September 1995

The stubble grazed across his jaw like sandpaper, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip as a wanton sigh escaped the scrawny figure that had wrapped itself around him. His own long fingers were entwined amidst sandy, blonde hair and he pushed and pulled at exactly the right moments, their rough lips locked in an aggressive embrace. He'd backed him against his door, the lone light bulb casting an odd amber glow upon their bodies, and he rolled his eyes as he felt stumbling fingers grip his neck, pulling him closer. It was a chore, he thought, a pain to resort to such primitive methods but in the end he had no problem with it, knew he was good at it, knew that it was a means to an end.

A part of him enjoyed it a little.

The young man pulled away, a dazed grin on his face, yet some kind of private agony in his eyes and he saw all the helpless questions that flickered there, one blazing brighter than the others. How had he known?

His fingers were clenched into fists at his shirt collar. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Well. That was-"

"I believe you have something of mine."

He watched as he let out a choked laugh, as he ran a shaking hand through his dirty hair, and thought, not for the first time, that William Richards was a vile creature, thought that he was an easy thing to mess with, thought that he'd likely be a useful tool in future if he'd managed to get what he wanted from him through nothing more than a rough, well timed kiss.

William (who'd been hilariously dubbed as Will Dick by the other students) pulled open his top drawer and rummaged through the delightful sight of his black and grey underwear, before pulling out a pencil tin emblazoned with the smug grin of one Bart Simpson. Sherlock reached for it hungrily, when Richards suddenly snatched it back with a sudden hesitance, glaring at him warily.

"It's all I've got at the moment," he said.

"Yes."

He watched as his face fell, seeing the agonized nerves, seeing the years of indecision and denial.

"And you are going to tell Kathy about…this…if I don't give it all to you."

"Yes."

His stare was filled with loathing, his precious alpha male status collapsing further and further around him everyday, and Sherlock smiled at him knowingly, taking the tin from his limp fingers and, feeling generous, tussled the young man's hair before striding out of his dorm.

Painfully simple. Like every dull thing here, like every monotonous person that roamed the corridors and lecture theatres, like the ageless beige buildings, like the grubby red carpets, like the tarnished books and tarnished reputations; the beauty, the glory of it all, the timeless domed arches and cobbled pavements and mesmerizing grandeur- it simply passed him by, drifted into the foggy background, and as each dreadful day dragged past him, as he mindlessly triumphed in everything the place had to offer, he felt dejected when he realised that this little black tin with that little smug brat on it was his only reward, his only form of salvation.

It was worth it though, he thought, as he stood in the empty corridor and opened the tin like a small child on Christmas morning, as he smiled at the sight of that sugary, fine white gold, that gift of nature that freed his mind from the dreadful banality of life. Impulsively, he ran his nose across the rim, ripples of shock dancing tantalizingly across his tongue at the very thought of it, the rare and always pleasurable burn of anticipation low in his belly.

"Holmes!"

Without moving, he cast a glance across the length of the corridor and saw the stocky frame of Pete Langdon, his arm draped over a leggy blonde who was laughing into his shirt collar as she tried to stop herself from falling over. Pete was grinning devilishly at him, raising his eyebrows suggestively. His own lips twitched cruelly upwards, his smile laced deep with irony as his mother's departing words once more rang in his ears. Oh but Sherlock, Oxford will be filled with people like you, sweetheart, your thirst for knowledge; you'll have enough competition to last you a lifetime, believe me.

"There's some bird sat outside your door!"

That sweeping statement did not get the intended reaction, obviously, and he let out an exaggerated sigh and sent Langdon a sickly, false smile, as if to say well, naturally, before staring blankly at him. With a gentle motion he closed the tin and placed it in the front pocket of his trousers, frowning across the space between them as Pete and his latest conquest stumbled down the dimly lit hallway to his dorm room before he could even bother with a response. Sherlock sniffed, caught the stench of vodka, rum, even sherry. This place truly was filled with unbearable dullards.

