Where John was planning to go was still uncertain, though he found himself gravitating towards where he knew he might find Sherlock. It wasn't as if he was prepared to have a conversation with him, in fact he wasn't even sure he could handle a full bout of eye contact! Nevertheless, John's feet shuffled along towards the common room where he could hear a radio playing. It was the beginning of the evening, the boys were all returning from dinner and had begun to spread their homework out upon the desks and upon their laps, each one ignoring it for the time being while they talked with their friends and went on with various other acts of procrastination. In the middle of it all was the shape John was expecting to see, a solitary figure sitting cross legged in an arm chair. John could only handle staring at Sherlock through his peripheral vision, and for the meantime he decided to make it look as if he was going through the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. He needed an excuse for walking in here, of course. Though he had no need for these books, and if he thought he was fooling anyone he was definitely wrong. Even now he noticed that slim figure getting to his feet, a shadow against the background of fading sunlight, moving steadily across the hardwood to where John was now shivering.
"Can we talk, Mr. Watson?" came Sherlock's familiar voice, the syllables dancing across the collar of John's unkempt shirt. He hesitated, looking very carefully over his shoulder and finding Sherlock's face having come incredibly close. If he had bent any farther back he would have certainly collided with the very lips he had unfortunately been fixated on for the whole of the afternoon. John turned back to the bookshelf, feeling incredibly trapped.
"It takes a lot of nerve, making the first move against me." John mumbled.
"Knowing that you wouldn't take the initiative, I decided to make it less painful for the both of us." Sherlock chuckled. John glared at a textbook on sailboats, trying to focus on the cursive writing instead of on the breath he could feel along his ear. Sherlock was close, intimately close.
"It's not painful." John snarled.
"Not yet." Sherlock agreed. "Come outside with me."
"I don't have to follow your orders." John growled, trying to keep his voice low so as to not make a scene. He felt as though a screaming match would be much more appropriate, for he had emotions balled up inside of him that would really be better released at a much more aggressive volume. Though in danger of alerting all of these docile boys to the dramatic situations that were happening right under their noses, well John decided he might as well stay civil.
"They're just suggestions, John. Nothing more." was Sherlock's whispered response. It was not until he felt what could only be a cold set of fingers wrapping around his wrist that at last John jumped, his knee hitting loudly against the bookshelf and causing an unavoidable bang. This was loud enough to alert the crowd, and before long John found himself completely free of his companion and under the observation of every fraternity brother in the room. However, as if on cue and by ways of pure magic, he was alone in this corner of the room. He couldn't feel the proximity, he no longer felt trapped. John turned, looking back in some shock at all the boys who had taken to staring at him. And one of those sets of eyes, positioned in exactly the same armchair, were the eyes of his aggressor. Sherlock hadn't moved. John blinked, staring at the boy and beginning to wonder which one of them was losing their mind. Surely that wasn't...surely that was real? Not inside of his head?
"I'm sorry." He managed at last, trying to wipe off the look of pure amazement on his face. Certainly the boys were only maintaining this eye contact because John appeared to be quite lost in the middle of his own living room. As he began to meander back towards the doorway they all lost their interest, going back to their various conversations or just beginning to put a pencil down onto their homework. Either way John lost the attention he had grabbed, which was certainly for the best. Though he was dedicated now, not only to a new string of interrogations but also to making sure he wasn't completely crazy. Instead of heading off to his room he decided to follow some of Sherlock's suggestions, and instead of turning towards that staircase he allowed himself to step out onto the back porch. If he hadn't been hallucinating then he would be met outside here, by the man who seemed to be pulling the strings from every direction. The back porch was always a place of comfort for John; in fact it was one of the only portions of the house that always seemed to be empty. Now that the sun was setting there were great shadows along the cracking pavement, though the folding chairs were still sturdy under the white awning and they provided a good safe haven for recollecting his mind. John sunk into one, staring miserably out the back driveway and through the strange arrangement of cars that were all stuck in various mud puddles. No one drove much, though almost all of the brothers had a car on campus for one reason or another. John was never allowed to have a car, his parents never thought it to be a practical use of his money. It was no matter, really. Greg had always had one and John could always get a ride to and from important places with him. Though now that Greg was on the other side of a rather treacherous ravine, well who knows what would become of John's go to transportation? Besides that, what would become of John's very best friend?
