There was nothing Sebastian could do, no word that he could utter to prevent Sherlock's official declaration. And Sherlock only recollected himself, hardly giving Sebastian time to process his announcement before running at him with full speed and pouncing onto him like a cat. The momentum was too much for a boy who couldn't readjust himself to handle the pressure; together the two went toppling over. John was helpless to do anything, though he was sure that if Sebastian felt the same way he did now, frozen solid, well he was afraid that the poor boy might shatter with the impact! But no, the two hit the floor with the a thunk and Sherlock scrambled back to his feet, stepping hard onto Sebastian's chest and taking deep, motivated breaths. He looked ready to kill, ready to drive his foot into Sebastian's skull enough times to kill him. But it wouldn't work, it couldn't work. Because at the present moment, Sebastian was breathing, but he was already dead.
"So you see it, brothers." Sherlock announced, flattening his foot onto Sebastian with such a force that the entire room awoke. Sebastian took to thrashing with his newfound freedom, and John could only use his mobility to force himself into a chair, knowing that if he allowed his feet to be on the floor they would only run to Sebastian's aid. And he couldn't have that, he couldn't defy Sherlock. It was a moral battle, quite akin to being torn apart like a piece of paper, right down the middle.
"I take your position, Sebastian. I take your brotherhood. I take your place in this house." Sherlock insisted. "I have you at my mercy!" There must have been much more weight within Sherlock's foot than could possibly have been summoned by the whole of his body weight, for Sebastian seemed perfectly immobile. What had to be only ninety pounds of bony boy was able to keep Sebastian from conjuring enough momentum to get off the floor, and try as he might his limbs simply couldn't help in the process. His arms couldn't reach, his legs couldn't flail, all he could do was thunk his head up and down on the ground, as if trying to knock himself unconscious.
"Don't kill him!" John declared, forcing his hand in front of his mouth so quickly after the statement that the escaping breaths couldn't get through his fingers. Oh now he had done it, his mouth acting on its own accord! The attention shifted from the scene in the middle of the room, it shifted to John. And along with the eyes of the whole room, he summoned Sherlock's glance as well.
"Kill him? John, you think I intended to kill him?" Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head with a little sigh. Slowly he eased his foot off of Sebastian's chest, and while the boy was free to get to his feet he instead kept laying there, his eyes focused up onto the ceiling as if trying to block out the stimuli in the room.
"I...I don't know." John whispered. "I'm sorry for interrupting."
"I appreciate interruption from you, John. Anything from you." Sherlock assured. John smiled, though not on his own accord.
"Is this it, then? Are you our new president?" Tobias asked from the corner, now thoroughly entertained with the scene in front of him. He seemed to forget even his girlfriend, who was equally stricken.
"Not without the popular vote, of course!" Sherlock laughed, offering a hand to Sebastian, who swatted it away miserably. There was joy in Sherlock's face, mocking, distasteful, villainous joy. Though he looked happy, and for that John's heart glowed with the same pride.
"You have mine." came a voice from the corner, Clay, by the looks of it.
"And mine." Tobias agreed, grabbing hold of his girlfriend's hand and clutching it thankfully. She gave a radiant smile, as if that counted as her vote as well. In procession each boy in the room spoke up, the whole of the house declaring their votes against Sebastian and for their new, dominant President. And who could not vote for such a man, who could not support such a show of power, a tour de force? Each voice raised more agressivley; shouting out their voices for Sherlock Holmes, even Greg found it within himself to submit his approval. When all was said and done, when each voice but one had been turned, John found the attention of Sherlock Holmes focused back onto him. Sherlock had noticed, undoubtedly, that he had not voiced his opinion. And what could he do, here with Sebastian laying desperately on the floor? He cared for Sebastian, that man was a brother to him, a hero, a role model. How could he dismantle all that Sebastian had worked for, in favor of a usurper? The more powerful Sherlock became the more frightening he appeared, and now it seemed that his eyes were glowing with force. And those eyes, of course, were focused right into John's.
"John, your opinion please? Unanimous is always preferable." Sherlock whispered. He began to walk over to the desk, flicking his cigarette over towards where Sebastian lay, boring his influence down upon John with every step he took. John began to shake, his fingers clenched so tightly upon the desk that his knuckles and whole upper arms were turning white. He couldn't take it, the pressure, the fixation, the eye contact.
