I admit, that book sparked my interest more than my mathematics on that first night. I was stuck up in the library, as I so often was, though I hardly ever touched another book save for the one full of practice problems and obscure equations I was tasked to master. Mathematics had always come easy to me, and so the night was spent in some stagnation, tapping my pencil alone in the corner table, hidden away in the rows of books so as to preserve my solitude for as long as possible. I hadn't made any friends in university, and save for that one interaction with Gregson I'm sure I might not have. Amazing what a book could do, amazing what powers some short pages have on the soul. It was sitting amongst my scatted things, the corner of its bland white cover prodding out from under one of my half used notebooks, the one I filled with equations from the class and used to reference in the off hours. I sat for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to take a little break from the calculations and read over a poem or too, perhaps to think about things that were not numbers, and take a stroll through someone else's brain for a while. I hadn't been at university for very long, though in the short amount of time I was there it seemed as though my creative processes were dwindling substantially. It had been a long while since I was able to pick up a book of my own, a long time since I had visited the mythical kingdoms I had enjoyed so much in my youth. The machine of a man had been long since established, and now the rigorous mathematical mind was being sculpted. Continuing along the path that I was on, surely I was destined to become the most boring creature alive. I would turn out to be just like my father and all of his industrial friends, bathing in the money secured to him by taking advantage of unfortunate souls, without a lick of empathy within his heart to understand the immorality of it all. And so, that very fateful night, I let the power of the world combine together and motivate me. I allowed myself to be wooed by the sound of the rain pouring down upon the black window panes, I allowed the soft lighting to find its way into my heart and make me feel much more humorous than I would in normal circumstances. I sought for a moment of quiet imagination, to soak in the romantic tones and sit for a moment in complete harmony with the soul of another. I dove for that book, and that night was the first that I examined the very complicated workings of Victor Trevor's heart. The first poem I read once over, and I understood each and every word provided. Taken individually I could pronounce and define each one, and even sentence by sentence I could perhaps make some sense of what had been left for me. Though together, as a whole unit, I could not see for a moment how they related. The poem was focused, from what I could tell, on his youth. Though from the lines he had scribbled down, from the congruent stanzas that were blocked together in a way that I could only struggle to comprehend...well for a moment I reconsidered the whole of my education, the whole of my understanding of the world. Was I really so bested by fourteen lines of emotion? Why could I not look into these words, stare into the describing of this one man's childhood, and see a mirror I mage of myself? I remembered what Gregson had mentioned, how he had read this book over and over and still could not understand each poem. As soon as my eyes scanned the thing the fourth time over I realized at last that I had seriously overestimated myself. Perhaps I could read all of the lines left for me within fifteen minutes, perhaps this book could turn page after page and last me no more than a class period of procrastination. But in the end, well I suppose I would not have absorbed a word of it! The writing was so complex; the words flowing over each other in such a pattern that Trevor ought to have been writing a song! The feelings were so immense...or so I later found them to be. Never have I seen myself so hidden, never have I really had to fight to examine not just the meanings behind words, but the relationship they suddenly had to myself. All of the sudden it was my own internal struggles, not those of the author, that were hiding in plain sight. It took me all night to read two of his poems, and I still fell to sleep wondering what I had just read, and what it might mean in the future. I knew as I let darkness overtake me that I needed to speak to Gregson in the morning, though I hadn't a clue where I might be able to find him. Before our encounter in the courtyard I had never noticed his face before, not in any of my classes, not in any perimeter of my lonely seat in the dining hall. I was lucky in those days, as my own obsession with where the boy might be seemed to be second only to his obsession in finding me, and before long I didn't need to do much work at all to place him in the crowd. The next morning at breakfast I sat in my usual spot, this time bent over my book before looking at random intervals at the crowd who was funneling in. My first class began at eleven, though I had decided to camp out in the dining hall from seven o'clock onwards, just to make sure that I wasn't missing any opportunity for overlap. It is unfortunately very like myself to get distracted, and while getting lost in his poetry book might seem like a compliment, a neglect in my true task was degrading mostly to myself if anyone at all. Tobias found me first; in fact his appearance took me so much by surprise that I nearly dropped that poor abused book into my oatmeal. Thankfully I had the mind to keep my grip, though when I jumped in surprise it brought quite the smile to the boy's face. He looked much more presentable this morning than yesterday in the courtyard, with his uniform up to snuff and his hair presented in a much more aggregable fashion. He looked like a proper student, plain enough that I certainly would have missed him in a large crowd though stunning enough that I appreciated a good second to look him over. Tobias taught me a lot about myself in those couple of weeks, and an appreciation of the human man was certainly one of them. Never had I met such a startling creature, never until my eyes were graced with his constant presence.
"I assume you're just finishing up, then? Said you'd have it back today." Gregson teased, leaning on the table so that he could look up into my preoccupied eyes, almost as if with the intentions of tilting the open book away and dominating my full attention. I snapped the thing shut immediately, trying to hide that I was only on the third poem of the book (and thus only a page in) and held my head up a little higher than I was entitled to.
"I find it...well it is just as you said. It's quite difficult." I admitted at last.
"Beautiful, though." He muttered with a little smile, his dark eyes fixed upon mine as if eye contact was going to help prove his point. "Have you tried to read it out loud? With the right rhythm it is truly magnificent, like a song bird, or a trickling stream."
"I've not tried that, I'm not usually comfortable with talking to myself." I admitted. The boy chuckled, for obvious he saw that for the invitation it was.
"I could read it to you sometime, if you would like. Trevor is...well he's an absolute artist. The most talented man of our generation by far."
"Do you know anything about him?" I wondered quietly, my interests now peaked to the man behind such complex statements and moving poems.
"I do, and so could you if you understand at all what you read." Gregson insisted, giving me that great big grin again, that grin that knew far too much about my progress than I would have liked.
"I meant about him as a person, certainly he's still alive? This is a recent publication." I corrected, not entirely sure if we were close enough for sarcasm or not. I figured it was best not to irritate the boy, not now that I found his presence so invaluable.
"He's alive, yes. In fact I'm sure he's not much older than us. Twenty three, I believe, when he wrote this." Gregson muttered, obviously having done some research into the topic.
"That's only five years older than I! And look at me, so incomprehensible to anything he could write. Some brains just work differently, I suppose." I muttered with some indignation.
"Brains don't work differently, they're trained differently. Sherlock, you've been taught how to think with only one side of your brain. Facts, figures...they're useless to men who want true knowledge. Unlearn what you know about truth, about the way of the world. Start looking into what has been provided to us, start seeing things beyond nature, staring seeing into your own eyes. Read his poetry, Holmes, I think you'll understand the world a lot better. Perhaps you'll know yourself, perhaps you'll know me." Tobias offered.
"I would like to know you." I agreed without a moment's hesitation, though of course a moment of hesitation might have been much better. For a moment I felt my cheeks blushing, wondering why I was so quick to embarrass myself in front of the only prospect for friendship that I had found thus far.
"I'll give you the opportunity to, Sherlock." Tobias assured. "So long as you offer me the same luxury."
"I'd be um...we'll I'd be honored." I managed rather pathetically. Though he smiled once more, assuring me in his own way that I wasn't making a complete fool out of myself. Perhaps he found me to be charming, so unknowing in social interactions and so lost in the world that was supposed to be familiar. He could tell that I was a lost soul; he could tell that I needed some guiding. Tobias offered me the first hand in the world, a hand to guide me through the years of confusion, a hand to help me see beauty. The problem was that his hand faded away; at the moment I wanted it most to stay clutched within my own.  

The weeks spent with Tobias and Victor Trevor, or rather the voice of Victor Trevor, proved to be some of the most well spent, carefree weeks of my life. For a long while I didn't bother with the real world, I focused exclusively on what was expected of me from my Professors and what was expected of me by Victor Trevor. Nothing else mattered, really. I only did what I needed to do to get a decent grade on my assignments, as I wallowed into the world of emotions I realized that not everything had to be flawless, that not everything had to be perfect. I spent more time pondering the internal workings of myself, rather than the small details of chemistry that would push by grade up by a marginal and negligible amount. I turned in my work, I did decent on my tests, and I lavished in the attention bestowed upon me by my now closest companion. I felt as though I had a point to prove these days, not only to Tobias but to myself as well. I had gone into University expecting to come out the same as I ever was, yet now I strove to be completely unrecognizable. I strove to capture not my mathematical potential, but in fact to realize the more delicate side of myself. Human beings were not meant to understand the world, as they first needed to understand themselves. Scientists focus too much on how and why, whereas the true beauty saw only the what, saw only the beauty. Many of my meetings with Tobias took place outdoors, whether it be in the courtyard surrounded by our peers or in the meadows that lay just outside the university's perimeter. We had fallen into a sort of pattern, in which certain hours of the day we would just happen to appear in the same place, accidentally happening into each other so much that it became a repeated schedule, a constant commitment. Though my time spent with Gregson...oh each moment of it was something completely enlightening. For a long while we discussed my emotional deficit and strove to repair it. We tried to help me understand the interworking of Trevor's more understandable poems, and when at last I found myself on the same page as Tobias we worked together then to decipher some of the mysteries he had had left for us on those finely printed pages. At last I found that I could shed some light to the mysteries, and as we read the poems out loud, investigated into each word, syllable, and meter...well for those precious moments it was as if Tobias and I lived in another world, completely apart from the rest of the students at this God forsaken university. I was...well I suppose I was finding more of myself within his presence than one would consider necessary. I was unlocking so much of my brain, so much of my heart, that there were moments when the two seemed entirely interchangeable. The fascination I had found with Tobias was being jumbled with the love I felt for poetry, and there were moments in our times together when I swore I loved him more than any of the lines, more than any of the stanzas. A shocking declaration, indeed I know, and the look on your face, Doctor, is much akin to what I had felt when I first realized what was happening within myself. At first I accredited it to a lack of true feeling, oh surely this was not love; surely this was something much more explainable. Though when I considered my feelings for Tobias, when I looked through my own powerful waves of emotions and examined them quite like I would the poetry books...well I found that they were just as complicated, just as beautiful, as anything I had read thus far. I was experiencing an emotion, something powerful and beautiful...something entirely of my own! I knew brotherly love, the feelings I held for Mycroft, the protection, the codependency, the appreciation. This was not it. I knew the feelings I had for my father, the respect, the admiration, the cooperation. No, this was not it either. When I fantasized about being with Tobias I imagined closeness, a sort of closeness that I had never experienced with a human and did not yet expect to at that stage in my life. It was a desire to be near, to have our hands overlapped and our limbs intertwined. I stared at his chest and wondered what it might feel like to be hugged close to it, I stared at his neck and wondered how my head would fit in the nook, I looked at his lips, and imagined for a moment how they might feel against my own. I was maddened, in those days, maddened with the potential that only love could supply me with. I was seeing so much of myself that I was forgetting that other people saw me as well, and with this newfound power of isolation I looked upon my only companion and saw within him a potential for the emotion I was most craving. I saw love; love in its purest form, as I had begun to love him as a soul, not merely as a person. I saw him and looked past his handsome features, and instead I saw the bright aura that was encapsulating him, I saw warmth that would be to me the drawing force of my most reckless behaviors to date. I thought myself obsessed with a mere feeling, a mere man. I had no idea that this sort of affection would become a trend, I had no idea that once you fell in love with a man you might be cursed to love only that specific breed for the rest of your doomed life. Oh and I don't say this because I disliked my choice in partner, oh quite the contrary I found and still find, to this day, the species of man to be quite superb. Oh it is merely the implications this choosing has on my way of life; it is the consequences of favoring a forbidden fruit that leaves one starved for their entire life. I have loved before, and indeed I have been loved in return, though life has left me alone. The spirit, the rich nectar of the world I thought was mine for the taking...oh all of it has been stolen from me! All has been lost, and where I once saw beauty is now just a barren landscape...and the meadows have turned to sand." 

