While it was a Saturday night, Victor could not allow himself to do anything but remember what was coming next. Not just Sunday mass, not just Monday morning, but in fact Friday morning, far enough down the calendar that he may be the only student in the whole campus losing any sleep over the idea of an exam. Though his insomnia was long overdue, and after having lost his only trusted study buddy to secrets, humiliation, and a sudden shared knowledge that neither one of them truly wanted, Victor was left alone at his desk, scribbling answers only slightly faster than he was erasing them and wishing he could summon the strength to ask a certain Professor for help.
As tonight was Saturday, and nearly ten o'clock now, Victor had officially suffered a week under the weight of his Professor's backstory. A week and a day, rather, as this actually served as the anniversary of his first and last burglary, one which went so pitifully bad it seemed he could not escape his chosen profession in favor of a life of crime. He had not gone into office hours when he would have been expected to, as Professor Holmes had even mentioned to him after class on Friday that he was welcomed back with any questions he had pertaining to their current chapter. He had debated it all day, miserable with the idea of facing the man alone, and had decided against it. He had convinced himself he could figure this homework out without the help of a trusted professional, though it would seem that Victor had dug himself into even worse of a hole. Maybe this whole John Watson affair had been God's way of warning him against trying too hard in a class. The only time in his life he had gone to office hours resulted in a sudden impossibility of ever attending again. Or rather, ever attending without sheer and humiliating necessity.
Laboring under the light of the lamp, Victor was at least satisfied in the silence of their shared room. There was no page turning, no sudden exclamation in response to a plot twist, nor the shuffling and clambering that came as a result of his roommate's inability to sit still. All the same, the noise might have been appreciated, if only for Victor to know exactly what his roommate was up to at this time of night. Reggie had been distant ever since their disagreement in the gym, and while that had only been last afternoon the silent treatment already felt like an eternity. Victor had prompted conversation once or twice since they had left the gym with scowls, and when Reggie offered merely one word answers he had determined at last that their argument was going to be settled with time, not words. And what a pathetic argument it was, and rooted in what? Was Reggie taking Victor's loyalty to Professor Holmes as a sort of insult, as if keeping a man's secrets was like committing the same crimes? It seemed a childish feud, especially when Victor understood as little of it as he did this assignment...and yet still it hurt his heart to know that Reggie was upset with him. He was a fool in that way, a fool in love. Victor would rather they have the argument out loud, yelling, screaming, spitting in each other's faces with words they would soon regret. He would rather grapple with Reginald on the front lawn, claw at his face and pull at his hair, if the determined winner would be able to settle the score once and for all. He hated not knowing, and he hated being alone.
Reginald had left around eight o'clock, working around underneath his bed to find his secret stash before simply walking out the door. He had not said where he was going, nor with whom, though he had combed his hair for the occasion and even put on his best sweater vest. Well, Victor thought it was his best. Perhaps it was not intentionally chosen for that reason. Victor had to wonder what other friends Reginald had, those who were his own friends and not ones who would be asking about his roommate's whereabouts. They were frequenters of parties most weekends, though always in sororities or fraternities who would hardly accept one without the other. In some instances Victor knew a boy from one class or another, in other cases Reggie had charmed some girls on the sidewalk and was invited briskly in, though in all cases they were a package deal. It worried Victor to know that Reggie was out on campus alone, either publicly severing ties with his usual shadow or worse, making friends that Victor did not know. Making friends with the wrong crowd, if ever the was such a thing.
Victor worked at his homework with as much intensity as he could, though he struggled putting an empty brain to work. In instances where he understood the material he could break it down in his head, in the manner Professor Holmes had explained to him, though in questions where he could hardly think to start it was almost impossible to follow the same calculated route. Without an answer to work towards, as provided by the markings on an old exam, Victor was merely running himself in circles. He consulted the book as much as possible, went back to old questions in his homework to at least compare strategies, and even held the pages of the book to the lamp, in an attempt to trace the markings of any past owners of the book who may have done their homework overtop. When all strategies failed he was left merely tapping his pencil upon his notebook papers, lamenting for all that he could not do. It seemed a useless task, though when finally Victor saw no way forwards, he dedicated his time not to agonizing over stagnation but instead documenting what he did not understand. He took a piece of notebook paper and listed out the problems which were giving him the most issues, describing in detail why he didn't know how to proceed with a certain equation, or explaining why he thought the answer had to be something it was clearly not. He used his context clues and was able to listen to the whining of his brain, until finally he had described nearly every question of the homework in such questionable detail he felt that might as well qualify him for a good grade. Certainly he didn't understand the homework, though no one could accuse him of not trying. He knew what he didn't know, and of course the next step in that process would be asking someone who did. But was he brave enough, even with an exam right around the corner?
Thankfully Victor wasn't given time to consider that question, for ten minutes before midnight the lock on the door was hit massively with a key, a key which undoubtedly missed its mark due to the horrible shrieking and scraping which followed. Two more jabs were attempted, one which nearly sent the key through the door and another which finally plunged deep into the keyhole, unlocking the door and very abruptly announcing the return of Reginald Musgrave.