"You....you have my vote." John whispered, in a voice so quiet that he could hardly hear himself. Though Sherlock appeared to hear, and with those words a smile broke out upon his face. That beautiful face, broken into an authentic, breathlessly happy smile. It was a look so radiant that John melted into it, his tension eased away, he found himself leaning forward, throwing out his arms for Sherlock to catch him across the desk. And catch him he did. Sherlock took John's hands, steadying the boy as he fell and huddling as much of him as he could into his chest. John let his head fall upon Sherlock's shoulder, his entire body stretched across the wood which separated them, wrapping his arms around the boy's neck and declaring things into his skin that he didn't even know he believed. He uttered his love, his obedience, his awe, his worship. He didn't know if Sherlock could hear him, in fact he didn't care, it just felt good to unload each one of his most shameful emotions onto that boy's skin. He wished to blemish him with the force of his secrets. And when his words had faded, when there was nothing more left to admit, John hoisted himself onto the table, struggling to get his legs up and over the edge of the desk. He disregarded all the things upon the desk, the pens, the notebooks, the ashtray that fell to the floor and shattered at their feet. In the perfect view of the entire living room. He pulled Sherlock closer into him, kneeling upon the wood and drawing his lips upon Sherlock's exposed neck, lacing his tongue about the stretches of collarbone. He didn't care, it was as if all inhibitions had been lifted, it was as if his most primal instincts had been unlocked. Sherlock's love, his happiness, it was radiating forward and infecting John with passions he couldn't fully describe. And it might have been perfect, it might have been. Though as easily as Sherlock could inject passion, just as easily could he revoke it. And he chuckled, and John's eyes snapped open. And the world returned.

Victor was fairly sure that two glasses of wine weren't debilitating enough to keep Musgrave from driving home, though he had agreed none the less to offer up his couch for the night. It was a plot, a ploy of some kind, though he lay alone nonetheless, hidden under the blankets of his bed and wondering if Musgrave was comfortable enough on the living room couch. He was being stupid, was he not? Oh he was just ignoring everything about this situation, but who knows what Musgrave intended? Perhaps he really was worried about his blood alcohol levels! Victor couldn't make the first move, he was too afraid to make a fool of himself, especially if this turned out to be the breaking point of their friendship! Musgrave was the only friend he had in this whole town, what would happen if he lost that privilege because of some stupid romantic plot? Victor rolled over onto his stomach, trying to asphyxiate himself so as to make the decision much easier. You can't follow either your heart or your brain if both were deprived of oxygen and dead. He had been doing thinking lately, a little bit too much thinking without incorporating his brain, on what he felt for Reginald Musgrave and if any of those feelings were quite justifiable. Well of course he wanted a friend; he's wanted a friend for a long while now. It was good to have someone understand him, good to have someone who cared not only for his own wellbeing but also about the history of Sigma Eta. But it was also nice to have a lover, another flame in the candle of passion, a secret to keep, a pair of arms to hide within when the times got tough. But how could it be so, how could Musgrave feel the same way? He wanted nothing of the sort of from his friend, surely he couldn't have the same idea in his mind! Musgrave was a distinguished gentleman; he was an older academic who cared for architecture, not love! Surely he wanted nothing more from Victor than a bit of entertainment, a look inside of someone's head who was much less stable than the average man. Victor was a character study, nothing more. And he must fall to sleep, lest he ponder the rest of the night whether or not he should call Musgrave in to join him. Thankfully sleep did take him, and for a long while Victor slept undisturbed, pulling the blankets in great bundles up to his chin to fight away the chilly drafts in his cold apartment. His dreams were peaceful, forgotten once he had woken, and the clock ticked on. It was around two o'clock when he had at last been startled awake, this time from an outside source and not from the vividness of his dreams. The room was dark, though something had shocked him out of his deep sleep and plummeted him back into reality. Suddenly Victor felt like there were arms snaking about his chest, as if someone was trying to hug him from behind but was finding it difficult. Victor stared, shivering with the realization that his guest was much bolder than he had imagined. The arms were bare and warm, pulling him closer until his back was firmly set into an unknown chest, snuggled under the blankets with him.
