Set between 1997 and 1998, this covers Sherlock's introduction to Victor Trevor and cocaine. There is brief reference to events in 'Trefoil' chapter 3.

Thank you to Wellingtongoose for their excellent meta on Sherlock's education which I have used as my reference.

Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.

Again, I know nothing about cocaine use, so forgive me if I got anything wrong. I used the FRANK site as my information source.

Trigger warning: non-consensual use of drugs

It was the summer of 1997 and the start of Sherlock's second year. He had not been able to stand the tedium of his parent's house. Mycroft was doing whatever Mycroft did behind the closed doors of Whitehall. Linley was away with a youth theatre group pretending to be a tree or whatever actor's did to be in the moment. His father pottered around the garden, weeding and pruning when the business of the boardroom did not drag him to the City. And his Mummy made jam, dried flowers and did all those other boringly domestic things so beloved of the WI and so demeaning, in Sherlock's view, for a mathematical genius.

The heat and stifling dullness had become too much, so Sherlock had packed his bags and gone to visit Martha Hudson.

With the money they had salted away, Mrs Hudson had been able to purchase a mid-terrace Georgian house on Baker Street. The property was split in two. 221A was a small café, run by a charming family. It's cheerful red awning and the tables arranged on the pavement outside gave it the feel of a continental café, even if the food was the usual sandwiches and fry-ups expected by the labourers and office workers who formed the mainstay of the Speedy's clientele. Whilst they served a perfectly authentic Italian espresso, they were just as adept a producing a mug of perfect builder's tea.

Beside the windows of the café stood a black front door with brass door furniture and a half moon fanlight above. The number 221B stood boldly above a large brass door knocker. The smell of baking wafted temptingly from inside. When Mrs Hudson opened the door she was red faced, with flour clinging to the beads of sweat of her forehead where she'd obviously been brushing her fringe out of her eyes with the back of her wrist.

"Sherlock, how wonderful. You're early. I'm just finishing off a batch of scones for Carlotta next door. Apparently they go down very well with the tourists. Come in, come in. I've made your room up. It's just down there out the back. Go through while I finish this up otherwise I'll have flour everywhere."

He only spent a few days in Mrs Hudson's cramped back room. She had settled in well back in London. The rent from Speedy's covered most of her day-to-day living expenses, whilst she rented out Flat B upstairs to a professional couple. The income was more than enough to keep her comfortable and allow what remained of her capital to stay happily invested and untouched.

Happy that the dear lady was financially secure, he was glad to hear that she'd built a circle of friends for herself. As well as Carlotta and Fred from Speedy's, she was getting very chummy with Mrs Turner next door in 219 and, through her, had been introduced to a knitting group, and some avid bakers and recipe swappers. Mrs Hudson was the first to admit that the knitting circle was more about gossip than anything else. Sherlock felt a pang of sadness when he saw the look of regret on Mrs Hudson's face as she talked of the circle members sharing family photos and tales of children and grandchildren. But she soon brightened up as she spoke of the new life she was building for herself, so far from what she had known in Florida.

"… and dear Mrs Wilson upstairs asked if they could redecorate the flat, what with it being so plain. Well, of course I agreed as long as they didn't make any structural changes. Apparently they like something called retro. They've redone the kitchen. I had that nice Belling up there. Well they've put in a range cooker my Mum would have thought old fashioned. And the wallpaper. Oh you wouldn't believe Sherlock. It's all flock with each wall different. It's a real hotch-potch, although I suppose it looks nice in it's way. They've kept the fireplace and the cornices. Oh and they've built bookcases into the alcoves either side of the chimney. It's all top quality I'm sure, but it's not really to my taste. But then I don't have to live with it. I've said that I'll knock off the final month's rent if they leave everything as is when they move out. I just hope it doesn't make it difficult to rent. And the other flat on this floor, Flat C down the end of the hall, is the bane of my life. It has a terrible damp problem which we can't seem to cure. Of course it means I can't rent it out, not that I really need to. I'll probably just leave it for now. I'm sure I'll get round to it someday. And what about you Sherlock? You're at Cambridge aren't you? That must be fun. I've heard about the hi-jinks you students get up to. Have you found yourself a nice young man yet, or are you playing the field?"

