PART III

FROM THE DIARY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

23 May 1996

Botulinum.

Funny isn't it that it would be botulinum, of all things, that inspired my latest obsession? I feel as though things have come full circle — five years ago, I was madly researching botulinum when that boy drowned, and here I am again, pondering botulinum because of another boy I can't get out of my head.

It's so irrational that he keeps wandering into my thoughts.

Victor. That Victor keeps wandering into my thoughts.

V-I-C-T-O-R.

I need sleep.

SH

28 May 1996

I make myself sick.

What utter foolishness is it that keeps driving me back to the library? There is absolutely no logical explanation why I've been acting like such an arse. There is no reason that Victor should return to the library either, now that his paper is complete. No reason at all.

And yet...

I keep hoping that one of these days...

Utter foolishness.

I still need sleep. Liam had better not have guests over tonight who require my attention. Truthfully, I'm still quite sore from the last few nights, and it's getting harder to conceal the bruises now that the weather is turning warmer.

Maybe I will return to the library just one more time. Tomorrow will mark one week from first we met. That's a reasonable amount of time for a control group. If nothing else, this can be called a social experiment, and then I'll move on... Unless... Maybe he'll be there tomorrow.

Utter, utter foolishness.

SH

Sherlock laid sprawled across the sofa, his hands resting palms down on his abdomen, his eyes closed. Every inch of his body ached. He tried focussing on his breathing so he could work up enough energy to get up. Last night had been particularly rough, and it had taken him hours just to will himself out of bed, and onto the sofa.

He knew he should eat something, as it had been over 48 hours since his last meal, but the idea of having to prepare anything edible seemed like a Herculean task he was just not yet willing to undertake. He could probably go another day or so before he became too lightheaded to function, so hopefully he regained some strength before then.

Liam had come home past midnight with three friends (though they certainly didn't look like the Oxford sort, so who knows where he picked them up), and they were all drunk, high, horny, or some combination of the three. Liam had called Sherlock to the parlour where they sat with their drinks in hand, and the moment he had stepped into the room, he knew what was expected of him.

He hesitated in the doorway, but this seemed to be the wrong thing to do, because Liam glared at him, and beckoned him to come over. Reluctantly, Sherlock obliged, and within ten short minutes, found himself on all fours, being fucked senseless right on the living room rug. The men laughed as they forced his face into the rough carpet, or when they moved him to the coffee table, stretching his limbs to the point of pain as they held him down, so he couldn't have gotten away from them even if he'd wanted to.

Upon reflection, Sherlock could honestly not say why he never told Liam no even though every fibre of his being rebelled against engaging in such acts with men he didn't even know. Perhaps it was because he knew that to refuse to do so would cause massive embarrassment to Liam, and that Liam's reputation mattered to him above almost all else.

He had refused once, the first time that it was ever suggested to him. Vehemently. And Liam had left, and stayed with some other mates for a week before deigning to answer Sherlock's increasingly frantic calls. Sherlock had apologised profusely, and Liam had explained how much he would enjoy seeing Sherlock with other men. Sharing that interest with Sherlock had made him feel extremely vulnerable, and how hurt he had been that Sherlock didn't seem to care about Liam's sexual preferences and interests.

Later that night, Liam came home with a stranger, and watched as Sherlock struggled to orally satisfy him, eventually joining them on the bed, and taking Sherlock from behind. It had been uncomfortable and unpleasant, and it was only the beginning. Liam had promised that it would get easier the more times he did it, but he had been wrong; if anything, it became more painful with each appointment.

Sherlock lifted his hands from his stomach, and examined them in front of his face. Long, finger shaped bruises encircled his wrists again, and he groaned. The weather was becoming warmer and warmer, and it was getting harder and harder to hide these types of marks. He made a mental note to stop by the shop for some long sleeved button-up shirts, thinking that the button cuffs would prevent the sleeves from riding up his arm and revealing his shame.

He took a deep breath, and gritting his teeth, hoisted himself into a sitting position. His overly stretched limbs screamed in protest, but he forced himself to pull his t shirt over his head. He looked down at his chest, and saw more bruises and bite marks, mentally cataloguing each one, and hypothesising how long each would take to heal. He estimated within 5-7 days, they should be faded enough to no longer look intentional.

Now clad in only his pyjama pants, Sherlock finally decided to make his way to the kitchen and throw together some sort of meal. He walked slowly, stiffly, into the decent sized eat in kitchen, and pulled a loaf of bread from the breadbox. Toast seemed like the perfect solution, being quick and easy, and requiring little to no effort to make.

He shoved the bread into the toaster, and leaned heavily against the counter, pondering what to do for the rest of the day. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to eat his toast, and return to bed for the next twelve hours, but then he remembered his idea to return to the library and see if he might casually run into Victor. It really was a foolish notion, but he decided it was one with indulging, if only so he could put his idiotic interest to rest.