"Stay sleeping." A voice whispered behind him. "You're peaceful when you sleep."
"I'm shocked at you." Victor whispered in reply, his voice sleepy and his brain just beginning to wake. He wasn't afraid, though he felt as though something about this moment was missing. He had imagined his first embrace with Musgrave to feel a little bit less...hallow.
"How so?" whispered the voice. Victor sighed, catching one of the mysterious hands within his own and weaving their fingers together. The hand was much smoother than he had imagined, with tighter, almost younger skin. He felt a hot breath against the back of his neck, as if his visitor had suddenly leaned forward, bringing their lips much closer than Victor would have expected otherwise. He shivered, not entirely appreciating this sudden invasion of personal space.
"Musgrave..." he whispered in protest, to insist that he slow down just a little. Though his protest was met with a chuckle, one that didn't quite fit the octave of Reginald Musgrave's voice. Instead it was deeper, more villainous.
"Sherlock." The voice corrected. Victor's eyes widened, his heart stopping, and he only had time to turn his head roughly to the side before his visitor vanished. Though it was enough, enough time to catch but a glimpse of curly black hair against his pillow, and a smile stretched across a white face that shone with such devilry that Victor might've believed he had been trapped within the arms of Satan himself. Before Victor could process what had had happened he took to screaming, figuring the only way to cleanse himself of the hands that had been around him was to awake the whole of the neighborhood in his terror. He was immobilized, unable to move from his spot in the now empty bed, though he found it within himself to scratch at the sides of his face with his bare fingers, so frightened of the space next to him, of the indent on the opposite pillow, that he felt tempted to scratch out his own eyes to avoid having to see the consequences of his ignorance. A devil had been here, a devil he had seen before...
"Victor, Victor what's wrong?" the door flung open, and with it came Reginald Musgrave. He was delayed of course; a couple of hours too late to permanently help the situation. He was met with a terrible scene, Victor doubled over on his knees, holding his head in his hands with his mouth open, screaming what more his lungs could produce of his terror. Musgrave jumped onto the bed, forgetting social stigmas and personal space. He took the shouting man into his arms, holding Victor close to his chest and trying to calm him with soothing words and coos. Victor felt his attempts; he felt the very human arms as they pulled him into the much needed body heat. And he heard the words, not villainous but soft, careful. As if each syllable reached out to caress him, and to stifle his cries with love.
"Victor, stop screaming. Calm down." Musgrave insisted, running his hand softly along Victor's back, trying to call him back into the world with repetition and a mimicked mother's love. Eventually his attempts took hold, and when Musgrave pushed his hand against Victor's open jaw the man was able to close it, stifling his screams until at last his vocal cords gave up and he fell silent. Now his fear was quite eternalized, his face pale, but he found within him the strength to gasp, grabbing onto the back of Musgrave's neck and trying to feel for anything familiar that would remind him that this was indeed the man he had been waiting for and not some ghostly, ancient replication.
"Have you been dreaming? Was it a nightmare?" Musgrave cooed. Victor trembled, closing his eyes tight and trying to forget the voice he had heard. He tried to fill his head instead with Musgrave's words, with the rationality, with the calm.
"Sherlock." Victor continually whispered, tears forming in his eyes and blinding him away from the soothing darkness. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock."
"What is that?" Musgrave asked insistently. "What is Sherlock? Victor, listen to me, come back to me."
"He was here, here again." Victor moaned, opening his eyes at last to let the tears flow onto Musgrave's disheveled dress shirt. "He was in my bed, I was in his arms."
"You were dreaming, Victor. Only a dream, no need to fuss." Musgrave assured, trying to throw in some humor to calm his fear stricken colleague. Slowly he eased Victor off of his shoulder, pulling the poor man's head so that they could be at least eye level. Victor maintained his grip upon the man's neck, clutching to anything that felt authentically human, though he could not bring his eyes to meet. He was afraid, so afraid that he wouldn't recognize them. He was still shaking, though the world was slowly settling in. It was becoming more familiar, much safer. The darkness was his own darkness, the one he created every night. No one lurked within.
