"So, Sherlock, can we revisit why exactly you have a copy of my key now?" Victor asked, rolling onto his side, pulling the comforter closer to himself as chilled wind blew through his thin glass windows. He still had a raging headache from his past few days, and was in need of a coffee and sandwich if he was going to even try stopping these shakes.

Sherlock raised his head to look at his companion. The blue light glistening through the window carved out the hollows of the junkie's face, making him appear even more alabaster, even more skeletal and angular than he had before. His lean, white hands were fiddling with the lapels of the jacket lying on the chair behind him, as he pulled out his small baggie of cocaine and his pack of cigarettes. As he lit a stick, he grinned slightly.

"I always need my bolt holes, for when things go south with Mycroft." He fiddled some more with his jacket, apparently satisfied that that was an acceptable answer for breaking into someone's apartment. He turned back towards Victor. "Do you have any clean needles? I'm out, and I'd really rather not do a line."

"Yeah," Victor replied, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pulling on some pants before stalking over to the dresser in the corner. He opened the top drawer and pulled out the newly wrapped diabetic syringe lying next to his mess of unfolded socks. "Here," he murmured as he walked over and placed the needle in front of Sherlock. In this light, from this angle, as he looked at Sherlock, at the jutting ribs, the concave of his stomach and the way the jeans which had fit snuggly when they had first met were hanging off his body, he felt a wave of something move through him. "So, things have gone south then, with your brother?"

Sherlock waited for a moment before replying, as he pulled out a spoon from the jacket of his pocket. He poured 50 mg of the cocaine into the spoon, and filled the syringe a little less than halfway with the bottle of water that always sat on Victor's desk. He shot the water into the spoon and let the powder dissolve before turning to face Victor. "Yes, things have gone south with my menacing older brother. I wouldn't be surprised if he is already on his way here now to try and find me. Given that he knows of our…" Sherlock seemed to search for a proper word, his hands still flying over the instruments in front of him. "Association," he finished, waving a hand nonchalantly. Sherlock dug out a cigarette from his pack and snapped the filter off before placing it in the spoon, and sucking up the liquid through the filter. Victor tried not to acknowledge the drop in his stomach at the very clinical label on their relationship.

"Yeah, okay, but what happened?"

"He tried to send me to rehab," Sherlock sighed as he brought the needle towards a vein without tying off his arm. He poked around for a moment, breathing through his nose as he pricked his skin, before he found a hit, drawing up a tiny amount of blood into the syringe. "He tried to get government officials to chase me down to send me to rehab. Started it under the pretense of a chat. 'Course, I knew that he was going to be coming around sooner or later, what with the cameras and all. Keeps them in my room at all times ever since my… fall." Sherlock exhaled as he shot the syringe deep into his arm, closing his eyes. The image was very much like some macabre tableau. He breathed steadily for a few moments before opening his eyes and looking back towards Victor, seemingly pleased with the surprise on his face. "He might even have installed some cameras here."

Victor wasn't entirely sure if Sherlock was serious or if he was saying that to mess with him. He didn't appreciate either.

"Your brother keeps cameras trained on you 24 hours a day?" Victor asked, incredulously. "That's.. well, that's…"

"Bleeding ridiculous," Sherlock finished for him. "However, what I may not have made entirely clear earlier is that my brother may be one of the most dangerous men you could possibly interface with, Victor. He knows everything, every secret you don't want revealed, every pressure point you have, he knows it and he's analyzed how best to take you down with the least amount of personal effort for himself. He's lazy that way, fat bastard. He has access to every security camera, every phone call, every move you make that could leave any trace. Mycroft is… well, he's much easier to deal with when he's just messing around with some local terrorist threat or eating cakes at the Diogenes Club, but he seems to always enjoy putting particularly personal attention to me. For," he waved a hand. "Whatever reason. My well being or whatever."

"Well, we can't stay here, then, can we?"

The shadow of a grin flickered away and Victor was met once more with the impassive, icy face of a man trying his best to not allow his emotions be seen.

"No," Sherlock said slowly. "I cannot."

