Fic: Status Que - Asexual!Sherlock/Victor Trevor
When plot bunnies attack. *pouts* why do they always have to do that in the middle of the night?
Disclaimer: I O... Nada.
Warning & notes:
Dark fic. I am physically incapable of writing anything else. Trigger Warnings for dub-con elements later on, drug use and violence. You've been warned.
Summary: Years before John, Sherlock made a friend. But he wasn't a very good one. Asexual!Sherlock/Victor Trevor.
Rating: R/NC-17 for later chapters.
Status Que
University was nothing like Sherlock wanted it to be.
Cambridge University was easily one of the leading higher learning institutions in the world, not to mention in England, supposedly housing the best and the brightest minds of their generation. It was the only reason Sherlock took it upon himself to put in a small bit of effort in his last few years in secondary school, opting to speed through the required exams and evaluations for an early start at Uni, anxious to meet some kindred minds among his peers. A few weeks into his first semester, he was finding himself thoroughly disappointed.
Mycroft tried to warn him about keeping his hopes up, but Mycroft was a prat and in Sherlock's defense, he hadn't been listening.
It wasn't because they didn't like him. Sherlock told himself, once, when it was late at night and he was feeling particularly melancholic. That had nothing to do with it. These people with their social circles and their gossip, not to mention their rather narrow minded views of what passes off as 'normal' (he knew that they liked to think of themselves as progressive and accepting, yet "freak" was one of the kinder endearments they've so gracefully bestowed upon him). They were dull, and vacant. And they didn't like him.
But that was all right. Nobody at home liked him all that much either, with the exception of Mummy (he was never quite sure about Mycroft). He learned a long time ago to deal with that. That was the price he paid for being different. He couldn't recall ever being any other way.
Uni had other redeeming qualities, however, some of which he found most gratifying. Some of the courses were intriguing, if a bit slow, many of which were outside of his curriculum but nobody cared much when he walked into one of the packed rooms. At least not until he started interrupting their lectures: generally particularly boring ones or worse: wrong or simply misleading. Honestly, were there no standards, even in a university of this supposed caliber? Most professors, he found, did not much care for his opinions. Which was fine, he did not particularly care for theirs. He also enjoyed the laboratories, finally being able to conduct some of the more elaborate experiments he thought up but never had the tools for (the most interesting ones he still did not have sufficient tools for, but he carefully stored them for when the opportunity arises). The libraries, well, that was a whole love story altogether.
It was different from home, but new and interesting, something that home hadn't been for a very long time. He came to terms with being alone then.
That was exactly when things started to change.
The first time Sherlock lays eyes on Victor, it was after the latter had hit him with his car. He looked rather upside down, but that was not his fault: Sherlock was lying on the ground. How did he manage to end up there? Oh, right, the car.
It came just around the corner as Sherlock was crossing the street. He was simply engrossed with the state of the concrete fence on the other side of the road (approximately 10 years old, painted over twice, scruff marks indicating some sort of violent conduct, object repeatedly bashed against wall, hard enough to dent it) and might not have paid too much attention to the road. In all fairness, traffic was very slim at this area, especially at that time of the day. The driver of the brand new midnight blue Chevrolet Corvette (convertible, top down which was a rubbish choice considering the weather, the driver was simply trying to show off, wasn't he?) hadn't noticed him either, hence the collision.
Moments later he was sprawled in a rather undignified way across the road, the driver peering at him with frantic eyes. "Oh my god, are you all right?" a small crowd was gathering around them now.
Sherlock frowned, the ground wasn't very comfortable and the world was being infuriatingly bright at the moment. Also, he distinctly remembers having somewhere to be. "The wall!" he sat up in alarm, and immediately wished he hadn't. He wasn't supposed to feel the world spinning, was he? He was feeling rather nauseated. And concussed. Oh, wonderful, not a month into University and he already managed to irreparably damage his brain.
His would-be-assassin raised his eyebrows in confusion, and placed a hand on his shoulder to stall him when he tried to get up. "Uh, I'm not sure you want to be doing that. Hey, hey, talk to me, what's your name?"
Sherlock promptly replied by throwing up on the stranger's shoes.
A few hours later, Sherlock was admitted to hospital. He suffered a minor concussion and a sprained ankle, as well as a massive headache, which apparently didn't warrant a prescription of a bit of Morphine, according to his esteemed Doctor. It was much to his chagrin. Sherlock was rather looking forward to experimenting with that drug.
He was already bored. He was sure he could take care of himself from that point, but the staff had insisted he remained for observation. And having still being a minor, called his mother. Sherlock pouted, he should be expecting a visit from Mycroft very soon, no doubt.
