As soon as he emerged into the kitchen he was trapped within an embrace, as Musgrave had broken down into frightful tears and seemed relieved just to see another human being in this mess of the unnatural.
"They died down there, Victor. I thought we were going to follow." He admitted mournfully, wrapping his arms tightly around Victor's chest and latching his hands upon his shoulders. Musgrave trembled, cowardly and afraid, falling into the body heat of his stronger counterpart. Victor sighed heavily, allowing the man's head to fall upon his shoulder and running his fingers through his stiff greying hair.
"He doesn't want us dead." Victor assured, speaking softly since Musgrave's ear was so close.
"How can you know?" Musgrave whimpered in protest, obviously much too frightened to be thinking straight.
"Because if wanted to kill us, he would've done it. That's where it happened, of course. That's where the blood is intended to be spilled." Victor assured in a calm voice, stoic and almost hypnotized. Musgrave continued to tremble, though at last his tears began to subside. He may not have regained any confidence, though at last he found his feet able to support him, his empty hands now trembling.
"I left my bat downstairs, and my light." he admitted quietly, readjusting himself and wiping the tears from his cheeks.
"It's alright." Victor assured, managing a smile and running his hand down the length of Musgrave's arm. He caught onto the man's hand, feeling as if he was allowed to hold it for a little while longer. Musgrave sniffled, though his eyes were shining curiously, watching Victor's fingers as they wove their way through his own and at last caught onto his wrist. Silently Victor began to walk, leading Musgrave out of the kitchen and away from the opened basement door, allowing the cold draft to begin wafting into the other levels of the house. Though he was unconcerned with what lay below, what mattered to him now was what remained in his hand, the warm and trembling fingers of Reginald Musgrave.
"What better time, Reginald? What better place?" Victor whispered, leading his companion through the hall and back into the living room where their adventure had first began. The window was still shattered, allowing for their easy escape. All else remained untouched, as it was expected to be.
"For what?" Musgrave managed in a very small voice. As Victor turned to him the man seemed to shrink, his stature giving way to cowardice and shriveling him down to a position where Victor could look shamefully on. Though there was something wonderful about the way the man cowered, there was something opportunistic. Victor tightened his grasp on the man's wrist, pulling him closer with a rather anxious tug until at last their chests were forced together, their faces merely inches apart with the bold opportunity given to either who wanted to extend their lips outward. Musgrave's eyes were still wide, though it would seem as if fear was giving way to another emotion, one much more powerful, one much more urgent. Victor took hold of Musgrave's waist, and with the first kiss he made sure not another word was said. And really, what better time could there be? Now with the last of the sun's rays shining through the shuttered windows, the stained glass gleaming with different colors of red and blue. What better place could the two have fallen than the couch of Sigma Eta, once supporting the weight of school boys, now hosting the shared weight of their Professors? It seemed as though time and place became irrelevant as passion overtook, and before long this couch may very well have been any other stable surface in the world. Their perceptions narrowed, their priorities were pinpointed, and before long Victor could see nothing but the grey of his companion's eyes, and Musgrave could not tell the difference between Victor's bare skin and the strange hue of the ceiling above. And like that they proceeded, bringing love back into the house that was haunted, bringing life back into the walls that had died. And in their twisting and turning, in their eagerness and excitement, surely neither smelled the smoke that was beginning to issue from the small flame of a cigarette. Neither man cared to notice that they suddenly had an audience, a single party of one, leaning up against the doorframe of the living room. And there Sherlock smiled, and watched, remembering a time when he had held that same body within his arms, the ever familiar body of Victor Trevor. 

After scanning the perimeter once, twice, and again John decided that it was safe to approach Sebastian in the lunch line. Sherlock wasn't known for appearing outside of Sigma Eta, especially not in such thick crowds, though to prevent the risk of being discovered in collusion John figured it was better to be safe than sorry. For some reason he felt as if he needed a low baseball cap, so as to better hide his identity as he approached the former president.
