in dry erase marker an almost unintelligible and certainly incomprehensible equation onto the windows of the Student Health Services building, muttering extremely creative swears under his breath. Victor sat on a park bench a little ways off, smoking silkily on his cigarette, watching the apparent madman in front of him. He noted how he mopped his black curls back from his head after each line of equation was complete, how his scrawny frame seemed to rock with a rhythm that the rest of the world was not attuned to as he feverishly wrote, and how a few track marks were clearly noticeable on the genius' forearm as he rolled his sleeves back.

Interesting… certainly interesting…

As Victor took the last hit of his cigarette he stood and smashed the dying embers beneath his heel as he moved forward.

"What are you doing?"

The black curls whipped around as pale blue eyes collided with Victor's own metallic hues.

"I'm writing an equation," he mumbled, turning back to his work before he lost track of where he was in his calculations. If the boy beside him was truly interested, he could wait a minute.

"Why do you want the Student Health Services to see this specific equation?"

Sherlock glanced sideways, keeping his intonation clipped as he replied, "And why do you think I would want SHS to see this?"

"You're writing the equation backwards so that it will be readable only from the inside of the building. It wasn't hard to guess."

Sherlock scoffed slightly under his breath as he continued scrawling.

The blonde boy beside him held out his hand. "Victor. Victor Trevor."

Sherlock turned to look at the boy, fixing him with his intense, destructive stare, the look that let others know he was breaking them apart bit by bit, analyzing what was hidden underneath, and then cataloguing the information and rebuilding. Sherlock glossed over the feral smile, the sharp cheekbones, the frayed leather jacket and the expensive combat boots, his focus zeroing in on that look in Victor's eyes, that hunger, that desire, that craving rippling underneath the smooth exterior that was broadcast to the world.

Sherlock could see danger written in every arch and curve of Victor's body, in his taut skin and jagged cheekbones, in the pinpricks on his arm and the bruises on his neck.

And for this, and only this reason, Sherlock resisted the urge to spew his normal scathing comment, bit back his reflex to hurl acidic rejection and alienating deduction at this newcomer. He took the hand carefully.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"You're the bloke who jumped out of the window!" Victor laughed, shaking Sherlock's hand warmly. "I read about it in the campus paper," he said in response to the look Sherlock gave him.

"I wasn't aware we had a campus paper," Sherlock lied.

Victor cocked an eyebrow. "You aren't missing out on much. The only interesting bits are the police reports and the occasional story about a Chemistry major jumping out of a building and surviving."

"I didn't jump out of a window. I had calculated a controlled fall, following the laws of simple physics, taking into consideration wind, gravity, etc. and knew that if I leapt off at a precise velocity and initial angle, I would have fallen safely. I was testing experimental data."

"Is that the equation you used then?" Victor asked, indicating the scrawl on the Student Health Services window.

Sherlock looked at the equation, uncapping his marker as he prepared to continue. "Yes. If Student Health Services sees that I actually was testing an experimental calculation then they won't keep hounding me with their mental health screens and psychotherapy."

Victor smirked, the side of his face twisting into a cat-like grin. "Mate, I don't think that writing illegible mathematics on the windows of a university funded institution will prove to them that you don't need mental health attention. It might do just the opposite."

Sherlock found his mouth quirking up in a grin despite himself. The comment hadn't really been funny, so he wasn't quite sure why he had reacted with a smile. He looked over at Victor who was busy pulling a package of cigarettes out of the pocket of his black coat. Victor looked up at him.

"Care for a fag?"

Sherlock nodded, accepting the cigarette and lighting it off the lighter Victor held forward. He took a long drag, letting the smoke infiltrate every internal crevice, before cocking his head upwards and exhaling slowly. It was glorious. Victor blew out next to him, the cigarette tipped jauntily in between his fingers whereas Sherlock had his viced in his grip.

"Did your equation work?"

"Sorry?"

Victor let out more smoke before asking again. "Your equation, did it work?"

Sherlock gave him a hard look before allowing the right side of his mouth to move slightly upwards, flexing his zygomatic major, tightening the orbicularis oculi; pars orbitalis. All indications of a genuine smile. Interesting…

"I'm alive aren't I?"