Victor felt at once relieved and panicked. On one hand, Sherlock was now caught up in a game that Victor felt very positive would end with him being caught by his brother and sent to rehab. Which would be the best thing for him at this point, and when he got out, Victor would be gone, out of his life, taking his toxicity with him, let Sherlock heal. On the other, Sherlock also seemed to be getting into something very much over his head, and the idea of him living on the streets for the next who knows how long didn't bode well for him getting any better. As much as Victor selfishly wanted to keep him, to shackle Sherlock to himself, to make him scream his name and tie off his arm and validate his actions, Victor also was slowly realizing that in the end burning Sherlock up would end Victor Trevor as well. He fed off Sherlock almost as much as Sherlock fed off him, and if the raven-haired scientist ended up over the edge… then Victor would end there as well.

Victor let out a long sigh. He was once again well aware of the dull, pulsing pain that seemed to be radiating from just beneath his eyeballs, flush with his temples, and the way he was still shaking, even though he was away from the cold window.

"Where will you go?"

"There are many places in London that Mycroft doesn't have authority. Many places he can't find me, and would never even think to look."

And Victor thought of his father, of the underbelly of London which he knew so well. Of how he had also ran away from his family, and how well that had ended up for him. How in the end, he couldn't escape choosing between whoring and freelance street work, how he couldn't escape being addicted to the needle, whatever drug it held, and how that money never seemed to be enough to get him out of the hole he had dug for himself. Sherlock wouldn't survive in that society, this genius who had a knack for pissing off everyone he talked to, and wouldn't submit to anyone telling him what to do. Victor barely had, only making it out after his pimp had tossed him out after the amount of drugs Victor needed to stay sane didn't leave much of a profit for him. He had stayed in a string of apartments with a string of lovers the next few months, one of which worked in administration at Oxford. It was she who had suggested he apply for scholarship. He had stayed with her for as long as the processing of his application, and when he got in he cut out hard and fast.

You and I both know that Sherlock doesn't belong in the world that we live in.

"I can help you," Victor mumbled, letting air out through his nose. "Sherlock, I can, I can help you get somewhere safe. I know London and I know the places that no one can find. Let me help you."

Victor knew that Sherlock would never agree, but he felt it right to at least try.

"Mycroft will come to speak with you soon, if he isn't already on his way. He's good at reading people, Victor, he'll know if you're lying about my location. I can't take the risk."

"Is rehab really bad enough to make you run away?"

Sherlock's face hardened as he stared icily at Victor. There was a moment of static silence between the pair, which Victor felt in his bones, before Sherlock responded softly, turning his face towards the window. "It's more than the drugs. It's about not having my brother be in control of my life."

It was one of the most personal things Sherlock had ever divulged to him, and Victor didn't know how to respond. He stood there, awkwardly running a hand through his hair before donning a twisted smile.

"Well," Victor said, picking up a shirt off the floor and tugging it over his head, looking around for his jeans. "I suggest we get some coffee then. And maybe a doughnut."

The flicker of a grin returned to Sherlock's face as cool, blue eyes followed him from across the room, rippling over the marble façade of moments before. He blew smoke silkily out of his mouth from the cigarette that had been burning untouched for the last few minutes.

Victor had never been sure if Sherlock was more remote or more open when he was high. It was a rather infrequent occurrence that Victor even saw him sober. Yet, the last few minutes had been surprisingly lucid, no facades. The honesty left Victor scrambling with his emotions, and instinctively longing for another hit.

You've convinced Sherlock that he can only find stability in the least stable of places.

Victor's stomach dropped a bit from under him. He ran a hand hastily though his hair and placed a Cheshire grin onto his face, as he looked around the room for his jacket. "Yeah, a doughnut, that would be good." He found his jacket lying on the ground next to his dresser and swung it over his shoulders, patting his pockets to make sure he had his lighter and cigarettes. "How about we go out, 'Lock? Get some fresh air. Make it harder for your brother and all."

Sherlock stood, sweeping his own coat around himself, patting himself down in a mirror of Victor's previous actions. "I'll leave after." Sherlock paused for a moment. "Mycroft will come here asking for me, Victor. When he does, don't underestimate him." A slow, dark smirk tugged at the genius' lips. "Even though it's hard to take him seriously, what with him looking like a whale and all."