Sherlock looked up, somewhat alarmed at the direction the conversation had suddenly taken. "Mrs Hudson, really. I know many students spend more time gaining trophies in sport or in bed, but I am there to study."

The older lady giggled and fluttered her hand. "Oh, don't mind me. You know I'm just a foolish old women who wants to see her favourite duckling settled."

Sherlock took a sip of tea and changed the subject. "And how are you, Mrs Hudson, in yourself? I couldn't help but notice a slight limp in your right leg."

"Oh, it's nothing dear. Just paying the price for all that shimmying I used to do. It's my hip. It only plays up when it's damp or the weather's on the turn. It's fine. Nothing to worry about."

"Well, if you're sure."

"Oh, I'm quite sure. Now, more tea or can I tempt you with a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven?"

-0-0-0-

Sherlock's return to Cambridge went largely unnoticed. Most of the students had yet to return from their summer break, and few of the throngs of tourists were interested in the 1960's architecture of Churchill when they had colleges the likes of Trinity, Corpus Christi and Kings.

He had already informed the Porter of his early return, so his room was ready for him. After unpacking his possessions, he decided to confirm his access to the air conditioned laboratories where he would no doubt spend most of his time over the coming months. He enjoyed walking into an empty lab. He could scent the lingering traces of chemicals in the air, the cleaning fluids the maintenance staff had used, the hum of the air conditioning that was almost drowned out by the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the constant drone of the various refrigerated storage units that were dotted around the walls. This was an atmosphere he had grown comfortable with. It spoke to him of safety, solitude and science. Here he was isolated from the world. He could focus, secure in the knowledge that he would rarely be disturbed, the other users of the lab quickly learning that he did not want their interference or their company. In the lab he had more control over the constant flow of data that assailed his mind. The lab was a clean environment, rarely inhabited by more than a few people all of whom were focused on their own experiments. It was the purest place he had ever been. Perhaps, in the unlikely event that there were a heaven, and in the even more unlikely event that he were to merit being there, this, for him, would be it. A quiet room of few distractions where he could control the data that constantly assailed his mind, and where he could focus his intellect without disturbance. A room of science and logic. Yes, this would be his heaven.

-0-0-0-

He'd noticed the man several times. A face that quickly became familiar in the formal hall, the library, corridors and lecture rooms. Sharp eyes that he felt upon him but which darted quickly away when he looked in their direction.

The man was a little under six feet tall, with brown eyes and walnut brown hair, worn unfashionably short. His tanned complexion spoke of years spent in the sun. His clothes spoke of family money, but a relaxed attitude. Every item of clothing was carefully tailored or bore the label of a top designer, yet it was all worn with a lazy carelessness. He was right handed and wore a heavy gold Rolex on his left wrist. That the man had only just arrived, but was the same year as Sherlock suggested that he had transferred in from another university. The overly precise English accent suggested a former colony, perhaps India. It was difficult to determine more than the basics until the man stopped hovering and actually made contact; an interaction Sherlock had no intention of initiating despite his growing frustration with the situation.

Another week passed before his shadow made his first approach.

It was a pleasant day towards the end of September. Sherlock had taken advantage of the sunlight to study sitting under a tree in a small area of grassland off of Churchill Road. Someone in one of the homes on Storey's Way kept a bee hive at the bottom of their garden. Sherlock had discovered during his first summer that the bees made their way over Churchill Way to feed on the pollen of the wild flowers and clover that flourished on this infrequently mowed patch of land. He found contentment in watching the industrious creatures meander their way over the field, pausing at each blossom to capture the few remaining morsels as the hive prepared for winter.

"Err, hello. May I join you?"

Sherlock looked up, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he glared at the owner of the shadow that now obstructed his view.

"Piss off."

