Chapter Text
Never say Sherlock Holmes never did anything for love. For Vic. No, really the opposite - he'd do anything. Even sacrifice a perfect night in to spend in somebody's basement and sip truly horrific mystery alcohol out of a red cup, with Vic's arm around his waist. He wasn't even paying attention to Sherlock. He was turned the other way, to talk to somebody else boring. This whole house was filled with people he couldn't care less about.
Except for Vic - Victor Trevor, Sherlock’s beautiful, benevolent, hot, clever 20-something boyfriend. He didn’t mind that Sherlock was still in high school; he saw that he was way above the level of everyone else in his grade. He didn’t mind that Sherlock wore things other guys his age tended not to - in fact, he seemed to like it when he could see Sherlock’s bellybutton, or soft upper thighs. He didn’t mind that Sherlock was young, 16, and inexperienced - he didn’t even make it a big deal to teach Sherlock everything there was to know about dating. And kissing. And parties, like this one. Sherlock was quickly becoming known by name and face to Victor’s friends - something they all said had never happened before. Victor wasn’t much of a serious guy, when it came to relationships, but Sherlock really thought there might be something there, between them, something more, and beautiful, and so much more smart than everybody else and their boring, stupid little relationships. It was something so advanced, so intellectual, something Sherlock had never experienced before.
And Vic only hit him when he was high and Sherlock wouldn’t shut up.
It made sense - it always made sense when Vic explained it to him after, when he’d come down and calmed down Sherlock. He’d talk to him all soft and gentle, arms around him, hands holding him, eyes on his, low and rational - “Sher, baby, darling, lover, shhh, it’s all right. Just - shut up, all right? Shhh, listen. I only do it because I’m high. You know I’m a different person on coke, right, babe? I’m sorry. Listen, I’m sorry…”
The same, always the same. Sherlock loved routine. Vic taught him how to love routine.
His fingers passed over the healing black eye, lightly, remembering all the sweet things Vic said to him after. He smiled, when the real Victor’s hand came to grab his. They met eyes, and something in his expression made Sherlock’s smile falter. The moment passed, and Vic’s arm tightened a little around his waist, but Sherlock pushed away, moving towards the kitchen for more of whatever he was drinking. He had the sudden urge to drink as much as he could, and try to throw up this memory later. He found himself feeling that way a lot, recently.
He maneuvered around people - dancing, drinking, partying, kissing, talking, laughing people - and wished more than anything he was back home, in his room, working on experiments or altering clothes, or just smoking on his own. Sherlock made it to the kitchen without much PDA too close to him for comfort, and set about trying to find something strong, before bumping into someone in his haste.
Sherlock looked up, neutral disgust already on his face, when he met crystal, steely blue eyes. Blond hair, tan skin, little freckles, like stars, impressive arms. Nice lips - pink, soft-looking. He schooled himself quickly. “‘Scuse me,” he muttered, casting his eyes away and reaching for the vodka, when the guy’s hand stopped him. He looked back up at him, into his eyes, and his smiling face. It was a nice smile, but a smile that said, ‘I could kill you right now and no one would care, not even me’. Kinda hot. Kinda scary.
Sighing, Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling away from the hand gripping his arm. Asshole. This always happened at these stupid fucking parties, some guy got overzealous and thought he was hot shit, touching a seventeen-year-old in a croptop with a boyfriend. Didn't matter how hot he was, the guy didn't get to touch him without permission. “What?” he bit out.
“Name’s John. It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock.”