Warnings: swearing

Many thanks to my wonderful BB, Marill, who pretty much writes this and I just copy and paste. 3

Slow updates, as usual. Busy, busy, busy. Sorry!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and hope you enjoy :)


Sherlock had made riveting plans to study, followed by a forced dinner of extra-high calorie foods, followed by even more study, followed by tea or sugary biscuits and protein shakes, followed by lounging about in the common room for the remaining few, slow hours before bed. That was his routine. He didn't exactly like it, but it was his. Familiar and comfortable.

So when Victor Trevor had turned up it had been the last thing Sherlock had expected, or wanted.

One minute he was reading, wrapped up in a world of alkaline metals and atomic numbers, and the next there was some bloody Eton boy standing in his doorway. His uniform was ridiculous, starched until it refused to bend. He had shaggy brown hair in dire need of a cut, a small, slightly crooked mouth matched with slightly crooked teeth and weirdly pointy eyebrows. He dragged a leather satchel behind him dramatically, the bag bursting with textbooks.

The boy grinned, rapping a short rhythm on the door that was propped open. That was one of the more annoying rules. Doors had to remain open at all times during the day. If not they tended to assume you had tried to kill yourself, even if you'd only wanted to dress in private for once.

'Mind if I…?' said the boy asked, jerking his head into the room.

'Yes, I fucking mind. Piss off,' Sherlock snapped, furious he'd even been allowed this far into the building, yet cautious not to yell too much. He'd already been put into extra sessions for aggression, when it really wasn't his fault that everyone around him was so damned stupid.

The boy took no offence, marching into the room with the demeanor of someone who was wanted, as opposed to someone who had just pranced in.

'Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. I was nominated; we're a democracy, you see, by our class to bring you your coursework, like. For you're A-Levels and whatnot," he stated, dumping the heavy satchel on the floor with a dull thud.

'And I fucking left. Two years ago!'

The boy laughed, unfazed by this, tossing his head back, 'yeah, you caught me out. I'm just nosy, really. Still, you can keep the textbooks. Stole them from lost and found and I aint lugging them back to college.'

'I fucking got that, dipshit. Fuck. Off.' Sherlock glared, eyes dark in a face of sharp angles and translucent skin.

'You've been here two years then? Jesus. Should have come sooner, eh?' the boy said, plopping himself into the over-stuffed armchair that Una had only just recently vacated.

'17 weeks, actually, not that it's got anything to do with you,' he bit out, for try as he might he had yet to restrain himself from correcting someone.

'Ah, not so bad then, ri'? Like, better than two years at least, I suppose. God, you don't get many visitors, do ya?' he noted, looking around at the room, taking in the bed made with military precision, the clothes folded neatly into the wardrobe and books piled precariously on most surfaces. Yet, even amongst this mess, the absence of 'get well' soon cards and flowers, small teddies from home and all of those silly little trinkets people brought, was startlingly obvious. Even he had received of those things when he got his appendix out, aged thirteen. Most of his friends visited and his mother never left his side, fussing over him as if he were eight. This room looked…incredibly lonely.

Sherlock's initial anger was morphing slowly, very slowly, into impatience and irritability. This kid was weird.

Why the hell was he locked up when nosy freaks like him walked free? Someone should look into that.

Sitting down like he owned the bloody place.

Wanker.

'Excuse me, sorry. So terribly sorry. There's been an awful mistake. You seem to be under the impression I want you here. I don't,' Sherlock tried, giving a new tactic a go. Maybe he wasn't able to get the hint, although how this was any clearer than a quick 'fuck off', he did not know.

'It's alright, don't you worry about me, pet. Ooooh, chocolates. Assuming you won't be eating them? No? Cool. I'll help meself then, ta,' he grinned, not waiting for an answer, popping a chocolate into his mouth, moaning obscenely as it melted on his tongue.