The laugh the blonde boy created made Sherlock's zygomatic major flex even more, which both puzzled him and intrigued him. He studied the blonde boy who stood next to him, smoking. The deductions he could make of his character were countless. He could practically taste the binge drinking, smell the prostitute's perfume, feel the rush of snorting some blow, and hear the roar of an engine speeding down closed London streets as he watched Victor; the signs were that obvious. He was edgy, certainly, but edgy with just a hint of a softness underneath. The frumpy sweater underneath the leather studded jacket. Sherlock knew it was there, but there was no actual external evidence for that claim, no data from this exterior. It was frustrating and puzzling and Sherlock wanted to go deeper. He wanted to root through this young man, take him apart and piece him back together just so he would know how the whole entity worked.

Victor finished his cigarette and stamped it out, leaving the dying ember on the sidewalk.

"Well, I have to go mate. I have to pick up something from a friend."

Cocaine. Sherlock knew it, not only due to deductions but because some base part of him thrummed with the knowledge that this blonde would soon be in possession of the thing he wanted most right now. He turned back to the window quickly, nodding, hoping the other boy hadn't noticed some animal desire on his face.

"But hey, I'll catch you later, alright?"

With that, the blonde stalked off, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it as he did so. Sherlock watched him go out of the corner of his eye, noting the way his long fingers tapped the ash off his fag, how he favored his right side, but was a dominant lefty (likely due to drag racing).

Victor Trevor. He resorted to not forgetting his name instantly. Sherlock turned back to his equation.


Victor was getting bored, which was in itself interesting because the nearby city of London was anything but boring. There were drag races and drugs, brothels and bars; the underbelly of London roared with a caustic life that both attracted and repelled. It was what had drawn Victor here in the first place, and now that same energy was driving him away, like a sudden switch in the magnetic field.

There were only so many adrenaline filled races, near-death experiences, and hazy, drug-induced hallucinations one could take before a break was needed.

Except Victor Trevor still needed something to occupy his time, needed an outlet, another partner in his constant dance with danger. Victor was an addict, an addict to adventure. It was that metallic taste as you bite your tongue in horror and thrill, the snap as your senses instantaneously align in an attempt to save your life that he desired more than any drug though.

Victor stalked down the street, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket. He hadn't realized that he'd started chain-smoking until a week or so after it happened. It was just his nature, he supposed. Give anything addictive to Victor Trevor and he could easily hook himself on it. Of course, he also knew he could stop at anytime. That was the beauty of his danger; he only indulged in it because he loved it, not because he needed it. That was the difference.

It didn't take long for him to reach Bruce's apartment. Why the burly dealer had decided to take an apartment outside of central London rather than within was lost on Victor, but he was a family friend and happened to also have some good blow.

Victor knocked on the door, tossing his dying ember onto the ground as he did. The door opened to reveal a muscular man in his mid-twenties. Cropped brown hair covered narrow, distrustful brown eyes. Upon seeing Victor though, he shoved the door open some more, his tanned face morphing into an easy smile.

"Hey Vic."

"Hey Bruce, mind if I come in for a tick?"

"Not at all, not at all."

The door opened wider and Victor stepped into the main hall of the shady apartment. It was dark, but neat, each cabinet organized and nothing out of place. There were two kinds of drugs dealers, Victor thought. One was the messy kind, the haphazard ones who were really just junkies themselves and looking to turn a profit off their respected chemicals. Those were the ones who tended to get caught out most. The other ones were the respectable ones, the guys with cool heads who kept things running as smoothly as any other business. Their houses were neat so they'd notice if anything was taken or missing. They never did business while high. Some even went so far as to make coded records of any large transactions. Victor liked these dealers the most.

"I saw your dad a few days ago, mate," Bruce was saying as he walked over to the kitchen cabinet by the refrigerator. Victor grimaced in spite of himself at the mention of the man. He spun around to hide it, pretending to investigate a picture hanging on the wall.

"Oh yeah," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "What'd he say?"

