Coarse language, mention of ED, mentions of drug use and alcohol abuse.

I do not own anything. Ever. I am poor.

Victor Trevor was seventeen and in his own, very modest opinion, he was as fantastic as fuck. The sun shone out of his bloody arse and anyone that denied it was a fool.

Victor was many things, all good things. One things Victor Trevor was not was bored. He was too interesting for that shit. Only boring people were bored. And he was definitely not boring.

Despite this important fact, however, he did, on occasion find himself at a loose end. Like this morning. It was Sunday, no school and only chapel, which was easy to get out off.

He had woken up in town, sprawled out on a bench on the common, missing his wallet and one sock but had found a pounding headache instead, along with a rolled joint in his pocket. Wasn't all bad then.

Stumbling into his dorm room he saw Benjamin was already up, sitting at the desk and studying like the sad prick he was. Books piled precariously over him and it was probably breaking some sort of health and safety regulation. Imagine being crushed by textbooks? That'd be embarrassing. Victor would have to lie, say he'd died OD'ing or doing something more interesting. He would not let Benjamin be remembered as a sad prick, even if he was.

He decided was not going to hang around in that sort of environment; it was bad for the soul, for the spirit. Bad for his hangover. Besides he really didn't want to think about the impending exams, lurking ominously in the school calendar.

Fuck that shit.

He had gone to irritate James, one of the two boys that occupied the room next to theirs, but James was also busy 'studying', with his door locked and no doubt a box of tissues by his side. He could almost hear the slicking noises from outside. Jesus.

So yes, Victor Trevor was at a bit of a loose end.

It was a strange train of thought that took him up to the dusty records room, situated on the top floor of the administrative building. It had taken a fair deal of stealth, but the staff there were all a bit useless.

It was mainly curiosity that led him there, to see what the teachers said about him. If they appreciated his brilliant mind. Maybe his father was lying about all the awful school reports they sent home, and the months of summer punishment were all uncalled for. Maybe.

He never reached his file though, because he then decided that he cared more about the lucky ones that had managed to leave the upper-class prison that called itself 'Eton'.

Charles Young

Left in second year. Blonde, pretty, maybe too pretty. Transferred to Le Rosey, according to his files, the lucky man. All these beautiful girls…God, Victor was almost drooling just thinking about it.

He had also failed Latin in first year. The lying arse had told Victor he had got a B.

Victor shoved his file back in the box, irritated, searching for another familiar name.

Peter Carroway

Left due to financial problems. Father had been a banker in Canary Wharf, lost his job. Gone back to a local day school in Bristol. Can't envy that.

Clean record, all rather dull. Only one detention, for being late to history in third year 3 morning in a row. Dull, dull, dull.

Another file was tossed back into the box haphazardly, continuing his search for something more interesting.

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes.

Now that was a familiar name. Victor remembered him vaguely. They had been in the same maths and chemistry class. He had tried to buy fags off him once when he was 14 but the weirdo had been doing something unholy with a mouse, hacking it up like the little psycho he was.

He had been expelled in third year, quietly, although no one really knew why.

He had, according to Connor, drunk half a bottle of vodka in physics one afternoon. Even Victor had been quietly impressed at that.

Poor sod used to be beaten up more times than anyone else in their year. Victor watched it happen, in the halls one day. He had just kept walking and the next day the guilt set in when Holmes had turned up to class with a black eye. Still, maybe if he hadn't acted like such a freak he would have been fine. It was his own fault, really.

He opened the delightfully thick file.

Sherlock Scott Holmes

D.O.B – 6.1.1995

Booooring. He turned the pages irritably, desperately searching for something more interesting.

A huge wedge of behavioural reports, all written up by the school psychologists. Teacher's complaints, complaints from his roommates and other students. Complaints from staff in general. Complaints from almost anyone that he would have been in contact with.

The same words came popped up repeatedly.

Disruptive, reckless, uncontrollable, anti-social behaviour, inappropriate, dangerous, immature, unstable.

Eventually a final note was stamped in deep red ink.

Expulsion.

Looked like Sherlock Holmes really knew how to piss people off.

The following pages contained follow up notes of his current schooling.

The Grange Therapeutic School : April 2010 - October 2011 (withdrawn)

Then five months before another date appeared.

Creek Clinic School: March 2012-

It was this that interested Victor the most.

He knew of The Creek. It was that hospital place full of skinny girls that read too many fashion magazines. Thighs as wide as Victor's wrists, heads wider than their own bodies. Disgusting. Still, Victor probably would if he had a chance.

It was a £3 train journey to get there, along for 50p for a bus if you were feeling lazy. He had an ex, Italian, stunning and best of all, not a word of English, that had a flat near the place, before she had gone back to Milan to study art.

Fantastic bar in the town, free shots between 11pm and 1am on a Wednesday night. You were promised a good time with that amount of free alcohol.

The hospital was set out from the town, if Victor remembered correctly. He had woken up outside it once and one of the nurses had asked him, very rudely, to move as he was blocking the gate. It was a pretty big place thought, and Victor was fairly sure the twat could have managed to walk around him.

But that whole not eating thing was for girls. Boys don't worry about that shit, they just get on with it, right? You don't hear about lads going on liquid diets, or the Atkins or the cabbage soup thing or whatever it was.

Philip down the corridor eats five protein bars a day, but that's for sport. The skinny runt needs to beef up. Simple.

Maybe it was for those fat ones too. The ones that eat their feelings. Yeah, probably was. Boys do that. Isaac in his history class was bloody massive. He broke a chair once in chapel and Victor thought he'd piss himself laughing at the lummox.

So Sherlock Holmes was fat now. Or skinny. Or maybe he just went to school there…for some reason.

This wasn't a thought that amused Victor as much as it should have.

He still felt minutely guilty about the whole thing.

He hadn't seemed like a terrible person. Fucking mental. And a bit of wanker.

But he had let Victor copy his maths test back in first year, and that was a pretty decent thing.

So it was with this guilt that Victor went back to his room, ignoring Benjamin still wrapped up in osmosis and cell division. He gathered his chemistry and maths notes, taking them down to the deserted photocopying room, making copies.

Packing them into a bag, he caught the next bus out, because he was feeling lazy, along with a train, because he wasn't going to walk ten miles.

He was just bringing him coursework. He was at a loose end and he was dropping off coursework.

He wasn't nervous at all. He certainly was not guilty for never telling anyone to stop attacking the fucker. Even if he knew they would have stopped if he had spoken out.

He was Victor Trevor and he was never bored and he was never guilty.

He was just at a loose end.

Thank you so much for the kind reviews! I have just finished very stressful exams and have a week off before I start work, but hopefully more updates soon!

Once again, Victor Trevor is not an OC.

I also do not, obviously, share his reviews RE: eating disorders.

Please review! I thrive off them

Thank you so much for reading!