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Cambridge was supposed to be different. At sixteen, Sherlock was a prodigy, a freak, and a curiosity. He’d imagined it would be a place of equals, of minds so brilliant they wouldn't notice his age, his awkwardness, the way his hands sometimes fluttered when he was thinking. He was wrong - it was just another school, but with older, more sophisticated liars.
He had made a decision, once - the only thing that was going to matter was the cold, hard truth, and the truth was - it was better to be alone. He had built a fortress around himself, brick by brick, with logic and indifference. He thought Cambridge would be a place where his fortress would be respected.
Data came at him in a relentless, crushing wave. It wasn't just the lectures on organic chemistry or the music theory he’d already mastered - it was everything. The faint scent of betrayal on a classmate’s collar from a secret tryst. The tell-tale micro-expression of a cheating boyfriend. The desperate, clawing ambition in a professor’s eyes as he looked at a younger, rival academic. It was a constant, high-frequency hum of human weakness, and Sherlock couldn't turn it off. He saw through them all, all at once, and it was exhausting.
He tried to hold to his decision - he tried to feel nothing. He observed the petty dramas unfold around him with the detached air of a biologist studying insects… but he was only human, and he was young. The data wasn't just data; it was emotional shrapnel. He’d see a girl weeping silently over a letter, and a phantom echo of his own mother’s grief would stab him in the chest. He’d witness a professor’s quiet humiliation, and a distant, forgotten feeling of being small and powerless would press down on him, making it hard to breathe.
His fortress had cracks. The feelings he’d tried to eradicate seeped through them, not as identifiable emotions, but as a general, pervasive state of wrongness - a constant, low-grade fever of misery. He was exhausted from the effort of not feeling, from the constant, draining work of processing a world of people he could observe, but never, ever connect with.
Sherlock built his walls higher, reinforced them with cold logic and a cutting wit that sent most people scurrying away, but the longing was a traitor inside him, a persistent, desperate voice that whispered of a different possibility. He longed for it, for one person, just one, to look at him and not see a child, a freak, or a tool. He wanted someone to see him.
He found him, or thought he did, on the main quad. A sandy-haired boy with an easy laugh and a scruffy terrier that lunged and nipped Sherlock’s ankle. The pain was sharp, a familiar echo he couldn't quite place, a phantom memory of a thorn on a branch, a twist in a meadow. He pushed it away. The boy’s apology was so genuine, so free of the usual sycophantic flattery or bored dismissal, that Sherlock was intrigued.
"Seb," the boy said, extending a hand. "Sorry about him. He thinks he's a guard dog."
"Sherlock," he replied, shaking it. Seb’s grip was firm, his eyes clear. He didn't flinch at the name. He didn't look at Sherlock like he was a museum exhibit. For the first time in months, a flicker of hope sparked to life. Here was someone who didn't have a disgusting secret right on the surface. Here was someone who seemed… safe. Good. Seb was like a warm current of water, slowly, patiently wearing away at the stones of Sherlock's defenses. He didn't mind Sherlock's monologues on forensic botany or the way he'd forget to eat for a day while working on a chemical equation. He laughed, called him a genius, and offered him cigarettes.
"Loosen up, Lock," he'd say, ruffling his hair. The nickname was grating, but the touch was… nice. It was grounding. A quiet, pleasant hum that almost, almost, drowned out the noise. Each casual touch, each shared laugh, was another small chip in the fortress wall. Sherlock knew he should stop it, should push him away before the breach was too large, but the warmth on the other side was a feeling he'd forgotten he craved. For the first time in years, he wasn't just observing life; he was letting himself live it.
The intimacy came quickly. It was fumbling and awkward, but it was something. It was skin on skin, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between his mind and the rest of the world. In truth, Sherlock didn't much care for the physicality of it. The messy, damp reality of another person's body, the grunts and the sweat, the clumsy mechanics of it all - it was a distraction. An inefficient, biological process - but it was the price of admission. It was what Seb wanted, and what Seb wanted, Sherlock could endure, because it came with other things.