"Oh, my word. You really are as rude as they say. Seb said you're an arrogant tosser. I have to say I didn't believe him. Benefit of the doubt and all that."

"You've asked Sebastian Wilkes about me?" A small nod answered his query. "Well Seb is a lying bastard. He's only interested in who he can shag and who can further his career prospects. Which are you?"

The man blushed. "Oh well, I'm sure he's very attractive, but, err, no, I'm not, err …"

"What? Not interested in darling Sebby or not interested in men?"

"Um, well, I'm definitely not interested in Seb."

"Ahhh, but you do have a passing fancy for the male form."

"Um, well, um, yes."

"Is that why you're here? Did Daddy not want you disgracing the family name in India so he sent you to the university in good old Blighty with the proudest reputation for producing queers? Cambridge, good choice."

"Err, no. I transferred from The Jawaharlal Nehru Centre for Advanced Scientific Research in Bangalore. I was supposed to come here all along, but Mama fell sick and Papa wanted me to stay nearby in case the worst happened."

"Right. And you're here now because? Ah yes, the worst happened."

"Yes. How did you know? She died in February. So, with nothing to hold me in India, here I am. Victor Trevor, by the way."

Sherlock briefly surveyed the hand stuck in his direction. Reaching up, he took it and exchanged a cursory shake. "Sherlock Holmes."

Victor seemed to take the introduction as an invitation to join Sherlock, the man dumping his bag of books and scrunching up against the trunk, nudging Sherlock's shoulder repeatedly as he made himself comfortable. He then proceeded to talk, about himself, his family, his family's chemical works in Bangalore, how he had wanted to go to the Institute of Plantation Management in Bangalore so he could take over the family tea plantation in Ooty, but Papa had insisted he take over the chemical works so he was studying chemistry. He had an older sister who had graduated from Cambridge the previous year with a Masters in Business and Management …"

The babble went on, and on, and on. Each excited fact making its way into his mind and sitting, proud and quivering in the reception hall of his Mind Palace as it awaited allocation to its appropriate room.

Sherlock stood abruptly, gathered his belongings and walked away. He neither spoke to nor looked back at the young man still sat against the tree trunk. Victor startled out of his monologue, grabbed up his own possessions, and bounded after the departing figure, bouncing around the unresponsive man like an excitable puppy trying to attract the attention of his master. His over enthusiasm caused him to catch the back of Sherlock's heel, causing the man to stumble, barking his shin on a stone step, before righting himself, growling in anger and slamming the door of the college entrance in the following man's face.

After that, Victor never left Sherlock alone. At every opportunity he bounded up, all smiles and enthusiasm. Nothing shook the man from his goal, to be-friend the glacial Sherlock Holmes. To a small degree he was successful. Sherlock became so used to the annoyance that he was able to blank out the constant stream of inane consciousness that left the man's mouth. Victor did have his uses. Whenever he was around, especially when Sherlock was immersed in his studies, Victor would place an almost constant supply of snacks and drinks within arm's reach, giving a contented sigh when he returned later to find only empty packaging and crumbs.

Of course, his new 'best friend' didn't go unnoticed by those who constantly looked for new ways to torment him.

It was Seb who 'accidentally' bumped into him in formal hall one morning during breakfast, causing him to spill orange juice on his shoes. "Oh dear. I am sorry Sherlock. How inordinately clumsy of me. And all over your shiny shoes too. Best mop that up before they get all sticky. Or perhaps you can get your little pet to do it. I'm sure he loves bending over for you. The chance to kneel at your feet will send him all of aquiver. Such a sweet little pet."

Sherlock remained stony faced, as he internally raged, but there was little he could do. To retort in any way was to give Sebastian what he wanted. He loathed the smarmy bastard in front of him with his sickening innuendos, and he despised Victor even more for putting him in the situation with his besotted attention. He hated everything about the man's ill conceived courtship, for that's what it was, but nothing he did seemed to dissuade the man from his devotion. He'd tried ignoring him, being rude to him, deducing him, avoiding him, even introducing him to other gay students in the hope of diverting his attention; everything but using physical force against him. Nothing dissuaded him from his abject devotion.

