A moment to say thank you for all the alerts, favourites and most especially the reviews. Was rather nervous about this story having a) not written anything for the fandom previously and b) only dabbled in writing slash before and rather indirectly at that. With each chapter (they appear to be doubling in size) I'm gradually unclenching. Metaphorically speaking.

Cybersquishes to Lyrium Flower for Thighgate and a million other things, I can't thank you enough. Slash

Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants…And The One Time He Didn't

Four

Sherlock hated university. After the institutional terrorism of school he'd been eager to escape, to reinvent himself somewhere no-one knew him and be anyone he had a mind to. He fancied tortured genius, the melodrama appealing to him on a base level. He would be a misunderstood survivor of the brutal, hierarchical private education system, there should be some sort of award, really. He'd be the clever, mysterious one you went to when you needed a problem solving, someone clearly set apart but respected. Respect bordering on awe would be acceptable, he decided. Still gangly, he used some of his trust fund money to buy himself a long, black coat, ostensibly to make himself look bigger but additionally to foster the image of an aloof, enigmatic-bordering-on-eccentric personality. It also had the benefit of being very warm.

Disappointingly, university turned out to be not much different to school although the methods used to exclude, mock and intimidate were far more refined. His first day in Halls he was striding down the corridor to his room, coat flaring dramatically when a flat voice behind him declared 'Jesus, look at that pretentious twat,' to a rising tide of sniggers. After that it only got worse despite his attempts to impress and intimidate and he retreated into his usual pattern of diffidence, barbed comments and deductive character assassination, withdrawing into his room. He only emerged for lectures and occasionally to replenish his pitifully low food supplies when things started spinning around him. Cigarettes helped, of course, serving as repellents, rewards, props, comfort and even as meals, but there was no substitute for base calories in the end. One day, forced by necessity into the refectory, he was sniping at a particularly brainless female student when he encountered something completely unexpected. Laughter. Genuine, amused laughter and not, for once, at his expense. He turned in surprise to see a familiar face sporting a huge grin before the owner strode up and clapped him on a shoulder.

"Nice one, Sherlock! Bitch had it coming."

Sebastian Wilkes. Eton educated, moneyed, handsome and all round (Sherlock couldn't help but think this with a small amount of vitriol) Popular Student. Add into that college rower and you had someone whose attention was not usually that of the benevolent kind especially when it came to people like Sherlock. But there he was, smiling at him and reiterating the fact that they lived in the same Halls (as if Sherlock didn't know) and that he had a favour to ask him if he could spare the time. Said favour involved Sherlock investigating a student in the year above who had designs on his vaunted Stroke spot by way of sabotaging upcoming trials. Sebastian was so pleased with the result - the student was exposed and duly vilified - that he took him out to dinner.

Much to his surprise he had a very enjoyable evening much of which they spent discussing their fellow students, Sherlock relaxing more and more as Sebastian's delighted laughter at his acerbic observations, even those concerning Sebastian himself, rang through the half empty restaurant.

After that, Sebastian, Seb, took to dropping in on him a few times a week, sometimes bringing a bottle, occasionally dragging him out to dinner, but most often settling on his bed with an economics textbook and simply reading, saying he could concentrate better with him in the same room. Over time Sherlock found his gaze drawn more and more to the other student. Angular and aristocratic with a rangy rower's body he had a natural charisma that drew the eye and an easy, charming manner. His company was constantly sought out by the other students but apart from a group of friends he trained with he mostly eschewed them in favour of spending time with Sherlock who was by turns exulting and suspicious. Unable to resist, he had asked him once why such a popular chap, one who people naturally gravitated towards, would be seen in the company of someone like, well, like him. Seb had merely laughed loudly, pulled him into an unexpected hug and told him that he liked having him around.

"I'm bored, let's go out. There's this girl coming to the bar tonight, think you'll like her."

"Can't, Seb."

"Why not?"

"Too much work to do."

