I spent the night as any man would, when having been presented with a gift so delicate and so powerful. Mycroft perhaps thought I was sleeping, though already I was drafting a letter to my idol that would explain myself and my admiration far better than could my nervous tongue. To have the honor even to say nothing to Victor Trevor is something I might have killed for before, though now I was beginning to feel incredibly foolish. I had nearly blown my one and only chance at a connection to the man, and now with his card in my hands, well now I had one more shot to gain his attention. I deserved at least some recognition for my efforts, at least some conversation from one poet to another. And so I decided to write to him, write using the words I knew how to articulate without any stress, without the pressure of a blue tinted spotlight coming from those radiant eyes of his. Oh to think, to think that I had met my idol! The very words I had worshipped for so long, written by the hands which had grasped my shoulders! Half of me wished to write to Tobias, in an attempt to reconnect him into my life and disclose my new bout of fortune. I almost reached for a clean sheet of paper, so close was I to abandoning our silence and persevering towards the love I had been rejected! Though I hesitated, and before long I had fallen back into my chair without writing a single word for the boy to read. I decided that this path, well it was mine to travel alone. He had his shot; he had his chance to join me. Though I was alone now, as was he, though I had a feeling our paths were never destined to cross again. I was bound in one direction, towards fame and the halls of our university Gods; he was bound for who knows where? Alone for sure, or rather without me. And so no, I would not write a word for my past affections, I would not drag him into this world dedicated only to those who were outright with their feelings, those who were brave enough to reach out and take what they thought they deserved. And so, with this newfound dedication coursing through my worthy fingers, I folded up the letter written to Victor Trevor, a letter of admiration and of worship, and tucked it neatly into an envelope addressed to the address on the card. It would be sent the next morning, begging him to rejoin me somewhere within the city. I sought his teachings; I sought the wisdom he had stored away in his bones, wisdom so far from me at that moment! When my pen still halted, my thoughts still spun, and my intentions were never clear. I thought that he was the answer to my sufferings, and that should we reconnect on a more personal level I may never have to hurt again. I may never have to be alone, or unrecognized, or unheard. Well Victor Trevor was no magic cure; he was no God as I then perceived him as. He was just as foul as any scum I might have dragged in on my shoe, and he landed me here. If it was not for Victor Trevor...well then Doctor you may not have had this pleasure. You may not have ever known of me at all, which would have been better. Better for the both of us." 

 Musgrave waited for the man to go on, however when Sherlock sat back into his pillow he knew that the day's tales were at an end. He hesitated for a moment, figuring that he ought to offer the man a cigarette in recompense for his elaborate tales. The story had been fragmented throughout the day, due to waves of incoming patients and necessary surgeries, though now the ward was lit only with lamps, the sun had long gone down, and Musgrave found himself alone with Sherlock Holmes, alone in a room full of sleeping soldiers, fallen asleep to the sounds of Sherlock's voice struggling over syllable after syllable. Musgrave wagged a cigarette next to Sherlock's exhausted lips, and the man grasped onto it thankfully. He waited a moment for the Doctor to offer a match, and before long the poor patient was smoking and breathing in the fumes which might succeed in killing him faster. 

"You paint Mr. Trevor to be quite a villain." Musgrave perceived apprehensively, thinking back to all he knew of the man in person. Perhaps, even if Victor was mean spirited, he had found change in his ways? He did not seem a fraction of evil as Sherlock might portray him as.
"All stories, Doctor, have both a hero and a villain. The story of each man and woman's life too. He is my villain, and now that you've met him I'm sure he will become yours as well." Sherlock warned.
"Trevor is perhaps a changed man, due to the harm he inflicted upon you." Musgrave offered optimistically, to which Sherlock just laughed doubtfully, shaking his head in some regret.
"Changed man? No, no Doctor, surely you don't know enough about poets. A stubborn lot, and they never take back anything they say. And Victor has said so many things, done so many things, that to redeem himself would be all together impossible. Best stay on good terms with the Devil, then to risk ending up in purgatory." Sherlock chuckled. He exhaled a deep breath of smoke, turning his face to examine the Doctor with some curiosity, suddenly realizing it was quite strange for the man to go on trying to redeem what he knew all too well to be a criminal.
