Hey, there! Thank you so much for following!

As always, I have to thank my fantastic beta foreverwholocked for helping me with the plot, the language and with everything, really. Without her, this wouldn't be possible.

Now, feelings ahead!

CHAPTER 4

Victor. Victor Trevor.

Sherlock had felt many things about that boy.

The satisfaction of finally having a friend to listen to his deductions; the rush of having someone to share the dose with. He had felt many, many things. Lust was one of them, the relief of finally being able to engage in a relationship-more-like-an-acquaintance with someone, just to prove to himself that he was not a freak – that if he was alone most of the time, it was because he had chosen to do so.

But he had never felt the guilt he was feeling at that moment. No, he was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't the type to let a guilty conscious get the best of him. So why now? He'd like to think that his own brain was so confused that he was getting mixed signals, but he knew better than that. He knew exactly why his damaged conscious had chosen that moment to get him.

John.

Sherlock had felt many things because of Victor. Maybe he had even felt something for him. But love was never one of them, and he had never felt any shred of guilt about the way he had treated him. For many motives. But first, and most important, because he really didn't believe such thing as love existed. He really didn't. For him, it was all an invention that ordinary people would hold on to in order to escape their pathetic lives.

The body was, indeed, transport, but sex could be good, and that Sherlock could understand – despite of normally preferring not to risk it – but love and emotions had never fitted on Sherlock's schedule. Why let some chemical reactions make him feel like a slave of someone? He had the cocaine, and he used it to feed his mind. He didn't need anything else.

So, when Victor had showed such inclinations, Sherlock found himself being even more cruel than he was with other people. Of course he knew that leaving Victor behind after being invited to his family house was more than a bit not good. Maybe some psychobabble about fear and things like that could make sense to normal people, but not for Sherlock.

Especially not now.

He had had to wait many years until an ex-army doctor called him 'brilliant' and 'amazing', shot a man to save his life, and accept to be his partner without any demands. No, that wasn't right. John actually made many demands. He demanded that Sherlock ate. He demanded that Sherlock drunk 'his damn tea'. He demanded that Sherlock took care of his own body. He demanded to know about the bullies of twenty years ago, just because he couldn't accept the fact that someone had hit him at some point in his life. Those were the demands John made.

John.

Sherlock really had to wait until now to feel guilty because only now he could have any idea of what Victor was talking about more than ten years ago. He couldn't have known. Not then when he was just a young man, without a care in the world, only worried about his own deductions, the crimes, the puzzles and the next hit. He couldn't have. He didn't know.

How could he?

Victor wasn't John. Their months together as sort-of-friends couldn't even begin to be compared to the life he had with John. No, he couldn't compare, it would be of no use.

Nobody was like John Watson. It was something that he had deduced long ago.

He couldn't have known anything about that kind of sentiment. He simply didn't know. And for Sherlock Holmes to admit that he didn't know something at any point in time was hard.

He knew about caring now. Mycroft was right when he said it wasn't an advantage, maybe he was right and now he was part of the losing side, but the fact was that now he knew.

That stupid guilt was aching in his head, his own thoughts telling him that maybe – just maybe – if Victor had felt anything near what John and Sherlock shared as friends, or what Sherlock felt for John and never admitted; he hadn't deserved what Sherlock had done.

Stupid head injury, stupid brain, stupid! He didn't have time for this, for sentiment, for guilt!

What could he do now? That was illogic and idiotic, he couldn't do anything. He couldn't rewind any of the things that stupid wooden trunk was making him relive. Why does it matter now?

Sherlock was feeling mentally ill. He didn't know what was real pain and what was guilt.

John snapped Sherlock from his thoughts. "Look at me, just look at me," he was trying to measure Sherlock's eyes responses while holding the detective gently by the neck.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, trying to calm his own thoughts, concentrating on the warmth of John's hand.

"I'll be the one deciding that. Are you in any pain? Feeling nauseous?" John asked, while feeling Sherlock's pulse. "Don't close your eyes."

Sherlock knew he was physically fine, but his mind was such a mess, and John's touch was so soothing that he allowed himself to enjoy the attention he was getting. Just for a tiny split of second, he would look into those deep blue eyes and confirm that he did know now. Everything he hadn't known about sentiment, he knew now. It was hard, and confusing, it was messy and it made his brain burn like one of Dante's circles of hell, but it was data that he had now.

"Sherlock?" John asked again.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just too much brain work," Sherlock said, dismissing John with one of those petulant waves of his hand. When Sherlock calmed his mind, John was sitting beside him, with a light tremor on his left hand, breathing hard. Tiny drops of sweat on his forehead. "John."

"Don't," John said, rubbing his forehead with his right hand. Probably now that John knew that Sherlock was physically fine, his own body felt was the time to fail. Fantastic. John took deep breaths and closed and opened his left hand several times. Before he could even react, he felt Sherlock's hand on his right one.

"This is about the cocaine," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. "I would take it again, you know," he told him, feeling the tension on John's hand.

"Sherlock-"

"No, just listen. I would. You wouldn't believe if I told you I wouldn't, you know it's the truth, but," he sighed, "I would try not to do it because I know you'd..." he trailed off. "I don't know if it matters, but I would try."

John wished he could answer, but he couldn't. Of course it mattered. This was as near as anyone could get to Sherlock, to make him think before doing something stupid. Sherlock was right – of course he was – John would never believe him if he said he wouldn't do it. John knew he would, that he wouldn't give up on anything because of anyone, that he only followed his own brain. John had learned to accept that. Sherlock was who he was and John wasn't sure he could give up on any of the parts attached to the mad bastard.

