Thankfully Greg was still awake, working by the light of his lamp, and for some portion of the night there was silence. John's dreams came and went, his eyes moving fast underneath his lids, tossing and turning and seeing only one face within his visions. Sherlock, moving closer. Sherlock, bearing down. Sherlock, smiling with that grin of his, with a hand outstretched so as to clench against John's chest and dig his fingers into the wound his teeth had left. At long last John awoke, jolting up from his bed in a panic as cold sweat began to drip down his forehead. The room was pitch dark, and as he squandered around for a light he could see nothing but the rather harsh red lights of Greg's alarm clock, announcing that the time was not yet three o'clock in the morning. His roommate was asleep, the lights were off, and the house slept. Though there was a presence, a feeling he could not shake. Something was not right within his bedroom, despite the peaceful silence it had fallen under. John stared around, hearing nothing but the sliding of his legs under the blankets and the soft puttering of his breath as it caught between his lips. His heart was racing, sweat accumulating, and above everything else he just wanted to fall back to sleep and escape this living nightmare.
"Greg?" John hissed, at last panicking enough to call for aid. Perhaps Greg could offer a rational word to battle this small anxiety attack, perhaps he could turn on his desk lamp and sing nursery rhymes until at last John fell asleep. There was no sound from Greg, though there was motion. John caught the minute tap of a shoe against the carpet, as if someone was moving closer, faster. John fell against the far wall, though that was not enough to hide him from the sparkling teeth that spread into a smile, finding each ray of available moonlight to glimmer throughout the darkness. It was a grin he recognized, but not one he welcomed.
"Greg!" John exclaimed urgently, pulling his blankets towards his chin and cowering before the grin of Sherlock Holmes.
"He's asleep, John. He won't wake." assured that baritone, the voice drawing nearer though the speaker still not visible.
"You've killed him?" John whispered nervously. For a moment there was silence, broken by a chuckle and the soft click of the desk lamp as it switched on. There he was, as predicted, standing overtop of John's discarded algebra books. Sherlock Holmes in all his glory, in the same outfit that he usually sported, wearing that same look of confidence that could not be matched. John trembled, though the light had illuminated a strange feeling of safety within him. Perhaps it wasn't Sherlock's intention to frighten him; though what he was doing here at this time of night still remained a rather hostile mystery. Whatever conversation they were due to have, could it not have waited until morning?
"Why are you trembling, John? Surely I don't scare you so much?" Sherlock muttered pitifully, standing over John with that sad look of disappointment on his face. John hesitated with his answer, figuring it wasn't worth it to try to talk his way out of this. If Sherlock had at last approached him there had to be a reason, the correlation between John's conversation and Tobias's witnessing was all leading back to this nighttime confrontation, the result of which was still unclear.
"Well, you certainly don't make my very comfortable." John debated with a frown. "Anyone who shows up at this time of night, uninvited, is bound to send a shiver or two."
"Yes, but I'm a friend." Sherlock assured with that soft smile of his. Oh if only this was the only side of Sherlock that John recognized, if only he couldn't see right through that paper thing disguise. There was a soft side of Sherlock Holmes, though it was only used in situations like this. He was sweet talking, putting up that farce in an attempt to scare his subject into compliance. It was nothing more than an interrogation. John remained quiet, and in that silence Sherlock took to looking around. He observed some of the photos that John had framed, examining the smiling faces of his family as if they amused him.
"You look a lot like your father." He commented at last, turning back around to get a better look at John.
"So I've been told." John agreed bitterly.
"Bad blood?" Sherlock presumed, gliding over back towards the bed before hopping lightly on. John watched suspiciously, though Sherlock seemed to have no intention other than to swing his legs off of the edge, sitting with his back straight and his head bent at a careful angle.
"What do you want?" John asked at last.
"Do I have to want anything? Certainly you can't still think of me only as a colleague. Why not a friend?" Sherlock mumbled, sounding convincingly disappointed.
"Like I said before, this might be perfectly normal if it was any other time of day." John reminded him. Sherlock chuckled, nodding his head in slight agreement before turning his gaze once more at his companion. His eyes were sparkling, looking John up and down as if gauging his willingness for another go. On instinct John pulled the blankets even closer to his chest.
"Alright then, you got me. I do have a piece of business for you." Sherlock admitted. John's heart sank, realizing that this wasn't just an interrogation, not even a scolding. This was a favor. John hesitated to respond, wondering just what sort of devilry Sherlock had in mind.
"I happen to know that you were conversing with Mr. Moran, which wouldn't be a problem at all had you not been plotting some sort of...well, revolution? I'm not sure what to call it, certainly your plan isn't developed enough to deserve a title at all. But this upsets me, John, it breaks my heart." Sherlock admitted, allowing his lips to sag into a frown as John watched him with fearful eyes.