"Aww," Seb flopped onto his stomach and gazed up at him from his bed, grinning triumphantly when Sherlock rolled his eyes but was entirely unable to suppress a small smile. "For me?" He bounded up, slinging an arm around his friend and pulled him firmly against his side noticing with a quirk of an eyebrow how he coloured and turned his face away slightly. "Go on. For Sebbie?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded, making a grand show of closing his textbook, secretly pleased to be coerced. Seb ruffled his hair and cheered. "Brilliant. You never know, we might find you a shag as well. Stranger things have happened, eh?"

A frown. "Not interested."

"Yeah, yeah." Seb had a complete disregard for personal space, especially Sherlock's, and he leaned in close, pressing his forehead against his thick dark mop of hair. "So you keep saying. But- " he dropped his voice and Sherlock's eyes moved to his lips involuntarily, "-I don't believe you." He grinned up at him and Sherlock caught his breath slightly at his careless proximity. "Meet you downstairs in thirty." Another quick press of his forehead and he was gone leaving a curl of expensive aftershave in his wake.

Sherlock wrapped his coat more tightly around himself and stared at the rumpled spot on the bed where Seb had lounged moments ago. He always managed to talk him into doing what he wanted, not that it took much - he was uncomfortably aware he followed him round like some pathetic attention-starved animal most of the time but Seb was...he was Seb. He could spend time with anyone he wanted to, yet he sought out Sherlock's company constantly and that was...good. He was important to Seb, he mattered. He allowed himself another small smile and drifted a hand across his forehead, still feeling smooth skin on his.

He strode into the lobby half an hour later faltering slightly at the sight of his friend surrounded by various members of his rowing team all of whom were eyeing him with expressions ranging from derisory to outright hostile.

"We off to a funeral, Sebbie?"

"Didn't know we were dressing up tonight."

"Shut up, you twats," replied Seb firmly, directing a stern glare at the assembled group. "Sherlock can wear what he bloody well wants." He strode towards his friend, now standing ramrod stiff, ignoring the muttering which followed, and threw an arm over his shoulder. "He makes the rest of us look good. Nice suit," he added with a wink, earning himself a grateful twitch of the lips. "Shall we?"

As usual the student bar was noisy and smoky; Sherlock secreted himself in a corner, nursing a whisky and trying not to let his gaze drift over to Seb too often. The other man was exchanging stories with his friends, each trying to outdo the other with escalating tales of conquests and drunken escapades to general guffaws and macho scuffling. He grimaced into his glass and tried not to think too hard about what was sticking his left shoe to the floor. In the periphery of his vision he registered Seb straightening, his attention caught by two girls who had just entered and saw him mutter something to the other men before starting in Sherlock's direction. He focused on the one who had caught Seb's eye.

Dark hair, touch of dye, considered pretty by conventional standards I suppose, casually dressed, expensive clothes. Rich family. He watched her look around the room. Tentative, not her kind of place so is here tonight specifically for something. Seb beckoned her over, smiling, as her friend drifted towards the bar. Or someone.

"Ellie! So glad you could make it," he kissed her quickly on both cheeks before waving her to a chair opposite Sherlock, seating himself next to her. "She's another PPE-er. Ellie, meet my friend Sherlock."

"Hi."

"Hello."

There was a short pause. Seb clapped his hands briskly, announced he was getting the next round in and trotted off to the bar, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock over her shoulder.

"Seb's told me a lot abou-"

"Spare me."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock rocked back on his chair and eyed her down the length of his nose, index finger rubbing briskly across his bottom lip.

"You're not here to make small talk with Seb's friend. You ordered an orange juice, by your complexion and general demeanour you likely don't drink. This is not your usual sort of place so you came here with a purpose. Brought a friend with you for reassurance who immediately left as soon as Seb called you over which tells me you weren't planning to spend any time with her, probably pre-agreed, because you were going to spend the evening with him." He flicked his eyes over her. "New top, creases in the arms, fresh painted nails, oh you're out to impress. You ducked your head when he kissed you on the cheek, submissive, bit unsure of yourself, perhaps you suddenly realised you don't know him as well as you thought you did."