"It was just business, so nothing you'd find interesting."

Then why mention him at all? Victor thought. Everyone knew his relationship with his father was strained at best. But he supposed he couldn't blame Bruce for trying to strike up a friendly conversation, even from such an unfriendly topic.

Victor turned back to find the dealer unlocking a safe in the back of the cabinet. He pulled out a small bag of white powder.

"This is the stuff you're looking for, I'm assuming?"

Victor nodded his affirmation, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "It's almost the weekend, I've got to prepare myself."

"You're one crazy partier, eh?"

"Just enjoy a good time. You could join if you want. Gloria might be coming."

Bruce shrugged, appearing nonchalant, even though his eyes lit up a bit at the name. "Maybe I'll see if I can spring some free time, but weekends are a big deal for my business, you know?"

"Alright mate," Victor pulled some bills out of his pocket and slapped them into Bruce's hand as he shook it. "Catch you later."

A few minutes later he was back on the streets, heading back to his room. He still had some essay to write about the bullshit philosophies of Plato's Republic and whether he was describing a utopia and dystopia. Utterly dull topic, really, but he needed to pass this class. He was sure some of his stash could help him get through this.

As he walked by the Oxford school center he caught a brief glimpse of familiar dark curls and cigarette smoke. Grinning to himself, Victor pulled his jacket around himself and briskly walked on. He was bored, yes, but he had a suspicion that befriending Sherlock Holmes would get rid of that.


If Sherlock had thought he knew what withdrawal was like before, he now realized he had sorely underestimated its malicious nature.

The world just wouldn't seem to line up, thoughts didn't connect at all, his brain felt like it was going rancid from the inside out, fouling up on the repetitious thought of need more need more need more. The only things that distracted him from this line of thinking was the horrendous nausea and body splitting aches and pains that would periodically throw him off guard as they split through his body.

It was pure agony.

Sherlock lay on his bed, the pillow shoved over his face to block out any light because he knew the stimuli would give him a worse migraine than the one he already had and he sure as hell did not need that at the moment.

He knew he wasn't going to follow Mycroft's heinous request that he remain sober. He wasn't even sure that was a possible option at this point in The Game. However, Mycroft had cameras somewhere in his room, probably in enough locations to make the possibility of blind spots out of the question. Since his room was where he had usually insufflated the cocaine, he wasn't entirely sure where else he could go without Mycroft finding out. Of course, he could go in the parks or in some seedy alley, but he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. He wasn't desperate enough to take to the streets like some groveling addict. No, no, Sherlock would just have to think of another option.

He growled in pain as another spike felt like it was being shoved into his brain. Curling up into a ball, he balled the comforter beneath him between two fists and shoved his face into the mattress.

Fucking withdrawal.

He needed cocaine.

Well, first things first, he still needed to get some money, and with Sebastian being his only source of income that meant he'd actually have to get around to doing the work Seb had given him. Sherlock hadn't had much patience to do anything over the past few days due to the constant nagging of withdrawal. However, the symptoms just seemed to be escalating more than dwindling down, and since obtaining money would lend itself directly to getting the solution to this problem, cocaine, Sherlock supposed he'd have to buckle through this.

He almost wished he had the stillness of morphine to take this away.

Almost, but not quite.

Sherlock stood and wrapped his peacoat around him, bagging up textbooks in a hurry. He needed to get Seb's coursework done as fast as possible. That was the only solution to this. He thrust his backpack over his shoulder and scrambled out the door.

Half an hour later Sherlock was buried into the utterly dull topic of cigarette taxes and whether they reduced demand properly. God, this topic was not only boring as hell but also made his throat itch in the back, indicating that he needed a smoke soon or all hell would certainly break lose. Sebastian couldn't have picked a worse fucking topic for his term paper, probably chose it just to fuck with the genius who did his work for him, the prick.

Sherlock balled his hands into his hair and buried his face in his arms dramatically as he was subjected to another tremor through his body. When would this stop? He couldn't work like this, couldn't even complete this obscenely trivial economics paper with withdrawal in the way. Mycroft could go right the fuck to Hell for putting him in this position.

