It wasn't difficult to find the folder, for while Janine tried to keep an alphabetical list sometimes files got lost and strewn about, yet today it was only too easy for John to find Sherlock's name listed under the Holmes tab. Yet this tab, John was surprised to find, housed more than just Holmes S. There were two other initials that meant nothing to John, and when he pulled the three together he rushed over towards his working spot so as to delve deeper into the matter. Sherlock's file was of the least interest to him, simply because he knew of Sherlock's innocence and was not going to try to convict him now. No it was the other file, this one marked Holmes T, which ended up being the Holmes father, Timothy. John opened the file eagerly and let a surprising amount of papers fall to the ground in front of him, unearthing a mugshot that meant simply that the father had spent time in prison. Now it was no shock that the man had done time, if he was cruel enough to leave his youngest son to fend for himself then it was obvious that he had the innate ability to inflict evil on others. John shuffled the papers to find a police report, filed thirteen years prior to this, on child abuse charges. Now child abuse was usually something seen in this world as discipline, and while John was overly appalled at the idea of shedding blood he knew that it was just some people's way of enforcing their rules. This being said, it was very hard to get called up on child abuse charges, especially when things that might be categorized as 'everyday' violence were treated as nothing more than common occurrences. And so what might have happened here? John read the blurb underneath the listing, reading carefully so as not to miss a single word that had been printed in a very out of line typewriter.

Mr. Holmes acted sternly yet cooperated, allowing us to take him to the carriage without much of a fuss. Charges of child abuse, hit the younger son repeatedly, two broken ribs, sprained wrist, and seemingly internal bleeding. Medical help necessary. Mr. Holmes refuses to admit why he demonstrated such violence, and all the wife would admit was he was 'scared of the Devil'. Other son, Mycroft Holmes, seems too scared to say much else.

John blinked, reading over the writing once more before staring blankly at the file before him. Yet he didn't see paper, instead he saw Sherlock, yet a younger Sherlock, one who he really did not recognize. And he saw the child cowering there, cowering under the promise of a fist or a thick leather belt, crying tears that showed very clearly that he did not understand why he was receiving such abuse. Could it be due to the flaw that Sherlock had admitted to having all those days back? Could the very thing that lead Mr. Holmes to beating his child be the thing that made him run in the end? A shiver went down John's spine as he realized that Sherlock's homosexuality had to be the cause for all of this. At the brothel all those days ago Sherlock had accredited such tragedies to being due to his 'flaw' the thing he admitted no parent would ever want to see developing in their child. Of course that would be his love for men, the very thing that worried most parents when they saw it beginning to develop. Yet what had caused this all, who had been Sherlock's first love? How did he develop into such a man that had no taste for women, if he didn't already know that such a thing was an option? No man was as self-aware to notice that they didn't love who they were supposed to, they would've needed guidance. And maybe that was where the other folder came into play. John grabbed at it madly, opening the thing that had been labeled Holmes M and saw that there was no mug shot, instead a solitary paper that was printed in the same sort of crooked type writer font. It was a solitary case, a single blemish on this man's record...Mycroft Holmes.
"The brother?" John muttered, so as to clarify it to himself as he stared down at the charges. This passage was much shorter, yet just as equally disturbing. This case had been merely eleven years ago, while the child abuse case had been thirteen. If John remembered correctly, Sherlock's family had left him ten years ago, pinning all of this mayhem to be merely the beginning of a long, downward slope that led nowhere.

Mycroft Holmes, son of Timothy Holmes, charged with the unpermitted and forceful sexual intercourse of a currently unidentified man. Mr. Holmes, twenty four at the time, claims to have been drunk and delirious in the time of the attack, yet witnesses claim to have seen the whole thing. Attack was intentional, and had appeared to be pleasurable for the accused. No charges pressed since the victim ran off before police could identify him, no further police involvement at this time.

John sat agape, for this time he was legitimately shocked to see just how messed up Sherlock's life seemed to have been! Not only had his father been abusive but his brother had been just as messed up, well it would seem that Sherlock was almost destined to some sort of criminal behavior! Yet this meant nothing, of course it didn't. Just because Sherlock's family seemed prone to violence it didn't mean that he was as well, cruelty was not inherited, it was learned. Evidently Sherlock hadn't conformed to the rest of the ideals his family had tried to place upon him, so who was to say that criminal behavior didn't bounce off as well? He could very well be a boy who had grown up witnessing the worst and deciding to be better, deciding that while he recognized there was evil in the world he would be the good. Sherlock had every chance to have developed into a capable and law abiding citizen, well that would be why the parents left, wouldn't it? Not only did Sherlock demonstrate the characteristics of being a homosexual, but he was also a good person as well. He was unlike his abusive father (although the bite marks on John's chest did hurt quite a bit) and he was unlike his perverted brother, and so he was left behind! John took a deep breath, shaking his head in what could only be described as denial as he picked up the final folder, tucking away the shameful past of the Holmes men so that he didn't have to see them any longer. This file was considerably larger, however when John opened it he was happy to see that no mug shot stole the show. So Sherlock had not served in prison. There was a file on the disappearance, which John read thoroughly yet found nothing of interest. He knew most everything about that case by now, not only from the newspapers but from the man himself. If there was anything that John was missing it was not going to be answered by this police report, for the case was still technically unsolved. The second paper was on Sherlock's childhood beatings once more, filed around the same time as the father's arrest as for proof of his involvement. Next there were medical papers strewn about, things about the injuries Sherlock had sustained that went treated by the doctors when the police had come to discover the abuse charges. The injuries that had been described in Mr. Holmes's police report were listed; however they had the company of a multitude of other ailments that seemed rather severe. Some John could recognize, like concussion and bruising, yet there were about five other things that only a trained medical professional could identify. Things with names so long they had to be serious. There were no unsuspected papers in Sherlock's folder; it would seem that the man was clean as could be, apart from things that were evidently out of his control. The only thing that caught John by surprise was the name printed at the top of the folder, identifying the man not as Sherlock, but as William instead. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. John jumped to his feet, letting the file fall to the floor as he rushed in something of a panic to Greg's office, pieces having clicked in his mind as he realized that yet another puzzle had just been solved. If Sherlock wasn't his actual name, and he was using it as simply an alias, then he would be much more difficult to locate through things like names, letters, or initials. These things then would be ideal to use as signatures, so as to make sure the people who might be looking for you never discovered your true identify... As John was rushing down the hallway he was met with Greg, the man seeming to be in just as much of a panic as he grabbed his marker from the board and hopped up and down in excitement.
"You look like you found something!" Greg exclaimed, rushing towards the board and drawing a great big check mark over a man that had been previously identified as a question mark. He then grabbed at the ball of yarn and began victoriously stringing it from Sherlock's drawing to the other man's, evidently he had found the proof and connection he had needed to put the two together once and for all.
"I did, I did. I found out who WSSH is." John announced victoriously, grabbing at the file of Reginald Musgrave and unearthing the intimate letters they had discovered when interrogating his wife more thoroughly on the matters that actually concerned them.
"And who is it then?" Greg shouted from the hallway, seemingly too caught up in his own victory to care about what was going on with John's.
"It's William!" John yelled, grabbing at the letters and tacking them to the board, right underneath the picture of Sherlock, the one that was becoming startlingly more accurate the more they discovered. "It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
"My God. He's been lying to us." Greg muttered, standing back on the board and taking a look at just how many of the men now had strings attached to their names. It was most all of them now, all tying back to Sherlock in a complicated knot of love affairs, lies, and quite possibly kidnappings. Could it be that this was all just a coincidence, brought about by the slim number of homosexuals that frequented this city? Or was it connected, were these strings not just representing emotional ties, but criminal ones as well? Sherlock stood in the middle of it all, his hand written notes fluttering in the soft breeze that was created by the two detectives' gasping breaths, staring at their handiwork and finally seeing the case coming to a close before them. It wasn't like John wanted to suspect Sherlock, yet it would seem that now it would be foolish not to. The only confidence he had in the man had been his sincerity; the honesty that he had displayed was enough to make John ignore the almost incriminating evidence and look towards his character, his trustworthiness. He saw instead of a criminal the man he loved, and yet now the lies were beginning to take shape. Maybe not sincere lies, but white lies, leaving out little snippets of the truth so as to make the confession just a bit easier to handle. He had mentioned some of the men, yet the two that had been discovered today were news to them both, Sherlock having not mentioned them before. And now that he was directly involved with them, well how could John choose to ignore that? Sherlock's lying promoted a sort of suspicion, a sense that the man was attempting to hide something despite his being partially honest. He had a secret, something more than his taste in lovers, something more than his family history...Sherlock was protecting something much darker, something much more criminal. 

Sherlock POV: It's been two whole nights that Sherlock sat at this table, waiting for John to arrive. He had extended the invitation yet it seemed to have been met with a very hesitant resistance, as if John was too afraid to make any promises he couldn't keep. Oh the blind faith that man had in his marriage, the absolute insanity that was connected to such dedication! It was quite humorous to think that John held his wedding ring to such high values, when in reality all it did was attach him to a woman who could never love him as much as Sherlock, never, and so what was he really holding on to? It was an excuse, oh that was for sure, an excuse to stay away. Sherlock didn't know what the motivation might be behind such fearfulness, maybe he had found out Sherlock's secret, or maybe he had decided that the secret they had been creating together was not worth his true confidentiality. Either way he was hiding now, he was staying away despite Sherlock's open arms, staying away from the love he expected to receive and the purpose he would obtain in the doors of the beautiful manor. Did he not know he was meant to be here, did he not understand that this was his home? Yet he lingered with that wife of his, Mary Watson and the crawling creature that was festering and growing in her stomach...did they really matter? A woman and the unborn, compared to the beautiful God that was Sherlock Holmes? Was he really being put second to such illusions of dedication? Why was he forced to sit here with his head in his hands, alone in front of a meal for two, seated next to unused silverware with a cigarette jammed between his teeth? He was left agonizing over the man that was expected to join him, the very man who very well may never show! He had gotten John Watson in his grasp, he had him in his arms and in his bed yet he wasn't able to keep him, he wasn't enough. That man had slipped through his grasp, and now he was far out of reach. Maybe it was imperfections, he could undoubtedly smell the crimes that stank upon Sherlock's collar, he could smell the blood that had once littered his hands, he could sense the touch of the men who had been considered dead for years, oh and it must disgust him! It was keeping him away well enough, was it not? Oh then Sherlock must rid himself of those crimes, the evidence that was against him and the proof that might be found in his attic. And he was in the process of doing that; it would only be too easy once he had cleared himself of the romantic obligations he had been unknowingly committing himself to for years now. For the first time in his life he would be an unattached man, an innocent man, that was ready to be accepted by the one man who had single handedly captured his oblivious heart. Sherlock shook his head, trying to ignore that he still sat alone as his cigarette began to burn down to a stump in his lips. It was smoldering at the tip and had become a very unattractive thing, spewing ash all over Sherlock's white plate that had still yet to hold any actual food. He wasn't hungry; he never was anymore, for he just felt so terrible that he couldn't bring himself to eat. It was nearly nauseating to know that you weren't good enough; it turned his stomach to think that John right now was dining with his wife, the wife that was merely a fraction as beautiful as Sherlock and a lot more annoying. Was he really second to such a woman, second in the sense that he was forced to dine alone? Oh if only he had gotten to that man sooner, then he would claim him, for he was a beautiful entity and was sure to woo anyone who had no other commitments. Oh but usually a wife wasn't a problem, usually he stole them away as if they were destined to be together all along! What made Mr. Watson so different, what made him so stubborn? He didn't have the same attitude as the men yet he would share the same fate, Sherlock would not let John leave him once more, he could not bear such a pain, such a hiatus. No Sherlock was quite content now with the fact that police did not matter, he knew that there were things more important than freedom, there was commitment, and there was destiny. Fate brought them together and something as silly as inconvenience will not be the thing to tear them apart! They were destined, so why should reality be any different than God had willed it? And so Sherlock decided that he would take fate into his own hands, yes when John did join him for dinner he would not leave. 

"My Lord, have you started dinner yet?" Mycroft's voice asked, the man having appeared at the doorway without Sherlock noticing. He looked over weakly, not saying a word as he left his brother to his own conclusions. The servant hesitated, looking upon the great feast with interest, and yet not selfishness. Sherlock knew what he was thinking, of course.
"Do not give them any." Sherlock demanded, sitting back in his chair and stubbing out his cigarette onto his plate, for he had no intentions of eating tonight anyway. Mycroft nodded, clenching his fists yet not leaving just yet.
"My Lord, you do understand that after another day or two they will die?" Mycroft clarified. Sherlock nodded with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and striking a match so that the flame appeared suddenly with a flash and a hiss of flame. He watched it for a moment, watching as the flame consumed the tiny match which was meant to contain it, yet couldn't do so for long. It would burn, just like the rest of them it wasn't destined for much longer. The human life was something like a match, yet on a much larger scale. Their flame was their own internal desires, destined to burn them from the inside out until they were nothing but a charred stump, their ending comes when finally they could not support the flame any longer and it simply extinguished. Sherlock felt quite like a match at the end of its short span, he could understand the pain as the flame withered down to the stump, he could sympathize with its imminent end date. Soon the fire was heating up against his fingers and he had no choice but to light his cigarette and extinguish the flame, throwing it down onto his plate once more so that it could burn itself out in front of his eyes, releasing a tuff of smoke that only joined the cloud that he exhaled slowly.
"Death is a natural part of life, Mycroft. Surely you understand that?" Sherlock wondered, looking towards the man with an almost mockingly sympathetic stare, overlapping the madness that was becoming ever the more evident in his usually docile eyes.
"But not when it's at someone else's hands, not when it's on your hands." Mycroft insisted in an anxious tone, sounding more and more astounded with his younger brother the longer he listened to his maddened raving.
"I've got blood on my hands already, Mycroft, surely this will be no different." Sherlock presumed with a sigh.
"You don't feel remorse, regret? You don't even love them enough to mourn for..."
"DON'T TALK TO ME...about love." Sherlock demanded, jumping to his feet at the mere mention of that accursed emotion, the one that had destined him to such a lonely and wallowing state of grief! "Don't talk to me like you understand the place it puts me in; don't talk about it as if you know how much it HURTS! Love is not something you feel for animals like they are; love is something you feel for the man you are destined to be with, oh Mycroft don't you see they don't matter? Love is...well love is irrelevant when it comes to them! They are disposable; they are mere entertainers that go away once the main act begins to unveil. They can die, they can wither away. It doesn't make any difference to me."
"My Lord you could at least keep them alive, couldn't you? You may not have use for them anymore but they are still your responsibility, they are forever in your service, you cannot condemn them to such a fate as starvation?" Mycroft defended in a weak voice, stumbling back a mere step so as to avoid his brother's wrath. Yet he was seemingly determined to speak his mind, he seemed almost content as though he was entitled to share his worthless opinion! Oh did he not know his place in this house?
"Mycroft my dear brother, why do you have such concerns? Do not tell me that you've grown attached to these men, these that suffer now for my best interest?" Sherlock wondered quietly, taking a step closer to which Mycroft had no choice but to step back. Sherlock kicked his chair away from him in a mad kick of his foot, sending the thing flying to the floor as he made his great strides across the room. Mycroft panicked, falling into the wall in a terrible flight of fear, to which Sherlock only pounced all the more efficiently, now that his prey was immobilized.
"I do not care for them, I simply feel as though it is my duty as their caretaker that I should have their best interest in mind. Your lack of sympathy makes me worry for your own emotional stability, my Lord, for it is unlike you to simply..."
"It is not unlike me to do anything! What was it they used to call me, eh? A psychopath, was it? A psychopath for taking an interest in men, a freak for joining my older brother at the keyhole of the butler's quarters? Why was it never you who got punished for it, Mycroft, why was it never you?" Sherlock growled, pushing upon his brother's shoulders so that the man was pressed against the wallpaper uncomfortably. Mycroft dared not squirm, instead his black eyes were alight with fear, fear of the inevitable death he saw coming before his eyes. Sherlock bit his cigarettes ferociously, breathing smoke through his parted lips like a dragon, staring down that horrible, empathetic man who dared cower before him.
"Because I never got caught." Mycroft whispered fearfully.
"And neither will I, Mycroft...NOT THIS TIME!" Sherlock roared, applying yet more force onto his brother's shoulders in something of a maddened excitement. "They will be gone in a week; leaving me plenty of time for the police will not yet discover my involvement. They will be erased, just like our dear mother and father, erased yet there will be no fuss. They were already gone and so no one will miss them."
"Sherlock you've gone mad." Mycroft decided in a whisper, his voice trembling as Sherlock's eyes loomed before him.
"Am I mad? Have I lost my mind?" Sherlock questioned threateningly, chuckling deep in his throat as he loomed his face closer, his eyes getting more and closer until finally he was able to touch the tip of his smoldering cigarette onto his brother's cheek. For a moment the man quivered, for the pain was tolerable at first, yet as it went on he finally began to squirm, finally he began to cry out until finally with a great shove he sent Sherlock falling away.