"A cigarette for your troubles?" came that familiar voice, now tucked up in the overgrown ivy on the other side of the back porch. John turned, though this time he was not nearly as frightened to have been crept up on. Sherlock seemed to like to make an entrance, as noiseless as possible. This time John had been expecting him, and so he hardly reacted to what should have been quite the scare.
"I don't smoke." John said sharply.
"I'm sure there are a lot of things you don't do." Sherlock chuckled, striding over to where John sat and wiggling an unlit cigarette between his two fingers. It was an offering, an undeniable one. John scowled, though he snatched the cigarette out of Sherlock's fingers before he could begin shoving it into his mouth.
"You're beginning to scare me, Sherlock. You're making me think I'm going crazy." John admitted.
"Well that might not be entirely my doing. We all have to go a little crazy somewhere along the line." Sherlock assured. "Put it up to your lips, I've got a lighter somewhere." He added in a quick instruction. For a moment he fumbled within his pockets, though before long and after a couple of clicks there was a quick flame bursting up in front of their eyes. John obeyed, clenching a little bit as he settled the cigarette in its rightful place. Sherlock smiled as he lit it, keeping his eyes focused on John's even if John was focused instead on the ground. He wouldn't allow Sherlock to distract him, not when he was so dedicated on keeping himself grounded, and in one place. The smoke choked him with the first inhale; though after a quick bout of coughing John began breathe in the smoke like an expert. It felt quite relaxing, actually, keeping the polluted smoke circulating through his lungs.
"I want to talk about Greg." He said at last, to which Sherlock gave a rather serious nod.
"I'm sure you want to talk about more than that." Sherlock agreed.
"Were you in there with him? With only him?" John asked at last, spinning in his chair to at last focus his complete attention onto Sherlock. The boy gave something of a guilty smile, though he seemed more proud of himself than anything else.
"Are you not familiar with the process? It would be a little bit awkward if we were entertaining guests." Sherlock pointed out. John's stomach turned, and at last his gaze dropped. So it was true. Somehow John was still holding out hope, somehow he was expecting it all to be some very humorous misunderstanding, one that could be wrapped up and dismissed with a short explanation.
"You're treating this as if it's normal, as if I'm just supposed to laugh along with you!" John exclaimed.
"Well I'm not expecting you to laugh, but there is a certain maturity that must go along with these things." Sherlock pointed out.
"I'm being as mature as I can possibly manage! But my limit is mostly reached when I find out that my best friend is sleeping with some random boy!" John exclaimed, getting up out of his chair to ensure that Sherlock didn't spend this entire conversation looking down on him.
"I'm not random." Sherlock scowled, seeming to pick out the only detail that troubled him.
"Then what are you? For God's sake Sherlock, who are you?" John growled, snatching the cigarette out of his mouth to better articulate his accusations. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, now seeming so tall that John might as well have stayed sitting. There was a fire behind his usually docile eyes, a fire that John wasn't very enthusiastic about stirring.
"What am I? Is a human being not enough of an explanation for you?" Sherlock wondered.
"Not for you. It's come to the point where I don't believe you are one of us." John insisted.
"A brother?"
"A human."
"Rightfully so." Sherlock mumbled, a smile finally breaking out on his face as he spotted the first compliment of the evening. John wasn't entirely sure why he found this to be flattering, but at last his anger dissolved and he seemed to shrink back to his normal height. Once again he became a relatively harmless boy, skinny and smoking in the fading sunlight.
"Did he approach you, or the other way around?" John wondered at last, trying to take advantage of Sherlock's sudden complacency. The boy paused, enjoying his cigarette now more than ever as he tried to brainstorm back to the afternoon's events.
"I approached him, following our conversation from the other evening. I didn't know what he thought of me, so I thought it right to ask. Well, one thing just led to another..."
"He's gay?" John clarified.
"No."
"You're gay?" John asked again.
"Yes." was the straight forward response. John blinked. "Does that bother you, Mr. Watson?"
"That..." John hesitated, trying to formulate his response in a way that best described his actual emotions. "Well no, no it doesn't bother me. Not about you being...that...but the fact that you seduced my roommate sort of hits a nerve!"
"Oh don't bother with him, it's not as if it will happen again. Boys wake from dreams, John. They wake most abruptly." Sherlock sighed. John felt a rather complex feeling within his stomach, the feeling of two opposing forces pulling him with perfect synchrony in opposite directions. His brain insisted that he step backwards, farther away from Sherlock so that he wasn't within arm's reach. Though his heart, a rather funny organ indeed, was insisting that he step closer. It wanted to experiment, as if it saw it necessary to take advantage of what could only be an opportunity. But each one of these feelings matched each other entirely, and so all John could do was stay in one place, feeling slightly dizzy.