"Y'okay mate?" a familiar voice asked behind his shoulder.

Sherlock startled, as he turned to see Victor Trevor behind him, a Cheshire-like grin on his pale face. Sherlock wiped the look of surprise off his face, and then combed through his hair with his previously clenched fists.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he grumbled. He made to turn back to his work, wasn't really sure what else he was supposed to say, but Victor grabbed his shoulder suddenly. Normally, Sherlock would have balked at the sudden touch, but found that he didn't draw away. Okay…

Victor bent down and glanced at Sherlock's features. "You've got the agonies, haven't you? Yeah… I can tell. Haven't gotten your fix in awhile, eh? Calm down," Victor replied in response to Sherlock's petrified look. "I doubt anyone else would be able to notice. Just been there before myself so I know what to look for."

Sherlock broke away from the young blonde's touch, attempting to turn back to his… Seb's… coursework. He was sick of everyone treating him like some goddamn addict. Ever since that campus paper had come out he'd been subjected to more pitying looks and sideways glances than he knew how to deal with, and now some rather attractive blonde was sympathizing with his withdrawal. No way was he going to deal with this.

"I've got some aspirin for you, if you need. I'm studying in the corner, you're welcome to join."

Sherlock turned back to hurl some insult, tell him he didn't need any help, get this pale boy away from him, but when he looked straight into Victor's face he noticed something was wrong. His pupils were massive. They seemed to take up almost the entirety of his eyes, the metallic grey of his normal hues were blacked out.

Of course, Victor had picked up some cocaine today, Sherlock knew that, so he must be high now. Needed to do some coursework and needed a pick me up…

Aspirinaspirin…

Something clicked within Sherlock as he realized exactly what the boy was offering and he found himself standing and collecting his things before he had mentally processed the reaction. Victor grinned, leaning his weight onto Sherlock's chair as the raven-haired youth stumbled around collecting his things, practically bouncing with excitement.

Victor led him silently over to a small enclave in the back of the library floor. It was walled in on two sides with just enough room for a couple people inside and was out of sight of everyone who wasn't standing directly parallel to the opening. Sherlock sat in one of the chairs, watching interestedly as Victor pulled a small bag of powder out of his coat pocket, tapping some out onto his dorm key, making sure not to spill any. He gingerly pushed the key towards Sherlock, the grin on his face growing all the while.

Upon picking up the powder, Sherlock felt a tingle throughout his body like something in the universe was lining up correctly for the first time in days. He quickly snorted the coke, sighing contentedly at the sudden storm in his capillaries, at the warmth and serenity pumping throughout his body. He closed his eyes as his body equilibrated, reaching homeostasis. Upon opening his eyes, Sherlock was met with a smirk from his blonde partner in illicit activities.

"It's good, isn't it, getting what you want after so long without?"

Sherlock paused, before nodding his assent. He didn't have anything to say about that, but agreed with it entirely. He finally felt right. And Mycroft couldn't find out about his consumption in the library, there were no cameras or agents watching him. Sherlock looked across the table at Victor, feeling his face twist into a grin. God, he felt good.

"I feel as though I've reached homeostasis once more."

Victor laughed softly, the look on his face both amused and confused. "I don't know what that means, Sherlock, but I'm going to assume you're fine."

"Better than fine, actually."

"That's all I could ask for."

Victor turned back to the paper he was writing, grabbing Plato's Republic from where he had left it face down on the desk. He began flipping through the pages, obviously about to go back to work. "I've got this paper on whether Plato described dystopia or utopia due tomorrow at nine. Heinous subject, but it's got to be done. What're you doing?"

"Sebastian Moran's economics term paper on the taxation of cigarettes."

"Need the cash?"

"My brother cut me off and I need money to sustain the habit."

Sherlock didn't quite know why he was opening up to this other boy. He had never talked frankly about his drug use with anyone let alone some vagabond boy he'd barely met today. Didn't know anything about him despite the topic of his term paper, his name, and the deductions of dangerous activities (which were entirely accurate, he realized, as he'd just snorted cocaine in a library). However, there was something easy-going about Victor's nature that made Sherlock feel comfortable. He knew Victor wouldn't judge his actions like everyone else, and maybe even would understand, more than anyone on campus, the social workers, and especially more than bleeding Mycroft.