Feeling rather accomplished with his earlier success, however, he walked with little purpose back towards his own dorm, running his tongue along his gums as he tried to hold back an anticipated grin, his fingers tattooing an odd rhythm on the tin.

Of course, he hadn't actually expected to find a 'bird' sat outside his door, and he stopped moving completely when he saw her.

Her long, ivy legs were stretched across the carpet, goose-pimpled, crossed at the ankles, clad in little black boots with staggering heels. His eyes traveled up to the fitted black dress (hidden partly by her burgundy coat) that hugged her curves and finished at the swell of her breast; he noticed the silver pendant resting there, blackened a little with age, delicately sprawled across the plane of winter skin beneath her collar bone. Her hair was pinned up messily and strands of it escaped any way they could, dancing across her face; and her face, he noticed, her infinitely lovely face- lovely being not his own observation, but a simple fact- was turned his way, her dark eyes made even darker by rich, black kohl and shadow, stark against the pale, slightly rosy tint to her skin.

She was smiling at him, and had stretched her arms wide, splaying her fingers in a gesture that clearly said surprise!

He stood frozen to the ground, a terrible darkness rearing its head somewhere deep inside him.

"It must be my birthday," he said, his voice low and thick with biting sarcasm. She remained irritatingly merry, of course, uncaring, oblivious, enjoying every scrap of life around her.

"Nope, it's mine actually," she said with a sparkling grin, reaching into one of the many bags of luggage at her side and heaving out what looked to Sherlock like a large, gold and purple hexagonal tin. "The big two-one. I brought cake."

An upside down Quality Street tin.

"If this is your attempt at being endearing, you are failing spectacularly."

"Oh come off it, you're loving this."

"And the answer, of course, is no. You are not staying here."

Her eyes dimmed a little, but she clambered onto her feet with the tin under her arm, her heels making her almost as tall as he, and she continued to smile infuriatingly at him. He sniffed. Rum. And smoke. And butter-cream.

"Well I can't just sit here, an open target," she said with a hand on her hip. "Is it true that you lot can smell Cambridge blood a mile off?"

"Why don't you sit there a little longer and find out?"

"Oh, lets just skip to the good part," she cooed, like a little child staring adoringly up at some fantastical gift, "Go on, I love this bit- how did I end up here?"

"Sadly, I shall not be indulging you. Now, will you kindly get out of my way."

She rolled her eyes, a knowing smile still on her dark lips and his eyes scanned her again; he saw the little red marks on her knuckles, saw the bags beside her packed full of her things, all of them, saw the rich bloom in her eyes where the effects of drinking were still heightened yet starting to fade, saw her smile, always her smile, like she didn't care about the hurt in her life, didn't dwell on it. It was all genuine, all real, and he couldn't help but form some kind of grudging respect for her.

"I know you're dying to," she said in what he supposed was meant to be a seductive tone, and she bit her bottom lip. His respect for her all but vanished.

"A runaway," he muttered, reaching inside his pocket for the key to his door, "How very heroic of you. I take it you've found the bright lights of Oxbridge as dull as I have. Perhaps slept with a few of your lecturers?"

"Just the one, actually."

"Ah, I see. And it ended violently because you fell in love with him."

"Now what makes you think that?"

"Because you fall in love with all of them."

Her smile was a little tighter and she looked down at her grazed knuckles, her face growing a slight paler at his words. That was always her biggest downfall, her blasted emotion. If she could just learn not to feel she'd be a damn sight easier to get along with.

"And, of course, lets not forget your father."

"Of course."

"Because failing in relationships didn't get his attention so you thought you'd try your hand at failing academically, which must have killed you, I'm sure."

"No point in suffering through that boredom just for a scrap of paper."

"Quite."

She'd placed the round tin between them, her fingers clasped around it, and she tilted her head at him as she often did, like she was trying to figure him out but he knew that she was just as bright as he was, knew that there wasn't much for her to figure out at all. He wanted to see her, he was suddenly struck down with the thought; he wanted to see the real her again, the Irene that had a mind to rival his own, the Irene whose sharp tongue and cruel wit destroyed most who tried to win her affections, thought it was ironic that, somehow, she held him in her affections, had formed some sort of odd attachment to him despite having not seen him for over a year.