"Why try to defend him?" Sherlock whispered, to which Musgrave straightened himself up on the chair, shaking his head in his own defense and trying to turn the tides away from his own interrogation.
"I only try to see the good in all people, Sherlock. Just as I saw the good in you, when you would at first ignore me and my entire staff." Musgrave insisted quickly. The stranger stopped for a moment, tapping his fingers along his bedsheets before readjusting the cigarette in his mouth, taking a deep draw as if he felt he would need the healing affects before long.
"I warn you, Musgrave...there are some powers found within the worst of men. Powers of attraction, seduction, and blindness. Mind yourself; don't get trapped in his web." Sherlock warned, deep seriousness set heavy within his eyes. Musgrave chuckled, trying to make the impression that he had not a care in the world. Perhaps it was not as easy as he would have liked, playing the part of the innocent fly who had not been tempted by the spider.
"Sherlock, men of medicine like myself do not deal with the smaller temptations of humanity. We do not suffer the results of sentiments, and deal with nothing but the facts." Musgrave said at last, rising to his feet with some finality. Such a statement would be his attempt at the last laugh, and for the present moment it would seem as though Sherlock was at a loss to respond. As Musgrave gathered himself he looked down to find the man laughing, shaking his head as if there was some grave mistake about to occur, or perhaps one which had already come to pass.
"Men of medicine." Sherlock laughed. "Men of hack saws, and blindfolds." The Doctor stood for a moment, wondering if there was any use wasting his breath to defend his choice of amputation. The crutches still lay where he had left them, now almost a week ago! And here the man lay, useless but to whine over his current and helpless situation.
"You are alive, Sherlock. Alive because of me." Musgrave debated.
"That in itself is the worst truth of all." the man muttered, nearly biting through his cigarette as he gnashed his teeth, staring off into space and granting the doctor nothing of a goodbye. And so Musgrave decided to take his leave, as he was done arguing with the poor man over who in this world was right or wrong. There was a fine line, in the doctor's opinion, between good and bad. It all depended on the perspective you saw the person in, and what they had personally done to you. In Musgrave's opinion Victor Trevor was all together redeemable, perhaps because he had not yet heard in much detail of the crime he had committed against poor Sherlock. Well how could he know, when the character of John had not even been mentioned yet! Sherlock's life seemed to hold a great many men, strangers turned to lovers turned to strangers once again. Perhaps this John had been different, taken at a time when Sherlock needed him the most. Who could know, but those who had been there themselves, living within the stories that Sherlock dared create for them? Who could know, if not by continuing on with his story? And so Musgrave left the hospital, much later than he usually would have, and drove on towards where his home awaited. His mind was clouded but his heart was full, and when he pulled into the driveway he found that, to his ultimate pleasure, there was a light illuminated in the front room. The Doctor got out of the car anxiously, locking it securely before trying the front door. It was unlocked, and so carefully he made his way into the house to find a single glass of wine. All evidence that he had a guest, or rather a new inhabitant.
"Should I pour you another glass, or have you done that yourself?" Musgrave called out to the seemingly empty house. A laugh echoed from the sitting room, one that was quite recognizable, quite all together innocent.
"I've finished the bottle, Musgrave. Nothing to do all day, when the Doctor's away." Came the chortling reply.
"If only you had a real job, Victor." Musgrave insisted, turning to find the poet strolling through the illuminated sitting room and into the darkness of the kitchen with that wonderful smile upon his face. Musgrave's heart fluttered, goodness he could not help it! Love was an immediate reaction when faced with a man so beautiful, that form so tall and thin, staggering drunkenly and hidden away under layers of old, expensive fabric.