"I'm not sure I'm in a position to process this." John admitted at last. Sherlock chuckled, as if that was the expected response.
"At least we are approaching the same page." He muttered. "Though there is something a bit more important than clarity, and that is trust. I say with great honesty that you are one of my few confidants. It would be impossible for my secret to leak out, especially in such a community as we have here."
"Sebastian would kick you out." John guessed.
"Worse than that, I'm sure." Sherlock whispered with a sort of shiver. John nodded, making to tap his cigarette into the ash tray that sat on the back railing but accidentally dropping the entire thing into the glass. No matter, he didn't want it much longer anyway. This conversation felt as though it was reaching its natural conclusion, even though it had lasted but a few moments.
"I'll keep your secrets." John agreed. Sherlock smiled, balancing his cigarette between his forefingers and giving John something of an appreciative look. John dared not look too long, though he figured there was a newfound spark of friendship somewhere within those multicolored irises.
"And in turn I will keep yours." Sherlock promised.
"I haven't got any of those." John pointed out, his face turning into something of a concerned frown.
"Not yet." Sherlock agreed. "But I do suspect that will change." 

It was the first thing that Victor had obsessed with that wasn't the Sigma Eta house, a detail so annoying that it probably wasn't even worth the time he allotted it. But it mattered, of course it mattered! If Victor didn't pick the color of his tie to correctly match his suit it might reflect very badly on him, especially in the eyes of Professor Musgrave who seemed so perfectly detail oriented. That man kept himself just as presentable as he would any of his architectural masterpieces, prim and proper from head to toe. He would notice, surely he would, if the blue in Victor's tie clashed poorly with the checkered pattern upon his jacket. He sighed, standing in the mirror and watching as his reflection pressed the multiple different ties up against his chest, sighing in dissatisfaction when none of them seemed perfectly ideal. Maybe it was for the best that he picked the wrong color, it may give Professor Musgrave more of an idea of what to expect in the future. Surely Victor couldn't play perfect forever, and if they were both intending on continuing this friendship his true colors (mismatched as they might be) would have to shine through eventually. And so Victor just went with his gut feeling, a nice blue tie to compliment his eyes, and began to his morning commute over to Wilson Hall. It was a quiet morning, most of the students still sleeping in their darkened dorm rooms, only the birds and squirrels were active on the sidewalks and among the trees. Victor never did understand the typical college student's schedule, one that consisted of a complete reversal of time frames. Most of them slept all day and worked all night, which seemed a terribly nocturnal way of living. Oh well, he could only control what they did within the hour time frame he was allotted. Beyond that, well they were free to make their own bad decisions. As Victor was walking down the sidewalk he wondered if it would be a good idea to go see Martha again, though with what cause he really couldn't say. The last time they met she had been insistent that he give up his search into the house, though that might have been some sort of foreign influence? Perhaps she didn't even remember saying such things, and was taken over by the supposed fore that lived within the walls of Sigma Eta. All the same, Victor couldn't think of a reason to go and talk to her, that is if he wanted to avoid the inevitable small talk. He had no big news to report, nothing remotely interesting about the house. All he had investigated into last night was a silly math test, strewn with answers that were almost beyond wrong. Whoever the student had been (the top had been cut off, as if to preserve the name of the unfortunate student) certainly needed some help in that category. It was strange, thinking about the boys who were the last to live within the house. Where were they now, if not buried within the ground? When the house's tragedy was described it never involved any details, who knew what its body count amounted to be? Perhaps only one had died, leaving the rest to meander about the rest of the country, wreaking havoc on their own accord? Or maybe the entire house had been wiped out, and even this foolish mathematician had met his match with the inevitable and ongoing disaster. Each one of those faces, each one of those names...lost to time. Lost to memory. Victor shuttered, glancing over towards the house where its dark windows were looking back, sagging within their frames rather sadly. What had happened in there, and why? Victor let himself into the building, hiking up the stairs to where his office was waiting. The hallway was empty when he arrived, it seemed as though he had beaten even his most time sensitive coworkers. However the peace was broken as he continued down and noticed something irregular, in fact something vaguely threatening to say the least. His office door was open, only slightly, but there was room enough for the morning sunlight to make its way through the gap between the frame and the door itself, creating a blinding and almost mocking glare. Victor started towards the door, frightened now that he had made a mistake last night and left the office unlocked. Certainly he wouldn't be so forgetful? His