It took a moment to find wine glasses that seemed appropriate for the occasion, only because Victor didn't seem to own any wine glasses at all. Out of fear of having to serve Musgrave out of a plastic cup he went searching through his cabinets a bit anxiously, coming out with cups and mugs and all sorts of dishes that he only recently unearthed from the moving boxes. Finally he found square scotch glasses at the back of the cabinet; certainly they were made for alcohol, if just not of this particular type. They would do. Musgrave was sitting on one of the high stools along the kitchen counter, going over some of the first documents on the pile in the folder. Victor warned him not to dig too far into them, so as to disrupt the order, though he seemed perfectly content on staring at one particular picture. Victor was too preoccupied with the wine to notice just what had caught Musgrave's attention, though when he finally came to deliver the drinks he saw that it was the mysterious photograph, the one which had appeared within this very apartment.
"Did something catch your attention?" he wondered, setting down one of the cups on the counter next to his company. Musgrave nodded, running his hand a bit apprehensively through his gray bangs.
"I feel as though I recognize these boys, but it wouldn't make sense if I did. They're...well they've got to be close to seventy by now." Musgrave mumbled.
"They have familiar faces, I mean they could blend into any one of my classes and I wouldn't know the difference. They look like every other boy around." Victor agreed. He stared down at the two blonde boys, with their goofy, indestructible smiles. He wondered what Fate had in mind for them, he wondered if they had been caught within the tragic end of their beloved fraternity.
"This one particularly, the shorter one. Well I swear I see him in the hallways. His name...oh I can't remember quite on the top of my head." Musgrave shook his head, looking as though he was on the verge of losing his temper.
"Musgrave, certainly you can't believe that you know him? This was taken sometime in the sixties, he wouldn't look like this now." Victor pointed out.
"I know, I know. But if we are all speaking of ghosts, then perhaps I have seen one as well." Musgrave insisted. Victor didn't respond, instead he took to sipping his wine so as to distract himself from what any sort of snarky response. After all of that fussing over the supernatural, well it was almost hypocritical of Musgrave to suddenly shift his beliefs. Not that he was complaining, of course.
"You don't think..." Victor cut himself off, remembering this photograph's strange origin story. Could it be that Musgrave's stranger had been the shadow? "Well this picture appeared, it came fluttering down the night that the shadow visited me. Martha had never seen it before; it was as if it was hand delivered."
"You don't think this ghost and your shadow are one in the same?" Musgrave suggested.
"I'm not sure. I feel as though there's a deeper meaning, a darker secret. These boys look innocent to me; they don't appear to be up to any sort of devilry." Victor admitted. Musgrave nodded, sipping his drink as if trying to numb the throbbing in his head.
"Who would have thought that I'd be here now? Going over notes, speaking of ghosts. It's as if the world maddened, or perhaps only I have." Musgrave mumbled.
"You no more crazy than I am." Victor suggested. The other man laughed, shaking his head as if he found no reassurance in that.
"Oh well then I'm on a good track." He chuckled. Victor nodded, leaning over the counter heavily on his elbows and staring at the picture once more, trying to focus instead on the background. There were faces everywhere, eyes and heads and bodies all forced into the same small space. From the background it must have been taken in a basement, the basement of Sigma Eta undoubtedly. Now more than ever Victor wished they had a floorplan, so that they could know just what to expect if ever they got the permission to break in.
"Martha explains it as a presence, as if the house is haunted by the same thing which drove the boys out all those years ago." Victor muttered. "Some sort of immortal being, or a ghost of some kind."
"This shadow that you saw, the man who kissed you, do you think they're one in the same? Was that an evil presence?" Musgrave wondered. Victor remembered back, remembering the asphyxiating feeling of those lips upon his own.
"It was...invasive. Uncomfortable." He admitted.
"I can imagine. The kiss of a ghost, I thought that usually meant death?" Musgrave clarified. Victor sighed, having a hard time forcing those memories back into his head. Even thinking about that shadow figure, remembering the place where it crept from, well it ran shivers all down his spine! It was a terrible memory to be cursed with, a terrible experience to have to endure.
"I don't think it was ill intended. A display of power, more accurately. As if to say 'I'm here, and you can't hide'." Victor suggested instead. Musgrave nodded, moving the glass back and forth between his fingers in deep thought. Victor couldn't tell what he was thinking about, though his brow was creased as if with deep concern. There seemed to be something more pressing on his mind than just ghost stories.
"You don't think we're in danger, do you?" he asked at last, raising up his head in some concern.
"Danger, from the ghosts?" Victor clarified, thinking for a moment. "I suppose it depends on what we do."