"It's not worth defending myself, is it? Not even worth trying to make it look better. I said what I said, and my opinion stands." John said at last. Sherlock gave him a small nod, extending one of his hands towards where John might be able to reach it, should he choose to.
"And I admire that. John, you are developing into a much braver man than I presumed." Sherlock agreed. His eyes were soft, looking almost like a child who was begging for attention. Though despite his words and despite his actions, his intentions still were not clear. John had expected him to be angry, though even knowing about John's conversation he seemed quite at ease. Perhaps he wasn't worried about John's plots, as if he knew they were too fragile to take hold.
"Thank you." John said at last. Sherlock smiled, at last turning his head away and retracting his hand back to his side. For a moment he sat there, interlocking his fingers and staring thoughtfully at Greg's sleeping form beneath the blankets. He was breathing, but he wasn't stirring.
"John, I want you to be brave for me this time. I'm calling for your side of the deal, your word to me, and your obedience." Sherlock said at last, turning his eyes towards John and giving him an almost threatening glare. John swallowed hard, though he didn't want to show fear. He nodded, urging Sherlock to go on.
"I'm sorry to say, but I am not threatened by you. Not in the slightest. All of your plots, all of your scheming, well I'm not sure it could move me out of my chair much less out of this house. But Sebastian Moran, well he's got a political mind if nothing at all. The drive he has, and the hatred! It's quite frightening; enough to make me wish for his removal. What do you know, John, about playing chess?" Sherlock asked at last.
"Chess? Well, honestly I don't know how to play." John murmured.
"I don't doubt it." Sherlock sighed. "Well, to put it lightly, the most threatening piece on a chess board is the queen. She's the most powerful on each opposing side, the one who can wreak the most havoc in the shortest period of time. And as a queen myself, I am always wary of the opposing side's. That queen, if you are following, is Sebastian Moran."
"If you two are the queens, who are the kings?" John wondered, remembering at least the object of chess. Sherlock sighed, thinking for a moment before settling at last with his answer.
"I suppose we share the same king, power. Our power, to be more precise." Sherlock decided at last. "And I have captured his, though he still roams the board. He's a threat on his own, and that's when I need to go on the offensive. I must send one of my pawns, one of my most inconspicuous pieces, in his direction."
"Is that me?" John asked nervously.
"That is you, my most favorite pawn." Sherlock agreed, a genuine smile breaking onto his face as he watched John's face flush up nervously. He didn't like where this metaphor was leading, he didn't like the idea of offensive action. Sherlock slid his hand into his coat pocket, unearthing a plastic bag with three small, white pills inside. He held it crumbled in his palm, hidden between his fingers, as if he wasn't ready to unveil just yet.
"John, I would like you to kill Sebastian Moran." Sherlock said at last.
"Kill him?" John whispered, his fingers clutching so tightly to the blankets that his knuckles were turning white. Sherlock sighed; trying to make it look like his reaction was quite the same. He tried to have empathy, despite his heart being lost long before!
"Unfortunately so." he agreed.
"I won't." John said flatly. "I can't! I'll be arrested; I'll be sentenced to death myself! I'm not a murderer, Sherlock! You can't make me do this!"
"John, you word is binding. Besides, do you really think I would allow you to fall into the hands of police? No, no. Certainly not." He cooed, sliding over that plastic bag and holding open his palm in offering. John stared at it, unblinking, unmoving. He wasn't going to take it, he couldn't.
"Why don't you do it yourself? Why me?" John hissed.
"I don't like to get my hands dirty, and besides...this is a good test of character." Sherlock chuckled.
"We could...well we could threaten him! We could force him to drop out; we could force him to emigrate! We don't have to kill him, Sherlock we don't." John insisted, finally dropping his blankets and clutching for Sherlock's arm. He tried to hold him close, tried to squeeze common sense into his muscles, though Sherlock only took that as an invitation for intimacy, and before John could dart his hand away he had been caught. Sherlock unraveled John's fingers from around his arm, chuckling softly as he interlocked their hands and held John's warmly between his own. John almost winced, though he found that Sherlock's touch was as soft as ever, an inviting feeling. For a moment he was concentrated only on their touch, he could only stare at their interlocked fingers and feel warmth spreading between, as if Sherlock was sending positive feelings forward. And along with this transmitted warmth was of course transmitted influence. Suddenly the weight of his assignment did not look so daunting, and John's heart lightened.
"I want you to give him these pills, all three should do." Sherlock said at last, sliding the bag towards John on the sheets. With his free hand John took it up, examining each of the tiny little pills as they rolled around in the bottom of the bag.