The road menace was still there. Awkwardly making trying to make small talk with Sherlock, although for what reason, he could not fathom. He introduced himself as Victor Trevor, ("Vic is fine too, if you prefer") He smelled absolutely horrid. Sherlock would normally gloat over his petty revenge, if only the other man wasn't sitting so close to his hospital bed.
"I'm not sure why you're worried" Sherlock told him, "you are, after all, insured. Your father took care of that."
Victor blinked in surprise "I'm sorry, what? How did you know it was my father who…?"
"Well, it couldn't have been your mother, she's been deceased for a few years, and who else would buy you such an expensive gift?"
The other man gawked at him, "how on earth do you know that? Have we… Have we met before? I'm sorry, I would have thought I'd recognize you if we-"
"No, no" Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and then winced when the abrupt movement was accompanied by a sharp pain behind his brow. "Look at you, it's hardly a difficult deduction. Your shoes, expensive brand, and they're brand new, judging by how obviously uncomfortable you are wearing them. Your family has money to spare, not a far fetched theory considering where we are. The car model has only been around for, oh, six months? Yet here you are, a second year Business student, what are you doing with such a car? Obviously, it's either family owned or a gift. You didn't borrow or steal it. A sports car, not very practical for this area, style and model suited for either a very young man or a man experiencing his midlife crisis. Most likely your father. Your clothes are of obvious high quality, but they are a few years old. You didn't buy them yourself, you are not a very clothes conscious person, I can tell by the state of your fingernails. Although you do care for appearances, you were driving the car top down despite the weather. The clothes are old fashioned but masculine, clearly not chosen by a woman. Conclusion, mother deceased or estranged. Oh, Ow." Sherlock grimaced, and made a mental note - do not to monologue with a concussion.
"Jesus." The young man breathed. That wasn't the most common reaction. "Wait, how did you know I study Business?"
Sherlock paused, "...You told me, earlier."
"Oh. Oh, I thought you were out of it back then, really. The nurse said you've a concussion". Victor smiled warily. "That was really amazing, what you did just now." That wasn't a common reaction, either. "You're right; the car is my dad's way of saying 'good luck'." He smiled without humour. "Listen, I've got to go and take care... of things. You have my contact details" He gestured to the note on the bedside table. "I'll be back tomorrow to check up on you, if you want."
Sherlock nodded slowly, though his eyes crinkled in confusion. The other man seemed relived when he got up to leave the room.
Interesting.
Disclaimer: I O... Nada.
Warning & notes:
Dark fic. I am physically incapable of writing anything else. Trigger Warnings for dub-con elements later on, drug use and violence. You've been warned.
Summary: Years before John, Sherlock made a friend. But he wasn't a very good one. Asexual!Sherlock/Victor Trevor.
Rating: R/NC-17 for later chapters.
Status Que
University was nothing like Sherlock wanted it to be.
Cambridge University was easily one of the leading higher learning institutions in the world, not to mention in England, supposedly housing the best and the brightest minds of their generation. It was the only reason Sherlock took it upon himself to put in a small bit of effort in his last few years in secondary school, opting to speed through the required exams and evaluations for an early start at Uni, anxious to meet some kindred minds among his peers. A few weeks into his first semester, he was finding himself thoroughly disappointed.
Mycroft tried to warn him about keeping his hopes up, but Mycroft was a prat and in Sherlock's defense, he hadn't been listening.
It wasn't because they didn't like him. Sherlock told himself, once, when it was late at night and he was feeling particularly melancholic. That had nothing to do with it. These people with their social circles and their gossip, not to mention their rather narrow minded views of what passes off as 'normal' (he knew that they liked to think of themselves as progressive and accepting, yet "freak" was one of the kinder endearments they've so gracefully bestowed upon him). They were dull, and vacant. And they didn't like him.
But that was all right. Nobody at home liked him all that much either, with the exception of Mummy (he was never quite sure about Mycroft). He learned a long time ago to deal with that. That was the price he paid for being different. He couldn't recall ever being any other way.
Uni had other redeeming qualities, however, some of which he found most gratifying. Some of the courses were intriguing, if a bit slow, many of which were outside of his curriculum but nobody cared much when he walked into one of the packed rooms. At least not until he started interrupting their lectures: generally particularly boring ones or worse: wrong or simply misleading. Honestly, were there no standards, even in a university of this supposed caliber? Most professors, he found, did not much care for his opinions. Which was fine, he did not particularly care for theirs. He also enjoyed the laboratories, finally being able to conduct some of the more elaborate experiments he thought up but never had the tools for (the most interesting ones he still did not have sufficient tools for, but he carefully stored them for when the opportunity arises). The libraries, well, that was a whole love story altogether.