"What do you mean by that?" Musgrave wondered apprehensively.
"If we please them, then they might not give us any problems. But if we make them mad, if we disrespect them in some way. Well, then I can't imagine they'll let us go without a fight." Victor admitted.
"How would we disrespect a ghost?" Musgrave wondered. Victor just chuckled, shaking his head as if that was primarily the question on his mind.
"I suppose we'll just have to find out." Victor suggested. Musgrave nodded, though that didn't seem to ease his mind. He sighed, shuffling the papers towards a document that Victor hadn't yet pondered.
"What about his one then? Seems like a nice photo of the fraternity." Musgrave pointed out. Victor pulled the photograph towards him, seeing indeed that it was a group picture taken on the front steps. All of the boys were sitting either on the stairs or standing in the back, about twenty in all. It must have been a house photograph, for that sample size could not have been the whole fraternity. They were all dressed in button down shirts, looking quite classy, and wearing smiles that were radiant even throughout the worn colored photograph, taken fifty years before. 

"Did it take?" Sebastian called out, trying to catch the attention of their rather withered camera man who stood on the sidewalk. He looked up slowly, his old eyes trying to adjust to tell just which boy had been talking to him.
"What?" he called out. Sebastian sighed, and John had no choice but to crack a smile. He was sitting next to Greg, joking around with him as if nothing had happened between them up until now. It was as if time had folded in on itself, erasing all memory of their past conflict and repairing the bond between everlasting friends. It was a relief to be sure, for John had been wondering if they would ultimately ignore each other for the rest of their lives. Though that night's conversation had helped smooth the tension, for whatever reason spilling out details of love making and suspicious influence had helped them see a bit more eye to eye on the problems that had driven the wedge in between them before. And that problem, of course, was Sherlock Holmes, the very boy who was standing at the right hand of Sebastian Moran, somehow integrating himself into the picture without even being a member of the house. As Sebastian went to argue with the camera man about the Polaroid he left his boys up on the staircase, all stretching out their legs and messaging their aching cheeks. The camera man was so old that he didn't have much of a reaction time, ultimately leaving them forcing wide smiles for much too long than their cheek muscles could sustain.
"I tell you, it better have taken. I'm not sure I can smile for another thirty seconds, much less another three minutes." Greg grumbled.
"What are we even documenting this for? We're going to be taking officer pictures when rushing begins." James complained from above. He was one of the older boys, and so he had the honor of standing upon the top stair instead of being forced onto one of the concrete stairs.
"What's the matter with getting your picture taken twice? Might come in handy one day, when we have to prove to our grandchildren that we actually were young once." Greg chuckled.
"As if." John grumbled. "If I live long enough for grandchildren I almost hope they don't have to know how far I had deteriorated. I'd rather them imagine me as a prune for my whole existence, rather than know of the downgrade."
"What a strange perspective." came Sherlock's rather drawing voice, followed immediately by the strong smell of cigarettes. John turned rather difficulty on the step, trying to get a good look at him. As assumed he was standing with his weight on one leg, puffing out great mouthfuls of white smoke as if he was trying to impersonate a dragon.
"Would you rather embrace your age?" John wondered. Sherlock chuckled, as if he was sharing an inside joke entirely with himself.
"Bold of you to assume I'll age." He chuckled, his humor fading quickly and his smile replaced with a long, almost sad sigh. John just blinked, not knowing entirely how to respond to that. It could only logically be a sort of sarcasm, though the way it was delivered made it seem more serious than nature might allow. Thankfully their broken conversation was interrupted by Sebastian's reappearance, who waved them away from the steps on the grounds that the picture had been taken and they were free to dissipate into the house. John followed Greg rather glumly inside, for he was appreciating the nice fall weather but was too afraid to disobey a direct order from Moran. Thankfully the first punishment to be handed out had been to Clay, who was always a rather mischievous boy. He was told to go and paint over the more obscene graffiti on the plaster basement walls, which wasn't too bad considering he got to use a fun roller brush. Of course this only paved the way for the boys to create some worse graffiti, seeing that Sebastian didn't approve. John wasn't brave enough to take a part, though he knew that Sherlock's name was mentioned once or twice in a way that Sebastian (or Sherlock, probably) wouldn't very much appreciate. It wasn't long into the evening when Tobias arrived with a girl on his arm, presumably the one he had been talking so much about before the football game. It was a suspicious correlation, and as soon as John saw her talking and flirting with him he had to assume that there was some foul play. He looked over at Greg, who was trying to do his homework through the giggles that were emitting from her very high pitched throat. Perhaps Greg sensed it too, that something wasn't entirely right about this picture. As soon as Sherlock took to whispering to him, as soon as they vanished during the football game...well who knows what had happened in the duration of that time? John wouldn't open his mouth to protest, though he looked over to Sherlock, who was smoking casually in one of the armchairs. He didn't seem to notice the happy couple; instead he was staring out one of the back windows and watching the fading sunlight as it disappeared linearly over the back driveway. John couldn't imagine what was so entertaining out there, though he had to imagine that Sherlock wasn't as occupied with the driveway as he was with the thoughts inside of his head. He was positioned like a man scheming, with his cigarette in two fingers and his chin resting in his opposite fist, his long legs folded underneath him in a complex way which couldn't possibly be comfortable. With every passing moment John found more interest in Sherlock Holmes, though as time went on he began to lose his childish admiration. Instead it was being replaced with suspicion, and further along that suspicion would be replaced with distrust. He was a stoic being, godlike in complexity, and he seemed to constantly be plotting. Even now, in the joyful evening of the fraternity, he was lost inside of his own head and in his own schemes, thinking of days that would come to pass and pieces to move about his own personal chess board. The question was, who was his opponent, and did they yet know that they were playing?
