He pulled to a stop right as he approached the ashes of the house, the wood still standing in an impressive frame, creaking and swaying in the night breeze. Sherlock jumped out of the car as soon as he turned it off, throwing the keys aside and running through the piles of leaves and dead weeds that had accumulated during the time this ghost of a house still stood.
"VICTOR!" Sherlock screamed, running up the porch and feeling the weight start to shift underneath him, but he didn't care, not anymore. His life was a mere factor, a careless loss in the battle for a life ten times that of his own. He needed to preserve the life of a man a million times more precious than his, and more needed. Sherlock ripped the door open, the flimsy wood swinging open as soon as he tried the handle, opening up to the dark, charred living room. The room was empty; all of the destroyed furniture must've been thrown out ages ago. All that remained was the vast empty space, the broken, boarded up windows, and the piles of dirty leaves and ash that had been thrown into a pile by the numerous creatures who now called this pit of embers home.
"VICTOR WHERE ARE YOU!" Sherlock demanded, rushing to the middle of the room and turning in circles, scanning every corner of the shadows. He couldn't see much, the moonlight provided no relief as he stood in this abyss of darkness. Victor could be crouched anywhere, he could be hiding in the simplest of hiding spots, simply pressed against the wall, and Sherlock would never see him. Sherlock could almost make out his shape everywhere, in the swirling darkness, he could see the shape of Victor lingering near the staircase, and laying on the floor, in the corners, in the doorway, even perched on the ceiling. He was everywhere, he was everything, when Sherlock stepped into this house he was now merely property of Victor Trevor, he was nothing more than a humanoid representation of the lust and the destruction Victor felt for all of humanity. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore.
"So you finally realized who I am?" whispered a voice behind him, making Sherlock freeze, the familiarity of that voice flowing through him and tainting his brain like poison. It was no longer disguised, no longer metallic and speaking in the tone of the Devil. It was Victor, his beautiful voice with his eloquent words and his soft tongue, the voice that Sherlock had come to know so well, the voice that Sherlock heard screaming all those years ago.
"How could I have forgotten?" Sherlock whispered nervously, his limbs turning to ice once more. He felt arms wrap around his torso, cold arms, arms that seemed to be disintegrating into the darkness that surrounded them. And yet they sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, knowing that the boy he had loved so long ago was now inhabiting the man he had fallen in love with just the other day. It was perfect, of course it was, so perfect that he allowed himself to be held, he allowed his head to fall onto the low shoulder of John Watson while the breathing of Victor Trevor overtook him, like the lolling of gentle waves against his back.
"Oh Sherlock I have missed you, I have missed us." Victor breathed, his words pressed so softly against the side of Sherlock's head, his lips brushing against his curls as he spoke. Sherlock didn't know where he had come from, nor did he care. He almost didn't want him to leave; he could almost see Victor standing behind him, and not John. He could almost hope...
"You've hidden from me." Sherlock whispered, running his hands along the arms that overtook him, the arms that swayed him with the breeze in the dark house.
"I've hidden for you. This is our opportunity Sherlock, our opportunity to live forever, to live like kings." Victor insisted. "I've done this all for you."
"You've hurt people." Sherlock reminded him.
"And I intend to hurt some more. It's all part of the plan, Sherlock. It all needs to be done." Victor assured softly, his grip on Sherlock's chest tightening ever so slightly. His arms were slowly becoming a cage, and Sherlock was starting to feel more trapped than loved. This was, of course, the feeling that Victor had provided all throughout their years together, a sense of need and reliance that made Sherlock feel as though he were trapped inside a cage constructed of love.
"You can't hurt John." Sherlock insisted. Victor just laughed gently, shaking his head slightly.
"Why Sherlock, have you developed feelings for him?" Victor whispered.
"Yes." Sherlock admitted quietly, almost ashamed to admit such a thing to the boy he had dedicated so many years of his life to.
"Was it really him you loved, or the presence of me inside of him, drawing your blinded heart closer?" Victor wondered, a tinge of hopefulness in his voice. Almost as though he felt betrayed.
"I love him." Sherlock assured. "You had nothing to do with it."
"Or maybe I did? Did you sense me Sherlock; did you feel my presence even when I wasn't in control? I'm sure he adopted some of my ideas as well, I'm sure that's the reason he found you so...tempting." Victor said with a little chuckle. Sherlock winced, shaking his head and not allowing himself to think about such a thing. Surely John's feeling were his own, not simply adapted by the possessiveness that was flowing through him from Victor? Surely he had been thinking clearly that night, when he decided to put his marriage on the line for a simple night with a man who had stolen his heart?
"You can't hurt him." Sherlock insisted, letting his eyes close and rolling his neck so that he could press pleading kisses onto John's jawline. But John laughed with the smile of Victor, and Sherlock was once again reminded of who's arms he was really in.