Victor turned, his face already screwed up in preparation for a scowl and a demand to know where his roommate had been, not unlike an angry mother who was disgusted by her teenaged son's determination to stay out all night. However as he was turned in his chair, twisted like an acrobat and staring at his roommate's silhouette against the light in the hall, Victor found he was too tired to be angry. Indeed he was almost relieved to see Reginald back, for he was half worried he would have to walk around the back yards of all of the frats the next morning, looking to peel a hungover Reginald off the sidewalk and take him briskly home.
"Frat?" Victor guessed, figuring there was no reason to get aggressive at this time of night. All grudges had a bedtime, it would seem, and his heart was too tired to summon the anger it had been stewing throughout the day.
"Frat," Reggie agreed, walking past with an overwhelming smell of marijuana still clinging to his clothes. He stood next to his bed for a moment, his fingers dancing along the edge of his sweater as if he intended to take it off, though even from here Victor could see his eyes were unblinking, empty and dazed, as if he was still trying to figure out how he had returned to his room in the first place. Perhaps he, too, was trying to figure out whether it was worth his while to start yelling.
"You might've invited me," Victor pointed out, tapping his pencil against his book to produce a deep and satisfying thunk, using the folded pages as a sort of amplifier.
"I knew you had to study," Reggie mumbled thoughtlessly, finally committing to pulling his sweater vest up and over his head in an attempt to hide from the stink that followed him. Victor coughed with the sudden whiff of the stuff, wondering if it was potent enough to allow a second hand high from the mere fabrics that had walked in with his roommate.
"That's a poor excuse," Victor muttered, though he dare not let his voice become impatient. He wasn't angry, really he wasn't, though he wished Reginald would offer him a better explanation than that.
"Right, well...I knew you wouldn't like it. It was the basketball frat," Reggie admitted at last. "They were basketball guys. I'm trying to make friends."
"I figured something of the sort. Friends, huh?" Victor couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat, worried now that Reggie was going to leave him in favor of these taller, more athletic, more strapping young lads. Was he doomed to spending every Saturday night alone?
"They're cool. Brick headed the lot of them, and aggressive...but when they're high they're not too bad."
"Would I like them?" Victor wondered.
"You don't like anyone," Reggie pointed out. He took to unbuttoning his shirt; at least far enough down to the point where he count wrench it over his head. "Not unless they're over the age of 70 and walk with a limp."
"As if I would ever party with Professor Holmes," Victor scowled. "That's not a fair comparison."
"You might as well be with him all the time. I know that glazed look in your eyes, you're not thinking about math."
"Is it so wrong to be intrigued?"
"Yes," Reggie decided. "It's not like he's a model citizen. He's a criminal, and he seems disturbed."
"Criminal by definition only," Victor insisted, his tapping stopping abruptly as he felt his body tense. "He's done nothing wrong."
"Criminal by definition? The hell does that mean, Victor? As if the definition of a criminal was not distinctly meant for distinguishing right from wrong."
"You think he's...you think it's wrong?"
"Either way it's not something you should be obsessing over." Reggie finished his sentence by pulling his shirt fully over his head, his bony chest glistening in the light of Victor's lamp and revealing the sparkling layer of sweat that had accumulated along his back, the same line that would have been drawn by the thick top stitching of his sweater.
"Reggie, I'm serious," Victor insisted, sitting up a little straighter and making sure his eyes stared determinedly at his roommate's head, trying to catch his glance through the back of his hair as if to prove he was not distracted by the boy's bare back. "Do you really think he's a criminal?"
"Of course I do, because he is. It's still a criminal offense."
"But do you think it should be? Do you think for...for that crime, he should be in jail?" Victor didn't hesitate to put more authority into his voice, a tone that would distinguish this against his usual small talk. For a moment Reggie stood still, even his fingers hanging quietly at his side, his gaze fixed into the darker corner of the room and his mouth hanging slightly ajar. He was thinking, thinking as hard as he could, thinking against the high as if he wanted to be sure he came up with the right answer.
"I don't know," Reggie agreed at last, turning towards his roommate with an almost pouty expression. His glasses were hanging askew on his face, knocked when he had pulled his shirt over, and his grey hair was sticking to his forehead with the cold sweat that had accumulated during his time on the dance floor. "I don't know how I feel about it. I don't think...I don't think there's anything wrong with the love. But the way he does love, the way he considers it...he seems unhinged, Victor. In a way I couldn't describe."
"He's traumatized, Reggie," Victor pointed out, allowing those words to double as the sigh of relief that had built up in his chest.
"Traumatized by what, though? The injury? Obviously not, if he's so willing to relive it. The war? Probably not, as it was the only place he could be around so many men without clear boundaries. Then what, what could he be scared of?"
"Of leaving," Victor suggested quietly. Reginald nodded, beautiful in the lamplight, absent in the eyes.