Sherlock sat back, obviously having finished his bout for the day. A look of exhaustion withered his usually beautiful face into a pale, contorted version of itself. Musgrave blinked, not entirely sure what to make of this declaration and not sure what was expected of him now. Did he leave? Did he thank Sherlock for the story and expect more to come? Was this the end of the story, the end of his willingness to share? Oh but certainly this had already been much too personal for the Doctor's comfort, though his curiosity seemed to be growing in intensity, burning so hot now that he almost dared follow up with a great many questions about the tale he had just been told. Yet the only question that seemed acceptable, the only one that would not shut Sherlock's mouth for the rest of their time together...

"Would you like your pills now, Mr. Holmes?" Musgrave muttered at last, having noticed already that night had fallen through the large windows of the school hallway, and the sounds of the medicine cart alerted him away from the thick silence that had the potential to suffocate them both. Sherlock allowed a grin, using one of his arms to wipe away the moisture that had accumulated on his brow. He seemed a lot more peaceful than Musgrave would have imagined, he seemed much more content with his surroundings now that there were not so many secrets hidden about. It must be very relieving to spill such dark secrets; it must be like a weight lifted off Sherlock's shoulder each time he confessed.
"Yes I think so, Musgrave." Sherlock agreed quietly. Musgrave nodded, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly and flagging down the medicine cart to skip its usual pattern and make its way over to his side. He didn't know how better to fill the time they had, and it was much easier to avoid conversation when the patient was going about swallowing pills. It was easier to move on, after that was all settled. Musgrave handed Sherlock his appropriate medication, some pills that help with iron levels and whatnot, and watched as he swigged down some water to help them fall down his throat with ease. When at last Sherlock set the glass back onto his tableside he looked again at the Doctor, this time with a look that could see right through Musgrave's nervous little complexion.
"Doctor, you needn't be frightened of me." Sherlock assured quietly, as if that was at all what was on the man's mind.
"I'm not frightened, not at all." Musgrave assured. "I'm um...well I suppose I'm more curious. As a man of medicine, studying case such as yourself well...enlightening."
"Cases. Not people." Sherlock muttered.
"I chose my words...well I should rephrase." Musgrave corrected at last, struggling now to at least clarify his direct position. Perhaps he should pick his words more carefully, considering when he discussed homosexuality among colleagues it was referred to as a psychological disorder, nothing more. Never had the Doctor heard of such a thing in a personal sense, in a way that highlighted not just brainwaves but instead legitimate passion. Sherlock's story would have been just as valid should Tobias have been switched with a woman, and so his feelings were at least genuine. Musgrave didn't doubt the man's mental state, though he wasn't entirely sure what he saw of him now. He was different, for sure...though it would take some time to decide just what shade this new lens gave him. Was he perhaps in a more negative light, or was he to be highly regarded from now on?
"You're not alone in your viewpoints, Musgrave. There are a great many men who would have already phoned the police, begging for my arrest. You do not look disgusted, Musgrave. You are already one of the better ones. You are already more sympathetic than a great many." Sherlock muttered quietly, looking towards the Doctor as if he actually appreciated him, despite what his thoughtless tongue might spill.
"Thank you, Sherlock." Musgrave managed, feeling quite unable to say anything more meaningful. He was taken aback, for sure, and now with this appreciative attitude he did not know what was expected of him. Was this the end of their conversation? Were they at last expected to part ways?
"Well um, well sleep tight then." Musgrave said at last, standing up from where he had been perched in that chair for as long as he could remember. Sherlock chuckled, as if that was some sort of joke.
"I haven't slept well in days, Doctor. I accredit not being able to bend my legs any longer, one of which is sitting on the floor of your surgery." Sherlock muttered.
"As I have said before, the amputation is not something..."
"I don't blame you, Musgrave." Sherlock whispered, in such a low voice that he was almost speaking to himself rather than an audience. He was staring now, staring at the small indentation his foot could create in the blankets. He seemed rather distraught that the other side of the blanket remained flat.
"Goodnight then, Sherlock." Musgrave muttered a bit apprehensively.
"Goodnight Doctor." Sherlock mumbled back, blinking for a moment before settling himself a bit more comfortably amongst his pillows, obviously using that as a sign for the doctor to take his leave. And so he obeyed.