"Seb? But he- "

"I wouldn't worry," Sherlock said with a smile that made the icy coldness in his eyes even more apparent. "Seb caters for all levels of experience. Ask that girl over there. Or the one standing next to him at the bar. Wait another hour or so and there'll be more, perhaps they'll share war stories with you."

He watched her cast a desperate glance over to the crush of people where Seb was standing and then back at him. "Run along," he said dismissively. "No need to stay on my account."

She fled, not even stopping to say goodbye to Seb who watched her leave with faint surprise. On the way back he paused within his circle of friends muttering a few quiet words and Sherlock saw with narrowed eyes the furtive exchange of banknotes.

"What was all that about?" He said sharply after Seb had settled himself at the table and pushed another whisky towards him.

"Had a bet on," he replied airily. "Thought she was quite keen but looks like she scares easily. Like a girl with a little more backbone, know what I mean?" He held up his bottle to be clinked. "Probably did us a favour, buddy, those ones can get clingy. Good idea to avoid the bunny boilers." He smiled lazily. "Come on, let's get drunk."

Several hours later he was watching Seb's pink-tinged face laughing up at him through a haze of alcohol. He felt heavy and leaden yet deliciously wanton, a secret thrill rushing up his spine every time Seb leaned against him and bellowed his amusement.

"Her. Over there."

"Unsure about her sexuality. Snogged the barman in the corridor not ten minutes ago but can't take her eyes off the female coat attendant."

"What about her?"

"Not a student. Townie, likes younger men. Failing marriage or open relationship, has taken off her wedding ring in the hopes that someone here will be attracted to the more experienced woman."

"God, you're priceless."

Sherlock smiled, eyes drifting shut against the spin of the room, and rested his head against Seb's shoulder.

"Come on, we're going."

"What?" Sherlock opened his eyes groggily. "Where?"

"House party, friend of mine."

"I don't think I- "

"Come on. It'll be fun." He lifted Sherlock's chin gently with a fingertip and moved his face closer. "Don't worry, Sebbie'll look after you."

Disorientated, Sherlock awoke to find himself being dragged out of a taxi by a chuckling Seb who promptly seized a fistful of his shirt and guided him through the front of a house heaving with bodies. He dimly registered a muted cheer at his friend's arrival before he was shoved into a crowded kitchen, a filled glass appearing in his hand. He took a sip, still blinking in the over-bright room and grimaced.

"God, what is that?"

"Tequila."

"Ugh. Tastes like lighter fluid."

"Don't wrinkle your nose, not everyone keeps stocks of aged whisky around just in case the elusive Sherlock makes an appearance. It'll do the job." Seb grabbed his wrist and forced the glass up to his lips, raising his own. "Down in one."

"Hey, Sebbie," a blonde girl sidled up whilst Sherlock was still wiping his eyes and coughing, placing a red tipped hand on his friend's waist and smiling slyly up at him. He shot her a belligerent look and swayed, deciding against asking whether she'd applied her make-up with a shotgun in case he accidentally vomited everywhere.

"Rab-, sorry Karen," replied Seb, pouring more tequila into their glasses and not bothering to look at her. "Busy, darling. Jog on."

Sherlock snorted, earning himself a dirty look as she sashayed away, tossing her hair indignantly. He glared at the back of her departing head, jumping slightly as Seb took hold of his wrist again and waggled his drink.

"Come on mate, you're falling behind."

"Tired. Don't think I want to drink any more."

"Got just the thing for that." Seb reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded packet, slinging an arm around Sherlock who eyed him suspiciously.

"What's that?"

"Bolivian Marching Powder. Only the finest for us," he drawled. "Perk you right up."

"No."

"It's good stuff..."

"No, Seb."

"Suit yourself." He tapped out a small pile into the hollow between his thumb and index finger and sniffed deeply, smirking at his friend's disapproving scowl. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Speaking of which, what did you think of that girl earlier? Before you tore her a new one."

"Who?"

