"Now, the two women if you will come to the center here and get on your knees?" Victor suggested in a very polite tone, as though he were only asking them to do something very simple. Molly and Mary looked at each other reluctantly, the fear in their eyes evident even from where Sherlock stood in the darkness.
"NOW PLEASE!" Victor screamed, his voice shaking impatiently. The women scrambled to the center of the living room, falling to their knees obediently, trembling in fear. Victor sighed triumphantly, throwing Sherlock at them almost as soon as they got situated. Sherlock screamed slightly, stumbling over his feet and landing in a heap on the ashy floor. He groaned for a moment, but knew that he couldn't stay down for long.
"Now, how does this work, ah..." Victor muttered, routing through the pocket of John's jacket and unearthing a small little box. "I haven't played with matches in a couple of decades, this should be interesting."
"No, Victor, don't hurt them, please, don't!" Sherlock begged, scrambling to his feet and rushing at the man standing in the shadows. Victor simply swatted him away, smacking him back handed across the face and sending Sherlock flailing once more to the floor. It was a very careless act, a very cruel act, and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what Victor's definition of love really was. Surely this wasn't the correct way to treat someone you claimed to love? Nevertheless Sherlock got up again, he was determined; he didn't care what happened to him anymore. He had to save Molly, and John, and Mary. His own life didn't matter at all, it never had.
"Victor it's me you want." Sherlock insisted, walking very slowly over to where Victor stood, letting there be a softness in his eyes that was only used when he was talking to a man he loved. Still, Victor didn't pay him any attention, he was trying to take a single match from the pile with foreign fingers, ones he wasn't used to. It was obviously a lot more difficult than it seemed. He kept cursing under his breath, something he had always done when he was alive when anything got even the slightest bit difficult. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that Victor Trevor lay underneath the skin of John Watson, his personality matched so perfectly that sometimes Sherlock even forgot that he was looking at John while speaking to Victor. They seemed to have morphed into one being in the midst of their conversations.
"Victor." Sherlock whispered, easing himself closer, his voice breathing like mist over troubled waters. Victor looked up hesitantly, but obviously Sherlock's newly adopted seductiveness had caught his attention, there was a curious, if not pleased look in his yellow eyes. Sherlock walked closer and closer until they were not a couple of inches apart, taking both of John's hands in his own and holding them close to his chest. He could still hear the muffled crying of Mary and Molly behind him; it was like background music, however, to a much more daring plot. They were his chorus, he was the main production.
"I want to be the one." Sherlock whispered, brushing his lips against Victor's cheek ever so softly, so beautiful and so tempting that he felt Victor's breath change. For once, the man in front of him seemed nervous, impatient, hesitant. He wanted to destroy humanity but he wanted Sherlock as well, and it was all going to come down to which option seemed more pleasing at the moment.
"Be the one to do what?" Victor wondered in a single breath, leaning his lips closer so that he could kiss Sherlock very quickly. But Sherlock pulled his face away gently, teasingly, and Victor retreated in shame. It was working, Victor wanted him, and he was never satisfied until he got what he wanted.
"It's not fair that you use John's body, to possess, to take over the world and to be accepted by the Devil. Why can't I help you, why can't we be celebrated together? We were meant to be together, after all." Sherlock pointed out, pressing a kiss onto John's hairline, right above his eyebrows. He could feel Victor trembling, he was suffering inside, he wanted to be with Sherlock, he wanted to love him after all of these years, the very idea of being bonded once more, of being one, it was starting to become very tempting. Sherlock could sense it on him, he could almost smell it.
"We could be together?" Victor wondered hopefully.
"Like we were always meant to be. Together Victor, just the two of us. We can be heroes together; we can wreak havoc upon the human race, and demonstrate the powers of Hell. We can be Gods." Sherlock whispered, pressing his clenched hands against John's chest, which breathed in a very erratic pattern. There it was, the feeling, the anticipation. Victor had been like this when he was alive, when he was tempted, when he was frustrated. Victor's yellow eyes shone with the same hunger his blue ones had displayed so many years previous, before their words were changed forever.
"I deserve to be your host Victor. I deserve you." Sherlock pleaded, trying to look weak, and helpless. He had to make Victor believe that he legitimately craved his presence, that he wanted it most in the entire world.
"Sherlock..." Victor whispered, obviously trying to start some sort of sentence. His words, however, were cut off, lost in the sea of emotions that was pouring between the two of them. Sherlock didn't wait for his answer, he knew what he was going to say, so with that he squeezed John's hands and pressed his lips onto Victor's. And just like that, it was over. As soon as their lips met he felt himself start to inhale the smoke, he felt it traveling through his mouth and down his throat, through his nose, through his eyes, through his ears, the smoke surrounded him and invaded his body to the point where he couldn't get a breath in. He was suffocating on another soul, another life form, but he needed it, he loved it. Victor was inside of him, he could feel the crowdedness, the sudden lurch of pain as their souls began to battle for control. He sunk to his knees, landing on all fours on the rough, splintery floor, coughing and gasping for what air he could suck into his lungs. He was being invaded.