"Which only leaves the question- why me?"

She raised an eyebrow coyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Why not?"

She was sprawled across the length of his bed in an instant, a delighted expression on her face. His lips twitched and his frown softened a little when she yanked open the Quality Street tin and ran her finger across the icing, sucking her finger exaggeratedly.

"Predictable," he muttered, and she laughed.

"Only to you."

He ran an agitated hand through his long, messy hair and, facing away from her, plucked his own little tin from his pocket and regrettably placed it on his bookshelf, hidden by a large hard-backed dictionary, worn at the seems. He wasn't sure he knew how to share.

"So," she began from her position on the bed, and he saw she'd grabbed a metal ruler from his chest of drawers to cut the cake with and was currently licking icing and crumbs off of it. She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes happily before pulling out a slice of cake- Victoria sponge, of course- and sticking her arm out with it towards him. "My turn now. The path of your life if on display before me."

She was mocking him with this last, overtly grand statement, and he grudgingly took the piece of cake she'd offered him, sinking into the chair at his desk, spinning from side to side as he waited with a tried expression.

"You have rather a high opinion of yourself," he said.

"As opposed to you, who can't function through insecurity?"

"Get to your point."

"Let's crack open that little tin first, shall we?" She gestured towards the bookshelf; a little mocking giggle followed, "See what I did there?"

"That's all you can deduce, that I'm on drugs? My goodness, you may as well stop there- your skills are truly astounding."

"What's that old saying? It takes one to know one?"

"And your love for the cliché continues unabated."

"Absolutely. I'd slow down with that cake if I were you, that's not icing sugar on top."

Even he let out a bark of laughter at this as she took out a pack of tobacco.

"You strike me as the type of addict who claims that they're not an addict," he said, licking his lips in a lethargic manner, taking a moment to admire the way she swiftly ripped and licked the slices of paper in her lap before filling the delicate casing with tobacco, always something graceful about her movements, even as she pulled the little plastic wallet filled with little green leaves from her bra.

"Undoubtedly. The worst kind, I'm told," she said, hardly sparing a glance as she poured the earthy-green contents into the paper.

"The worst kind is the type that wants to be an addict, yet finds they don't have the capacity for it. You've only tried it the once, haven't you."

"You know me, I'll try anything once."

And she winked. He made a show of rolling his eyes, before offering her a lighter.

"So cocaine, eh?" she said, the flame of the lighter flickering for an instant before being drowned out in a cloud of smoke as she took a much needed drag. "Christ, vile stuff. Was it just through sheer boredom? Or did that delightful, curious streak win through?"

"I hardly think that matters," he drawled, noticing the slight throatiness to her voice. No, he thought; not an addict at all.

"Well it's always nice to know the details. Anyway, it was curiosity, because I can tell you're still bored. That's why I stopped by- liven things up a bit for you."

She flashed him a cheeky grin at this and offered him a smoke, but he declined, his trust in her always wavering, even now. Instead he took another bite of cake. He felt that indescribable little sting then- that sugar thick icing spread across his teeth, that bizarre sensation, some kind of delightful pain, and he swallowed it down with a grimace.

"Why do you spend all your free time at the police station?"

He did smile at this.

"I thought you were meant to tell me, isn't that the game?"

Because it was always games with her, always trying to best each other, and there was always some sort of dark fun lurking behind each veiled insult, always something enjoyable about conversing with her. She took another drag and let the smoke drift up like a waterfall from her nose.

"You can't want to be a pig,"

"You have such an exquisite talent for stating the obvious."

"It's fucking hilarious. A cocaine user who hangs around with the fuzz. Classic!"

"I thought so."

"Oh I give up! Just tell me Sherlock."

And there it was. That lurch, that guttural moan deep within him, that stubborn howl that responded only to her, that seemed to call out to her at that always unique sound of his name spoken with her lips, flowing from her along with the smoke.