It was different from home, but new and interesting, something that home hadn't been for a very long time. He came to terms with being alone then.
That was exactly when things started to change.
The first time Sherlock lays eyes on Victor, it was after the latter had hit him with his car. He looked rather upside down, but that was not his fault: Sherlock was lying on the ground. How did he manage to end up there? Oh, right, the car.
It came just around the corner as Sherlock was crossing the street. He was simply engrossed with the state of the concrete fence on the other side of the road (approximately 10 years old, painted over twice, scruff marks indicating some sort of violent conduct, object repeatedly bashed against wall, hard enough to dent it) and might not have paid too much attention to the road. In all fairness, traffic was very slim at this area, especially at that time of the day. The driver of the brand new midnight blue Chevrolet Corvette (convertible, top down which was a rubbish choice considering the weather, the driver was simply trying to show off, wasn't he?) hadn't noticed him either, hence the collision.
Moments later he was sprawled in a rather undignified way across the road, the driver peering at him with frantic eyes. "Oh my god, are you all right?" a small crowd was gathering around them now.
Sherlock frowned, the ground wasn't very comfortable and the world was being infuriatingly bright at the moment. Also, he distinctly remembers having somewhere to be. "The wall!" he sat up in alarm, and immediately wished he hadn't. He wasn't supposed to feel the world spinning, was he? He was feeling rather nauseated. And concussed. Oh, wonderful, not a month into University and he already managed to irreparably damage his brain.
His would-be-assassin raised his eyebrows in confusion, and placed a hand on his shoulder to stall him when he tried to get up. "Uh, I'm not sure you want to be doing that. Hey, hey, talk to me, what's your name?"
Sherlock promptly replied by throwing up on the stranger's shoes.
A few hours later, Sherlock was admitted to hospital. He suffered a minor concussion and a sprained ankle, as well as a massive headache, which apparently didn't warrant a prescription of a bit of Morphine, according to his esteemed Doctor. It was much to his chagrin. Sherlock was rather looking forward to experimenting with that drug.
He was already bored. He was sure he could take care of himself from that point, but the staff had insisted he remained for observation. And having still being a minor, called his mother. Sherlock pouted, he should be expecting a visit from Mycroft very soon, no doubt.
The road menace was still there. Awkwardly making trying to make small talk with Sherlock, although for what reason, he could not fathom. He introduced himself as Victor Trevor, ("Vic is fine too, if you prefer") He smelled absolutely horrid. Sherlock would normally gloat over his petty revenge, if only the other man wasn't sitting so close to his hospital bed.
"I'm not sure why you're worried" Sherlock told him, "you are, after all, insured. Your father took care of that."
Victor blinked in surprise "I'm sorry, what? How did you know it was my father who…?"
"Well, it couldn't have been your mother, she's been deceased for a few years, and who else would buy you such an expensive gift?"
The other man gawked at him, "how on earth do you know that? Have we… Have we met before? I'm sorry, I would have thought I'd recognize you if we-"
"No, no" Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and then winced when the abrupt movement was accompanied by a sharp pain behind his brow. "Look at you, it's hardly a difficult deduction. Your shoes, expensive brand, and they're brand new, judging by how obviously uncomfortable you are wearing them. Your family has money to spare, not a far fetched theory considering where we are. The car model has only been around for, oh, six months? Yet here you are, a second year Business student, what are you doing with such a car? Obviously, it's either family owned or a gift. You didn't borrow or steal it. A sports car, not very practical for this area, style and model suited for either a very young man or a man experiencing his midlife crisis. Most likely your father. Your clothes are of obvious high quality, but they are a few years old. You didn't buy them yourself, you are not a very clothes conscious person, I can tell by the state of your fingernails. Although you do care for appearances, you were driving the car top down despite the weather. The clothes are old fashioned but masculine, clearly not chosen by a woman. Conclusion, mother deceased or estranged. Oh, Ow." Sherlock grimaced, and made a mental note - do not to monologue with a concussion.
"Jesus." The young man breathed. That wasn't the most common reaction. "Wait, how did you know I study Business?"
Sherlock paused, "...You told me, earlier."
"Oh. Oh, I thought you were out of it back then, really. The nurse said you've a concussion". Victor smiled warily. "That was really amazing, what you did just now." That wasn't a common reaction, either. "You're right; the car is my dad's way of saying 'good luck'." He smiled without humour. "Listen, I've got to go and take care... of things. You have my contact details" He gestured to the note on the bedside table. "I'll be back tomorrow to check up on you, if you want."
Sherlock nodded slowly, though his eyes crinkled in confusion. The other man seemed relived when he got up to leave the room.
Interesting.