And so it continued, until Christmas.

Sherlock was under strict orders to return home. Mycroft had even contrived for a chauffeur to retrieve him (he preferred the term man-handle) from his room and drive him back to his parent's where he was greeted with enthusiastic kisses from Mummy and an uncomfortable hug from Daddy. Mycroft would not arrive until Christmas Eve and Linley was away performing pantomimes for underprivileged children with his youth theatre group.

Sherlock retreated to his bedroom where he remained, sulking, with only his laptop for company, until his parents demanded his attendance either in the kitchen or the drawing room.

Christmas was invariably hell. Mummy always cooked a huge feast for Christmas day, despite Sherlock and Mycroft barely touching their food. Mycroft, of course, adored Mummy's stollen and gorged himself on it. Sherlock, of course, mocked him mercilessly.

Sherlock, as always, refused to by Christmas presents, except for a box of Charbonnel et Walker champagne truffles which he always hid for Mummy under the tree, unsigned, of course. It was a little subterfuge between them. She would exclaim and deny all knowledge of her secret admirer, he would sit in the corner, his face buried in a book to hide the happy twitch at the corner of his mouth and the shine in his eyes at her delighted flutterings.

By Boxing Day, he was exhausted. What little goodwill existed between himself and his older brother evaporated as quickly as the brandy on the Christmas pudding. The house was once again filling with tension. Sherlock decided he'd fulfilled his obligation, packed his bags and called a cab to the station. The journey back to Cambridge took forever. As usual, the trains were all on a highly curtailed Sunday service. There were few buses and even fewer cabs available. Travel was a nightmare, not helped by freezing fog.

He collapsed on his bed a little after eight that night. He ran himself a bath, simply to defrost, before pulling on his pyjamas and retiring to the warmth of his bed to read.

Two days back and Sherlock was bored. He needed to get out and do something, anything, to stave off his darkening thoughts and give his mind new stimuli to work on before it tore itself apart. That was his problem. His mind absorbed everything that happened around him, pulling in scents, sounds, everything, like a well-oiled machine, flying at full tilt all the time, processing information into patterns, tying it to previously accumulated data, and then bringing its conclusions to the forefront of Sherlock's conscious mind like a precocious child to an adoring parent. The problem with any well-oiled machine was that, when it had insufficient inputs, it began to tear itself apart.

Sherlock needed to get out of his room and find something to keep his mind entertained.

He ventured into the centre of Cambridge and its post-Christmas shoppers, deducing the mass of humanity; parents desperate after the usual round of family angst, but determined to appear full of a Christmas spirit that almost none of them felt, whilst children dashed to and fro, still buzzing from Santa, and sugar, and gifts. When the seething throng became too much, he strolled along the Cam until his hands and feet were frozen. He found a riverside pub that served food and a disgusting sludge it called coffee. Still, it was warm and allowed him the time for his toes to defrost before he continued on, back to his room.

Again he ran a bath, the cold having seemed to permeate every bone in his body. For once, he took the time to lay back and luxuriate in the warmth as he allowed his mind to process the new information he had gathered. Most of it would be earmarked for deletion, as all irrelevant data was. He had no room in his mind for other people's mundane clutter.

As the water began to cool, he opened his eyes, gazing blankly at the bathroom ceiling. Slowly, like a gentle prod, he began to become focused. Something was important. Something he had not noticed before. Looking more closely at the ceiling he began to analyse what he was seeing.

The bathroom ceiling was white artex – that horrible spikey coating that builders insisted on smearing over British ceilings. It was as hard as rock and its textured surface offered an attractive home to mold, especially in the steamy atmosphere of a bathroom. This particular ceiling had obviously escaped the attentions of the College cleaning staff for a while, as it was fairly evenly speckled with the black dots of mold colonies.

Except near the corner it wasn't. What had caught Sherlock's eye was a circle of pristine white artex. About a centimetre in diameter, it was encircled by black, but remained inviolate.