"You never fail to disappoint me," he said quietly, the lines old and worn, so rehearsed and tired. Giving up, he lazily stretched out his arm and swiped the joint from her fingers, suddenly needing it like he needed oxygen. Irene smiled, malice in her eyes.

"I know; it's a tragedy. Now tell me."

Holding it in his lungs for a long, expertly drawn out moment, he let it out with a calm sigh, his eyes closing.

"I think I may have found a job."

"Well bloody hell, give the man a medal."

"A job that I like."

He watched in dull amusement as her face went a little slack, her mouth forming a smiling little 'o' of shock. She reached for his hand and snatched her handy-work back, took another drag; she let the smoke hover in her lungs for a while before expelling it with a profound response.

"Bollocks."

"I invented it."

"You don't like anything."

"I can't think of an appropriate name yet, though."

"Well I tell you what," she said with a knowing smirk, handing the joint back to him. "I think you'll need to be high as a kite to come up with something good."

It was the first time she'd shared it with anyone, she claimed. He inhaled for as long as he could, melting into his sheets, and she giggled when he let out a quiet cough, said she wasn't surprised because the guy that had sold it to her had professed it was some 'seriously harsh shit'. Then he felt it…that mellow sigh, the kick, the world around him collapsing. He saw her in a moment of clarity then through the mist that had drowned his room, realised with a jolt that he'd missed her.

"I missed you," she said to him much, much later in the darkness of his room, that space in the earliest start of the day that is eclipsed by the specter of night. Her foot was resting on his shoulder and gently easing across his neck; they were both fully clothed, sprawled across his tiny bed, their heads at opposite ends, and he could see every glimpse of her even in the dreadful finality of the dark moon, saw her bright eyes, wild, mad, filled with truth.

"You're fickle," he said, his voice low in his throat; impulsively, he placed a chaste kiss on her ankle, glanced at the now empty purple tin beside her, crumbs everywhere. "You'll be gone soon enough."

"Fickle, fickle, fickle," she said in a sing-song voice, always smiling. "The first thing you noticed about me, no doubt."

He jarred slightly, visions of his past blurred with little white spots in front of his eyes and he ran his hand along her calf muscle, his long fingers lingering on her skin.

"We should fuck," he said with finality. She let out a preposterously loud snort.

"Oh please let me hear your faultless reasoning behind that idea."

"It is common practice in these parts, I'm told. I think it would be interesting."

She leant forwards, slowly, a sleepy deliberation in her actions, mocking the very idea, until she was sprawled across him, her arms crossed at the centre of his stomach and she rested her chin there like a bored child in class.

"I think it would be very interesting," she said. "But sadly I will have to decline."

"You won't fall in love with me, I can assure you."

"The exception that proves the rule, are you?"

"I give you my word."

She offered him a grin at this, her faultless, constant smile, her damning beauty, and he marveled a little at how she had been graced with so many perfections. She ran a hand through his hair, though he hardly felt it, and saw with some alarm a sudden sorrow in her gaze.

"I'd rather not risk it," she whispered.

He woke up with unbearably sluggish movements, the world appearing black and white for an instant before dulled colour bled in, the harsh daylight blinding. It was colder than before, the first thing he thought, and he forced himself up from his bed- still fully clothed. He frowned, suddenly remembering he hadn't fallen asleep alone; the shape of some other figure had left a ghostly imprint on his bed sheets.

That, and a Quality Street tin.

Jolting forwards, a horrible thudding in his heart, he lunged madly for his bookshelf, throwing the ancient, hard-backed dictionary aside and letting out a noise that was akin to a growl, an enraged sob, when he saw that his own tin was gone. Instead of the face of Bart Simpson, his eyes met the intense gazes of Debbie and Andrew Davids, their faces still aglow with love, the picture so worn now that they appeared like apparitions in the scene. He reached for heavy glass frame, his hands trembling with white-hot fury, turned it over and saw a little kiss marked on a post-it in the corner. Mocking him.

He smiled, something mad in it, before sending the frame flying across the room, the cacophonous sound of shattering glass leaving a dull ringing in his ears long after the broken shards had fallen to the floor.