"What am I supposed to tell him, that they're for allergies?" John wondered, giving Sherlock a rather strange look. The boy shook his head, managing a smile without any humor within his eyes.
"No, no they dissolve in liquid. Tasteless, odorless. Cyanide." Sherlock said with a little grin. John nodded, clutching tight to Sherlock's hand as he set the bag of pills down on his nightstand.
"Right." He managed with a small voice.
"John, you know I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you were able to do it." Sherlock reminded him, leaning closer so that their words could drop to whispers. "But it's not just about life and death, it's about loyalty."
"I am loyal." John promised.
"You're going to have to prove it, darling." Sherlock reminded him. His face was drawing closer, his eyes glowing brighter.
"I will." John assured him, developing newfound courage the longer he looked into Sherlock's gaze.
"You better." Sherlock agreed, closing the gap between them with a little lunge and pressing their lips together. It was a quick kiss with a rapid turnover, for as soon as John felt Sherlock's lips upon his own the room fell dark, and the last thing he could remember was the feeling of Sherlock's hand falling out of his own, gliding away without another word. 

Three o'clock in the morning was a haunting hour to be getting a phone call, and so when Victor was awoken in the pitch black by the buzzing of his cell phone against the wooden bedside table he was sure he had to be dreaming. The clock was the only light source, the curtains drawn and the shadows taught, hiding each one of the villains from Victor's view. The phone was on silent, though the vibrations themselves were providing all the noise necessary for Victor's ears to split open in protest. He hadn't heard any sound since he drifted off to sleep, and such a racket proved agonizing for each one of his dulled senses. In a daze Victor fumbled for the phone, calming it against his palm before yanking it from the charger and adjusting the speaker up to his ear. For a moment he listened, unable to summon a voice. On the other line he heard only breathing.
"Hello?" Victor managed at last.
"Victor, Victor is that you?" the voice asked, unidentifiable through the thick static. Victor groaned, but nodded. After a moment he realized nodding wasn't going to do anything, and so he had to speak a verbal "Yes" before his caller continued.
"Sherlock's found me now, he's coming after me," Must be Musgrave then.
"What do you mean, coming after you?" Victor mumbled, his senses suddenly alert. All of the sudden he found the strength to sit up in bed, feeling quite reassured now that his demons were confirmed to be elsewhere.
"He's stalking me, looking through my windows, running about my house at night. He has heavy footsteps, Victor, and heavy breathing." Musgrave insisted, his voice so small now that Victor was having trouble hearing him.
"I'm sure he's just playing around." Victor assured, remembering back to when Sherlock had done time in his apartment. There was no true foul play, only quick scares and shows of strange affection. Certainly Sherlock had the same intentions with Musgrave, a new heart to set racing, a new spine to tingle?
"Don't humanize him Victor; don't forget who we're dealing with." Musgrave protested, sounding so afraid now that his voice was beginning to tremble.
"A demon, of course." Victor agreed quietly. There was more breathing on the opposite line, as if Musgrave was beginning to calm himself from where he sat in his own home.
"What do you want from me, Reginald?" Victor wondered at last, figuring there was no point in wasting their precious sleep over a mere identification issue. If Sherlock was deciding to play around with Musgrave, well certainly this was exactly the reaction he was looking for. Better to just calm down and speak your mind.
"Would you come over here?" the man asked quietly, almost as if he was ashamed to ask such a thing.
"It's three in the morning." Victor pointed out. Again, silence.
"I'm afraid he'll come back. I don't like being alone against him." Musgrave said again. Victor groaned, he didn't really care what the connotation behind such disinterest might be. He had just woken up, now so warm in his blankets and so comfortable upon the indent in his mattress! Was he really supposed to roll out of bed to cater to Musgrave's fears?
"On a scale from one to ten..." Victor began sleepily.
"It's fine, Victor." Shot Musgrave's voice, suddenly stern and quick. "I can tell when you're not interested."
"It's not that I'm...Musgrave come on. It's a lot to ask!" Victor complained.
"I'd do it for you!" Musgrave protested.
"I'll come over if that's what you want! Fine, here I am, I'll get my slippers!" Victor exclaimed at last.