His toast popped just then, as he decided once and for all to forsake his bed, and venture out into the world. He ate it dry, not wanting to waste another moment, knowing that his resolve was not the strongest, so the slightest disruption or obstacle was apt to derail his plan altogether.

Dressing nearly proved to be that obstacle. Sherlock hissed in discomfort as he dropped his pyjama bottoms, and worked boxers and then trousers over his hips. Recalling his earlier observation about the bruises around his wrists, he rummage in the wardrobe for a suitable button-up shirt. The one he was able to find was a slightly heavier fabric than what would be considered seasonally appropriate, but it was a shade of dark purple that would be distracting enough to artfully conceal any marks that might raise unpleasant or uncomfortable questions.

It was still quite painful to move, but Sherlock found he was now highly motivated. His legs and back screamed in protest, but step by step he forced himself to make his way to the university library.

It was because of this struggle that it seemed only natural that at the end of his journey, he should find his reward — Victor — so when he found the library nearly empty, it was as though someone had suddenly turned the volume up and the picture down. Feelings of embarrassment and foolishness flooded him as he stood awkwardly amidst the tables and shelves. He took several deep breaths, focussing instead on the smell of the old books, instead of the hot waves of unfamiliar emotion that swelled up within him.

Finally feeling slightly more under control, he turned to leave after letting his gaze sweep (hopefully? Idiotically.) across the room one last time. Satisfied (or rather, dissatisfied) that Victor was not hiding behind a stray cart of books, or shelf, he turned decidedly on his heel, ready to lay his case to rest.

Of course, at that precise moment, he was no more than two steps into his determined stride that he collided directly into Victor, sending the boy stumbling backwards.

As Victor grabbed the side of a table to right himself, Sherlock felt a flare of warmth deep in the pit of his stomach, which well overtook the pain in his ribs from the impact.

'Sherlock!' Victor exclaimed, 'Sorry about that! I was just in a bit of a rush to return these before I get assessed a late fee.' He held out the books in his hands and Sherlock saw the book they had both originally been searching for, as well as the two that Sherlock had recommended. He felt a bit of a thrill at the validation from knowing that Victor had taken his advice for his paper.

'How did your paper end up working out?' Sherlock asked, 'You were cutting it pretty close there, if I recall.'

Victor laughed, 'Brilliantly, actually. Thank you so much for the recommendation; it was just perfect. Though I'm still fairly certain there isn't a science medal in my future, at least I passed the course. Now onto bigger and better things, I suppose.'

'And what might those things be?' Sherlock queried, a small smile playing at his lips. It was so easy, so surprisingly easy to feel open and free around Victor, and that alone made him feel uneasy, because there was no logical reason for it.

'Well,' Victor replied, almost shyly, 'I have an art show coming up next month at a cafe near here. They're actually doing a whole showcase on my paintings, and quite a few will be for sale. I'm actually pretty nervous about it, so I guess that's two things — painting frantically, and worrying excessively.'

'I'm sure your show will end up being very successful and impressive,' Sherlock assured him honestly, though not completely sure why, seeing as he had no idea what Victor's artistic inclination was. However, he found that he wasn't too bothered by the scientifically unsupported statement when Victor broke into a broad smile.

'Thanks!' He said, his appreciation appearing genuine, 'Actually, Sherlock... This might seem... Well, I mean, you don't have to, but... Would you like to be my guest that evening? It's two weeks from Friday, at the Cornerstone Cafe, around six. If you can't make it, that's alright too.' Victor drummed his fingers against the cover of the book, and Sherlock noticed that the pattern of his finger movement directly mimicked the playing of piano keys. The observation almost flew from his mouth, but he held it in, partially because he didn't want to alienate Victor just yet with his deductions, and partially because — for the first time ever — he wanted to keep that simple little fact to himself, like a secret he and Victor unknowingly shared. Sherlock bit his lip, momentarily enchanted.

'I... Are you sure?' Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling embarrassingly insecure, 'I don't really know much about art, and I'm sure you'll be far too busy to have to be bothered with entertaining me.'

'Sherlock,' Victor said seriously, 'I would love it if you would come with me. And yes, I will have to spend some time trying to convince the other guests that my paintings are worth spending money on, but that won't be the entire evening. I just... I would really like to get to know you better.'

'Okay then,' Sherlock heard himself agree, before his brain had a chance to catch up. 'I think I would like that as well.'

29 May 1996

He came back. We talked again. I have to admit that I was secretly worried that the Victor in my mind would far surpass the Victor in reality, but how wrong I was.

I do think that he has to be one of the most intriguing individuals I've ever met.

SH