"Anyone who would put the world to war for a man should be in prison," Reggie insisted, his voice clearer than his mind could ever hope to be. Victor pursed his lips, though he couldn't open them to protest. He wanted to defend Professor Holmes in a way that would be reasonable; he wanted to insist that the man would not so willingly turn back the clock for his own benefit. Though the letter spoke clearly, it spoke of the deepest longing, the sort that would plague a man his entire life with loss. He seemed to feel so strongly nearly forty years after the event, so strongly that he would risk himself and his freedom just to send his passion through the mail. Reggie might be right, there might be something a bit amiss about the man's headspace, though Victor had to assume there was reason enough. He had to assume that this John Watson really was his soulmate, and that their time spent together was so sweet Professor Holmes was spending the rest of his days in withdraw. He had to imagine the experience was like lying with an angel, and spending the rest of your life therefore devoted to God. 

At the final bell, Professor Holmes hastened not towards his office, but instead for the stool which sat tucked halfway behind the podium. Victor had noticed his posture worsening throughout the forty five minute class period, though he seemed stubborn enough to remain on his feet, balancing nearly his entire weight on his walking stick as his left leg appeared to tire of carrying the majority of the load. His right leg looked as useless as ever, though today it would seem Professor Holmes hesitated to so much as set it on the ground; for fear that even the slightest touch of carpet would send waves of pain through the damaged muscles. The man sat heavily upon the stool, waiting until the majority of the class had left before he allowed himself the opportunity of leaning his elbows against the podium, relieving his back and his hips from the pressure of his upper half. The man looked old, increasingly so, and as Victor stood at his desk, apprehensive to approach but visible enough, he saw exhaustion in the man's eyes. The sort of exhaustion that would prompt even the strongest of men to give up.
"Victor, do you have a question?" Professor Holmes wondered, keeping his voice at its usual pitch and energy in an attempt to mask the current state of support he required just to keep his head upright.
"Many questions," Victor admitted with a sigh, using a broad answer to hide the majority of his true curiosities. Most of those, however, he could not ask in public.
"I have office hours today right after class," Professor Holmes assured.
"I can...I can wait until tomorrow if you'd like. You seem tired."
"I'm always tired, Victor. If you were to wait on my energy to return you'd be better off saving your list of questions for my funeral."
"I should hope to get them answered before that, sir. The exam is Friday."
"Well, at least someone has faith in my longevity." The Professor's face finally stretched into a smile, one which at least mimicked a healthy man. His answer stunned Victor, remembering the references to a doctor's appointment in the letter and in their previous conversations. Had it not gone well, had he received his life expectancy as he feared?
The man finally rose from the stool, mustering up strength enough to hobble down the hall towards his office chair. Victor followed patiently behind, swallowing his fears as they jumbled together at the base of his throat, those which worried he would be witness to the Professor's death, those which worried he'd suddenly blab all of his secrets the door was closed, those which worried he wouldn't say anything, would remain quiet, and waste this opportunity to know more. More about anything, really. The letter had been cruel, it had given details but no context, and it would seem that Victor would spend his life obsessing over the reasoning behind the words, obsessing over the story. Would he never get such a thing if he didn't dare to cross the boundary? The very boundary he had set, in agreeing never to mention their shared knowledge again?
Upon entering the office, Victor could not help but immediately look towards John Watson. The photograph on the bulletin board drew his eyes like a bee to nectar, almost as if he felt a moral obligation to give the elephant in the room his proper greeting. Even from here he could see the happiness in John Watson's eyes, the happiness that seemed to be so far gone from the Professor's it was a wonder he had ever smiled at all. Victor wondered if the wedding had happened before or after the war. Before or after Sherlock Holmes.
"Is your leg feeling alright?" Victor wondered, dropping his backpack at the foot of the desk and sliding into the chair offered for guests. It felt comfortable, now, as if the thick leather had finally adapted to the distribution of his weight. For as old a chair as it was, Victor suspected the thing had rarely been used.
"It depends on your definition of alright," Professor Holmes admitted, sinking into his own chair and wincing with the relief. His curly head declined, his eyes closing, and for a moment Victor wondered if he would go to sleep. "Though I should hope you have more beneficial questions, beyond my poor health?"
"Yes of course, though I felt it polite to ask." Victor began rummaging through his bag, unearthing the papers he had scribbled that Saturday night and hoping for a brief horrified second that they did not smell too strongly of Reginald's hitchhiking marijuana.
"It's not your job to keep me healthy, Victor. Nor your job to worry for me." Professor Holmes insisted, leaning forward on the desk and immediately regretting it. Instead he leaned backwards and pulled his chair as tightly as he could towards the desk, allowing himself the proper vision while ensuring his leg was not too aggravated.
Victor had to bite his tongue to avoid any snarky remarks in response. He wanted to insist to the professor that he would worry well, like a true friend. He wanted to remind Professor Holmes that there didn't appear to be many others who cared for him, and who would worry about his health in this way. He wanted to snap at the man, to scold him for chasing away his only hope in friendship, his only hope in at least an ally within this cruel campus. He was lucky, couldn't he see that? Lucky to have found someone which shared so dark a secret. Victor had never met another man like him, and it would seem by Professor Holmes's attitude he had given up in the same pursuit.