"My God Sherlock, get a hold of yourself! Don't you see the monster you've turned yourself into, don't you understand the mess you've made of your life?!" Mycroft exclaimed ferociously, keeping his distance from his brother as Sherlock struggled to take control over the room once more. His brother's confidence was overwhelming, and his strength only added to the domination he had snatched from Sherlock's fingers. Finally he was acting more like the stubborn older brother that Sherlock remembered, it was that face of confidence that had been hidden away for ten years under the thin layer of compliance and dedication. That face that Sherlock hadn't seen since he had run that razor over his father's undeserving throat! Mycroft Holmes was back in full colors, puffing out his feathers so as to remind his younger brother just who was really in charge in this household.
"I haven't made mess of anything, Mycroft I've been protecting us all! Where would you be if it wasn't for me?" Sherlock challenged, throwing his cigarette stump onto the floor and smashing it under the heel of his shoe. Yet he didn't dare get closer to his brother, that man that now sported a great smoldering welt on his cheek, the man who stood with burns on his face and fire in his eyes...
"I'd be HAPPY! For God's sake Sherlock I'd have a family, I'd have a future! I'd have spent my life living as I was meant to be, and not under your deformed, perverted thumb!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"You're calling me the deformed one, when your first love was held against their will in an alleyway while..."
"I've made my mistakes, Sherlock that I can admit to!" Mycroft interrupted. "I have atoned for my sins, I have become better because of it, Sherlock you draw out your insecurities until you forget you're not perfect, until you forget that you're so terribly flawed that your soul is just a mangled, destroyed mess of scar tissue and imperfections! You keep people hostage so that they might worship you, just so that you don't have to realize what a disgrace you have become!"
"You dare call me imperfect, you dare call me flawed? Mycroft do you not understand just who it is you're talking to, just who it is that you have the honor of standing before? My poor brother dear, stagnation has gone to your head and made it...cloudy. I suspected it before but now I know it to be true, you're confused. You're confused." Sherlock breathed, nodding his head in acceptance before regaining his original posture, shutting his brother down so that the man was merely fuming, his breath coming in great gasps across his blotchy red face. For a moment Mycroft merely stared at him, his fists clenched as if ready to defend himself from any attacks that might come from his brother. Yet Sherlock remained still, he remained quiet, smiling to himself and shaking his head with the newfound understanding that his brother was spewing nonsense. Maybe he dared hold Sherlock's past against him, maybe he dared to call out his indecent soul, yet to describe imperfections was madness beyond any man's contemplation, to insist that Sherlock Holmes had one missed gene, one flawed feature, well that in itself was just crazy. It hinted at delirium, and not a word could be appreciated when one was talking madness.
"Do the dishes, Mycroft, and please mind your tone next time." Sherlock demanded, starting out the double doors alone and leaving his brother to stand where he was by the wall, still unsure how he survived that argument. Sherlock paused, for just a moment, and looked back at the untouched food that lay on the table before them. "And if I find that you have given them just a morsel of food, or a droplet of water...well you will join them. And I will watch you starve to death with gladness, chained like a dog to the curtain rod." With that Sherlock made his leave, taking a deep breath and feeling rather satisfied for the first time since John's rejection, straightening his collar and heading upstairs to his room, the room that was empty and would shockingly remain so for the entire night to come. 

 John POV: John settled into bed with Mary with a numb feeling of anticipation, a bubble building up in his throat for he knew that things were about to be set into motion, things that he was helpless to control at this point. Things that were decided destiny, all converging on themselves to bring about a shocking if not life changing course of events. He stared into the dark and he could almost feel those eyes on him, eyes that he had come to love, and a glare that he had once needed for the essentials of happiness. Yet now those eyes seemed hallow, that loving glare was hiding something much more sinister, something that dared conceal itself in his good intentions, beautiful words, and loving actions. Something evil, festering behind the love he dared show on the outside so as to come across as an innocent bystander, guilty only for falling in love with the wrong gender. Yet after John's discovery at the police station he was certain there was something more, after weeks of debating with Greg and standing up for the man he so loved he now realized that there really was no one else that could possibly be a suspect. There was no one else that shared not only the same brothel and sexuality, and even if there was they would most certainly not have the same connections as would Sherlock with the men in question! All of the man, hiding their homosexual preferences from their wives until a certain Romeo appeared to swoop them off of their feet, well quite obviously there was only one man who was able to do that! Only one man that was daring enough to keep them, to love them...to kill them? Was Sherlock capable of murder? Oh what did it matter, despite the love John still felt for the man he was in fact becoming more and more intimidated by the sense of purpose Sherlock seemed to hold over them all. He was acting almost as if he felt his wants and needs were vital, more important than any sort of dedication John might have towards his own wife. He was acting as if he was expecting John to just forget about his old life and join him, as if he was going to prioritize this new, fresh love they had created together over the one he had dedicated himself to, the one he had been preserving for years and years! Did Sherlock honestly think that John would join him at dinner every night? And was Sherlock willing to purge himself of all other lovers? Was he honestly saving his faithfulness for a man who would only come to him in an act of infidelity? He was so backwards, confused and obsessed with his own self-interest that he forgot there were more factors to this equation than simply his own romantic preoccupations? He was in love, yes that was obvious and yes that was wonderful, yet despite the love they held for each other did he not understand that it wasn't a permanent thing? John's thoughts were turning over in his head madly as he tried to think of what evidence they could find on the man for reason enough to arrest him. They needed solid proof; they needed something that would hold up in court, more than those letters to Reginald and more than the wives' testimony. All they could formally charge him with now was the one thing they promised not to prosecute him on, homosexuality. And even that John would never dare attack, for it wasn't like he was innocent of it himself. It was convenient, then, that the sound of frantic horse's hooves sounded outside of their window, it was convenient when there was a knock at the door. For John could not wish for better evidence to stroll into his midst, no he could not expect a better man to help solve his problem than the man who arrived at his doorstep. A frantic man, looking as if he was expecting a retaliating follower to appear from out of the shadows, a man looking as though he had traveled a great distance at the risk of his own life. It was of course Michael who arrived, falling into the doorway just as soon as John opened the door so as to put just one more barrier between himself and whoever he was worried would be following him. 

"Michael, Michael my God do you know what time it is?" John exclaimed, although he could only suspect that the time was the least of the servant's worries. His face was pale, his eyes were wide, and there seemed to be a bubbling mass of charred, destroyed skin right on his cheek. The man looked completely frantic, however it was all John could do but try to accept him, try to make his being here as comfortable as he could manage.
"I'm sorry Mr. Watson, but I need to talk to you." Michael admitted, making sure the door was locked before leaning against the wood with at least a glimmer of reassurance on his sweaty face.
"John who on Earth is..." Mary started, but John shushed her, lunging to turn on a lamp before leading the trembling man to an armchair that was hardly used by either one of the hotel room's occupants.
"It's Sherlock's servant." John explained quietly. Michael thanked him and sank into the chair, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and wincing as his skin pulled at the wound, undoubtedly newly developed, and undoubtedly extremely painful.
"What's this about, what happened to you?" John wondered carefully. Mary shuffled around in the bed so as to try to make herself a bit more descent, pulling a robe on overtop of her nightgown and pushing at the curlers that were lodged into her blonde hair. She still looked a complete wreck of course, yet it was undoubtedly the least of Michael's worries.
"It's Sherlock, Mr. Watson he's gone completely mad. He's going to do something he'll regret, something that will ruin his future and quite possibly his life, and it's on your behalf." Michael shuttered, glancing over to Mary so as to hint that he couldn't disclose the full account in her presence. John nodded, feeling the color drain from his face as he went quickly to the decanter that sat on the table and poured them both a nice glass of scotch, so as to make this encounter a bit more manageable. Michael downed his thankfully, however John hesitated, watching as the man drank as he still attempted to contemplate what it was he was supposed to be doing. Sherlock was going crazy; well that wasn't a terrible stretch. The man had always been teetering on the edge of sanity, that much John knew for sure.
"What has he done to you?" John wondered, leaning closer so that he could see the large, developing welt that grew on the man's face.
"Burned me, with the tip of his cigarette. It was in a moment of conflict, usually he doesn't get violent yet tonight I did my best to irritate him. It was rash of me, I rather deserved it." Michael admitted with a shudder.
"You didn't deserve it, I don't care what you said, no one has a right to hit their servant." John said flatly. Michael hesitated for a moment, opening his mouth only slightly as if he was contemplating whether or not what he was about to say was worth it. In the end he merely shook his head and filled his mouth with scotch instead.
"I need you to talk to him. He knows I'm here, he must, for tonight he will have no distractions." Michael whispered nervously.
"He sent them away, he said the um...the nomadic ones." John clarified; referring to the lovers who Sherlock admitted came to his house whenever it pleased them. This was just another one of his attempted acts of fidelity, misplaced of course, and unreturned.
"He did. And he's crazy for doing so, completely mad. You need to tell him the error in his ways, I know you not to be sinful man, and despite, well...an episode or two surely you will not cut off your own life for his behalf? Is that not what you told him?" Michael clarified. John blinked for a moment, trying to figure out just how the servant might know that before deciding ultimately that Sherlock must have told him. It had only been two days, yet surely Sherlock must have been suffering enough to at least admit his defeat to someone by now.
"That's right, you're right of course. I will not change paths now that I have followed one for so long." John agreed in a quiet voice, for he knew that while Mary's eyelids may be drooping with exhaustion her ears were alive and perked, so as to hear every word exchanged between her husband and his mysterious visitor.
"That's exactly what I thought. Yet he's doing something so as to...purify himself, because he thinks it will bring you back. Go to him, and tell him exactly what you've told me. Change his mind, Mr. Watson I beg you." Michael insisted, setting his glass aside just to grab at John's hand in a beseeching way, his eyes alight with desperation, as if John was simply his last hope. John cleared his throat, looking back towards Mary who was watching him in the most curious sort of ways, her eyebrows raised as if she was trying to absorb everything of this curious encounter.
"You want me to go now? It's close to midnight, Michael." John reminded him.
"It is urgent." Michael pleaded. John nodded, faltering for a moment before trying to think of the best way to go about this. Surely there had to be something at stake here, something desperate or he would not have come. If he had already admitted to Sherlock's being violent then he would not have risked so much coming here if there wasn't something much greater on the line. And even if Michael's confidentiality was annoying his purpose was undoubtedly urgent, and it left John with no choice but to answer the call to action.
"Yes of course." John agreed with a stiff nod, worming his hand out of Michael's (the man looked about ready to kiss it in his thankfulness) and he started off towards his wardrobe. John merely threw a jacket over his pajamas, for while he knew it was a matter of urgency he also understood that at this hour of the night formalities such as fashion really didn't matter much.
"You're not leaving, John?" Mary clarified, almost as if she had purposely gone deaf all through John's contemplation and eventual agreement.
"Well yes of course I'm leaving." John agreed. "I'm a police officer, and it's my duty to keep people safe, to keep..."
"You're also my husband! And it's your duty to tell me what's going on, to tell me where you're going and why!" Mary exclaimed, to which even Michael grew silent. John was stunned for just a moment, for he knew that when Mary raised her voice it meant something serious. Yet he couldn't just stop now that she threw a fit, there were more serious things at stake here!
"I will tell you all when I return, so long as it doesn't jeopardize any confidentiality." John promised, darting over to the bed so as to give his wife a farewell kiss before he pulled on his shoes and started out the door. Mary simply pouted, sitting up in the bed with her arms crossed and shaking her head in annoyance, as if she really didn't know what she expected. John really didn't care, for as soon as the door was shut between his wife and the memories of her dissatisfaction were irrelevant. Now that it was just Michael and he, racing down the stairwell a bit too loudly for this time of night in a panic that was all too appropriate.
"You don't think he'll hurt me?" John wondered apprehensively, dashing into the carriage as Michael jumped to take the reins, starting the horses up just as soon as he could without waiting for John to close his door or anything. 

"He would never hurt you, Mr. Watson." Michael promised, which at least eased John's mind enough for him to sink into the ever too familiar cushions of the Holmes carriage. For just a moment he missed the quiet darkness of sleep that he had left behind, yet with the promise of another adventure awaiting him he could not even think of such silly things as sleep now. The carriage rushed with mad urgency through the cobblestone streets, the driver not paying much mind to divots or potholes that may make the ride just a bit less pleasant for the passenger in the back. John was being bounced around yet he was unbothered, his only goal now was to think up something he could say so as to make Sherlock listen to him, to make him understand that while he may have fallen in love that they couldn't be together forever. And if Sherlock was prone to mixing up 'for now' and 'forever' then this really must be the end. Yes of course it had been wonderful while it lasted, while most of the span had been painful longing that had gone unrecognized the times where they had been together had been magical, riveting, and all together the most beautiful nights spent between two people that John knew of. Yet like all good things, their relationship had to end, simply because Sherlock had to grow to learn that it could not go on forever. He had a place set for John at his table, he was pushing everyone away...well didn't he understand that John was already taken? And if there was something more on the line and this situation was desperate, well then what else was John to say but no? The fragility of this situation was obvious, and so John had to make sure to keep his head on straight and his goals steady the entire time. He couldn't get seduced, which of course would be Sherlock's first reaction when faced with a situation he didn't like. Well of course that was why he had first greeted the detectives in his silver robe, he understood that the only thing he had to protect himself was his beauty, and look how far that had gotten him! He had distracted the only man capable of catching him up until now, and as John rode up towards the Holmes manor for what felt like the last time...well there was now no doubt in his mind that he was approaching the house of a criminal.