Sherlock woke up sore and confused in a bed that wasn't his own. His head felt like it was about to split open from the pain and he couldn't quite open his eyes. Okay. Breathe. Focus. Use your senses. He took a deep breath through the nose. Sandalwood, sweat, dog. Victor. Victor's room? Victor's bed? He checked himself, reassured to find he was still fully clothed in his outfit from the night before, so nothing that bad could've happened to him. Speaking of which, what the hell happened that night? He remembered going to the party, drinking, being kissed- wait, what? When did that happen? Or was it all a part of the strange dream he'd had the night before? He needed answers, and lying in bed wouldn't get them for him.
He opened his eyes and found himself alone in the room, without a sign of Victor anywhere. Had Victor gotten home alright or was he lost somewhere? Or, Sherlock gulped, would Victor be waking up in someone else's bed as well? His stomach turned as he stood up and promptly dashed down the hall. He only made it to the toilet just in time as he was violently sick, even sicker than he had been that time when he was six and got the stomach flu. Well, the doctor had said it was the stomach flu, but Mycroft had uncharacteristically made him a sandwich earlier that day, so he couldn't be sure. Mycroft had laughed then, and he'd laugh now if he could see Sherlock like this, on his knees and puking his guts out. After retching for several minutes, the contents of his stomach were at last purged and he stood up shakily and flushed the toilet. His head reeled as he stumbled out of the bathroom and down the stairs to the communal kitchen, where he found Victor nursing a cup of coffee at the table.
"Oh, you're up," Victor said when he saw him. When Sherlock didn't respond, he prompted, "Please, say something. Are you okay?"
"Okay? Okay?" Sherlock practically shouted, "I was drugged and I can't remember anything about what happened! The only thing I can remember is the horrible dreams and waking up in your bed. How did I even get here?"
Victor cleared his throat and when he looked up, Sherlock could see how red-rimmed his eyes were, as if he'd been crying,
"Seb passed out tabs of what I think was acid and it really affected you, probably more than anyone else. You were shaking like a leaf and screaming, so I barely managed to get you back here before passing out myself. Seb didn't fucking take it though, the prick."
"Acid? Oh, that explains the weird dreams. There was this stormy ocean and this gigantic monster, and for some reason, a kiss. Hallucinations, that's all it was."
Victor's eyes started watering again and Sherlock briefly wondered if it was an after effect of the drug. He'd have to look into it later.
"The kiss was, um…." Victor trailed off, but Sherlock got the message. His eyes widened in understanding.
"We-we don't have to talk about it, since you're clearly upset about it. We were both really plastered, we can just forget it ever happened," Sherlock said, a blush creeping up onto his ears. Come to think of it, he didn't really want to forget about it, for an unknown reason. Victor's eyes looked close to bursting by this point.
"I want to talk about. Hell, I need to talk about it. Okay, here goes nothing. I'm sorry it happened like that, but I'm not sorry it happened," he said, and he looked up to gauge Sherlock's reaction.
Sherlock was frozen as his mind struggled to comprehend what had just been told to him. The words were totally unfamiliar, as was the feeling blooming inside his chest like a warm ray of sunlight. A side effect of the acid and alcohol, or something else entirely. He remembered Mycroft's phone call the day before he left for university 'Don't get involved. Caring is NOT an advantage, little brother.' He'd never really thought about any sort of relationship, simply because no one, be it male or female, could stand to be around him. Was Victor suggesting what he thought he was suggesting? And what did that make Sherlock? If he was truly a machine, as he'd been called countless times, smoke would be billowing out his ears as his great brain was put into frenzied overdrive while he desperately searched for any sort of data to give him a response. Finding none, he just went with the first thought to pop into his head and out of his mouth.
"I don't regret it either. In fact, I'm glad it happened because you're just so-" Sherlock rambled and swiftly clasped his hand over his mouth before more word vomit could escape his lips. Victor's eyes lit up at Sherlock's blathering.
"So what?" he asked. Sherlock unclamped his hand from his mouth as the stream of words started again.
"Amazing, fantastic, incredible-" he clasped his hand over his mouth again.
"Since you don't regret it, and I don't either, would you mind if I did it again?" Victor asked quietly, his face already braced for rejection.
"I'd like that," Sherlock replied, and was about to spurt more words when he was silenced by Victor's mouth against his.
It wasn't like the last time. It wasn't full of the hunger and need that the last kiss had; it was sweet and slow. Victor had his hands gently entwined in Sherlock's dark curls as he kissed him softly.
Sherlock's mind had stopped briefly, but when it started again, it started violently. His mind screamed at him to stop, this was wrong, this could never happen! He broke the kiss first and leapt back, now pressed against the wall, breathing hard. His blue eyes were blown wide and staring in fear, of all things. Victor looked so hurt and when he spoke, his voice sounded hollow and broken.
"What's wrong? I thought you were okay with this. "
"It's complicated," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath.
"Come sit down," Victor said and gestured to the chair across from him," Let's talk about it. You haven't got a girlfriend tucked away somewhere, have you? Because I swear to God, hearing that might actually kill me."
Sherlock took the chair and put his head in his hands on the table.
"No, I haven't got a girlfriend; they're not exactly my area. Or a boyfriend, in case you were wondering. Well, I guess it's my brother."
"Your brother?" Victor asked, perplexed.
"Not him, per say, but something he told me just before I came here. He told me not to get involved with anyone, saying 'they'll eat you alive and spit you out. You're not like them, you're not enough for any of them.' "
Victor crooked his finger under his chin and tilted his face upwards.