personal key was still safely on his keyring, though he wasn't the only one to have such a thing. The janitors would have one, as well as some administrative members of the college. But who would care to open it, was there something really so important within the walls of his stuffy, desolate office? Unless the intruder was looking for something? Unless they knew about the folder! The idea of a collusion brought Victor back into action, although he knew that the folder was still quite safe within his possession. He had hidden it within his apartment, figuring it would not be very good to tote that thing along to his appointment with Musgrave this afternoon. Therefore it was shoved safely under his mattress, in an attempt to divert any of the more instant burglars. But if someone had been around, searching for something even if it wasn't there, then he would have to mind his steps more carefully next time. Certainly Victor would need to keep that precious lexicon of information safe within his possession, if of course someone was after it. Victor stepped up to the door, summoning his courage and preparing for the worst. There was a chance the stranger still might be inside, and an even better chance that the office itself had been destroyed in a mad search. Fight or flight....fight or flight. Victor, being the anxious fellow he was, certainly chose the previous. He chose to fight. And so, with that idea in mind, Victor flung the door open with a mighty push against the wood, sending the thing flying back on the hinge and opening up the office for his observation. What he was presented with was...well it wasn't of much interest at all. It was almost disappointing. Inside nothing was out of place, not a paper moved or a drawer left open. The only detail that proved just a little bit shocking was the stranger, a man standing with his back towards Victor and his face turned out the window, staring blissfully at the road opposite of Wilson Hall. Victor could only imagine his eyes were fixated on the only object of interest, and he was sure that if he would observe closer he would see the reflection of Sigma Eta against the stranger's pupils. However, the most troubling part about this intruder was not his presence; in fact it was his outfit. He looked as if he had materialized from a terrible sixties sitcom, dressed in a tweed suit that was an appalling mustard yellow! So distasteful was his outfit that Victor knew there had to be something wrong, no one could dress like this and get away with it in modern day. The stranger's head was hidden under a bowler hat and he stood tall, with a thin figure yet a rather dominating presence. He said nothing, he just continued to stare. Victor stood very still, surprised that his arrival had not yet alerted the strange man. In fact the stranger did nothing to acknowledge his presence, and it remained to be seen if he even noticed an interruption or not. The stranger looked so calm within the walls of the office, so much so that it almost seemed rude to kick him out so abruptly. Though his presence was concerning, for he must have broken in some time in the night, certainly without the permission of the owner of the office himself.
"Can I help you?" Victor asked, talking towards the back of the stranger's head without any confidence that his words would be heard. The man didn't do him the liberty of turning around just yet, though at last his hand moved and caught a thumb within the loop of his belt, as if he was concentrating on his response and giving it time to get the words just right.
"Are you here for office hours? They don't start for another couple of hours, I'm afraid." He muttered in a rather familiar voice, one that echoed with a curious octave of a deep yet strangely feminine tone.
"Office hours? Sir, I'm a Professor. What are you doing in my office?" Victor wondered, holding his coffee mug in his right hand rather agressivley. He planned to use it as some sort of bludgeoning device if the need arose. Evidently his intruder was confused, if not perfectly insane.
"Your office?" came a sort of chuckle. "Yours?"
"Yes, my office." Victor agreed apprehensively, almost worried now that he had strolled into the wrong room. But no, everything seemed to be in place. Everything was as he had left it from the night before, each one of his possessions within the room assigned to him.
"There must be some mistake, sir." The stranger turned, revealing his face from under the shadow of the brim of his hat. A face that Victor had seen many times before...every time he looked in the mirror. "This is my office, and like I said before, I'm not hosting any students for another couple of hours." Victor blinked in amazement, staring up into the face that perfectly mimicked his own. They could have been twins if Victor wasn't so sure of his own genealogy! He had no siblings to account for, no family that would ever claim him so closely in looks. This was impossible...so much so that he figured it all must be some terrible dream. He couldn't think of a response, he couldn't summon up enough coherence to even utter a squeal of surprise! And so instead of answering, Victor did the only logical thing he could think to do. He set down his bag, freeing up his left hand, and slapped himself in the face just about as hard as he could manage. He sent his head flying in the opposite direction, his cheek burning with impact, and just as expected! When he readjusted himself, looking up towards the office, he found that he was alone once more. All trace of his strange imposture, real or imaginary, had vanished.