"Hey Sebastian." John whispered, keeping his voice low for some reason or another. He wasn't sure what other threats there were, though he figured that Sherlock could be watching from afar, even from the Sigma Eta house entirely. Who knew what other powers he had stored away, waiting to be used when his power was threatened? Sebastian turned, looking towards John and giving him something of a huff of greeting.
"John." he muttered. John cut in line behind Sebastian, sparking up some protest from those behind, though he felt as though his conversation was more important than a twenty second time gap for the starving souls behind.
"I want to talk to you." John muttered, to which Sebastian took a deep sigh of disappointment. What, so there was bad blood now? That was new.
"Anything important, or just the weekly ramblings?" Sebastian wondered.
"Important, very important. God, you've missed a lot." John admitted, shaking his head and trying to remember just how steeply life had declined after Sebastian had been kicked out. This seemed to perk his interest, for now Sebastian gave John at least a passing glance that was not overly hostile. His eyes sparkled with curiosity, for he would never pass up an opportunity to see his competitor in a bad light.
"Well then, you must fill me in." he decided at last, turning away from John now to direct the lunch ladies on what he wanted from the display. John stood quietly, taking his turn at the line and thanking the ladies as they handed him his full tray. He followed Sebastian's tall head as it wove through the crowd, making sure to keep one eye on his guide and another on the crowds that were beginning to swell into the dining hall. Thankfully Sebastian led them both to a rather secluded table in the back, one that couldn't very easily be noticed if one wasn't looking for it. Together they sat like outlaws, hunched over their meals and trying their best to avoid the small talk that would have ultimately made jumping into the real discussion much easier. Though Sebastian was never one for making matters easier, and after his first bite of food he leaned over on his elbows and trapped John within his razor stare, trying to force information out of him manually. At last John sighed, wiping the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin and trying to imagine where to start. Well, perhaps at the beginning of Sebastian's end.
"He imposed a curfew." John began abruptly. "And is going to make us have house dinners on Sundays, to sponsor brotherhood or something strange like that."
"As if he actually values that. To kick me out on the street, and likely willing to do it again! Brotherhood." Sebastian shook his head gravely, biting hard onto his fork and thinking as he chewed.
"Yes well, I think it's a method of seclusion. I think he wants to contract our worlds a little bit, and keep the center focused on him." John decided at last.
"Like a cult." Sebastian offered.
"Exactly like a cult." John agreed nervously.
"I haven't seen anything about rushing yet, no advertisements or anything. Is he not promoting Sigma Eta to the new freshmen? Is he not trying to recruit our next class?" Sebastian asked, to which John just hummed in disappointment.
"He says they can join, but they're not allowed to go inside the house. In fact he never wants to meet them personally, even if he is the unofficial president." John admitted at last.
"That...that snake! Taking my position only to abuse it! How dare he neglect the fundamental principles of our fraternity! And let me guess, the soup kitchen too?" Sebastian growled. John had to chuckle at that, for he hadn't given a thought to the soup kitchen since Sebastian last brought it up at their first fraternity meeting.
"No, I'm not sure he's looked into that either." John managed, trying to hold down his smile. It was almost amusing to see how much Sebastian cared for their little service project, though when reality struck it became an almost pitiful sight. This was a boy who cared deeply, not only for the frat, but for what it stood for. Sigma Eta ran through Sebastian's blood, and here he was as an outsider, cast out by his very foil.
"And what of you boys? Has he been treating you alright?" Sebastian wondered, his voice dropping into a considerate tone of worry. John thought back to his own wounds, now mostly healed, and a shadow cast over his heart. Despite his injuries, well what choice did he have? The answer was yes.
"He's been treating us fine." He said truthfully, for in whole Sherlock was keeping a good eye on them.
"Keeping his subjects in line, well of course he'll treat you well." Sebastian grumbled. "He's plotting something, he must be!"