"Can I hurt you?" Victor wondered hopefully, his fingernails digging into Sherlock's sides like sharp pinches, making Sherlock wince.
"You can do whatever you like with me." Sherlock assured. "Just leave John, and Molly, and Mary alone."
"That's simply something I can't promise Sherlock. This shell of a man that I'm inhabiting, when I return to Hell his pour soul will be dragged along with me, surely you must understand that? A possessed body is like a magnet, and our souls are attached." Victor whispered.
"He needs to live." Sherlock insisted, pressing more and more kisses onto every inch of skin he could reach, and still Victor didn't seem convinced.
"Sherlock, my love, it's not so simple." Victor protested, although his confidence was wavering with every kiss that was exchanged. It was working, he was faltering. He was so malleable when it came to love, he was so breakable when he was presented with his own feelings returned.
"Make it simple." Sherlock demanded, turning in Victor's arms so that he could stand face to face with John's hallow body, so that he could let his lips hover temptingly right above John's.
"I have missed you, Sherlock." John's lips muttered, speaking in the voice of Victor Trevor, a voice Sherlock thought he had lost. Sherlock breathed those words in; he breathed the very presence of Victor in until he felt like he was choking on the smoke. His heart was throbbing; it was so confused, just as it recovered from the loss of its first love here it was again, engulfed, possessed, so to speak.
"I was the one who had to stay here without you." Sherlock pointed out.
"But you have hardly been alone. You reek of unfaithfulness." Victor insisted, breathing in heavily as though he could smell the lingering odor of every man he had ever spent the night with.
"I've never been unfaithful, I've never had anyone to disappoint." Sherlock protested in a whisper, trialing his words along John's jawline and running his long, cold fingers through John's short blonde hair. It wasn't nearly as soft as Victor's had been, but it was still satisfying.
"You had me." Victor whispered back.
"I thought I lost you." Sherlock defended.
"Well now I've been found." Victor insisted, his hands trailing up Sherlock's neck and against his face, John's worn fingers tracing around Sherlock's facial structure as though he had never seen him before.
"You're just as beautiful as before." Victor whispered, leaning in ever so slightly and pressing a preliminary kiss to Sherlock's lips. And Sherlock wasn't hesitant to kiss him back; he felt that it was the only way to truly save John. He had to convince Victor to let him go, to let the rest of humanity go, if Sherlock was the one he wanted then let him have him, just leave John and his family unscathed. And maybe that was how it would've went, maybe Sherlock could've been convincing enough to bring out the more human side of the twisted Victor Trevor, except they were interrupted, the darkness was illuminated with the bright, piercing headlights of Molly Hooper's annoyingly small car.
"Oh, who is it now?" Victor growled, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder and spinning him around, pulling Sherlock's back to his chest and grabbing hold of both sides of his head. Johns' fingers dug into Sherlock's skin, his grip so tight on his face that he felt as though his eyeballs were going to roll out of his head and onto the ash strewn floor.
"SHERLOCK, JOHN?" Molly's voice screamed, the twitchy, unmistakable light of a flashlight being thrown carelessly about the wreckage.
"Don't make a sound." Victor hissed right in Sherlock's ear, his hands still clasping onto either sides of Sherlock's head. This wasn't some odd way to show affection, of course, it was a threat. Victor was going to use Sherlock's life as a bargaining chip, he would snap his neck if either Molly or Mary made a wrong move.
"Here, the door is open!" Mary's voice called, the flashlight scanning in and out of the entry way.
"It can't be safe." Molly protested, sounding as though she had been running, her words were spaced heavily apart by long breaths.
"Well John's in there, is he not?" Mary protested, sounding urgent.
"He's not in here." Victor whispered, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.
"I'll go first, if I die, well, call the cops...I guess." Molly said with a shrug. Sherlock's smile widened, but as much as Molly amused him he sincerely wished that she would turn back and run, run as far away as she possible could, as far away from Sherlock and Victor as she could get. If there was one life that shouldn't be lost in the crossfire, it was that of Molly Hooper. The floorboards creaked and the flashlight weaved in and out of the boarded up windows, a figure walking through the doorway, silhouetted by the moonlight.
"It's alright, come on." Molly insisted, waving Mary on, who appeared at the doorway with the flashlight almost immediately. Victor stood with Sherlock near the wall, concealed in the shadows of the house, in nature's camouflage. The women would never find them unless they shined the flashlight in precisely the right area, where a gruesome sight would meet their eyes.
"SHERLOCK, ARE YOU HERE!" Molly called through the house, very loudly and ambitiously, as if she expected Sherlock to be in the structurally fragile upstairs.
"Molly if he's not responding he's not here." Mary protested, the flashlight sweeping through the stairway and darting in and out of the living room. They weren't here yet, but the living room would surely be the first place they checked when they arrived.