Sherlock's mind latched on to this speck of purity and danced a little jig. Here was an anomaly worth investigating. Sherlock leapt from the bath, remembering to drain the water, dried himself rapidly, pulled on underwear, jeans and a jumper as the cold of his room caused him to shiver, then grabbed his kit.

He spent the next two hours carefully documenting, swabbing and even photographing the small patch of ceiling. Satisfied that all possible data had been gathered, Sherlock pulled on socks, shoes and coat, and took his notes and samples down to his favourite lab where he could begin analysis.

For the next four days he was absorbed. He barely left the lab, rarely drank and hardly ate. Only whilst running an analysis or growing further cultures would Sherlock take the time to stagger back to his room, grabbing refreshments and a few hours of sleep before returning to continue his work. By the end of the fourth day he was exhausted, smelly and dehydrated. His brain was so over-stimulated that he was barely coherent.

Victor found him in the lab and, with little difficulty given his weakened state, dragged the man back to his room. He ordered Sherlock to strip, shave and shower whilst Victor went back to his own room to change. When Sherlock re-entered his room from the shower, he found underwear, trousers and one of his aubergine shirts laid out on his bed. Without thinking he pulled on the clothing, then collapsed into his chair. A scant fifteen minutes later Victor re-appeared, shaking Sherlock awake and demanding that he accompany him to a New Year's Eve party in one of the student lodging houses. Sherlock, whilst well known for hating social gatherings, was in no fit state to refuse, being dragged along by the other man who burbled happily about the people who would be there.

It was a huge mistake. Sherlock's mind was already over-sensitized by four days of hard work, little rest and no chance to deal with the data that now filled his Mind Palace awaiting processing. As soon as he walked into the crowded student boarding house he was overwhelmed. The music throbbed, the heat of tightly pressed bodies was stifling, and the combined scents of perfumes, deodorants, sweat, food and alcohol made his stomach roil. Someone shoved a can of something cold into his hand. He instinctively drank it down, his body crying out for liquid after four days of deprivation. The alcohol hit his brain hard. Victor felt his companion stagger, so guided him to a back room, where he was eased to the floor. This room was quieter, the occupants seeming more sedate than those dancing and undulating to a incredibly loud base beat coming from somewhere else in the house.

Sherlock felt hot. He hadn't even taken off his jacket. Somehow he communicated this to Victor who removed the garment, folding it behind Sherlock's head to form a cushion against the wall. Next Victor began to unbutton and roll up Sherlock's sleeves. The cool air was a relief. Sherlock's brain was pounding as his mind spun, identifying brands of scent and pulsating with the music still audible from outside. He had already been almost insensate when Victor had dragged him from his room, now with the combination of so much stimuli and the alcohol, his mind was throbbing.

He barely felt the tightening of something around his left bicep. He winced at the sting in the crook of his elbow. He sighed in relief when opalescent walls sprung up around his Mind Palace. They were beautiful; keeping everything out. There was no more noise, no more smells, no external stimuli at all. There was merely Sherlock within his Mind Palace. The lack of extraneous stimuli was marvellous. His mind whooped with joy as it began to process everything it had accumulated over the past few days. With no distractions the focus was total, and the speed, oh the processing speed was incredible. Never before had he been able to see so much so clearly. The rubbish was identified and deleted, the data was neatly filed away in the appropriate room, then each delicate jewel was brought forth for closer examination, other data points pushing forward vying for attention to see if they were part of the bigger picture.

It was glorious.

It was Christmas.

Too soon the feeling of a hand on his arms and a voice saying it was time to go caused the opalescent walls to fall away, allowing the noise of the outside world to encroach once again.

It was 12:37pm on New Year's day when Sherlock finally surfaced. Victor was sat next to him on the bed, his back against the headboard and his body pressed hard against Sherlock's side. Sherlock startled, instinctively shoving the unwanted body off the bed onto the floor.

