They interviewed three other women, most of which were able to pick out one or two of the men that were spread out on the table. The funny thing was there was almost no overlap, and the men that one woman could identify were completely separate from another. That undoubtedly meant that they weren't the most perceptive batch of women, that if they could even be trusted at all. Most of them said the same thing, however, saying that they frequented the establishment for a couple of days at a time before leaving all together, one of them was even able to swear that they stopped arriving after they had been missing, claiming that they had been here all three days before their absence. However all the women agreed that the men in question had never paid for anything except alcohol, saying that they hadn't even given the women walking around a passing glance; they had only scanned through the fellow men and ordered drink upon drink. That made it seem like they weren't cheating, they were just contemplating things, the strange thing was if they had wanted drinks why didn't they go to a bar? Why would they resort to a brothel instead? It was just odd, all of it. The investigation was ended abruptly when John noticed someone watching them, someone from the other end of the place that seemed incredibly keen to know what they were up to. Someone who had a pen in hand, ready to take some notes for the future.
"Greg we're being watched." John said abruptly, tucking away the pictures of the men before their stalker could get a glance at what they were up to.
"Ooh, is she pretty?" Greg asked excitedly, looking about as if to try to find one of the heavily painted women with their eyes in his direction.
"Hate to break it to you, but it's not a woman. It's Victor Trevor." John muttered, tucking the folder into his bag once more while Greg cursed.
"Oh that little weasel, he must've followed us here!" Greg groaned, finding Victor's eyes before turning away and downing the last of whatever was in his glass.
"Well I think we've got enough, don't you think?" john wondered in exasperation, knowing that if they interview yet more women the reporter might suspect what they were up to and publish it in the next Sunday edition.
"Yes I think we do." Greg agreed with some hesitation. Reporters were especially annoying when you were trying to keep things a secret, and however obvious it would be to a serial kidnapper that they were being hunted by the police; John would still rather their path to catching her go unnoticed. If the woman in question realized the brothel was being investigated then maybe she wouldn't try to go there, if she was even here in the first place. That or maybe the men who came here would stop going once they realized that the police frequented the place, and then it would be even harder to trace adultery through the lines of those who went missing! All in all a newspaper article was not the thing they wanted, and so John and Greg got to their feet abruptly, making their way to the door and leaving Victor Trevor and his wandering eyes behind. As they walked outside to get to the carriage, however, John noticed a tall, elegantly dressed man as he made his way through the traffic outside on the sidewalk, someone who was very hard to ignore through the crowds. It was curious, however it did make sense that Sherlock Holmes would be here. The man had himself admitted to not being married, and so a brothel must be his idea of fun. He seemed to be rich, after all, so what was another ten pounds for a night well spent with a woman he would never see again? 

 Sherlock POV: When Mycroft finally pulled up Sherlock bid him goodnight, telling him to go back home and leave Sherlock (and his guest, if he did have one) to take a hansom home. Mycroft thanked him, leaving Sherlock out on the sidewalk while he sped up the horses so as to go and turn around, headed back to the manor that say atop the hill, shrouded in trees and hidden from the public's eye. It was too dark for Sherlock to wear his sunglasses, however his top hat sat proudly on his head as he strolled into the barely illuminated brothel. It was a horrible place, made even more horrible by the clientele that lingered about with those hungry looks on their faces, watching as the scantily dressed women wandered about and tried to tempt them into a private session in the back. Sherlock knew that if he was a woman he would probably have ended up with this very job, not that he needed to work for money, but because luring men had become not just a pastime, but a hobby as well. He would show all of these desperate women who really was boss, and he would make hundreds of dollars every night! However he wasn't a woman and maybe that was for the best, for he was just allowed to sink into one of the small, personal tables in the back and order a whiskey while he watched all the simple minded men lose their minds. The place was small, with a small stage that was used by the women when they first made their entrances, and filled with tables all scattered about on the floor. It was dimly lit for a more romantic mood, illuminated by candles and smelling heavily like cigarette smoke, always loud and yet quiet at the same time. The men talked and they played cards, mostly because they came here with their friends for meetings or just to play games, for they all liked to relax in the presence of such beautiful company. Some were here for the women and yet most were here for them to just blend in with the background, occasionally giving them their attention and slipping five pounds into their hands when they were finished. It was a terrible and distasteful way to spend