"It was the shadow, but this time he was real. He was a man; he was right against my neck. Sherlock, he said his name was Sherlock." Victor managed.
"That's an awfully strange name." Musgrave chuckled, easing Victor's head up so that their eyes could connect at last. Victor managed a glance, back towards those grey eyes which were the same as he remembered. There were human emotions stored within; there was a light behind them. He breathed again, rubbing his thumbs down Musgrave's long cheeks as if to try to frame his face with the essence of tears.
"Reginald." Victor whispered, recognizing him at last. The man smiled, chuckling in what could only be a sort of happy pity.
"Yes." He agreed. Victor shed another tear, his time allowing the slightest of smiles onto his face. He was glad, glad to have been captured within his friend's arms at the moment of highest need.
"Reginald." He repeated again. 

More wine was poured, though this time it was into a drinking glass by Musgrave's rather generous hand. He set down an entire cup full in front of Victor, who was stooped over on the couch, still shaking with the horror of it all. The reality of his reaction was settling in, it was quite embarrassing now that he thought much about it. He had never thrown a fit of such magnitude before, not even when he was a child, dreaming of werewolves and other spectral beings. But now his fears were real, he was positive of that! The indent that Sherlock's head had made on the pillow was there, it was real, and Victor would not let anyone talk him into believing that his nightmares were just spilling into reality. Eventually Musgrave came to sit at his side, holding his own glass of wine as if he surely needed a good drink as well.
"It was lucky you were here." Victor murmured. "I'm sure I would've screamed myself hoarse."
"Perhaps given yourself a heart attack as well." Musgrave offered with a nervous little chuckle.
"I wasn't dreaming, you must believe me." Victor insisted, disregarding his wine and instead turning to his companion. Musgrave was looking very tired, for his eyes were lined with black and his hair was flopped rather awkwardly across his forehead. Though he was careful, his smile was genuine, his expression calm.
"I do believe you, of course I do. I've never seen grown men scream like that, not unless they were frightened by something real." Musgrave assured. He took a sip of his wine, though he set it down onto the coffee table and extended one of his hands instead. Victor took it graciously, feeling the slow caress of Musgrave's thumb across his palm. It was therapeutic, though of course Victor's couldn't disregard the romantic undertones. Chaos or not, he was sure that they hadn't touched skin in anything except a handshake before. And now he was quite familiar with the texture of Musgrave's hands, cheeks, and neck. He was familiar within his chest, and within his body heat.
"Tell me what happened." Musgrave insisted, his voice small yet urgent. Victor nodded, happy that there was a lamp illuminating the empty space to his left. Not that it was any consolation, but he had to imagine his spirit was afraid of the light. Slowly he summoned up the courage to speak of it, though where fear dissolved, shame erupted, and before long he was almost too embarrassed to admit the truth.
"I...I was asleep." Victor managed. "But I was awoken by arms looping around me, as if someone was lying behind me and pulling me closer."
"Was that when you began to scream?" Musgrave suggested. Victor felt his face grow red, though instead of pulling his hand away from Musgrave's he instead kept it clasped even tighter, as if this was the worst part to admit.
"No." he whispered. "I didn't scream, I thought it was you."
"I see." Musgrave responded. He seemed a bit taken aback, though with what observation power Victor had out of his peripheral vision it didn't seem as though Musgrave was afraid in any way, or ashamed. He looked surprised, yes, but also sort of relieved. It looked as though he had gotten what he wanted out of the night, regardless of the circumstances.
"We spoke for a moment, his voice was deep but my brain was still tired, I wasn't processing things as I should have. He put his lips up to the back of my neck, his breath was hot...I spoke your name and he corrected me. He said Sherlock. I turned, and I was just able to glimpse him. He was...he was beautiful but in a devilish way. I've seen him before, I know I have! In a photograph, somewhere!" Victor shook his head, trying to call back the face of that curly haired boy, trying to picture it perfectly in his mind.
"And then he vanished?" Musgrave presumed.
"He did. That's when you came in." Victor agreed, nodding his head miserably but looking up towards the kitchen counter, now where the folder sat undisturbed.