Sherlock stared at him, face deliberately blank, and Seb sighed impatiently in response.

"Ellie. The girl in the bar."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? God, it's like talking to a brick wall sometimes. Look," Seb took hold of his elbow gently and steered him into the living room, flopping them both onto a squashy couch. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends." Sherlock tightened his elbow around Seb's hand almost imperceptibly and sank further into the cushions of the sofa, watching him with wary, unfocused eyes.

"I've known you for, what, nearly a year now and not once in all that time have you ever shown any interest in anyone."

"So?"

"So," said Seb, drawing out the vowel until it hung in the air between them like a dissipating smoke ring, "what I want to know is…" He shifted suddenly to face him, one hand on a shoulder and the other lightly tapping on Sherlock's thigh. "Has something happened to you? Put you off girls forever? Boys? Sheep?" He giggled but subsided abruptly as his friend angled his head away, brow furrowing. "Oh come on, I'm joking-"

"Nothing's happened."

Sherlock met Seb's expectant gaze with a troubled, uncertain one and looked to be on the verge of saying something else but quickly snapped his mouth shut. Seb waited for a few moments and then rolled his eyes irritably.

"Fine, fine, don't tell me then, you bloody- "

"Don't be dense." Sherlock looked away again, teeth worrying his lower lip. "I'm saying that nothing has happened to me. Ever."

"Oh." Seb looked confused. "Oh." His face cleared, eyebrows shooting up in a manner that would have been comical had Sherlock not felt so unbelievably humiliated by his confession, hunching himself so far down into the sofa his knees were practically up around his ears. "Seriously? But…so, nothing's happened but you've been interested, right?"

There was silence again whilst Sherlock watched the other man's fingers absently tap-tapping against his thigh. "Yes."

"So what are you interested in?"

"I…" Seb watched him struggle briefly, "…don't know," he said finally.

"Well we can't have that, can we?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Seb leaned closer, pupils blown in the dim light of the room. "Why don't you meet me upstairs in ten minutes, Mr Holmes?" He found himself mesmerised by the shape of Seb's lips forming the soft words, face warming at his proximity.

"What for?"

"Ten minutes. Bedroom at the end of the corridor." He pushed himself up from the sofa, kneeling briefly between Sherlock's knees. "Don't be late," he whispered and winked before disappearing into the press of people.

Sherlock sat frozen, fighting down a sudden rush of panic. His friend Sebastian, handsome, funny, popular Sebastian had enquired about his (almost non-existent) sexual history, amazingly had not laughed and told the entire party and then had invited him upstairs for…for…

His brain appeared to have folded itself into some sort of feedback loop rendering him completely unable to breathe, move or, worse still, predict in any way what might come next. Or who. A high pitched giggle escaped and he hid behind one hand briefly, trying to re-gather himself, summoning the image of the other man leaning towards him.

Pupils dilated. Too dilated even taking low ambient light into consideration. Slight glisten of sweat on his chest, reddened lips from increased blood flow to peripheries, oh God, don't focus on peripheries. He shook his head firmly and fought down the resulting roil of nausea. Focus. Speeding heart-rate, slight tremor of the hands. All attributable to cocaine use but could also be signs of-

He might-

He peered into the darkness of the hallway in the direction Seb had gone.

Might he…?

Nine minutes later Sherlock hesitantly made his way upstairs. He passed a little knot of students he recognised from Seb's rowing team, all of whom glanced at him briefly and then promptly ignored him. The landing was dark and the short carpeted corridor deserted, the only light being a small desk lamp placed on a vanity right at the far end. Bedroom at the end of the corridor. He moved slowly on shaking legs trying to quell a torrent of nervous excitement, anxiety and terror. He paused in front of the room, the door left ajar, and composed himself, smoothing tangled curls with a trembling hand.

It's Seb. It'll be fine. He caters for all levels of experience. He closed his eyes briefly. Just let me be...good at this.

