Sherlock sat with his head balanced in his fist while Mycroft unveiled the delicacies he had prepared for tonight, hidden under large silver dishes so as to preserve the heat. Sherlock wasn't very hungry, for his stomach was turning and he couldn't help but think back to those silly detectives who had wandered into his home, how close they both were, and yet how far! They knew of course that Sherlock had a connection into at least one of the disappearances, and he couldn't help but worry what might happen if they connected him to a second. He knew that the ladies at the brothel wouldn't be so observant as to place him with any of the other missing men, they only remembered his chat with Victor because it had been so recent while the others had been months ago! And yet his presence there couldn't be denied, he was a common costumer despite his disinterest in the ladies provided, would they somehow be able to link him to the other men, all the other seven men, who were now up in his attic? One conversation between he and Victor was enough to explain as a mere coincidence, but if it could be proved that he had conversed with multiple men before they went missing then he would be done for! A search warrant would surely be enough to link him so some of his crimes, and if the police were able to find the trap door then his entire escapade would be ruined! They would find his sins, they would convict him of his crimes, and he would spend the rest of his days in a jail cell while his dear men wasted their lives away with their wives, the women who would undoubtedly still think they would be appreciated after their husbands had witnessed true beauty! Oh it was a tragic thought, the idea of abandonment, thrown to a prison where no one would worship him; no one would even appreciate him! He would be treated harshly, no one there would care that he was beautiful, no one there would care that he was fragile! He had grown so dependent on the men that he wasn't sure he could get on without them, a night with an empty bed was a night of withdrawal for poor Sherlock, it was something he most certainly couldn't suffer through. Death would be preferable to alienation; it would be preferable to loneliness.
"You look troubled my Lord, surely those detectives don't have you spooked?" Mycroft presumed, to which Sherlock could only chuckle a bit sarcastically.
"Those fools wouldn't be able to catch me for anything even if I brought them upstairs to make formal introductions." Sherlock assured with a smile, shaking his head for he really did admire the obliviousness of their police force. Oafs like Greg Lestrade in uniform really assured him of his personal safety.
"Then what is on your mind?" Mycroft wondered as he unveiled a beautiful looking pork roast with sides of boiled potatoes and baked vegetables.
"Oh nothing, nothing Mycroft!" Sherlock insisted, however he knew that his facial expressions did nothing to back up his very struggling argument.
"Well my Lord, if you do need any assistance..."
"Yes, you are here to help. Thank you Mycroft." Sherlock agreed, thrusting out his hand for his brother to take with a large, burdened sigh. Mycroft bowed for a moment, taking Sherlock's hand a kissing it as he was instructed to, so as to show his service and his secrecy. "Now leave me, brother mine." Sherlock demanded. Mycroft bowed his way out of the room, leaving Sherlock to eat alone in the dining room while he went to prepare himself whatever food he thought he would be able to spare. After dinner Sherlock had Mycroft fetch Victor from the attic, which really was no surprise to any of the parties in question. Sherlock was almost worried of some unrest between the men, for he had been inviting Victor to his room ever since he had become available, however most all of the men had received the same luxury upon their entry. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that Victor was simply the most preferable, the one who was the most beautiful, the one who was the most obedient (for the most part), and the one that was the most romantic. Oh what a beauty he had found! Sherlock was almost disappointed in himself for having neglected to collect the reporter sooner. Sherlock readied himself in his room, brushing his hair and donning another very long black robe, this one that he tied in a rather complicated knot around his chest so that Victor would have considerable trouble. And yet it amused him to watch the man try to multitask, to try to unknot the cord while trying to kiss Sherlock to his full satisfaction at the same time, it was almost amusing. Sherlock knew that it might take a while for Victor to get ready, for Mycroft knew that he had to patch up the blemishes the best he could before delivering Victor to the door. Sherlock had made quite a mess of that man's face, and for that he was truly sorry, however the sad truth was of course that he had rather been asking for it. None of the men up there were allowed to make any sort of advances unless they were strictly called upon for such services. If they were summoned for the evening then such a move would not only be expected, but it would be appreciated. However if Sherlock made a visit to the attic or called them down for any other reason then they would need to wait for his firm instructions. It was just how things worked around here, certainly the rules could not be bent for such selfish purposes, they could not go unfollowed despite what Victor may think he was entitled to. Sherlock sat at his desk for a moment and thought once more about the detective with the blushing cheeks, the one who seemed to have fallen very early on into the web that Sherlock had woven. That was the one from the café, John Watson was his name, and he seemed ever so eager to watch Sherlock, so much so that he had nearly forgotten his purpose at the house in the first place. It was interesting, and of course it would be something of a happily accepted challenge, to seduce one of the men that were on his tail. If it was going to be done then it would have to be an exception to Sherlock's strict rule of no human contact, for fear of his secrets of course. If Sherlock dared to abduct a police officer then someone would surely take notice, someone would surely care, and they would come looking. No it would be too risky; however Sherlock was almost sure he could trust the secret of intimacy to such a man, someone who had his own reasons to protect such a rather embarrassing secret such as love. The door opened to announce Victor's presence not shortly after Sherlock's train of thought had slowed, and Victor had entered to interrupt Sherlock as he tapped his fingers against the hairbrush that sat on his table. The curtains were drawn yet the chandelier was lit, bright enough so as to illuminate the room in a soft, almost welcoming sort of way. Sherlock didn't look up when he heard the door open and he didn't care to take notice when he heard it shut again. He knew who it was. It was obvious that Victor was too timid to announce his presence, and so Sherlock took it upon himself to heave a great sigh and turn his chair so as to face the man who now stood in his doorway, half silhouetted in shadows.
"My Lord." Victor said formally, dropping into a bow so as to show his complete obedience to the man that sat before him. Sherlock smiled softly at him, rising ever so gently to his feet so as to be sure he was not being looked down upon. He held out his hand for the man to join him, lacing their fingers together as softly as could be managed and observing the blemish that was visible behind the caked makeup that Mycroft had intended on applying.
"Such a shame, to damage something so beautiful." Sherlock whispered, and he was truly ashamed, of that he was not lying. And yet he knew it to be necessary, such rules were not to be broken and this was the message that violence would be sure to convey.
"It is my fault, my Lord. I apologize most sincerely." Victor whispered, looking into Sherlock's eyes with those gorgeous electric blues, oh Sherlock could see the honest regret in the way they sparkled, and he could still see the ever present eagerness. This was the same unyielding glare that had been shared long before Sherlock had invited Victor to his manor; it was the glare that had brought them together at the café, the glare that had brought them together from across such a crowded street, when they had first taken notice of each other! And oh how far they had come, for Sherlock to stand so unapologetically in Victor's presence while in such attire, and for Victor to be here before him, undoubtedly seeking nothing but his love. It was reassuring in the least to know that there were others out there that sought this sort of unconventional love, the one between the gender that was the more familiar.
"I forgive you, Victor, for that is what I am obliged to do. I should only pray, for your sake, that such an occurrence does not happen again. Speak when spoken to, do what you are allowed to do, and don't overestimate your role in this household. You are my property, Victor; expect to be treated as such." Sherlock whispered, all while he was working the jacket off of the man's shoulders and starting to undo his tie. This was the same sort of undressing that he had done the night he had first invited Victor to his home, and yet now Victor knew enough to stay still, for that was what he thought he was expected to do. Sherlock smiled at him, for he very much appreciated his fearfulness; however he had every right to Sherlock's robe at the moment. The stinging in his face, however, was certainly enough to remind him that there would be consequences for getting too eager too quickly. And so Sherlock discarded of the jacket and he threw away the tie (Mycroft dressed the men, as well as bathed them, for it was horrible to see the men in such disgusting white nightgowns), now with his fingers working down the buttons of Victor's shirt. The man stood still, however Sherlock could hear his breathing beginning to escalate of Sherlock's fingers trailed farther and farther down, until finally his shirt was released and pulled from his shoulders as well, worked over his muscular arms and leaving the man exposed and vulnerable from the waist up.
"Now Victor, did I have permission to do that?" Sherlock whispered, running his hands along Victor's chiseled and freshly shaven neck, smiling as he felt the crevices of his jawline hidden under his tight skin.
"Yes my Lord." Victor agreed. Sherlock hummed in agreement, walking around the man for a moment and letting his hand trail across his back, admiring him from every angle as would be expected.
"Do you want to hit me, Victor? Do you feel that you have the right?" Sherlock whispered, appearing at Victor's side while the boy stood stone still, holding his lips so close to the man's injured cheek that his words were nearly creating their own wounds across the newly damaged skin.
"I have no right to strike you, my Lord." Victor assured quietly. Sherlock nodded, coming around front once more and staring Victor right in the eyes once more.
"Hm, but it would only be fair, wouldn't it? An eye for an eye, a bruise...for a bruise." Sherlock whispered, letting his fingers trail along the bruise for a loving moment.
"I will not harm my master." Victor said flatly.
"Not even if your master insists?" Sherlock clarified. Victor hesitated, for obviously he wasn't sure if that was some sort of trick question, however he slowly allowed his head to nod.
"Not even if you insist." Victor agreed. Sherlock's hand this time was so quick that he could hardly have seen it coming himself, slapping Victor along the other side of the face so as to remind him that was the wrong answer. It wasn't nearly as harsh as the other one, however it made the man stumble back in surprise, for as previously stated that hand had seemingly come out of nowhere.
"You will do what I tell you Victor, it does not matter if it seems irregular, it does not matter if it seems...harmful. A good servant obeys every order, not just the ones that are easy to follow. Now Victor I command you now, hit me. Hit me as hard as you can, oh surely I can handle it, Victor." Sherlock insisted with a smile, letting his hands trace along Victor's now proportionally injured face, smiling gently at him as he tried to ease him into the violence he was so opposed to inflicting.
"My Lord..." Victor started, however Sherlock shushed him, shaking his head and taking a step back, so as to allow Victor with more room to swing.
"Hit me Victor, or I shall send you away." Sherlock demanded. The man hesitated, looking upon his hand as if wondering if he could force to inflict such pain onto such a beautiful target, and yet surely he realized now that it was necessary. He was to hit...and he was to do it hard. Sherlock was prepared, in fact he was becoming anxious, eager in a way, his heart was racing in a way that he had not yet experienced, an erratic sort of rhythm that beat in anticipation for the pain that beautiful man was going to inflict upon him.
"Do it." Sherlock instructed. And with that Victor's fist came flying, hitting Sherlock square in the jaw and sending him flying back onto the bed, stumbling over his own feet and crashing down onto the blankets with a yelp and a laugh, a cry of joy as his jaw tingled with the pain that was lingering with the ghost of the boy's harsh knuckles. Sherlock could only laugh, for he was so proud of the servant he had made of such a man, such a previously stubborn boy, one so insistent on getting what he expected was deserved to be his. And now he was nothing more than a puppet, one that was drawn to the laughter of his master, one that knew when it was appropriate to throw himself down upon the man's squirming body and finally kiss him like he had been waiting to all evening. Oh and it was made even more pleasant when Victor's kisses stung against the wound he had left against Sherlock's skin, a beautiful mixture of gentleness and brutality that reminded Sherlock constantly of the obedience, the admiration, that was seeped to him from Victor Trevor's very skin! The man would do anything for his master, and still his reward was Sherlock's to enjoy as well. 

John POV: John had promised Mary a night out a couple of days ago, and still he had yet to get around to it. It might have been easier when there hadn't been an immediate investigation going on, when the trail had long since run cold. And yet with Victor Trevor's disappearance the police force had been in a mad rush to at least do something, for now that the press was directly involved and sure to publish a great big article about how one of their own had been taken, well they at least wanted a single side note of how their efforts were leading them closer to the culprit. It wasn't like they were doing terribly, they at least knew that Victor had been near the edge of town, and they had a near witness with Sherlock Holmes. They would need more details of course, details that were yet to be had; however it was something to go on. With Victor's apparent meeting, however, it brought about the question of whether or not these were disappearance or simply chronic cases of runaways. Yes he was nervous; however he had gone on his own free will. Did that mean he had arranged a meeting with a woman or was he abducted before such meeting had ever taken place? And his appearance in the brothel, well it claimed disloyalty and yet if he hadn't been with any of the women then it also proved a sense of dedication to his marriage. Victor's case may have provided some answers; however it only opened up a whole new can of questions that were swirling about John's brain like a swarm of stubborn bees! However said swarm was really inconvenient at the moment, for despite John's need to put his brain to work on the case he was also expected to at least pass for a good husband. And so he escorted Mary to dinner that night, allowing her to get all dressed up and leave the hotel for what she claimed was the first time in days. He of course knew that was some sort of hyperbole, for while she tried to guilt trip him into thinking she was homebound he happened to know that she had at least taken a walk, for her shoes had been by the door when he arrived. Either way she seemed thrilled to be out with her husband, however lost in thought he found himself to be, and it was a pleasant evening. John felt like it had been ages since he had actually been able to sit down with Mary and discuss things like their problems and their family and the highlights of their day. Not that any of these subject points were particularly interesting, in fact they were quite unbearable however it was all he could think to talk about! It wasn't like Mary would be any help with the case, and while John tried to force himself to discuss the local weather patterns his mind was wandering back to that increasingly suspicious man at the top of the hill...Sherlock Holmes. He had to be connected to this in some way! No, John didn't think him to be any sort of culprit, the man seemed much too small to take anyone down, much less hold his own against some of the burlier men like Stanley Hopkins. And even if he was involved, well what would be his gain? Unless he was a crazed killer that got off on tearing people apart, however Sherlock really didn't strike John to be the violent type. He seemed to delve more in the world of aesthetics, the sort of man that enjoyed looking at the moon while sipping some sort of exotic wine. No he would probably be disgusted in violence, John was quite sure that he wasn't a criminal he was just at the wrong place in the wrong time, however his placement was ever so convenient! He might have picked up on something; he might know something about Victor Trevor that was otherwise kept secret from the world. And so that was what John was dedicated to discover, he was determined to unravel the secrets that wrapped around Sherlock's smooth, pale skin like spider webs, eventually tripping him up in the end! He seemed like the sort of man who needed a friend, and so john might just have to be that friend while this investigation continued. Of course it would be difficult to get the secrets he desired from a man who was so isolated, however John was rather good at manipulation, he was rather good at being a friend.
"John you seem lost." Mary said finally, just now noticing the glazed look in her husband's eyes as he stared down at the sorbet in his chilled glass, his spoon twirling in his fingers as he stared at the table and saw not desert, but Sherlock Holmes staring back instead.
"Lost....yes I suppose I am." John agreed with a defeated sigh, for he knew enough to know that arguing his attentiveness would prove to be futile.
"What's on your mind?" Mary wondered, although it probably wasn't any sort of mystery as to what was gnawing at his brain even on his time off.
"Well the case, that's all. It's just so confusing, it doesn't make any sense." John admitted heavily, shaking his head in exasperation while he tried to force feed himself a spoonful of sorbet. It was good, watermelon or something like that, and yet he was so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly forgot to enjoy it.
"That reporter went missing then? The one from the café?" Mary wondered in a sort of melancholy voice, almost as if she found Victor's loss to be a sincere tragedy.
"Ya he's gone, and to where we have no idea. By who we have no idea...we don't even know if he left intentionally or not! It's just such a puzzle, one that I'm supposed to know how to solve...ugh! I've been called here for what, just more trails that run cold, more questions that are just waiting to be answered? I don't want to be useless, Mary." John muttered miserably, however Mary just cooed him gently, patting his shoulder as some sort of encouragement.
"You'll get them John; you'll bring them home, I'm sure of it. You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, and I'm sure that by now you've brought that silly little station a lot farther than they would've been without you." Mary assured with a grin. John just shook his head; however he really was in no position to argue. He had to admit that his presence had undoubtedly helped Greg in the long run, and he was leading the police force farther than they've ever been. John had yet to make a stunning discovery; he was yet to really make himself proud! And yet that day would come, surely it would arrive once he started to dig farther into the chasms they had arrived at. Surely Sherlock Holmes held secrets that were easily dug up, and when that moment arrived then maybe John would be one step closer to catching the criminal, if there even was one in the first place!