"No, no. Don't come over. Goodnight." And with that the line went dead, beeping in that boring monotone fashion, with each tone reminding Victor of each second he was wasting. Though what was he to do, now that Musgrave had turned him away? Certainly he couldn't just leave, especially if there was a chance he could be left out in the cold. If Musgrave needed him, he would call. And he if he needed anything more, well he certainly knew the number for the police. Yes, it was frightening to be facing off with a demon from how many centuries ago, but it was a situation that was perfectly under control if you just took command. Sherlock liked to tease, he liked to poke, but in the end he was only there to get some stern backlash, and to find some restored faith in humanity's ability to fight back. If Musgrave was brave, his problems would be solved. And so Victor set the phone back down on the table, face down so as to keep the screen from lighting up the room with every new notification. The darkness enveloped him, finally taking back over as his eyes slipped back behind his lids. Sleep overtook him quickly, his heart slowing to a relaxing rate, and his brain conjuring images of Sigma Eta, of the walls, the floors, and the ashes that littered about the basement below. All the way across town, waiting for his unconscious mind to pay its visit. 

John sat flat on the concrete, huddled with his limbs pulled close to his chest as he stared at the plastic bag before him. Sitting chilled in the basement, he listened to his thoughts as they mingled with the sound of feet above, the stepping rhythm of his fellow brothers as they went about their evening routines. Sherlock's request had only occurred the night before, yet still John's mind was wrestling with the true meaning of murder. The action itself could be dealt with; all in all the crime was not a difficult one. A simple pill into Sebastian's water bottle, a slip into his daily tea, well that would be that. Taking Sebastian's life would be perfectly effortless; it was what came after that had John hesitating to even touch the small bag that he had been gifted with. He would certainly be arrested, if anyone discovered his involvement or if the deed was not done clean enough he would be charged with murder and thrown into jail. Say what you would like about Sherlock's power, certainly he could not go against the entire judicial system with that pretty smile and charismatic voice, shooting words of suggestion into the face of a deaf judge and a jury who were blindfolded against his intentions. And the guilt, the hatred, the despair! What sort of feelings would John have to deal with the moment Sebastian's last breath exhaled through his lips? How could he possibly live with himself knowing that he had been the one to reach his hand into Sebastian's chest and stop his heart from beating? Murder, murder! How could he possibly go along with it? But what were his options, now that Sherlock had set him upon this path? He had given his word, and in the moment he had pledged himself to uphold his honor. He had shaken Sherlock's hand, he had slept with the boy, he had done each and everything to ensure that his saving grace was not wasted on cowardice! But this was impossible, a task that he simply could not go along with. He could fail a thousand algebra classes in a row for all he cared, so long as he still upheld that slim portion of humanity that was still left within his heart. Sebastian Moran could not die by his hand, he would not...but what did that mean for John, who would have to announce his direct refusal to Sherlock Holmes? The boy who always got what he wanted, by anyone he asked. What were the consequences for going back on your word when Sherlock Holmes was involved? What horror awaited his disobedience, should he fail to complete his task? Sherlock had said it himself; John was nothing more than a pawn in a larger game. If he refused to make his move, if he stayed silent on his space and let the bigger pieces move around, what good could he do? Would his job be reassigned, or would his hand be forced? It was a game, a game that spanned much larger than he could fully comprehend. A game that he would never win, for he was meant to be sacrificed by the end... But whose side was he on? Suddenly John stared at the bag with more interest, his hands twiddling against his knees as he began hatching an idea that was beyond him. There was a darkness in this basement, a suggestive element that infected his brain with a plot of malice. He was a pawn, easily sacrificed but unexpected when it came to the final attack. He was a pawn, dressed in what color? Both, it would seem. He sat in the middle of the board, waiting for each side to approach; he sat in the middle and draped himself in both white and black, waiting to be used by either side in their elaborate plots of sabotage and revenge. What color should he dawn, on the day of the final attack? Would he linger towards Sherlock the dark queen, protecting his strongholds at Sigma Eta by neutralizing the most threatening opponent? Or would he turn, and use the gift of surprise on a more eligible target? There was a common enemy among them, in the eyes of both colors and in the eyes of each witness; there was a plague that had settled upon their expected college life. The house had grown dark in shadow, secluded in its secrecy, miserable in its loneliness. The house was controlled not by a President, but by a dictator, an authoritarian, a God who dwelt below. Sherlock's existence here was wasted, and as far as John could predict it was not going to end. The boy would lie back on his laurels, bask in the appreciation and attention that he was receiving, and sit tight upon the crown of Sigma Eta. He would plague each generations of fading brothers for as long as he saw fit, introducing them to deals and to love and to loneliness. He was the problem in John's mind, in everyone's mind...so why was it not he who deserved such a death? Was there no other way to be rid of him, no other way to avoid the consequences of cowardice? All deals were void if the deal maker had died. John sat staring once more, staring at the pills as they began to look more and more attractive in the struggling light. They would look quite beautiful set inside of Sherlock's morning tea, sunken in with the sugar. Odorless. Tasteless. Effortless. It was time to don his white, and ride out for the future of Stoke Moran. It was time to kill the queen.