"What do you think, John, a good night for some linear equations?" came Sebastian's cheerful voice as he strutted into the living room. John's attention was still focused on Sherlock, though it was interesting to see how quickly the boy came to life after hearing Sebastian's voice. He perked up, shoving his cigarette between his teeth and turning his head abruptly around.
"There's never a good night for those." John complained, letting his limbs fall heavily about him in some sort of mock protest. Sebastian chuckled, as if he thought that was an over exaggeration. Well if it was, John surely didn't intend it to be. Sebastian set down a notebook in front of John, who instinctively dug out his textbook from where his bag was sitting at his feet.
"Why do you even know this stuff, Sebastian? You're a political science major." John complained.
"With a math minor, John." Sebastian reminded him. "I think numbers are quite fascinating. Tiny little digits, changing each other around, powerful symbols that are entirely under your control."
"Sounds like something you would enjoy." came that deep, provocative baritone from across the room. John's blood ran cold, for the hostility within Sherlock's voice was frightening when aimed so closely at him. Sebastian looked up, though his face grew red instead of pale. He looked more angry than afraid, as if Sherlock's eavesdropping was not an excusable interruption.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't aware you were involved in our conversation." Sebastian snapped. Sherlock grinned, blowing as tight a cloud of smoke as he could manage in an effort to get it all the way across the room. Thankfully it dissipated around the halfway point, though the intention was clear. He was antagonizing, as if he was bored and looking for a fight.
"I'm involved in all conversations, everywhere. Surely you knew that by now?" Sherlock presumed. Sebastian clenched his fist around his pencil, as if trying to restrain himself from using it as a weapon to gouge out those sparkling eyes.
"Not this one. Now please, go back to your smoking." Sebastian demanded. Sherlock hummed, draping his arm lazily across the back of his armchair and tapping the ashes from his cigarette onto the carpet. John pursed his lips, wishing that he could just suggest to Sebastian that they move their equations upstairs. He wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's attitude, not tonight.
"Equations, Sebastian? Just focus on those." John suggested under his breath, not wanting to be too obviously pitted against this little scuffle.
"I won't be told what to do in my own house." Sebastian announced, much more audibly than John's suggestion had been. By now everyone in the living room had picked up their heads to watch, even Tobias and his new girlfriend had ceased their flirting to observe what could only end up being a battle of wits, and perhaps fists.
"Sherlock, you need to learn respect around this house. You're a guest, not a resident, a friend, not a brother. And if you wish to keep a hold of these titles I suggest you treat the President of Sigma Eta with some more respect." Sebastian demanded, rising to his feet very slowly as if to demonstrate just how intimidating he could be when angry. By now John was quaking, feeling as much in the middle of this as any boy could be. He was sitting at Sebastian's left hand, feeling the anger radiate off his very skin, and he was almost directly in the line of Sherlock's laser vision, cutting clean and lethally from where he sat on the other side of the room. At the moment two of the most frightening boys he knew were getting into battle mode, and if John wasn't so interested in the outcome he may very well have went to run and hide. Despite Sebastian's threatening show of force, Sherlock didn't seem entirely fazed. In fact he seemed bored, waving his arm around off the back of his chair as if this was just another normal evening, stuck in the living room and sharing a casual discussion.