"Oi! What did you do that for? You could at least be grateful. I made sure you had a good time last night and I got you home OK. There's no need to get violent."

Sherlock thought about what had happened.

"Victor, what exactly did you do?"

"I dragged you out of that lab, got you dressed up and took you to a New Year's party."

Sherlock rubbed the crook of his elbow. He looked down at the red puncture mark surrounded by bruising.

"Victor. Tell me precisely. What the fuck did you do to me?"

Victor looked at where Sherlock rubbed his arm, his face breaking into a grin of realisation. "Oh that. Don't worry, it was a clean needle. I took it especially for you from the pharmacology lab. Only the best for my Sherlock. And you needed something after what you'd put yourself through, glued to that microscope for days. I thought you'd appreciate a little escape, a bit of a high. I mixed it specially. Call it my Christmas present to you. I've tucked some vials into the back of your sock drawer for later. Just a five percent solution. Nothing too strong."

Sherlock gritted his teeth to hold onto his temper.

"Victor, a five percent solution of what, precisely?"

"Cocaine. I made sure it was the good stuff. Tested it myself. No impurities. You can thank me later."

"Thank you? Why the fucking hell would I thank you? You deliberately and with pre-meditation created and then injected me with a Class A drug without my knowledge or consent while I was in a highly compromised state. And you want me to thank you? What kind of a moron are you? I've had to put up with your frankly disgusting attention for months, and now you think you have the right to shoot me full of cocaine and share my bed. I don't think so. If I so much as see you again I will have you sent down for drug possession and distribution. And if you so much as whisper that you injected me with cocaine I will have your body buried so deep no-one will ever find it. And believe me I can do it too. One call to my brother and you're gone. I will not have an imbecile like you ruin my education because of your pathetic infatuation. What did you think? That I'd get hooked and rely on you as my dealer? Or did you think that I'd fall into your arms and declare my undying love. My god, you did didn't you? Just, get out of my sight. Go, get out of my room and stay out of my life. I will not hesitate to destroy you if you come anywhere near me again."

Later that day, Sherlock sent an email to Mycroft informing him that a fellow student had offered to procure cocaine for him. By the end of the week, Victor Trevor was on a flight back to Bangalore, and a place at the Institute of Plantation Management.

-0-0-0-

After showering, he went to his sock drawer. Victor had made a mess of his sock index in his amateurish attempt to hide the stash. It only took a moment to find the four vials of solution. Sherlock made to throw them away, but something stayed his hand. A memory of opalescent walls and his mind free of distraction. Taking a strip of sticky tape, he carefully taped the vials to the underside of his bed frame. Later he would find a more secure hiding place away from prying eyes. And, very much later, an experiment was called for.

This work is part of a series, set in a canon divergent universe where series 3 didn't happen and Mary Morstan is a totally different person (because my story, 'Watersheds', around which these stories are based, was written before series 3 aired). In this universe, our three main characters, Sherlock, John and Mary, identify, in their own ways, as asexual.

The stories so far in the Trefoil series are as follows:

Birth - Why Sherlock and not William? William Sherlock Scott Holmes has issues. He has already lost his beloved big brother Mycroft to boarding school and his new best friend, an odious creep called Charles. Then he lost his Mummy and Daddy to his new, as yet un-named baby brother. (s/10486100/1/Birth)

Watersheds - John Watson had encountered many watersheds in his life, not all of them good, not all of them of his choosing. Each time he had to re-invent his life, sometimes on his own, and sometimes with the help of unexpected allies. (s/9616904/1/Watersheds)

Trefoil - To his surprise he found himself loved. Not just by one, but by two of the most amazing people he had ever known. With cases to work on, criminals to chase and a new DI to break in, Sherlock found himself to be ... content. (s/10194990/1/Trefoil)

Becoming - Missing chapters from the developing asexual relationship between Sherlock, John and Mary. (s/10926138/1/Becoming)

Ensemble - Background stories, in no particular chronological order, of the wider Holmes-Watson family. (s/10944616/1/Ensemble)