"They've got to be here." Molly insisted.
"Who even is this Victor? I've never heard the name before." Mary admitted, the flashlight beam getting stronger and stronger against the darkened wall. They were getting closer. Sherlock could almost sense Victor's anticipation, his excitement. It was almost as though the arrival of the women exited him purely because he now had three people to kill, instead of just one.
"He was Sherlock's high school boyfriend, he went...crazy, I guess is a good word for it. He burnt this place to the ground, with himself and his parents inside." Molly explained. Sherlock felt a shiver go through Victor's fingers, continuing all down his body at the mention of his legacy. It pleased him, for some reason, to be remembered as an arsonist and a murderer.
"Sherlock really does know how to pick them." Mary muttered distastefully. Sherlock himself almost felt the need to protest, how dare she judge Sherlock's taste in men by the one that went insane? Come on, it was just that one time!
"It's not Sherlock's fault...OH MY GOD!" Molly screamed, having walked into the living room and spotted the two figures near the back corner, maybe not as concealed as they once thought.
"Molly don't move..." Sherlock started, but Victor dug his fingernails into his skin, much too close to his eye sockets for his comfort. He certainly didn't want to die as bloody of a death as Father Franklin had been submitted to.
"Molly Hooper, it's been a while." Victor muttered carefully. Molly's face drained of all color, her eyes wide in terror as she stared at Sherlock and Victor, not knowing what to do or how to help.
"Mary." Molly hissed, standing so stone still that she looked as though she had been petrified. Mary walked carefully into the room, shining the light of the flashlight directly into Sherlock's eyes so that he was momentarily blinded.
"God, put that thing down!" Sherlock protested, and Victor just growled in agreement. Mary lowered the beam, and for the first time Sherlock could see her broken expression, her pale face and red eyes, she was heartbroken, she was terrified. Her husband was possessed, she felt hopeless, of course she was certain that this could never end the way she needed it to. Of course she saw no light at the end of this tunnel.
"John..." she whispered, taking a step forward, but Victor squeezed Sherlock's skull, making the poor man yelp in pain.
"Don't move, move...and I break his neck." Victor warned. Sherlock sighed heavily, his legs going a bit numb as he prayed to God they wouldn't move. Sherlock didn't doubt Victor's truthfulness on this, he was quite certain that the moment they so much as took a step he would be killed. But Sherlock was also sure that Molly and Mary doubted the sincerity of this threat, he rather worried that they would tempt Victor by taking a step closer or fixing their hair or something like that. Because Victor would kill him, his love would only tempt him greater. Something in Victor's twisted mind most likely saw the act of breaking your lover's neck very romantic.
"Victor you wouldn't." Molly whispered, her eyes fixed upon Sherlock in horror. Sherlock nodded ever so slightly, knowing that Molly would take his word over Victor's.
"I would. He's going to die anyway, but this is more careful, this is more...intimate." Victor whispered, leaning his face against Sherlock's curls for a brief moment as to prove the love he had for the man at his mercy. Sherlock shivered as he felt Victor's breath, closing his eyes momentarily. It was a very odd feeling indeed, odd because he couldn't tell if it was a bad or a good feeling. He didn't want to run, but he also didn't want to be this close. This was precisely what Victor's presence had done to him for so long, and yet no matter how much space he decided he wanted, he almost always stepped closer.
"Let my husband go!" Mary demanded through tears, the flashlight quivering in her nervous hands.
"He's already let you go, 'Mrs. Watson'." Victor said with a gleeful laugh.
"He hasn't, that was you, that was all you!" Mary exclaimed defensively, taking an angry step forward, to which Victor only dug his fingers deeper. Sherlock winced; quite sure that Victor's nails had now drawn blood from his temples.
"If you could be so kind as to not move..." Sherlock hissed, squeezing his eyes shut to try to avoid from the pain. Molly threw her hand up to stop Mary from stepping forward, almost as frantic as Mary was in saving the life of the one she loved. Sherlock pitied her, he really did. Because there was no way she was going to walk out of this room without feeling despair. One of these women was going to lose the person they held most dearly, or perhaps they would all just die together. Either way, a death was inevitable; they couldn't all leave, not anymore.
"Mary my dear, I only observed. I had nothing to do with your husband's unfaithfulness; I had nothing to do with his betrayal." Victor insisted. "But, my dear, let's be truthful. Who can resist? Once Sherlock Holmes is in reach, well, everyone loses their minds. Everyone seems to forget what's really important..." Victor added in a breath. Sherlock couldn't see him, but he was sure that there was that smile on his face, the wicked smile that only stretched across his lips when someone else was suffering more than he was. Mary was obviously suffering, of course she was. She was fighting so hard for her husband's life and she didn't even know if her effort was worth it, if it would even be appreciated. She was unsure of who she was fighting for, and if there would even be a reward for her perseverance.