'Fuck. Off,' he said, quickly resorting back to Plan A. Simple diction, maybe he couldn't understand anything more complex than one worded sentences.

The other boy seemingly ignored him, loosening his collar and sighing in exaggerated relief, long legs stretched out in front of him as he slouched down in the chair.

'So, what do you do here for fun then? Seems like a right fucking depressing place to be.'

'It's a fucking nuthouse, of course it's depressing. Are you dense?'

'You don't remember me, do you?" the boy laughed, watching him with interest, ice blue eyes glittering wildly.

Sherlock glared. He never enjoyed anyone doubting his abilities. Ever.

'Victor Trevor. You were in my class for chemistry and maths. You were good friends with Tag Knowles. You were as thick as fuck.'

'Oi, I totally resent that. Very skilled with my hands, if you know what I mean,' Victor winked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Sherlock didn't laugh at his poor attempt at humour. Victor watched him briefly before giving up any hope of a reaction, shrugging and reaching into the satchel dumped on the floor, pulling out a dented tin of cigarettes.

'It's a gift. Kinda. Didn't actually buy them for you, got them as a mistake. Fucking menthol, hate the bloody things. But better than nothing. I mean, I assume you smoke, right? Doesn't everyone smoke?'

'I smoke,' was the only answer he got.

'Right, well. There's a shoulder of vodka in there too.'

'Why?'

'Why not?' Victor shrugged.

'Why are you here?'

'No one's heard from you in like, forever. It was fucking weird. Curiosity killed the cat, but information brought him back and all.'

'It's hardly like anyone spoke to me when I was there, or have you forgotten that little tidbit of information?'

Victor looked uncomfortable for the first time, shifting ever so slightly in his seat. It was barely noticeable, but that's what Sherlock did. He noticed things.

'No, I didn't forget that. It was just weird though. You being here. I mean…well…'

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.

'Light.'

'What?'

'Lighter, fuckwit. I need a lighter. To light a fag? Or did you think I could conjure up a flame by magic?'

'Oh! Yeah, cool, course! Here,' he said, perking up, clearly relieved that they were no longer talking about the hell their entire year had given Sherlock when they were in Eton, and he tossed a plastic lighter at him, 'can you smoke in here? My ex couldn't, when she got locked up. But she was proper mental, like. You know, homicidal and shit.'

'…right, thanks for telling me that charming anecdote, Trevor. Really, you should right a book,' Sherlock said, going over to the window and forcing it open, carefully unhooking the chain from the latch. He leaned out as far as he could, careful not to let the smoke drift back into the room.

'Anytime, I'm full of anecdotes. Never boring, right?'

'You're boring me now,' Sherlock lied. That in itself was strange. Maybe that's why he wasn't bored. This was just plain strange. Maybe he was gone completely mad again, back to hallucinations and hearing voices. Why the hell was he hallucinating Victor Trevor?

'Ah, bullshit.'

'Listen to me Trevor. I am sorry that I'm not being experimented on or whatever. It's really rather dull.'

'Can't say I'm not a little disappointed, mate.'

'Oh just fuck off. Sorry to deprive you of some gossip for your fucking 'chums' back at bloody Eton!' he yelled, having abandoned all hope of staying calm.

Victor flinched in the chair, having been taken aback by the dig.

'Fuck, no. It's not like that, sorry if you think that.'

'Oh, you're just here for a gawp, then, are you? Like I'm a fucking animal in a fucking cage, yeah?'

Victor no longer looked cocky, instead getting to his feet.

'Alright, fine. Fine, I got the point. Enjoy the cigarettes mate.'

'Oh, piss off.'

Victor Trevor left as quickly as he came, sans bag this time.

Sherlock Holmes did not feel remorseful as he left. He did not regret ruining a chance of a link with the outside world.

He did not regret it at all.


So you can follow me at hailsy dot tumblr etc. etc.

Please review! As usual, I thrive of them. I love them and without them I'd never be bothered to update.