John snapped from his thoughts when Sherlock let go of his hand.

"I know it was the photo." John said after a moment, making an effort to look at the detective, who seemed surprised. John snorted. "Just because you think I'm an idiot it doesn't mean I'm actually stupid, you know. You wouldn't show such concern about the cocaine. It must be something you don't quite know how to deal with."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you my therapist now?"

"It's not psychology, it's the science of deduction. You should try some time; there's a website," John said, smiling, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So. A hiding place for two needles and a picture of two young men. One of them must be you. Are you going to show me?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Right," John said, ready to drop the subject. He knew better than to try to force any conversation with Sherlock.

"Victor Trevor. Cambridge," Sherlock said, simply.

"Okay," John nodded. "Boyfriend?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Again – I'm not stupid. Girlfriends aren't your area, and I'm assuming you weren't born married to your work." John ignored the tightening feeling in his chest. It wasn't the first time he felt as if he had arrived in Sherlock's life too late. But he couldn't whine now, it wasn't the time. "So, boyfriend?"

Sherlock winced. "Not quite."

"Was he a prick?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Protective today, are we?" John gave him his Captain Watson stare. "Nothing like that. He didn't OD either, if that's what you're going to ask next," he said. "Yes, I am the consulting detective, I know you are alternating between Captain and Doctor."

"So you were the prick, then," John said, not asking. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "He liked you, but you didn't like him, or he liked you, and you told him he was being ridiculous, that you didn't do sentiment," John concluded.

Sherlock was still with his eyes narrowed.

John snorted. "Yeah, I figured. It happens." … quite a lot. Yep, been there, done that. Molly sends her regards too. John stood up, stretching his back.

"What is this about?" Sherlock asked confused. He had the sensation that he was missing something, and he didn't like it.

"I'm going to bed. And you are going too," John said, placing the wooden sword and the wooden box back inside the trunk and locking it.

"I am a sociopath, this shouldn't be news to you." Sherlock insisted.

John rolled his eyes. "And here I was, thinking you hated repeating yourself," he sighed. "Come on, you're going to bed now, because I'm going to bed and I'm not leaving you here."

Sherlock let the issue go. He didn't know what to make of John's reaction. "Are you going to bed with me? People might talk," Sherlock smirked.

"Ha-ha. No," John said, pulling Sherlock on his feet and shoving him in the direction of the bedroom. "Goodnight, sleep tight, and no fucking violin. Respect poor Sherrinford."

"Fine! But I'm not tired, I'll be bored to death," Sherlock whined. Yes, he wouldn't admit it, but he whined.

"Oh for Fuck's sake!"

"Language, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Try to come up with new plans to murder Anderson and get away with it or something," John said, already going upstairs.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Brilliant, John!"

(Thirteen years earlier)

"We don't have to be sneaky about it," Victor told him, while they walked to the stables of his family manor.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We don't have to hide anything. I'm pretty sure my parents are aware of what's happening here."

"And what, pray tell, is happening?" Sherlock asked, annoyed, already feeling the need of a new hit to cure the boredom of that weekend.

"Between us! I'm talking about us being together!" Victor exclaimed.

"Together? We are not-"

"Don't! Don't deny it. Who else would you be with?"

"By myself, of course," Sherlock answered, nonchalantly. He really didn't know what Victor was going on about, but he was certain that it was part of a conspiracy to bore him to the bones. Seeing the expression his friend was making, Sherlock grew even more impatient. "I have no idea why are you being so dull, Victor. Really, this sentimentality doesn't suit you."

"How would you know?! How would you know about feeling anything?" Victor asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Indeed."

"You're such a coward," Victor said, in disbelief. "We keep each other's company, we have fun together, we like each other. You are just a scared child."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you for your psychoanalysis," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Please, don't waste your time reading too much into it. We have sex and do cocaine – that's what we do."

"Is that all that it is? Is that all that you feel?" Victor asked, outraged.

"Feel?" Sherlock repeated, as if the word was far too unpleasant for him to bear. "You're quite delusional today. What was it? Are you feeling particularly touched by the surroundings?"

"Are you trying to convince me that everybody is right about you? Are you really this terrible abnormality that can't connect to anyone? Because that's what you sound like!"

Sherlock tried to mask the hurt of listening to those words behind the cold he could already notice rise in his chest. "I'm so glad you figured it out."

"I didn't, damn it," Victor rubbed his face with his shaking hands. "I just want us to be together."

Sherlock snorted. "How very boring of you. Now, please, be even more obvious and tell me one of those nonsenses! Tell me that you love me, that would be perfect," he mocked, without even realizing the line he had crossed.

Victor stood still for a moment, looking at the horses and taking in the sight. He probably knew that this day was coming. He probably had known since the very first day he had admitted to himself that, of all people, he had let himself be dragged along by the obnoxious, but captivating Sherlock Holmes. He knew what had been his mistake all along. Sherlock had fallen in love with the needles. Victor had fallen in love with a completely different thing.

"I do, I actually do," Victor confessed, without looking at Sherlock. He wasn't sure he could do this looking into those eyes.

"I thought you were cleverer than that," Sherlock sighed, visibly annoyed. "I don't even know why we are having this conversation. It's pointless. I'm going back to London."

Victor would like to say he didn't know what hit him, but he did know. A whirlwind with grey eyes.

(This last bit is in italics because it's something Sherlock is remembering only. He didn't tell John about it.)

That was another short chapter, I suck in dividing the story, guys, I'm sorry. I hope you're not too disappointed! I think the next one will be longer, anyway! (: