Mycroft didn't question where Sherlock had been that night, for he had arrived home distressed just before dawn, for now he didn't want to walk the streets when he thought that Victor might be on the prowl. When they had woke John hadn't produced a better idea, and so he could only assume that they would be settling with his. It would be heinous of course, it would be soul wrenching and hideous, and yet it was necessary, was it not? Sherlock had nothing to lose, and it would seem as Merlin's life force faded neither did John, so together they could prove to be an unstoppable force when presented with a very movable object. Sherlock knew that his plan would work, and as much as he hoped John would produce a more preferable route he knew that the chances were slim, for John had all night to think about it and he was quite sure that he had. Neither of them had slept, he felt whatever was left of John's heartbeat going all night, he felt his lungs inflating normally, and every two minutes or so John would shuffle or reposition himself, as if his limbs were numbing as they lay there together. And yet throughout the entire night neither had hatched a better plan, and Sherlock was beginning to suspect that it was now proving to be their last resort. Mycroft was still asleep when Sherlock stepped in, and yet with the soft footsteps across the floor Sherlock heard his brother wake, he heard his heavy breath, he heard him turn about in his bed so as to see who was entering at this time of night (morning). Neither of them said anything, and Sherlock replaced not sleeping in John's bed with not sleeping in his own, until finally the sun arose over the horizon and Mycroft decided that he ought to get up for the day. Sherlock dared not tell Mycroft of the occurrences of the night before, purely because they would put a lot of unnecessary stress on his back but also because Sherlock knew he would never approve of the plan they were hatching. And so they were silent, eating the vegetables that Mycroft wanted to serve for dinner for breakfast instead, and now they were much too soggy and much too unappetizing to enjoy, and yet together the brothers choked them down for it was the only food they had. It was the only healthy food as well, and Mycroft was all about that.
"Any important business at John's last night?" Mycroft wondered with a very unimpressed tone, sounding as though he was trying to accuse Sherlock of something that certainly never took place.
"Nothing much." Sherlock lied, sitting lamely at the breakfast table and trying to look as innocent as possible. The problem was that he was innocent, at least for last night, and yet nothing he would say except the direct and uncensored truth would convince Mycroft of the fact.
"Nothing much." Mycroft mimicked, pursing his lips before getting up from the table and casting his brother a rather disgusted look from across the room.
"Do you still not approve?" Sherlock wondered with a frown, staying seated next to the rotten tomatoes and trying to ignore their hideous stench.
"I can tolerate him of course, I can tolerate all of this, I just can't settle with the fact that it could get you arrested. I cannot live without you Sherlock; surely you've come to realize that?" Mycroft sighed, looking at his brother with something of pity in his eyes, as if he was pained to say such a thing.
"I won't get arrested Mycroft, I'm sure of that." Sherlock assured with something of a sly smile, for Mycroft had no idea that he was plotting the very downfall of the man who sought to bring about his. He would topple Victor from whatever throne he sat on, he would remind him that even the weak could rise, and Sherlock would be one of those who took the initiative, he would be one of those who would overcome their oppressors and make them get a taste of their own medicine. How wonderful would it be to get such a photograph, to hold it over Victor's head until he squealed and then use it against him in formal court, prosecute the inspector, and have him hanged? Of course Sherlock would also be in that picture, which might soon prove to be problematic, however they would work around that, someway. Everything had gone quite fine so far, John was alive, they were together, they were at peace. Why shouldn't this go right as well? It was only their necks that stood in the balance, after all. 

 John sent the letter as instructed after twenty four hours, he and Sherlock having spent their day sitting over his desk and deciding just how to word it. Sherlock was sure that Victor wasn't counting on Sherlock's involvement in this whole scheme, and yet it seemed as though he was the perfect accomplice to taking this man down. He had every reason to hate him, and now this blackmailing issue was just yet another. Victor was what he considered to be the scum of the earth, somehow elevated high enough to be well off and respected, and yet someone who used their power as he did surely should he demoted or even fired. That hadn't yet, and he still pushed the boundaries, and so the one person he underestimated was going to be part of the duo that took him down for good. It was a good feeling, to be a part of something bigger, and Sherlock just knew that the streets would be safer without their dear inspector. There was no proper response from Victor, and yet they assumed he had received their letter since there was really no reason for him to respond, he was probably trying to seem mysterious, maybe even hard to get, and yet John had promised to meet with him at the Watson manor, privately so as to be undisturbed by any of the family members. Undoubtedly Victor would assume that John was going to cooperate, he was going to help Victor press charges against Sherlock and condemn him to the gallows. And yet he had something much different coming to him, something drastically different. John had instructed Victor to meet him on Wednesday night, and when it finally rolled around Sherlock was completely pent up with all sorts of emotions, for he was going to do his part, and John was going to do his. Now he knew he wouldn't go far with Victor, in fact the less contact he had to make with that snake the better. It was a simple process really, John would be hiding in the closet with the camera, and Sherlock would have a record playing so as to cover the sound of the door opening. He would get Victor onto the bed, that would be the easy part, and yet somehow he had to make sure Victor didn't see John with the camera as he tried to get the best possible angle. They also wanted to make sure Sherlock's face was well out of the shot, and yet visible enough so as to ensure that it was quite clear that he was a man. Well that part was easy as well; he could turn his head sideways and make sure he wasn't wearing a shirt. Surely even these ignorant judges could tell the difference in that aspect. When the night of Wednesday came John and Sherlock sat together on the bed, rolling up film to stuff into the camera. They only had one shot at this, for if the picture was taken incorrectly they couldn't just politely ask Victor to recreate it. They needed this picture to liberate themselves, to free themselves from the gallows or whatever other fate the judges would have planned for them. And yet it was the perfect plan, a loophole in Victor's ridiculous plot to try to get his way. Surely he realized that all cruel men met their match eventually, sometimes they just picked the wrong people to mess with? Well he should've learned his lesson when he had confronted Sherlock the first time, when he had humiliated him in front of the court when he 'proved' that his magic was just tricks. And yet he continued to poke the bear, and so it was finally time to retaliate. Sherlock sat excitedly on the bed, swinging his legs around as he handed John the film, rolled and ready to go. John, on the other hand, seemed quite nervous and not entirely himself. He seemed pain in some way, for he shifted his body weight a lot and his hands moved slowly, almost as if he was bothered by something other than what they were about to do. 

"You can't possibly be excited for this?" John wondered as finally the camera was loaded and ready to go. He handled it with ease, for it was quite a large device and not something that was very portable. Sherlock shook his head reassuringly, for he knew that John was asking about the kissing part, and not the justice part. Sherlock of course was not looking forward to that man rubbing his disgusting, sinful lips on him, and yet it was what was necessary, and so he would have to manage.
"I'm not, but I want him to suffer." Sherlock assured with a grin, looking at the clock on the door and seeing that it was getting rather late.
"He should be here soon." John murmured, wincing a little bit and clutching at his side momentarily, hastening to straighten up and look normal when he finally noticed that Sherlock was watching him.
"It's nothing, just a little pain." John assured instinctively, however Sherlock knew him enough to know that he was lying. Maybe not lying, but hiding the obvious truth, that little was an understatement.
"It's your scar, isn't it? It's hurting?" Sherlock guessed, trying to be soft and yet for some reason John seemed to retaliate to that. Instead of letting Sherlock soothe him he got to his feet, shaking his head and holding the camera carefully between his hands.
"I said it's nothing." He insisted, leaving Sherlock to sit on the bed nervously, unsure of what to say to that. He knew that John wasn't overly excited about slowly deteriorating, and yet it was quite odd that he was being so defensive. Sherlock was only trying to help; in fact he was the only one that could help since he was the only one who knew what had happened to him in the first place. Maybe John was just nervous about tonight, yes that must be it. Sherlock didn't have to say anything, thankfully, for suddenly the doorbell rang downstairs, and together they jumped into action to put everything together. Sherlock put the record on as Molly was undoubtedly answering the door, and John snuck into the closet while Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and threw it off towards the edge of the bed, nestling under the covers and trying to look as if he was asleep. The whole idea here was that John had forgotten about the meeting and they had spent the evening together, and while John had stepped out to get dinner or whatever he had left Sherlock here, all alone...vulnerable. This was what Victor was supposed to think, of course, and yet they were sure that in the presence of a shirtless Sherlock he wouldn't be able to think about the reasons that didn't make sense. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, covered by the blankets with his face smashed into the pillow, some sort of violin music playing in the background as the record spun softly yet just loud enough to cover up the squeaking of the closet door. For a moment the two of them just waited, silently, listening to hear any potential sounds that might lead to Victor's arrival. Molly had been instructed to lead him into the house and make sure no one else saw him, she was supposed to show him to John's room and then leave immediately, for she wasn't in on the plan and they didn't need her making any formal announcements as to Victor's presence or to John's obviously being at home. Lead him and then leave, that was what she needed to do. Finally there was a knock on the door, and Sherlock's blood ran cold as he continued to lay there, eyes closed, knowing full well that the Devil was knocking on his door. He didn't answer, and yet the door creaked open, he could hear the footsteps approaching, he could almost convince himself he smelled the stench...
"Mr. Watson?" asked that horrible voice, so keen and familiar, speaking with careless syllables. This time Sherlock pretended to wake, giving a large sigh and rolling over in mock exhaustion. He looked over at Victor, blinking a couple of times and mumbling John's name for good measure, and yet as he processed who it was at the door Sherlock gave a great jump, sitting up against the headboard and displaying his bare chest, staring at the man who stood next to the door, donning his formal police uniform, his eyes sparkling...
"Victor!" Sherlock whispered, trying to sound terrified, and yet he remembered that there had to be some sort of covert seduction going on here. If he pretended to be terrified how would Victor know that it was okay to advance? Well then again, Sherlock had been terrified the other day, and Victor certainly took no precautions to consent before he had his way with him. Victor hummed deep in his throat, his boots clicking against the floor as he took a step inside the room, just enough space so that he could push the door shut with a snap behind him, his horrible thin lips starting into a small smile, as if he couldn't believe his luck.
"Can't say I'm surprised to see you here, in his bed." Victor murmured, to which Sherlock just tried to turn white in humiliation, scrambling to pull some of the blankets up over his chest to make it look more sincere.
"What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here...he's coming back soon, you need to go!" Sherlock cried desperately, willing himself to tremble, and yet some of it wasn't acting. Victor's very presence made him shake in fear, and obviously that was just what Victor was expecting from him.
"I thought he was expecting me, we had some business to attend to, actually." Victor murmured.
"Business with John?" Sherlock clarified blankly. Victor nodded, leaning up against the door with a hum and looking quite content with staying there, his blue eyes fixed on Sherlock as he fished something very slowly out of his pocket. Sherlock watched as if he didn't know what it was, and yet he wasn't surprised when Victor produced a letter, folded in fours and bearing every resemblance of John's poems. Of course Sherlock had to have expected that, since Victor had been the one raiding near his bedside, and yet he was still almost disgusted to find that his personal communications with John had been looked upon with uninvited eyes.
"You...no you couldn't have! Give that back, it's private!" Sherlock insisted, deciding that if Victor wasn't coming to him then he had to come to Victor. And so he bounded out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor as he dashed at the Inspector, making an act to try to grab the poem before it was held out of his reach, Victor chuckling and tucking it safely back into his pocket.
"I won't give it back, Sherlock, finders keepers." Victor teased, reaching out a hand so as to try to stroke Sherlock's cheek and yet Sherlock ducked away, it was what he would've done and it was undoubtedly what Victor had expected. Suddenly he felt very exposed, for he felt Victor's eyes beginning to study him as he stood there, bare chested and quite cold, shivering in the man's gaze and knowing exactly what was on the horrible man's mind.
"So thin, Sherlock." Victor murmured, sounding almost regretful as he stayed put against the door. Sherlock was almost surprised that Victor was so calm in this situation, almost as if he was expecting something to be amiss with this visit. Maybe he had been expecting this sort of ploy.
"Give me that letter; please Victor, that's private." Sherlock snapped.
"Hm, and for good reason too. Don't you think it a bit risky, putting your thoughts down on paper like that? Were you not worried that it would fall into the wrong hands?" Victor wondered with a little chuckle.
"I never anticipated you finding it, if that's what you mean." Sherlock snapped back.
"I mean it would be one thing if the poems were even good..." Victor sighed.
"Please Victor." Sherlock repeated. "You've seen it, you know? What does it matter to you now?"
"It matters a great deal to me, if you must know. I like to know things, all the same, curious things, about curious boys." Victor hummed, finally stepping closer.
"It's not curious, now stop looking at me like that." Sherlock snapped, noticing that Victor's eyes had begun to sparkle, almost the same way they had at his house the other day. Victor's eyes sparkled when he saw opportunity, and Sherlock didn't like the idea he was hatching. And yet it was necessary, he had to do this, he had to survive...
"Oh but it is curious, you are...curious. Strange even. A boy who likes other boys, how drastically daring is that! How frowned upon." Victor murmured, looking as if he longed to step forward and yet for now his shining boots stood firmly upon the ground. Sherlock just wished he would hurry up, for the longer he had to stand in this man's presence the worse the situation got, the more his stomach began to writhe...
"Hearts are made differently, Victor. I was born with one who liked boys, you were born with none at all, it's just different." Sherlock snapped.
"No heart at all, is that what you claim? You think I'm incapable of falling in love, do you?" Victor whispered, finally taking a step forward, just as Sherlock had anticipated.
"I think you're incapable of being anything near human, I think you're disgusting." Sherlock breathed, tempted to step away, knowing that Victor would want that...and so he stumbled a step back, to which Victor matched almost immediately. It went like that for quite a while, until finally Sherlock stumbled into the bedpost, feeling the wood against his spine, knowing that he shouldn't go back any farther, this was just where he wanted Victor to trap him.
"Don't come near me, don't...don't touch me." Sherlock pleaded, and yet it seemed as though Victor really couldn't follow any rules, for immediately after the words left Sherlock's lips the Inspector veered even closer, chuckling as he reached out and stroked Sherlock's shoulder with rough hands, mockingly soft as if he knew that was what Sherlock might have expected. Sherlock shivered violently, wincing as Victor's fingers touched his skin, and yet he knew it was necessary.
"Don't you want me to?" Victor wondered in a mocking tone, as if he was under the false impression that Sherlock was willing to have any man that came his way.
"I don't." Sherlock insisted, knowing for sure that Victor's motivations wouldn't waver with the thought of consent. And yet through the music Sherlock heard another sound, the sound of the closet door opening, curious, for he had thought John would want to take the picture when Victor was actually kissing him. Maybe he was anticipating it, maybe he knew that it was coming?
"Give me the poem, Victor, and I'll let you..." Sherlock couldn't even finish his sentence, he winced as he forbade the words to pass his lips, and Victor just chuckled, as if he thought Sherlock's offer was humorous in some way.
"I don't need you to let me do anything Sherlock. I want to keep the poem, of course, but that is just among other things that I want." Victor whispered. Footsteps, Sherlock heard approaching footsteps... And yet he couldn't focus on what John was doing right now, he really had no need to worry about him, for almost as soon as Sherlock heard those footsteps Victor trapped his head in his hands and pressed their lips together, giving him one of the most violent kisses he had ever received. It was a horrible experience, one of the worst in fact. Sherlock's previous kisses with John had been warm, welcoming, and yet with Victor there was no connection, not even a feeling! Instead of glowing his heart was writhing, instead of humming his body was slowly turning to lead... Sherlock's eyes were closed and yet he began to feel something, warm, almost as if Victor was spitting into his mouth, pooling something foul onto his tongue. And when he finally opened his eyes he saw that Victor's were open too, open in fear, his lips finally stopping, his fingers going weak as he started to fall away, with blood dripping from his lips, blood that he had been coughing up. Sherlock immediately spit, gagging instinctively as he fell to the floor and spit out Victor's blood, wiping it from his lips and from his chin, falling to his knees and kneeling in the puddle that was slowly starting to form.