Victor nodded, glancing up from his book. "Been there."

"How'd you get the cash?"

Victor shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Despite this, Sherlock noted a flash in his eyes and the whisper of a hard grimace. "Won money at drag racing mostly. Did some odd jobs. Things like that." His voice was casual, but the tension in his shoulders told of some unearthed secrets. Sherlock opened his mouth, about to pry as he always did when a puzzle presented itself, but found his cocaine-addled mind logically shutting him down. No, let him keep his secrets.

Sherlock turned back to the economics textbooks and let the subject drop. He had work to do if he was going to get enough cocaine to get him through the next few days, and Victor didn't appear in the mood for talking anymore. Victor was sitting in the chair across from him, staring at the book pages without really reading anything (obvious by the lack of eye movement).

Sherlock let him be. It was the least he could do for the man who had just given him his white mistress.

It was almost dawn when Sherlock and Victor finished their work, having only topped off once around 2 am. As the boys exited the library they both lit cigarettes, blowing out the smoke towards the hint of color on the daybreak horizon. Through his coke-calm Sherlock realized that in a strangely sentimental way, he enjoyed the company. Victor blew out a smoke ring beside him before turning, rubbing his eyes. He looked as if he were coming down.

"Thanks for the aspirin," Sherlock quietly mumbled. It felt appropriate to say, somehow.

"No problem. Like I said, I've been there and know it ain't pretty." Victor spoke in a street tone that held just the hint of upper class lilt. The sweater behind the leather.

"No. No, it's not," Sherlock admitted. He turned towards the blond, blowing out another puff of nicotine and chemicals. Victor was watching the pinkish-purple color rising over the trees and houses in the background, a feral smile on his wild face. Sherlock was struck once more with a plethora of questions about the man, and was once again discouraged that he could find no hint at answers in the young man, just a sort of intoxicating sense of curiosity. Victor was wild, restless, and Sherlock found himself magnetically pulled towards him. He blinked and turned away as he realized he'd been staring at his companion for what was probably an unnatural length of time.

"I should be heading off," Sherlock mumbled, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe it was because the bulk of his cocaine high was wearing off or because he suddenly found himself confused and wary of the present situation, but he needed to remove himself, needed the distance.

Victor nodded slowly, still watching the horizon intently. He dropped his dying cigarette on the ground, stomping on it lightly. "Sure thing, mate."

Sherlock turned to go, swirling his peacoat behind him when Victor interrupted. "Hold up, some friends and I may be going to a club this weekend. Good music and a good chance to get some better blow than they've got on campus. You're welcome to join if you haven't got anything to do."

"I haven't," Sherlock replied before he was entirely conscious of his desire to accept the invite. Wasn't cocaine supposed to make things easier to understand?

"Cool. Catch you around, then."

With that, Victor turned to stalk off, lighting another cigarette on his way.

Sherlock returned to his dorm. He wasn't in the least bit tired, and since he didn't presently have any chemicals available for experiments after the campus police swept his room and all his schoolwork was done, he found himself digging his violin out from under his bed.

He wasn't entirely sure where the swelling and sweet melody he was playing came from, but it fit the moment somehow. As the first rays of sunlight hit the floor of Sherlock's room he played, his fingers nimbly leaping across the strings.


The club smelled of cigarettes laced with weed, sweat, and the scent of cheap booze. The multi-colored lights flashed across the floor that was packed with young men and women, teeth glowing macabrely under the piercing black light. Glow sticks were being thrown through the air and a man with light up gloves weaved his way past, waving his hands around in an entrancing spiral. The music pulsating through the speakers was some remix of an old punk song that Sherlock had remembered hearing before.

If Sherlock hadn't snorted two lines before entering, he was sure he would have had a breakdown. Even with the cocaine in his capillaries, he felt slightly nauseated by the overwhelming stimuli in the room. The lights particularly hurt his dilated pupils. He was aware that in his youth this sort of scene would have led him to some sort of attack, scratching at his skin or banging his head to give him some sense of stability. Not anymore, though, his drug was keeping him calm, protecting him. He felt very safe.