"Mind yourself, Mr. President. You don't want to get me mad." Sherlock warned. John was too afraid to agree out loud, so he kept quiet. He looked to Greg, who was also quite visibly stricken. In fact the whole room looked afraid, though they were stone still, as if each had the same voice in the back of their head, the voice that now instructed them to stay quiet and still. To watch, and enjoy the show.
"I think that's exactly what I plan to do, Sherlock. I plan to get you out of my house, whether or not you comply." Sebastian declared.
"Go back to you equations, Sebastian, and let me enjoy my cigarette in peace." Sherlock suggested.
"I have a place for your cigarette." Sebastian growled. At the drop of a dime Sherlock was on his feet, up so quickly that John hardly even noticed the transition. All of the sudden he was standing, fists raised, ready for the oncoming storm. In his mouth was still clutched his cigarette, smoking from the smoldering tip and littering ashes all over the dirty carpet. His movements seemed to radiate emotion, with every footfall he placed onto the carpet John was stricken again with a sense of anxiety. With every breath Sherlock offered his anger to the room, and with all that panting soon each one of the boys was breathing in hostility, to the point where they were getting to their feet and adjusting themselves, just in case they would have to join in. Was this the moment, the moment for choosing sides?
"You may have it." Sherlock assured, shifting his weight back and forth upon his bouncing feet.
"Have what?" Sebastian growled.
"The first punch." Sherlock offered. Sebastian sighed, as if he wasn't much in the mood for fighting. Until such an offer he had been standing upright, trying to settle this democratically instead of by force. Though he would do what he must, as he so often did. He was a taller man than Sherlock, undoubtedly stronger; though with that fire ablaze in Sherlock's complicated eyes it would seem that there was an unfair advantage against the President. He looked significantly smaller, even if he was towering over his competitor. Sebastian hunkered into a fighting stance, taking a couple of deep breaths as if to prepare himself for the effort it would take to beat that smirk off of Sherlock's pretty face. John clutched onto the desk, trying to ease his tension into the wood all while restraining himself from getting to his feet to break up this fight. It didn't seem fair, having to pit these two powers against each other. Though it was imminent, was it not? If he broke up this fight today then it would happen tomorrow. Powers which were so opposite in dynamic were destined to find themselves competing. Sebastian took a step forward, using that first punch to his advantage as he took a hard, heavy swing at Sherlock's perfect face. In response the boy swerved, serving up his own response punch solidly to the side of Sebastian's face. The boy fell hard to the side, stumbling upon his feet but recollecting himself after a quick shake of the head and a grunt of effort. His cheek was bleeding, though only with a slight cut. Sherlock tried to get another swing in, this time with a wicked uppercut towards Sebastian's hefty jaw. Thankfully the boy had enough time to doge, and smacking down Sherlock's hand he was able to rip the boy out of his defensive stance. Sherlock stumbled, regaining his balance just in time to receive a solid punch to the gut. Sebastian had lunged forward, throwing the whole of his weight into Sherlock's stomach and sending the boy crumbled to the floor, gasping for breath. John jumped to his feet, keeping the desk between him and the scene to prevent any unnecessary measures. He wished to jump to Sherlock's defense, it was an instinct more than an actual desire, for he had been secretly cheering for Sebastian this whole time. Out of Sherlock's throat came a wheeze, something that should have been a word if he had enough breath to manage it. He was sprawled on all fours, in the weakest position John had ever witnessed, though still he was trying to speak, his face writhing with the effort of it. At last, a word was formed. 

"Enough." came his breathless croak, something more of a syllable than an actual word. Though it was audible enough, and put a spec of hope within John's heart.
"Is that your way of forfeiting?" Sebastian clarified; still keeping himself in a defensive stance in case Sherlock came up for another heavy hit. He was full of tricks, that boy, and unpredictable in the best of times.
"I said, enough!" Sherlock shrieked, hitting against the floor with both fists and casting what could only be a spell upon the entire room. A force hit John like a wave of ocean water, and before he could contemplate what was happening he found himself stuck, stuck as if cement had been poured into his veins instead of blood. His arms wouldn't move, his lungs could hardly inflate, and his gaze was stuck staring upon the scene in front of him. He hated to realize that this spell had not only been cast upon him, but Sebastian as well. The boy had stopped bouncing, and though his arms were up in front of his face there was a look of desperation in his eyes. He was stuck, he was terrified, and there was Sherlock. Getting to his feet. Getting ready for the final blow.
"Sebastian Moran." Sherlock whispered, wiping his mouth from where spittle had accumulated. He took a couple of breaths, extending the full capacity of his lungs, and settled his eyes lethally upon where Sebastian stood. "I usurp you as President of this fraternity."