Ch. 2

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a sunbeam hitting him, painting a streak of incandescent light across his face. For a brief moment, he didn't know where he was. Medicinal smell, uncomfortable bed, scuffling sounds. Infirmary. He slowly opened his oceanic eyes, blinking at the blinding light. He sat up and almost fell back down from the sharp, stinging pain in his ankle. Oh yes, the dog yesterday. It wasn't until he felt the pain that he was entirely sure yesterday hadn't been some strange dream. Someone had actually bothered to have a conversation with him? Strange! Inconceivable! He didn't have friends; no one liked him! He won't be back, Sherlock thought, he did what he felt he had to, and won't be back. After all, why would he bother?

He pushed the depressing thought out of his mind and picked up one of the novels that Victor had brought him from the night table. To his great surprise, it was a book of detective stories by Edgar Allan Poe, featuring C. Auguste Dupin. How on Earth did Victor know how much he loved mysteries? He opened the slim novel and started on the first story, "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." He was instantly enthralled in the thrilling tale of locked rooms, intrigue, and an unlikely murderer, which he only guessed a page or two before they were revealed, a rarity for the young genius. He was also fascinated by the detective himself, with his cold, precise reasoning and powers of observation. Finally, a protagonist he could relate to! He eagerly turned to the next story and was halfway finished when Nurse Turner came in to check on him.

"Oh, you're up, dear. Would you like a bit of tea and toast?" she asked him kindly. Realizing for the first time how famished he was, he nodded, then went back to reading "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt." Once he had finished that, he decided to save the final story for later and get started on his studying. His breakfast now eaten, he had only opened his Advanced Chemistry textbook when he heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

"You're not going to stay in your pajamas all day, are you?"

Sherlock nearly dropped his book in surprise when he looked up to see the tall figure of Victor Trevor leaning against the doorway. He had come back? Strange! Inconceivable!

"Oh, it's you!" Sherlock exclaimed in spite of himself.

"What, you thought I'd leave you here to rot? You're basically the only person I've talked to in days! How're you holding up, by the way?"

"Fine, actually. My ankle still hurts a bit, but I think I can walk. I'll ask the nurse if I can leave in a few hours or so."

"Are you thick or something? She said you'd have to stay here for ten days at the very least, so no, you're not going anywhere."

"I hate hospitals."

"Does anyone actually like them? The smell, the weird over-cleanliness, the pure boredom. I broke two ribs when I was a kid and had to be in the hospital for weeks. I nearly went mad."

"What were you doing to break your ribs?"

Victor blushed and looked down.

"Well… I shouldn't say."

"Why not?"

"It's a bit, em, embarrassing."

"Go ooonnnnnnn…."

"Fine, I was trying to surf down the stairs in a laundry hamper. Happy?"

Sherlock roared with laughter at the mental image of Victor stair surfing. He finally got a few words out between gasps of breath.

"What… happened… next?"

"My dad nearly killed me, I'm lucky I lived to see the hospital, much less my eleventh birthday. I spent that alone and bored to death in the hospital."

Sherlock stopped laughing immediately.

"Alone? Didn't your parents come to see you?"

"My mum had chemo that day and my dad had to go with her to treatment."

The words struck Sherlock like a blow to the chest.

"Oh, so she…"

"Yeah, breast cancer. She died when I was twelve. Alright, enough of my sob story, what's your family like?"

"My mother used to be a maths professor, but now she writes textbooks. My father's an architect. I've got a brother, Mycroft, who works in the government."

"Is he any good?"

"He's brilliant, everyone says he'll be running the country by the time he's thirty, which isn't far off."

"Much older than you, I take it?"

"Yeah, he's seven years older and a bit of an arrogant prick. He made me think I was an idiot my entire life," Sherlock said. His admission surprised both him and Victor, but, well, Victor had shared something quite personal, hadn't he?

"You're not an idiot. Look at you, you'll probably be caught up on classes in no time at all," Victor said, eying the open Advanced Chemistry textbook on the night table. And Sherlock knew he meant it and was reassured.

"So what are you studying?" Sherlock asked.

"Microbiology, you?"

"Chemistry. If I put in enough hours, I can have my degree by the end of this year."

"My God, are you mad? Are you planning on eating or sleeping at all this year?" Victor asked incredulously, making Sherlock grin.

Victor stayed for the rest of the day, then returned the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. In fact, he returned all ten days until Sherlock was cleared to leave the infirmary. And each night, Sherlock's heart felt a little fuller when he went to sleep, a little less gray. For the first time in his life, he had a friend. Finally, he had someone to talk to, to relate to. And it felt good.

The last day in the infirmary, Sherlock got out of bed and got dressed. He had, of course, bathed and changed his clothes while he was injured, but it still felt comforting to put on his familiar clothing. He tied his black shoes and gingerly stood up. He felt an occasional twinge of pain in his ankle, but as he walked, he felt better and better until every last trace of the pain was gone. Hearing his footsteps, Nurse Turner came into the room.

"Oh, are you leaving now? Well, I suppose you're well enough to go back to your regular schedule. It's been lovely having you here."

"It's been nice meeting you," Sherlock said, for he had grown to like for the woman who had cared for him. She looked like she was going to say something else, then turned and abruptly swept out of the room. Sherlock shrugged, gathered up his books, and left the infirmary.

The cold air was refreshing against the skin of his face, which had been shut inside for too long. A deep breath brought a smile to his face, at least until a large hand hit his back. He, familiar with the hand, sighed, and rolled his eyes.

"Hello, Anderson, to what do I owe this pleasure?" The other boy's rodent-like face pinched in confusion as his brain tried to work out if Sherlock was being serious or not. Anderson was shorter than Sherlock, but had a sturdier build and was that awful combination of dull and cruel. Not dull, exactly, for he was actually of about low-average intelligence, but he despised Sherlock for his natural gift at chemistry (they were in the same class, despite Anderson being two years his senior).

"What're you smiling about, Freak?" Anderson asked.

"How ugly you are in this weather," Sherlock said, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. The blow to his face, while expected, was no less unpleasant. Pain flared in his cheek, but before it really affected him, Anderson was raining blows on the rest of his body. He fought as well as he could, snagging in a few hard shots to the torso for himself, but Anderson had a distinct physical advantage over him. Sherlock heard a voice that could freeze the sun.

"Let him alone, Anderson," Victor said, his long, black Belstaff coat blowing in the cold wind. Anderson stopped hitting Sherlock for a moment and let out a cruel laugh.

"Has the Freak found himself a little friend, then? The Freak and The Charity Case! God, I should've known you would be together!"

Victor bristled at the insult, but didn't lose his cool. His eyes pierced Anderson's face.

"I said to leave him alone. Back the hell off, or I'll tell Amy about Sally, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Anderson blanched and let go of Sherlock's jacket. He stalked off, a short blonde woman demanding to know who Sally was. Sherlock wiped the blood off his face, a thankfully small amount.

"Ta for that, by the way."

"It was nothing. That's what friends do, isn't it?" Friends? Strange! Inconceivable! And wonderful, oh it was wonderful!

"So who's Sally?"

"Let's just say Anderson likes to have a little extra on the side. Caught them at it a week or so ago."

Despite his aching body, Sherlock laughed again as they made their way to The Chapel. After that, life was considerably better for the two men. Someone to talk to, study with, eat with, these were all brand-new experiences for the previously isolated twosome. At least, until that fateful day in October when the invitation for Sebastian Wilkes' party was passed on to them.