Victor stood next to him, wearing his usual studded leather jacket and ragged jeans. His pupils matched Sherlock's as he stared around, grinning wickedly.

"Good turn out tonight. Now, we've got to find Gloria. She'll be around here somewhere."

Sherlock had no clue who Gloria was, but wasn't in the mood for standing alone in a strange club, so he hurried after Victor who was blazing a trail through the crowd. The blonde moved to the back, opening an exit door and stepping out into the dirty street just outside. Leaving so soon? Not that Sherlock was particularly thrilled with the scene, but if he was going to experience new things he wanted to do it fully. All or nothing.

As Sherlock stepped out into the cool air outside, he saw Victor caught in a vigorous embrace. The young woman hugging him stepped back and Sherlock was able to take a closer look. She was willowy and tall with short brown hair that spiked around her ears and deep brown eyes. Dressed in black jeans and an artfully torn black t-shirt that just hinted at her midriff and jauntily smoking a cigarette (was that a cigarette?), the girl fit the underground scene he had walked into. She grinned towards Victor, pulling the cigarette (needed more data on that one) out of her mouth.

"Hey Vic, wasn't sure when you would be turning up."

"I knew you'd be out here smoking. You're headed towards early death by lung cancer, Gloria, you best slow down."

"I only smoke when it's worth my while," she replied, placing a hand on her tiny hip and pulling another drag. "This joint is definitely worth my while."

"H-bomb?" Victor asked.

Gloria smiled in wicked affirmation and took another hit. "You're welcome to try. You or you friend." She motioned towards Sherlock, offering out the cigarette or whatever it was. Sherlock wasn't too sure what an h-bomb was, actually. Didn't want to ruin his cocaine high with what smelled for all purposes like weed though.

Victor shook his head. "Don't like mixing my weed and heroin, love. You've asked before."

Gloria shrugged. "I'll keep asking anyways. Do you want to try?" Her brown eyes turned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock quickly shook his head. That sounded like the worst possible combination; weed and opiates, could she be serious? Who in their right mind would want that? Gloria seemed to be enjoying it though. She held out a lazy hand to him, swaying slightly on the spot at the sudden movement.

"Gloria Scott," she said.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock intoned, quickly shaking her spindly hand.

"Why have I heard that name before?"

"He's the Oxford bloke who jumped out of a building," Victor butted in, lighting up as he said so.

Gloria's eyes lit up in recognition. "Ah yes, I have heard of you. Quite the campus celebrity these days."

Sherlock scowled, not even attempting to hide his disdain. "Oxford student, are you?" he commented rudely, tossing up walls around him in his usual defense.

Gloria smirked at the jab, but didn't take the bait. "Not presently." She turned back to Victor, swiping a choppy piece of hair away from her face. The movement seemed to throw her off a bit. "So are we going to dance or just stand around smoking?"

"Dancing sounds good. You coming Sherlock?"

The next few hours were absolutely surreal. It probably didn't help that Victor had ordered everyone a round of shots and then insisted on taking a shot on the hour every hour for the rest of the night. It wasn't exactly Sherlock's cup of tea, and the harsh liquid reminded him of chemical experiments as he it burned down his esophagus, but he was enjoying himself nonetheless, despite the fact that the world was swirling more and more and he found himself more and more unstable as the night went on.

They had met up with a burly man named Bruce late in the night. Gloria and Victor had been dancing for most of that time while Sherlock watched idly on the edge of the dance floor. Human interaction was so intriguing sometimes; it was easier to watch from afar than to participate, especially since he didn't know the rules (his altered state didn't help that much either). Gloria and Victor seemed to match each other, spinning and moving fluidly. At one point they had been leisurely snogging on the dance floor, which upset Sherlock for some unacknowledged reason. Yet, when Bruce showed up, Gloria had immediately detached from Victor and had started dancing with the other man. Victor grinned, looking around for Sherlock. When he caught him standing at the corner, he stalked over. The lights flashing on the floor made his blonde hair almost translucent and the colors etched onto his face gave him an ethereal glow.