Mycroft came to visit him just an hour after he'd left Sherlock at the coffee shop down the road. Victor had watched the black-haired teen's back retreating, his black peacoat in stark contrast with the grey's and dimmed blues that the city offered on a chilly March day.

Victor opened his door to find what could only be Sherlock's brother on his doorstep. He was met with the same clear, blue eyes, the same look that was at once both destructive and constructive, tearing apart the data given to them and piecing together the puzzle once again to form a conclusion. That and the aggressively expensive suit and the two bodyguards on either side of the man sort of gave it away. Mycroft also wore a new expression, one of complete disdain and contempt, making it entirely clear just what his opinion of Victor Trevor was.

"Mycroft, I presume," Victor said, moving back slightly as the men in front of him loomed towards him.

"Mr. Trevor," Mycroft responded. "It's a pleasure." He did not sound pleased.

"Mr. Trevor is my father, please call me Victor." Victor tried to appear nonchalant as he tossed his blonde hair back from his face. Instead, the action made him feel childish as the man in front of him continued to fix him with the same unamused stare.

"Oh, I am very aware of your father, Mr. Trevor. Or J.T. as I believe he is referred to."

Victor's eyes narrowed while Mycroft's face remained as impassive as ever.

"Why are you here?" he murmured, his tone verging on a growl. "If you want questions answered about my father, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place."

Mycroft approximated a laugh. "No, certainly not. We have all the information we need about J.T., Mr. Trevor. No," Mycroft looked down to his shoes as he tapped them lightly with his black umbrella. "No, I am here today to inquire about a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have some urgent business with him, and know he usually frequents your company."

Victor laughed, though he was not amused. "He said you would show up here. Even said you probably had cameras in here by now. Which, if you did, you would know that Sherlock left hours ago. I hope you don't have cameras, by the way. If you did, you would be seeing a lot of…intimate…things that I would imagine you wouldn't care for."

"So my brother did come here, Mr. Trevor," Mycroft asked in a tone that clearly indicated just how microscopic his regard for Victor was.

"Yeah, he also said you'd be chasing him. Weird thing to do, that. I don't have siblings myself, but I don't think that obsessive tracking is part of the typical duties of an older brother." He was trying to keep the conversation light, trying to throw Mycroft off with his charm. Mycroft did not seem to be taking it.

"Mr. Trevor, the only thing that I am remotely interested in is the whereabouts of my young brother, and since you have already admitted to being the last person who saw him, I would like you to divulge me in a tale of his location if you wouldn't mind. Leave your nonsensical chatting out of it."

Victor's eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched slightly towards his ears. "God, Sherlock really did come out on the right side of the gene pool." He sighed, combing his hands through his hair as Mycroft's umbrella repeatedly tapped at his feet. "Said you were a right fine arse hole, Sherlock did. Said you had a superiority complex to boot. I told him that there must be more to you than that. Seems I was wrong." Victor looked back up Mycroft, his features becoming stoic and solid. "Thing is, I've heard a lot of things about you Mycroft Holmes. How you place cameras in your brother's private rooms, coerce him into meetings and "tea", send cars to chase him around London to send him to rehab without a warning, how you are so icy and remote that you didn't even give a damn when your own brother died while in your care. Yeah," Victor responded to the tightening of Mycroft's eyes. "I heard about that too."

Mycroft let a carefully calculated tense moment rise between them before continuing.

"As much as standing here and letting a person such as yourself attempt to debase me is amusing, I will repeat my objective for the visit. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Took a train to London. That's all I know."

Mycroft stared at him sharply, his eyes softly flitting over the entirety of Victor's face as if comparing the features seen in front of him with a snapshot of his face taken from moments before. Victor felt like a specimen smeared thin over a glass slide and mounted under a microscope. It was not a feeling he particularly enjoyed.

"It seems you are correct in that regard," Mycroft finally sighed. "You are quite fortunate that I do not regard you as a particularly good liar, otherwise you would have had quite the rough time when I brought you to headquarters for questioning. Or when I had the police come around and detain you for possession and selling of illicit substances."