He slipped inside and stood quietly, waiting for instructions, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was a movement near the window, the blinds allowing ribbons of moonlight to dart in intermittently and Sherlock, breath catching in his throat, saw him finally. Seb was kneeling on the bed waiting for him, his face in shadow but his upper body gilded by drifting shafts of silver. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to his pale chest, running down over the strong, sculpted muscle, the lean strength of him, down further to the flat planes of his stomach, the smooth curves of his hipbones-

He stilled, suddenly as sober as if he'd been doused in water and then deep frozen. Seb wasn't alone. There was a girl on her knees in front of him, the girl from the kitchen and she...

...she was...

Humiliation crashed over him, stupid, stupid, and he squeezed his eyes shut, staggering backwards, preparing to turn and leave when he heard a low moan from the bed. Feeling for the wall he stepped sideways into a small alcove beside the entrance to the room and forced his eyes open again, huddling in the shadow of the door, a flood of arousal rendering him almost paralysed. Seb moaned again, low and throaty, his body rocking gently against the girl's mouth and hands and Sherlock, mesmerised by the sight of him, clung to the wall, pressing the suddenly heavy weight of his groin against it, unable to tear his eyes away. In his suddenly overwhelmed imagination it was his hands on Seb, his mouth around him, he, Sherlock, was causing him to make those low, desperate sounds. One of his hands slipped off the wall to palm himself through his trousers, his hips unconsciously mirroring the movements of the man on the bed. He watched as Seb's hand came up to tangle in long blonde hair, feeling imagined fingers card through his own as Seb's other hand traced absent minded circles onto his smooth chest. Sherlock watched through half lidded eyes as his own hand began to trace circles on the wall, feeling cool skin under his fingertips, his other increasing the pressure on his groin and stroking slowly.

I should leave, he thought dimly. Hiding and watching like some depraved voyeur only confirmed what some of the rumours spread about him suggested, but part of him knew that this might be the only chance he'd get to see Sebastian like…this. The other man was beginning to stiffen and increase his pace, the soft, sweet groans becoming more urgent. Sherlock gasped quietly, moving his hand in time to each thrust of Seb's hips, the pressure building quickly. He leaned against the wall, knees buckling as he neared the precipice and he slid down it gently, mouth falling open as he bucked into his hand. As his view changed a slant of moonlight suddenly illuminated Seb's face and he saw he was watching him, a slow lazy smile spreading across his face as Sherlock came apart, mouth open in a silent cry.

Sherlock shuddered, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, feeling Seb's eyes raking over him, then he scrambled to his feet, scrabbling at his coat and tugging it around himself. He bolted out of the doorway and down the corridor only to run smack into a small group of people gathered on the landing. To his horror he realised they were all Seb's rowing mates and as he tried to circumvent them, head down, they erupted into gales of derisive laughter.

"Puts on a good show doesn't he, freak?"

"Always had you pegged as a faggot."

He shoved his way past them and stumbled down the stairs as a final "you just won your special friend a shitload of money, pervert, you should be happy for him" floated down followed by a litany of complaints, catcalls and more raucous shouting.

Sherlock staggered into the night, striding away as fast as he could without actually running until his lungs were bursting and his stomach threatened to empty itself, only half aware that it had begun to rain heavily. He slipped in a puddle and fell awkwardly, suddenly realising he was soaked through and had no idea where he was. A park, empty, a sliver of river behind it, a single overhead lamp illuminating the path in front of him. Phone box.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft."

A pause.

"Sherlock, it's late."

"I need to come home. Everything's...everything's all wrong." He clutched the phone to his ear. "Send someone."

"Sherlock, you're months away from Finals. Don't be silly. Whatever it is, is unimportant. Concentrate on the work."

"I can't- "

"Get it done, Sherlock. Then you can do whatever you want." The line went dead.

Sherlock confined himself to his room and waited in a frenzy of fearful expectation but Seb did not come to visit him. Not that week nor the week after nor the week after that and he found himself unable to focus on anything. Sleep was a distant memory, his violin felt mute and lumpen in his hands, food was unimaginable so he sat in front of his window chain-smoking, lighting one cigarette from the embers of another and hoping for some sort of an epiphany. Finals were looming but his textbooks remained resolutely unopened; he stared into space for hours, the events of that night looping endlessly in his head without resolution or respite.