a night, and yet Sherlock had become one of the common customers, not for the women of course, but for the men. The women knew by this point that he was not to be bothered, he wasn't here for them and they knew that. He was always left in the back with his whiskey, sitting alone and watching as the men followed the women with their lustful eyes, getting out their pocketbooks as if already prepared to make a bad decision. Sherlock saw Victor sitting half way across the room, and he knew that victor had seen him as soon as he had come in. It didn't take the reporter long to get obsessed with the idea of going over to talk to him, for of course they had almost arranged a meeting here this morning. But Victor knew he was not to approach Sherlock without first being summoned, it was almost common knowledge at this point, and he was patient enough to gulp down whatever alcohol he could so as to suppress whatever anxiousness was building up in his chest. Sherlock drank his whiskey slowly, for he was in no hurry to get Victor Trevor at his table. He knew that the longer he made that man wait the more desperate he would become, and at the rate Victor was surviving Sherlock was almost sure he would end up on the floor before he was finally called to Sherlock's side. There was soft music playing in the background, however Sherlock could almost hear the man's breathing from this side of the room, he could see the sweat beginning to accumulate on his brow, he could hear his fingers clenching around his glass and he could almost feel the unrest that was bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. Oh poor Mr. Trevor, it was almost inhumane to keep him in such a state for much longer. And so finally Sherlock downed the rest of his whiskey and looked over at him, his eyes immediately meeting those of Victor as he nodded his head over, summoning him. Victor jumped to his feet, leaving his glass of whatever behind on the table as he rushed across the packed brothel, moving his way carelessly past women and men as he hastened to Sherlock's side. He dropped into something of a bow before taking the chair opposite Sherlock, almost as if he knew that Sherlock was above him and supposed to be treated that way. Sherlock was no sort of royalty of course; he was merely a man with an inheritance and no need to work for the luxury he had come to enjoy. However he was above Victor, he was above everyone at this point, for his beauty was so unbelievable that it stopped most everyone in this brothel at one point or another. Even the men with their lips stuck to a woman's neck would take a moment, blink to make sure they weren't hallucinating, and admire Sherlock from afar. It was just the aura he radiated, he was irresistible. 

"Mr. Holmes, it's so wonderful to see you here tonight; I've been here since four o'clock just..."
"Spare me the formalities, Mr. Trevor." Sherlock sighed heavily, letting his head spin on his neck for a moment before bringing his eyes level to Victor's. He recognized that look; oh it was the look that was shared by most all the men in his attic, the look of pure desperation! He knew that tonight would be the night, yes it most certainly had to be, he had Victor on his hook and that poor man had no intentions of letting go!
"Formalities?" Victor clarified, leaning ever so slightly over the table as if he couldn't bear to be so far away from the man he needed so badly.
"Yes, the good evening, how are you, all of that rubbish waste of breath it really is unnecessary. I know why you're here, and you of course...want me to be here as well." Sherlock said confidently, to which Victor took a sharp breath, his fingers clenched over the table as if he was trying to hold himself back.
"You invited me, Mr. Holmes. I was under the impression that you share the same wants as me?" Victor wondered hopefully, almost as if he had no idea what the goal of the night was to be. Sherlock recognized the nervousness in his eyes, he recognized that his entire night was pivoting around this one moment, when Sherlock confirmed or denied his claims.
"Not the same wants Mr. Trevor no, the same needs." Sherlock corrected, and he for just a moment Sherlock couldn't hear the man's breath. It would seem as though Victor had forgotten to breathe for just a moment, simply because even the involuntary part of his brain had turned once more to just one thing...and that thing was undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes.
"The same needs...yes I do agree. And I am not completely out of my mind, I do hope, when I suspect you will aid me in those?" Victor whispered nervously. Sherlock just grinned at him, leaning forward on the table and extending his hand for Victor to take. The poor man nearly jumped at his hand, clenching his fingers around Sherlock's as if he was so desperate that he would not let go until they had some other sort of interaction.
"This whole night, Mr. Trevor, will be off the record?" Sherlock presumed, to which Victor paled and nodded his head in the weakest of ways, almost as if he couldn't take his eyes of Sherlock long enough to nod his encouragement.
"Yes, yes of course. I won't breathe a word, I won't print a word." Victor promised. "So you do know what I want then?"
"Yes Mr. Trevor." Sherlock agreed with a grin. "And it's nothing you can get here, I imagine?"
"No, no not with all of these eyes around. It's rather..."
"Criminal?" Sherlock presumed. Victor drew in a sharp breath, his hands tightening around Sherlock's for a moment, almost as if he was trying to hold on lest he fall out of his chair before he even got the chance to agree.
"Criminal indeed." Victor agreed in a breath.