"Having fun, mate?"

Sherlock nodded. He was having fun. It was so interesting watching the other humans around him interacting with each other without paying him any mind nor giving him any negative attention.

Victor checked his watch before grabbing onto Sherlock's arm. The blond led him over to the bar without protest, ordering another round of shots. He picked up one of the glasses, filled to the brim with a bright blue liquid. Sherlock took the other, mentally preparing himself for the burn of pure ethanol.

"Almost four a.m., got to take another," Victor was saying before he cocked back the glass and slid the shot down his throat. He slammed the shot glass on the table as he finished. Sherlock downed his in a single gulp as well. He could feel the buzz from the alcohol almost instantly, which was probably good because he'd begun coming down from coke about an hour or so ago. The vodka was definitely helping keep some of the crashing symptoms at bay, at least until he could do some more.

"So you and Gloria, are you… together?" Sherlock asked. He attempted to make the question sound innocent, matching his intonation to how any other normal person would ask their friend about their romantic life. If there was a hint of jealousy in there, though, Victor didn't seem to notice.

"We've hooked up a few times before, but it's nothing serious. We're mostly just friends with some benefits on the side." Victor shrugged, checking his watch.

The relief and confusion that swept over the scientist was shocking in its intensity. Sherlock nodded because he felt it was the appropriate response, though he didn't quite understand what Victor had meant. It was obvious that the boy had been with more people than himself, you didn't need to be a deductive genius to see that (also, when your romantic experience is nil, anyone can be better than you). Victor also had a fairly strong reputation for being a player of both courts at uni. Victor desired sex, or at least some sort of partnership, from anyone, male or female.

Sherlock himself had never felt that desire with more than a small handful of people, each of them unreciprocated. There had been the smart, witty girl in his youth with the short hair who had been the only one nice to him on the playground (which was truthfully, the only reason he'd liked her), and a handful of boys who had physically intrigued him in secondary school.

Though he could honestly say nobody to date intrigued him as much as the blond walking beside him.

There was just something about Victor, something Sherlock just didn't quite understand. A part of him that for all Sherlock's genius, he just could not seem to figure out. Sherlock was a scientist, good at breaking things down into basic particles and components and then using logic to restructure a whole, tangible something out of the smaller parts. Yet no matter how much Sherlock ruminated on Victor Trevor, there were still some parts that were a mystery, some sections of the man that despite all his deduction and his reasoning, Sherlock couldn't figure out. It was infuriating and invigorating. The mystery was addictive and Sherlock wanted more.

"Are we going to stay here until dawn, or is there some other plans in the works?" Sherlock asked, more out of curiosity than a true desire to leave. It was warm and interesting; with enough stimuli to keep his mind busy, and with the combination of drugs and alcohol he was enjoying not being overwhelmed by everything around him for once.

Victor's feral grin reflected in the dim, colored lights. "Why, you want to go somewhere else, Sherl?"

Sherl? When had that become his nickname? He didn't mind it, though, so he let the petname slide. Maybe tomorrow he'd correct Victor.

"Why not, Vic," he tossed back, feeling the right side of his face twisting into a half-smile.

"As you wish."


Victor glanced over at the dark-haired boy next to him, lighting up a cigarette as they exited the train towards Oxford. He too lit a fag, the inhalation feeling more natural than breathing in fresh air. He should probably slow down with these things, knew it was the healthier option, but some side of him loved even this simple dance with danger. Yeah, he may get lung cancer, but when you didn't think you'd make it past thirty anyways the way things were going, it didn't really matter, did it?

Sherlock was silent, had been since they'd left the club. He had claimed to enjoy himself, and Victor knew intuitively that he had, even if he hadn't stepped one foot on the dance floor. That wasn't his way, it seemed, more of an observer than a doer. Except when it came to drugs, he supposed. Sherlock was always down for that.

"You've been quiet for awhile, Sherlock. Crashing or something?" Victor's drugs had worn off a couple hours ago, and he knew that his friends had as well. Sherlock shook his head, taking another drag.