One night, in the haze of post-coital languor, Seb produced a small mirror and a little baggie of white powder. "This is the real stuff, Lock," he'd whispered, his eyes glittering in the low light. "This'll quiet everything down."
Sherlock watched, fascinated, as Seb expertly chopped the powder into fine lines with a razor blade. He knew what it was, of course. Cocaine. He’d read extensive studies on its effects, its chemical composition, its potential for addiction. It was illogical, dangerous, and utterly plebeian.
And he wanted it.
Seb handed him a rolled-up banknote. Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second, a ghost of Mycroft’s disapproving voice, his father's stern lectures on self-control, flitting through his mind. Then he leaned forward and inhaled.
The effect was instantaneous - a clarifying, glorious fire. It didn't turn down the volume; it sharpened the focus. The overwhelming roar of humanity didn't disappear; it became a symphony he could conduct. He could isolate each instrument, each note of human weakness, each lie, each desire, and hold it in his mind without being crushed by it. The data was still there, but it was no longer a painful, chaotic assault. It was a beautiful, intricate puzzle, and he had all the pieces.
For the first time, Sherlock felt quiet inside. It was a rebellion, a thrill, and a relief all at once. He could imagine the look on Mycroft's face, the sheer, unadulterated horror in his Mother’s eyes if they could see him now, snorting cocaine off a dirty mirror in a squalid student room. The thought was intoxicating, a delicious poison. This was his. This was his rebellion, his choice, his world. They had locked him away, tried to mold him into something acceptable, and this was his answer.
He even found himself better able to tolerate the physical side of things with Seb. The cocaine turned the messy biology into a series of fascinating sensory inputs he could catalogue and dismiss: the precise pressure of Seb's lips, the specific texture of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing. It became just another data set. The price of friendship, of connection, suddenly seemed very small indeed. He thought it was the real thing. He thought he’d been seen. Not just by Seb, but by the drug itself. It understood him. It didn't judge him. It just gave him the power to see, and to endure the sight.
Was this what love was for someone like Sherlock?
Then Seb’s parents came to visit. They were hosting a small, stuffy gathering in Seb's student flat. Sherlock was there, feeling like an imposter in his own borrowed skin, the borrowed confidence from the cocaine already starting to fray at the edges. Seb’s father was a large, loud man with a ruddy face and too-big hands that seemed to take up too much space in the room. He kept clapping Sherlock on the shoulder, each impact a little too hard, a little too familiar. His gaze wasn't just contemplative; it was proprietary.
"So, this is the famous Sherlock," the man boomed, his breath thick with sherry. "Seb tells me you're a genius." His eyes dropped, scanning Sherlock's body with an open, assessing look that made his skin crawl. It wasn't the look of a man seeing a child; it was the look of a man assessing a piece of meat. "A bright young thing. Very... bright."
Sherlock by then was seventeen, but he looked younger. He was all sharp angles and limbs he hadn't quite grown into. Under the man's gaze, he felt small, exposed. He saw it all in an instant: the man's roving eye, the deep, soul-crushing boredom of his marriage, the specific thrill of transgressing with someone young, brilliant, and vulnerable. Sherlock was just another conquest, a shiny new toy for his collection, a story to tell his smug friends at the club. He retreated, tried to keep other people between himself and the man, a familiar, sickening feeling of being prey prickling at the back of his neck.
Later, when the man finally cornered him by the bookcase, the room was thinner, the crowd having dispersed into smaller clusters. His hand was too high on Sherlock’s back, his thumb pressing into the ridge of his shoulder blade, a gesture of ownership. His voice was a low, invasive murmur, hot against Sherlock's ear.
"You know," he said, the smell of stale alcohol and expensive cologne choking the air, "I was a lot like Seb at your age. Always had an eye for... quality."
Sherlock recoiled, a jolt of pure disgust running through him. The man was bigger, stronger, and the door was blocked. For a terrifying second, Sherlock was six years old again, trapped in a room with a superior force, a hand on him that wouldn't let go, pain he couldn't escape or remember or name... Buzzing started in his head, a high, panicked whine that drowned out the polite chatter of the room.