"I think so too. This is all too strange, and if he showed any sign of being a normal boy I might be able to sit back a little better. But he keeps hinting at things, he keeps alluding to some dark secret. He speaks with wisdom far beyond his years, and he mentions being alive for much longer than anyone would have guessed. I'm not an expert on these things, but I think...well he might be something a little bit supernatural." John admitted quietly, almost ashamed to admit his theory to such a rational boy as Sebastian. Though the laugh that John had expected did not leave Sebastian's lips, and for a while he sat stoically, as if processing the words through his own version of the truth.
"I've been considering that too." he admitted after a while. "Somehow he had me paralyzed, unable to move, unable to blink. My lungs could inflate, my tongue could wag, but I was defenseless but to be toppled. It was dark magic, it had to be."
"So what are we supposed to do?" John hissed, lowering his voice now that conspiracy turned to collusion.
"Are we to do anything?" Sebastian wondered. "If he's not harming you boys in any way then it might be in our best interest to let him be. Let him have his fun, his presidency, and at the end of this year he'll be off with the rest of us."
"Well that's just it, isn't it? Who knows if he'll leave?" John insisted. "Think about it, Sebastian. Have you ever seen him take a class? Have you ever seen him eat with a meal plan? He was squatting in the house before he officially moved in, and he got no college approval for any of it! Who knows if he's even enrolled here, who knows if he's a student at all!"
"Are you saying he's an outsider?" Sebastian whispered.
"Who knows?" John insisted helplessly. Sebastian nodded, clicking his fingers on the edge of the table as his brow creased in concentration. He seemed to be thinking, plotting some plan inside of that clever brain of his.
"If we can prove he's illegal, well perhaps we can get him out using the administration. Perhaps he could beat anyone in hand to hand combat, but if the college itself gathered around him and kicked him to the curb, well I imagine he couldn't do anything about it?" Sebastian suggested.
"Report him? My God, that sounds so childish." John grumbled.
"What choices do we have?" Sebastian wondered. "Especially if there's a chance he'll stay for next year, and even the year after that. He's a plague on Sigma Eta, and he must be exterminated."
"I wish it could be so easy." John muttered.
"Well it can be, certainly. If we can just prove that he's not enrolled." Sebastian declared at last. John nodded, though there was not much hope in his heart. It was very like Sebastian to take the administrative approach, hoping that rules and laws could contain so large a problem. Though what power did he have, really, when it came to Sherlock Holmes? If that boy could convince Professor Trevor to give John good grades, and the football coach to let Greg play starting linebacker, then who knows what sort of influence he could have on the residence staff? Certainly they would turn around and go home, even if he was proven to be an outsider who was born two centuries ago. It was rather mandatory to smile along, for however ridiculous Sebastian's plan may sound it was not up to John to critique it. That could be his route for ridding their lives of this strange boy, and John would be forced to come up with his own plan. He suspected, however, that his route would have to take a more drastic approach. If Sebastian's plan proved to fail, well he'd have no choice but to take matters into his own hands. While the boys both processed their plans John took to scanning the dining hall once more, though his search for curly hair was interrupted by the presence of a pair of staring eyes. He was able to get a quick glance at his observer before they ducked away into the crowds, though the eyes had been telling enough. John's blood ran cold, and though he got to his feet he knew there was no stopping it. Already he could see the small form of Tobias Gregson racing up the stairway towards the outside world, undoubtedly on his way to report back to Sigma Eta and spill all he had witnessed. 