"Hey, don't you ever think you're not good enough," he said, and pulled him in for another kiss. This one was short, as they could hear footsteps on the stairs approaching the kitchen. They broke apart and were left smiling as they went up to their rooms, dressed, and went their separate ways to class.
Advanced Chemistry was hell for Sherlock, a staggering departure from the norm. His classmates were arseholes, but he usually really enjoyed the subject. Today they were being lectured on the new method of properly balancing complex equations, but try as he might, he could not pay attention. Finally, the class got out and he was free, at least until his next class. The rest of his classes that day passed much the same, an endless cycle of boredom and restlessness.
Since Victor still had another class that day, Sherlock decided to kill an hour or two in the Chapel. He made the trek down the winding pathway and amazingly, nobody bothered him. He got the usual amount of stares, but no one called out cruelly or grabbed at him. As a matter of fact, people saw him, and quickly looked away, as if afraid he might violently attack them if they looked at him the wrong way. While it was admittedly a nice change, something didn't quite sit right with him. Shaking his head, he entered the Chapel.
It was empty except for a few students, Seb Wilkes being one of them. Sherlock vaguely recognized the rest as people from the 'afterparty.' Except for Seb, they all looked as wrecked as he had felt all morning, save for those brief moments with Victor.
"Holmes!" Seb said, waving him over, "Come sit with us; we've got loads to talk about."
Sherlock went over and took a chair across from Seb, who was sitting on one of the low couches. He settled in, still apprehensive and uneasy about the day.
"How did you like our little party?" Seb asked him once he was comfortable.
"Um, it was okay. I can't remember most of it," Sherlock replied, making Seb howl with laughter.
"Just a side effect, my friend! But hasn't your mind been positively buzzing with ideas today? I know mine has." Sherlock immediately scanned Seb, skin fresh, eyes not darting, hands calm.
"You didn't take the drug," Sherlock flatly stated. Seb's eyes flashed briefly, but the collected mask soon came back on.
"I've done it so many times; I have a much higher tolerance to it than you lot. You know how tolerance works, we have the same chemistry course. Hence, no side effects. What do you remember?"
What Seb said was a very logical conclusion. Sherlock did have an extensive knowledge of substance tolerance, and it matched what Seb had described. Perhaps Victor had simply misread the signs in his own haze; after all, Victor wasn't a Chemistry major.
"An ocean and this terrifying thing that was going to get me. At least, that's what my brain saw, I don't know about my body."
"You don't remember beating the shit out of Paul Wallace? I've never seen anything like it; you were like a wild animal."
Sherlock blinked. "I'm sorry, what? Paul's the rugby captain, I couldn't beat him if I tried."
"Tell that to him. He's laid up in the infirmary probably until the end of the week. I have to admit, whatever the drug did to you, it's for the better. But back to the question, what has it been like in your brain today?"
Sherlock reflected back to the day.
"I haven't been able to focus on anything, but I've gotten all of my coursework done in half the time."
"Do you want to feel it again?" Seb asked with a grin.
"I don't know," Sherlock said, hesitating," the hallucinations were not pleasant. And I don't know about Victor-"
"What about him?"
"He said it got really bad, really fast. Look, can I get back to you later? I need to talk to him."
"Soon, alright? I want to know who I can rely on for another small get-together in a week or two."
Sherlock nodded and went to the forensics section of the Chapel. A few hours later, he checked out his books and left. He walked back to his building, now actively noticing the way people looked away from him. It was as if they saw a monster poised to spring the moment the wire was tripped. It was nice, and if something made the idiots stop, who was he to say it was wrong? He entered the building and got some tea, toast, and beans from the kitchen, making enough for Victor as well. He then went down to the cozy basement, where he found Victor crashed out on the sofa, reading a book about Egyptian pharaohs, a peculiar fascination of his. He set his book aside when he saw Sherlock come in.
"Hey, what's up? You look like you've seen a ghost or something."
"Ghosts don't exist, but I met Seb in the Chapel once classes got out."
Victor's smile vanished and his hands clenched into fists, casting shadows in the firelight.
"And? What did he say?"
"He wanted to know if we'd be interested in attending another one of his 'small get-togethers' sometime."
"What did you tell him?"
"I said I'd talk to you. I think we should do it."
"Are you mad?" Victor spluttered, "That arsehole's last get together nearly wrecked you! And you want to go back?"
"Vic, listen to me, I've never felt like this before. It's like my mind is both racing and focusing at the same time. Don't you feel it too?"
"Come to think of it, yeah, I have. Exploding all day long, it has."
"And it's great. So what's the harm in going to another one?"
Victor finally gave in.
"Alright, but if it gets nasty, we don't go again. Agreed?"
"Agreed. If you don't mind, I'm going to play for a little while," Sherlock said, picking up his violin. The basement was basically soundproofed, so he wouldn't disturb the other residents of the house if he played down there, which was often.
"No, I don't mind; I like hearing you play. Know any from Les Misérables?" Victor asked, referring to a favorite musical of his. His love of history had led him into the French Revolution, and he developed a passion for it.
Smiling, Sherlock set the violin under his chin, and began to play 'Stars.' Victor, once he had finished his gratefully-received food, began to softly sing in his rich baritone. Sherlock's heart skipped and his brain sang, and the drug was not the cause of this thrilling, newfound sensation spiraling through his body.