"Sherlock, Sherlock no!" Molly exclaimed, rushing to her feet and scampering over urgently.
"Molly stay back!" Sherlock growled, coughing once more but rising to his knees, searching around in his jacket pocket with a shaking hand. It was difficult for him to even breathe, much less talk, Victor's soul was swirling inside of him like a hurricane, he could feel the smoke taking over, he could feel it rushing through his veins like blood, pumping through his heart as if he needed Victor's presence to stay alive.
"Don't do it Sherlock, please, don't!" Molly insisted, falling backwards to where she had knelt before as Sherlock's fingers clasped around the revolver. He winced as something inside of him felt like it had shattered, felt as if it were being burned. His stomach was rumbling, his lungs contracting, his brain throbbing. There was no space in his body for another soul, he was being invaded as if by a disease, and his body didn't know how to handle it. But he was still in control, for now at least, even with the sinful scarred soul he possessed, he still had control. His soul wasn't one to give up that easily.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, cocking the gun with his thumb and holding it to the bottom of his head. He glanced over at John, his body starting to twitch uncontrollably, recovering from finally being free after all of those weeks of possession. He was free...he was free...
"I'm so sorry." Sherlock repeated again, feeling tears leak from his eyes. So he closed them, he didn't want to see this. He didn't want to have to accept what he was doing. The very idea of taking his own life was a horrible one; however it seemed to be the only option. He didn't know what Victor's plan was, how he was planning on destroying the earth with nothing more than a box of matches was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. But he couldn't risk it, the powers and the triumph Victor could achieve while possessing Sherlock's body would be beyond compare. If Sherlock was really formed by the Devil then he was the ideal transportation for an Aspiration. So he had to, he had to save John, and Molly, and Mary, and the rest of the human race. Every single person on the face of this earth was counting on him to save their life, was there really a question? Sherlock Holmes was merely a pawn in a worldwide game, a mere player that can be sacrificed to win the game. A tragedy. A hero. So Sherlock took a deep breath. And he pulled the trigger.

So this is what it felt like to be dead, to have passed through the veil and to the other side. He had joined those that wandered hopelessly over the face of the earth; he had joined those that only he could see. His soul rushed out of his body like liquid leaking from a broken bottle, rushing through his open mouth, and through the bloodied hole in his head. It was just like the feeling of being possessed, but in reverse. He was beginning to feel empty, hallow, yet free. Sherlock felt himself slowly starting to materialize in the world once more; however, he was here in a different form, in an unseen form. He felt as though he was completely unrestricted, completely unanchored. A gust of wind could send him floating away across the world, tumbling on and on uselessly. It wasn't painful, yet it wasn't peaceful. It was a constant state of unrest, being dead yet conscious felt as though you were on the brink of waking up, all while submerged in a dream. You knew this wasn't real, you knew that you were asleep, but you couldn't wake up. Sherlock could see Molly, and Mary, and John, and himself...Molly was weeping over his body, a limp and cold reminder that he really was dead. This wasn't a dream anymore. Her sobs echoed through Sherlock's ears, and yet it hurt even more to know that he could never do anything to comfort her, not anymore. They had no idea that he was still with them, still present, still watching over. Mary was hunched over John's body, yelling at him to wake up, pleading with him. He was half conscious, moving around, moaning, whispered a name over and over again, a name that Sherlock used to respond to. And yet, he could never talk to John again. It was all over, the man he had loved was the man he had saved, and he would never be rewarded the way he deserved to be. But this was what he had known was coming; this was what Sherlock was prepared to do. It was better his blood spilt over these dirty floorboards than all four of them; it was better one man than the entire population. Only one man, on the brink of the fire. And suddenly he heard a screaming, a sound so pitiful and so distinct that he couldn't help but wince.
"TRAITOR, YOU TRAITOR!" Victor screamed, throwing his arms around Sherlock's neck as he was being pulled towards the floor. It was as if there was a gaping hole beneath them, underneath the weeping women and the motionless bodies, a vacuum opening up in the earth and pulling Victor down towards it.
"This is what you want, isn't it? To go to Hell?" Sherlock insisted, trying to pull Victor's hands off of his neck. It didn't hurt, of course, but he could feel himself getting pulled as well, with Victor clinging to his spirit he was being sunken down beneath the floorboards, the wood rising up to his ankles as he was being pulled steadily downwards.
"I needed to be rewarded, I'm not a hero yet, they need to burn, THEY ALL NEED TO BURN!" Victor screeched, clawing at Sherlock's neck, trying to keep himself emerged, trying to keep himself on earth. He was desperate and scared, drowning in his own sins and attempting to pull an innocent man down with him as well. Sherlock's legs sunk beneath the floor, and soon he was clawing at the wood with fingers that dissolved like smoke right through the floorboards, he wasn't solid, he was completely useless. The pull was almost unbearable; it felt as though he were trying to fight of a powerful ocean current, clinging to the air above him while trying not to drown. It was impossible, and that was made clear when his torso started to sink as well, pulled towards the heat, pulled towards the black endlessness of all the sinners.