John's first instinct was to immediately drop out of the fraternity, maybe even out of Stoke Moran entirely, and hide in the farthest hole he could find. Perhaps then Sherlock wouldn't be able to evoke his punishment, or even touch him with the faintest glimmer of retaliation. Even though talking with Sebastian wasn't necessarily against the rules, it would certainly be considered a hostile move against Sherlock's all powerful reign. It wouldn't be appreciated, especially if Tobias had managed to pick up even a snippet of their conversation. But what choice did John have, if he wanted to reclaim his possessions, his diploma, and his life? He had to go back to Sigma Eta, he had to step within Sherlock's threshold, and he had to face the consequences of his actions. Certainly Sherlock was in no position to kill? And even if he did, perhaps Sebastian could be the prime witness and help lock that monster up for good? A life sentence would be exactly what Sherlock needed, especially if his life span was double that of a normal human being. How easy it was to resent him outside of the walls of Sigma Eta! How easy it was to plot his demise without his influence bearing down like a tranquillizer! John stumbled through the front doorway, looking around into the various rooms to be sure that he wasn't being spotted by anymore unappreciated eyes. When he deemed the coast clear he raced up to his bedroom, opening and closing the door so quickly that he startled Greg right out of his mid afternoon nap.
"John! What on earth are you doing, running around like that?" Greg grumbled, watching groggily as John clicked the lock on the door and huddled up onto his own bed.
"If I turn up dead, Sherlock did it, alright?" John said anxiously. Greg's eyes narrowed, though that statement didn't come as much of a surprise.
"I knew that before." he admitted at last, letting his head fall back into his pillow as if to reclaim the sleep that John's paranoia had interrupted. Well, thanks for caring Greg. As his faithful roommate fell back to sleep John prepared himself for the worst, though just how to prepare was still beyond him. Perhaps a will was in order, in which he could leave all of his belongings to his poor sister? Or maybe he should arm himself; maybe he should sharpen a stick outside to make a dagger, one to protect himself should Sherlock turn hostile? No, no that would be too aggressive. Besides, Sherlock was probably no match to a homemade weapon, regardless of its intentions. John was in no position to defend himself; neither fight nor flight was an option here. And so what choice did he have but to wait? Perhaps he would get lucky, perhaps Tobias wasn't a spy, maybe he was just overly excited about seeing John that he ran out of the dining hall in a daze. Or perhaps he was working on his cardio, doing stair workouts at inappropriate times during the day. Oh neither option sounded reasonable, nothing could cover up for the grim truth that John was left with. He was in trouble, in deep trouble, and if Sherlock found out that he was colluding against him then there would be massive consequences. And so what, does he hope for Sherlock's leniency, or does he pray that Sebastian gets to his side of the deal quicker? Perhaps by the end of the night they could have Sherlock in handcuffs, dragged out of the house in the shame that he deserved? It was a mystery, a stressful one, and it left John immobilized until at last his homework demanded his attention. Certainly he wasn't going to go downstairs, though he figured that going to his desk would not put him in any unnecessary risk. What brain power he was wasting during his process of overthinking should certainly be dedicated instead to his algebra, a class that was still demanding his utmost attention even with his deal with Sherlock. While Greg was beginning to wake (now at seven o'clock, brilliant timing for a nap) John settled himself at his desk. He glanced once more at the lock on the door, making sure it was securely fastened, and with that he set to work. By the light of his desk lamp John was able to get through a couple of the problems, at least putting answers down on paper. It wasn't as if anything he was doing was correct, but at least he was giving it a solid effort. The same couldn't be said about Greg, who had a biology test coming up at the end of the week, and was instead focusing on balancing his pencil on his nose. The hours came and went, and with each footstep John heard outside of the door he tensed, expecting it to be his final caller. Though as soon as he convinced himself he heard the handle shaking, as soon as he braced himself for jumping to his feet and then promptly out the window, the footsteps would disappear. Sometimes a fit of laughter would accompany them, the joyful chortles of his fraternity brothers, and other times they would vanish down the stairs with an obvious decent, rendering the hallway safe once more. As the hours wore on John's sense of urgency began to dwindle, until at last the pages of his notebook began to blur together, the numbers morphing into blobs of ink and the equations blending into single lines of gibberish. Soon he was too tired to worry about his personal safety, and in a collapse of defeat he struggled into his bed around twelve o'clock in the morning.