"Then let us go, Mr. Trevor, I do have an elaborate manor that I share with no one, surely if it's privacy that you want then it will be privacy that you get." Sherlock decided, getting up from his chair and letting his hand fall away from Victor's, just so that when they made their leave no one would suspect anything. He strolled towards the door and Victor followed suit, scampering behind him like a desperate puppy, while Sherlock stepped into the night and flagged down a hansom. It was only too easy to find one that was available, for while they were dropping off men to the brothel hardly any of them were brining anyone back. Sherlock paid, gave the address, and stepped inside for Victor to sit next to him, watching the horses as they clopped down the cobblestone streets and feeling Victor's legs pressing against the side of his own. This was of course unintentional, for hansoms were hardly built for two, however Sherlock appreciated it, and he knew that Victor did as well. There was hardly any conversation, and this of course was mostly due to the fact that Victor could hardly breathe, much less talk. Sherlock dearly loved this part of the relationship, the burning anticipation, the lust that was almost immobilizing for his partner and the feeling of excitement that was beginning to build up in his throat. It wasn't like Sherlock was anywhere near deprived of the love he feasted on, however it was always exciting to have someone new, to reassure himself that while he may be considered abnormal he was not alone in his plight. Victor Trevor, along with many other men that now inhabited his attic, shared the same sort of uncanny desires, they shared the same feelings and where undoubtedly beginning to fall prey to their hearts, only just now realized what they had been waiting for was a man. Sherlock could hear Victor's troubled breaths and he could feel the tightness in his legs, however Sherlock didn't dare tell him to relax, he didn't say a thing. Sherlock could only let his fingers trail against Victor's, taking his hand gently and looking over at the man that he would make his companion at the end of the road they traveled up to the manor. Victor couldn't say anything; however he made eye contact and gulped, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was getting himself into.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock whispered, to which Victor nodded anxiously, fearfully almost.
"Very well." Victor assured, so quietly that Sherlock almost couldn't hear him over the clomping of the horse's shoes against the cobblestone. Sherlock smiled to show his relief, for he wouldn't want Victor passing out before anything could begin, and for the rest of the ride they were silent. When finally they pulled through the gates of the Holmes manor Sherlock payed the driver and watched as the hansom disappeared back down the road, keeping Victor's hand in his own and starting towards the darkened house. Mycroft knew not to disrupt him at hours like this, especially when there was a chance he might be returning with someone. Men were very unwilling to let themselves fall prey to another if they thought there might be a witness, even a butler who was sworn to silence was to be considered a threat to their own personal security, in their mind. Homosexuals, especially ones who were very new in the art of loving a man, were always very timid, very ashamed. They might share their secret with one other just for the sake of pleasure, and yet the very idea that there might be a witness would be enough to send them back home, alone in the Holmes carriage to be dropped off on the edge of the city and forced to walk home. Then again, if they knew about Sherlock's advances and refused them, they might actually end up in the bottom of the ocean, missing a bit of their throats.
"If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Trevor, shaving your face before we begin?" Sherlock requested quietly, leading Victor into the large manor, lit only with oil lamps and candles so as to throw shadows against the walls as they walked past.
"I'm sorry, I hadn't brought..."
"I have one on the bathroom vanity, right in here. Shave your face, clip and file your nails, and I'll be waiting in the sitting room for when you arrive." Sherlock whispered sweetly, letting the door close behind them as he let his hand fall away from Victor and smiling ever so sweetly at him. Of course Victor was perplexed enough and enchanted enough to follow such rules, and as soon as he disappeared into the bathroom Sherlock rushed up to his room so as to get ready. There really was not much preparation to be had, for he had done this seven times already and an eighth would not prove to be too difficult. He threw off his clothes quickly, leaving them folded in the closet before pulling on a simple, thin silver robe. He had always been complimented on the way his skin shone in this particular garment, and of course it was the most easily to seduce people in. It fell only to his knees, and he wore it so that the cord only barely held it together, exposing his chest to the firelight and to the man in question. It was always guaranteed to get the man closer; it was always guaranteed to attract their undying attention... Sherlock took a deep breath, brushing his hair once more before starting his way down to the sitting room to pour some drinks. The fire was already roaring, the only source of light in the house, and Victor was still in the bathroom, getting ready. Sherlock was happy he didn't put up a fight, for some of the others, when they had arrived, had already been trying to take Sherlock on the front porch, just as soon as the hansom had disappeared into the darkness. Sherlock then sat alone with two glasses of whiskey, knowing that they would most likely go undrunk, for most men weren't able to focus on the alcohol for one second when Sherlock was draped in so little silver fabric. And so he sat, and he waited.