Victor paled slightly, then remembered what Sherlock had said. He knows every pressure point you have. Obviously, he was probably aware about the dealing, then. Of course Mycroft would have used that against him should the need arise. Sherlock had been right, he couldn't let anyone help him for fear of Mycroft forcibly picking up the trail.

Mycroft seemed to draw his weight towards himself for a moment, filling the doorway just a little more. "Before I take my leave, Mr. Trevor, I will inform you that should Sherlock Holmes give you any indication of his whereabouts at all, you need only tell me and you will receive quite a handsome monetary donation on my behalf. Enough, perhaps, to quit your unsavory secondary occupation and actually keep up the grades you are required to maintain as a scholarship student."

Victor's mouth lay agape as the veritable mountain that was Sherlock's brother clicked away, the clacking of his umbrella on the floor echoing rhythmically down the hallway.

Sherlock had discarded his jacket and button down shirt at a local thrift shop in Peckham as soon as he got off the train, instead picking up a ratty sweatshirt and t-shirt in exchange. With his hair mussed in front of his face and his off-white trainers, he looked just unassuming enough that few people would bother hassling him.

He hadn't wandered the streets long to realize two things, the first being that Victor had been correct in his description of this region of London. As it neared sundown, Sherlock became acutely aware of the acerbic taste of danger in the air as darkness began to shroud the streets. Despite his camouflage, he quickly realized that sleeping in this area at night was a risky proposition, and not one he was willing to take without proper surveillance and cataloguing of Peckham's streets and occurrences at various time intervals.

Gloria had never been good at her job as an undercover agent.

She had the look for her job, the knowledge to analyze and categorize the people she interacted with, and both of these factors were why she had been placed in the position she was. That and the fact that she could still come up positive for drugs and not have to sit at a desk all day, made the situation all rather convenient for her.

No, Gloria thought, the problem wasn't in the job, but rather in how she was completely shit at distinguishing which part of her double life were for the job or for herself.

Victor Trevor was a perfect example of this. They had become acquaintances from her original infiltration, perfectly calculated by NSY. Befriending Victor Trevor hadn't been hard, especially when he was off his face at a rave on the South Side. Getting back to his place that night hadn't been difficult either, and despite her still trying to spill him her rehearsed backstory, it had even been enjoyable. From then on, keeping close to Victor had been as easy as sending a text message if she wanted to see him. They'd grown close easily, especially after she'd made it clear that she didn't want a romantic relationship, something Victor would inevitably fuck up, creating distance that was bad for her job. A relationship would also have been bad for Victor's job, as he was still working nights downtown.

Gloria had known plenty of people like Victor Trevor in her days at university. The thin, keen boys with the sly smiles and a willingness to share in whatever drug they'd chosen for the night as long as they were rewarded later. They had all been fun, and fast, and regrettable. Victor Trevor, was fun and fast and honest and kind and all manner of things that seemed impossible given the write up NSY had on him. Befriending him was easy, doing her job was not.

It was fortunate that Victor didn't have much of a relationship with his father, and therefore had very little information on the gang that NSY wanted her to find out about. For all NSY's inhuman calculations, they had never considered that Victor Trevor might actually actively avoid his father. Gloria's reports back were largely uneventful, which had caused some frustration on her boss' part. He'd even threatened to have her pull out a couple times unless she got some information. There were other agents out there, of course, some deeper in than her collecting actual useful data about the gang. Her placement was an easy one, relatively safe, and enjoyable. For NSY, it was a shot in the dark and one that seemed to be missed.

That is, until Victor Trevor decided to sell, Jay Trevor had forced himself back into Victor's life, and the whole business with the rumored Armitage had started.

At this point, Gloria was starting to realize the gravity of her situation. Not only the dealing and the gang, but that sooner or later she would have to betray Victor. She might even have to betray Sherlock. She would have to sell them out and cut out hard as soon as NSY felt it was time to move in. Victor's willing realignment with his father's gang, something she never thought would happen, had made the job she had once found easy, incredibly difficult. Every choice she made, she had to ask herself if it was for her job, or if it was for her.