"No. Well, yes, but no. I was just thinking."

"About what."

"About you, actually."

The admission was earnest, and said in such an innocent way Victor had to crack a grin. "Oh yeah, what about me?"

"Tonight, are your nights always like this? Full of girls and parties and drugs?"

"A lot of them are. Though sometimes I swap out the girls for some blokes. And then there are those really wild nights when I drag race. If you think tonight was exciting you haven't seen anything, mate." He wasn't bragging, wasn't saying these things to make himself seem edgy or cool. It was just what he did, and there was no use denying it. People spoke about their passions, and adventure just happened to be Victor's.

"You like danger." It wasn't a question. Victor turned to his dark-haired companion, who looked back at him with piercing grey eyes even in the dim light.

"I do," he admitted.

"Why?"

Victor blew out a puff of smoke, sighing slightly as he searched around for the right words. "It freezes things, I guess, makes everything suddenly clear, makes it all stand still. When there's a possibility that you might die so much more seems worth it. I dunno, it just slows everything down."

The answer seemed to resonate within his companion. The look he gave him was more emotional than Victor had ever seen the usually cold chemist. It was sympathetic and honest, and if Victor was going to admit it he felt a tug somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

"You know you've got a reputation on campus."

"I know I have."

"They say you sleep around."

"I do."

"They say you'll sleep with just about anyone."

Victor laughed. "Just about. I have to like them, though. They've got to grab me. I may have low standards but I still have some."

"And that's all you do, you just sleep with them. That's it. Done."

"That's been my history, yes."

Sherlock nodded, growing silent. Victor looked over at the dark haired young man. The lights from the streetlamps made his edged cheekbones seem even more sunken in, that with the malnourished junkie look he was sporting. He appeared rigid and unbending, firm and cold, yet Victor knew there was a fire underneath that exterior. Nobody without that flame would jump out of a window for science or snort as much cocaine as Sherlock did. He was dangerous and edgy, all layered up in a scientific enigma. It was absolutely enthralling. Victor could almost taste the metallic tang on his tongue, the one that felt like he'd licked a galvanized copper penny, the one that let him know that he was excited and that there was adrenaline pumping through his veins. Victor wanted to melt that ice and get to the fire inside his companion, wanted to watch those flames dance. He hadn't felt this invigorated by another person in what felt like ages. His boredom was forgotten for the moment.

They were nearing Victor's dorm now. As they approached the door, Victor stamped out his cigarette and turned to Sherlock.

"You want to come in for a bit, Sherl? I know you won't be sleeping from the blow, and we could top up if you want." If he knew the young man at all, he knew that Sherlock couldn't resist a free high. Not that Victor was using drugs to get his way, that would be altogether dirty, but he was using his cards in his favor.

"That sounds good, actually."

Victor led them through the door and down the hall, unlocking his single with the keys in his back pocket. He motioned for Sherlock to enter then closed the door behind them. No sooner had he shut the door but he advanced towards the lanky young man, pulling him closer into his aggressive yet still soft kiss. They held it for a moment before Sherlock gently pushed away. It wasn't the kind of push that alerted Victor and told him he was out of line. It was just out of shock.

"Wha'?" his companion mumbled, his eyes wide.

"I told you, Sherlock, I like who I like. You're one of those people."

Sherlock seemed to go distant in the eyes for a second as if he was mentally processing what had just happened, though even as he went still his body seemed to have a mind of its own. In moments Victor's leather jacket and Sherlock's pea coat were lying on the floor, and Sherlock was sporting a feral grin, looking etched in the scant light, his alabaster skin glowing and his dark hair etching sharp shadows on his face. He looked dangerous and delicious.

"You interest me, Victor Trevor," he intoned in his low baritone. "You are definitely not boring."

Victor offered him some blow on his room key, as he placed some of the powder in the crook of his own thumb and forefinger. After they'd both snorted, their lips met once more.

The sun rose on two boys lying in bed, smoking cigarettes despite building codes, looking peaceful, high, but altogether happy.