"MOLLY, HELP ME!" Sherlock screamed desperately, flailing his limbs, trying to unlatch Victor's grip from around his neck. This wasn't what it should be, he can't be falling, he can't be burning...
"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, knowing that it was simply no use.
"It's us again, it's just us!" Victor said excitedly, his words dripping in wickedness, in a twisted pleasure that came from his own pain. "We're going to be together Sherlock, just like you said. Forever. Be prepared to burn!" Sherlock couldn't respond, he couldn't even force a single word out of his throat, because his head was quickly drawn through the ground, pulled into the infinite blackness, and now, no matter how loudly he screamed, no one would ever bother to hear him again. He was going to meet his maker; he was going to meet the Devil.

Entry #8, October 28th, 2017: What do I even say? How do I even say it? Who am I saying it to? I know he's not going to read this, I know that he's not going to know what he did. He saved me, he saved us all. Through that single life he saved so many, and yet...it almost seems unfair. I didn't want Sherlock Holmes to die; I didn't want to bury his disfigured body. I woke up in a pile of blood, expecting it to be my own. I didn't want it to be his, I didn't want any harm to come to him and yet he was the only one who paid the price of these horrible events. It's hard to admit my feelings now that he's gone, it's hard to insist that I have loved him this entire time, and I still love him to this day. Yes, I'm married, and yes, I'm surely going to stay that way, but there still is a part of my heart that died in that house when the gun went off. I expect this all to be some nightmare; I expect to wake from some terrible dream and to feel him lying beside me. I hope to see his eyes once more; I hope to hear his laugh, and hold his hand, and to wrap him in my arms, where he's supposed to be. It's not wrong, I don't think, to be in love with Sherlock while still wearing a ring on my finger. I think everyone who knew him loved him, it was impossible not to. His mere presence had a feeling of love to it, of temptation. I don't consider it unfaithful to love a dead man's memory. I never did. That house changed me, it changed everything. Victor Trevor changed my life for the worse, but at least I can still say I have a life. Even if it doesn't feel like a life at all. I don't know if I'll ever see Sherlock again, I don't know where he went, I don't know if I'll follow. But I feel empty inside, without him here, I feel incomplete. The very concept of death seems so open ended to me now that it seems impossible to guess where I'm headed. Have my sins really caught up to me? Have the sins Victor used my body to commit somehow tarnished my own soul? Was I a murderer? A cheater? A Satanist? I suppose I'll figure it all out, some day, when I breathe my last breath and go into the uncharted territory of the world. Sherlock claimed that nothing changed after death, that I would just wander around aimlessly like I did in life. No purpose, no beginning, no ending, nothing. Just...existence. That's how I feel now, without his hand in mine. Without his presence by my side. It was no lie, it was no joke. There is most certainly Hell, and Heaven. There are ghosts and spirits and Aspirations and murderers. There is life beyond death and there is death beyond tragedy, and I hate to admit that I have experienced every single one first hand. So believe what you will, but don't call me a liar. I am simply a man lost in another's world, caught up in a horrible dream of a human long gone. I have learned to respect the Devil, the fires and the chaos he has created by the mere mention of his name. And I have grown to respect love as well, and the dangerous things it could make someone do. I have learned to fear it. Maybe they're alike; they have the same characteristics, the same drive, and ultimately the same output. Maybe love was a creation of the Devil, a way to drive men mad with their own feelings, to make them kill in its name, to make them kill in an attempt to save themselves. Love only satisfies you for a short time, then it drives you mad, it hurts you with a pain that only a broken heart can provide. It drains you of all happiness and all meaning in your life...Surely it couldn't be the work of God. Maybe I can ask him some day, Satan. I have a lot of questions for him when I arrive. Because that's where I want to be, in Hell. It seems like the only destination that can satisfy me now; it seems like the only path I can take. Because that's where Sherlock is. And so that's where I want to be as well, even if it does mean an eternity of fire. End Entry.

A/N: So I blinked and then this story ended, like what is this? I love this story though, not only the plot but the relationships between the characters and the backstory and the ability for a sequel! Even my writing in this one was pretty good, if I do say so myself, just because the words flowed so easily because there was a story to follow... This is probably going to be one of my favorites (adding to like the other five) so ya. And of course these three stories ended all together so I really need to get writing, because before I realize it my three to back these up will be gone and of course I was an idiot and made the next story I wrote up to 200 pages so I'm really behind. But oh well. It is what it is. As I mentioned there will be a sequel to this eventually, and until then what follows this is another teenlock! I've written a lot of teenlocks, but this one is different than the rest, of course. Thanks for reading guys!!!