Had it been a misunderstanding? Could he have been so stupid as to believe-? A bet? A cruel prank? He should know this, he should be able to deduce it. The facts, the facts...kept slipping from him at the memory of Seb, eyes warm on his as he invited him upstairs, Seb watching him recover his breath as Sherlock collapsed in disarray onto the floor of the bedroom, Seb's body dappled by moonlight.

He needed an answer.

The philosophy, politics and economics students always met in the bar Thursday afternoons following lectures, and, drawing together the last vestiges of his dignity, he showered, dressed carefully and headed down. As expected Seb was there surrounded by a crowd of fellow students and hangers on, one of whom nudged him as Sherlock entered. He looked up quickly and smiled on seeing him, beckoning him over. Sherlock moved towards the group warily, feeling the pressure in his chest loosen slightly at the other man's grin.

"Sherlock! Been a while, get yourself a drink why don't you."

He moved to the bar, turning his head slightly to catch muttered conversation behind him, Seb's replies inaudible.

"...not still hanging out with that freak, are..."

He jumped as Seb's hand fell on his shoulder and steered him to a nearby table.

"How've you been, buddy? Finals have seriously been kicking my arse." Sherlock watched the other man sprawl himself into a chair opposite, as relaxed and shiningly polished as ever and pulled his coat around himself a little more tightly.

"I need to ask you something."

"Sure."

"That night. At the party- " He looked up quickly as Seb sat forward, eyes full of amusement, and ruffled his hair.

"Don't get yourself so wound up about it, Sherlock. It was just a bit of fun, thought I'd give you a look at what you're missing." He smiled again and Sherlock felt his heart lift a bit.

"So...there was no bet?" He asked tentatively, hope lacing his voice. "The others said- "

"Ignore them," replied Seb with a laugh. "They were just winding you up. Listen, it's great to see you again but I have to shoot off."

"That's...fine." He took a quick breath. "I was wondering- "

"I'm going to be really busy, mate," Seb said apologetically. "Finance these days, full of nepotism - it's all about who you know. Got to network, get my name around, mix with- "

"-the right sort of people," finished Sherlock bitterly. "I see."

"I knew you'd understand." Seb clapped him gently on the arm and tugged at his coat. "God, I'm going to miss you. Tell you what, let's meet up when all this madness is over with. When we're both settled, what do you say?"

"Fine."

"Great. Look," he dropped his voice, leaning closer. Sherlock stayed rigid in his seat, eyes on the floor in front of him. "Word of advice. Get yourself out there, make some friends. You know, live a little."

"I don't need friends," snapped Sherlock. He drew his coat around himself again as the other man sighed tolerantly. He heaved himself out of the chair and addressed the top of Sherlock's head.

"See you around, mate," he said lightly. "Maybe next time we meet you'll have your own little set of followers, who knows?"

Sherlock watched Seb amble away out of the corner of his eye, turned his collar up and left without a word, squinting into the harsh sunlight outside. He stood still in the midday lunch rush, a silent figure on the busy pavement, forcing people to walk around him on the street, watching them swirl to avoid him before coming to a decision. Back in his room he rearranged his desk carefully and sat down. No more distractions. The work was order from chaos, action and reaction, events were predictable, deducible, could be manipulated to suit. Distractions were just that. They made the mind fuzzy and disordered - with the right sort of focus he could stay safe and untouched from the messy, mundane business of life outside of the work. Family ties, friends, relationships were irrelevant and unnecessary. With the right sort of focus he could get it done.

Sherlock withdrew a small folded packet from his pocket, banishing an image of a smiling Seb from his mind, turning it over in his hands before inspecting the contents. It was vaunted to be the good stuff, mentioning Seb's name had given him an advantage with the dealer. Well, he'd find out either way.

"Only the finest for us," he murmured and proceeded to lose himself in his work.