Then adrenaline, sharp and cold, cut through the cocaine-induced haze and the rising panic. He was not a helpless child anymore. He was not trapped - he had options. He ducked under the man's arm, a quick, fluid movement, and sidestepped away from the bookcase, putting a small table between them. The man chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made Sherlock's stomach turn.
"No need to be shy, boy," he said, his eyes glinting.
Sherlock didn't reply. He just turned and walked away, his steps quick and purposeful, not running, not fleeing, but retreating with strategic intent. He didn't look back. He could feel the man's eyes on him, a heavy, predatory weight, but he didn't falter. He found Seb’s mother in the small adjoining kitchen, trying to appear calm as she arranged biscuits on a plate. The domesticity of the scene was surreal, a grotesque contrast to the filth still clinging to the air around Sherlock.
"Your husband," Sherlock began, his voice tight, each word clipped and precise. "He made an inappropriate advance towards me."
The woman froze, a biscuit halfway to the plate. She slowly turned, her smile fixed and brittle. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. My husband is just... friendly."
"He touched me," Sherlock insisted, the data spilling out of him, sharp and clear. "His pupils were dilated, his respiration increased. He was anticipating a positive response to a sexual proposition." He wasn't a victim; he was an observer, presenting his findings.
The woman’s face changed. The brittle smile shattered, replaced by a cold, hard fury - but it wasn't directed at her husband. It was directed at him. It was the fury of a person whose comfortable world is being threatened, whose carefully constructed lies are being exposed.
"How dare you," she hissed, her voice low and venomous, stepping closer. "You come into our lives, you fill our son's head with God knows what filth and drugs, and then you have the audacity to accuse my husband? You're a sick, attention-seeking little boy. A freak."
Sherlock stepped back.
"I saw you with him earlier," she continued, her eyes narrowing. "Whispering in corners. You probably led him on. You're unnatural."
Sherlock then saw the truth with horrifying clarity. She knew. On some level, she always knew - but protecting her husband, protecting her social standing, was infinitely more important than protecting a seventeen-year-old boy she deemed unnatural. It was easier to call him a liar than to face the ugly truth of the man she married.
He didn't say another word - there was no point. The data was complete, the conclusion was inescapable. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, his heart no longer hammering with panic, but beating with a cold, heavy rhythm of defeat. He didn't say goodbye to Seb. He just grabbed his coat and walked out of the rooms, out of the building, and into the cold Cambridge night.
The next day, the word was out. It travelled through the college corridors like a virus, mutating as it went. Sherlock was a liar, a drama queen, a fag who had tried to ruin a good family's reputation. The story was that he’d made a pass at the father and been rejected, a pathetic attempt at blackmail gone wrong. In the dining hall, Seb sat with his back to him, surrounded by a protective wall of friends. The notes Sherlock sent - It happened. I’m not lying. - went unanswered. The hope that had been flickering inside him, the fragile thing Seb had so carefully nurtured, went out.
The rejection was absolute. It wasn't just Seb; it was everyone. He was a pariah. The fortress he had built around himself, the one Seb had so carefully chipped away at, was now a prison, and he was the only one inside. He retreated, the cocaine no longer a thrilling rebellion but a screaming necessity. He needed it to silence the noise, to numb the pain of being seen so clearly and yet be so completely misunderstood. He started missing classes, the effort of facing their pitying, disgusted faces too much to bear. His work, once brilliant, became sloppy and erratic. He saw through his tutors, his classmates, the dean who looked at him with a mixture of pity and profound disappointment. They all wanted something from him - his intellect, his silence, his submission - or they wanted him gone. There was no middle ground.
He ended up in a squalid flat off-campus, the curtains permanently drawn against a world he no longer wanted to see. The air was thick with the sweet, acrid smell of chemicals and his own unwashed body. He was alone. He had observed them all, and in the end, all he had found was the ugly, pathetic truth of human nature, and his own unbearable, solitary emptiness. He was a genius, a drop-out, an addict - and he was completely, utterly alone in the world.