"A real job? I would have died years ago. I feed off of fashion, you know?" Victor insisted, looming into the room only to throw his arms tiredly around the Doctor's neck, leaning heavily into him and gazing with that far away stare into what Musgrave could only hope was his own soul. It was an interesting feeling, a rebellious one indeed. Back to his younger years, when he would hide his lovers from his parents, that same adrenaline was with him now! Though now he was hiding from Sherlock, hiding away with the so called villain of this very story.
"You feed off of more than that." the Doctor reminded him. Victor chuckled, allowing his hands to linger up and down Musgrave's back, hooking some of his fingers into his waistband and feeling his teeth along the crevices of the Doctor's heavily sculpted chin.
"Not afraid of me, Doctor?" Victor clarified doubtfully, his words pressed deeply upon the Doctor's skin, passing straight through and into his body, electrifying every nerve.
"Always, Trevor." Musgrave assured. "But that does not stop me."
"That's the spirit." Chuckled the poet, and with that he pushed that wine glass away and hoisted the Doctor onto the counter instead, hoping that the windows were shuttered but not caring enough at the moment to check. Gone were the times of discretion, alight now were the fires of passion that could burn only so long as curiosity was the coal. 

When Musgrave awoke it was to the usual alarm, that horrible metallic clanging that only lasted for a moment or two before an exasperated fist shot out of the blankets and smacked it across the room in a fit of exhausted anger.
"Victor, I need that!" Musgrave debated, hopping out of bed and rejoining the clock where it lay on the floor, picking it up and examining the shattered glass to make sure none of the important parts had been broken. Oh but alas, the entire thing seemed dented beyond repair, and while the stop button was never officially pressed the ringing had ceased all together.
"It's Sunday! It's a day of rest; you don't need that silly alarm clock." Victor debated, his head emerging from under the blankets in some sleepy defeat. His hair, usually so perfectly styled, now hung in a sort of clump on his forehead, and before he could even say good morning he hunted around for his cigarettes with a careless slapping hand.
"I'm a Doctor, Victor. People don't just decide not to die on Sundays." Musgrave defended.
"Oh stop that; just get someone to cover your shift." Victor insisted.
"You say that if there is just an abundance of doctors roaming around, now in this time of war. We're a precious resource! And we all have to do our part, that is if we want to defeat the Germans once and for all." Musgrave insisted with a little nod of his head.
"Germans never did anything to me." Victor grumbled, falling back into the pillows now with a cigarette clenched happily between his teeth.
"Not yet they didn't, just wait until they get into England and decide to burn down everything in sight. Need I remind you we currently sit just about as close to the continent as anyone in England? We'll be the first to go." Musgrave muttered with a little shiver. Victor sighed heavily, though for a moment he sat and smoked as if death wouldn't be too great an inconvenience.
"Would you leave so urgently if you knew Sherlock was not waiting for you on the other side?" Victor questioned at last, his eyes narrowing in some suspicion. Musgrave paused, feeling quite attacked and quite exposed all at the same time. Well surely he wouldn't be as eager, certainly not, if he wasn't about to hear the continuation of the story. Though to call him out on something such as that, especially when framing it like some sort of crime, well it was rather rude.
"He's just gotten past the opera, where the two of you first met." Musgrave explained at last, giving Victor a lingering look before at last wandering towards the closet to pick out his outfit for the day.
"Ah yes, lovely production that was." Victor said with a little laugh. "Or maybe not. I'm not sure. Neither of us paid attention, you really couldn't question either about the plot."
"Were you in love with him, even then?" Musgrave questioned, pulling a shirt around his arms but leaving it unfastened. He observed his companion in the mirror, watching just over his shoulder as the poet stayed still and thoughtful under the blankets, as if that was a question that he himself would like answered.
"Who said anything about love?" Victor questioned at last.
"It can be inferred." Musgrave said immediately. The poet chuckled, leaning his head back and at last noticing that he was being watched in the reflection.
"Jealous, Doctor?" the man wondered.
"Who said anything about that?" Musgrave mimicked, at last dressing himself and settling on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. "Would you like to come with me? He's not seen you in a while; certainly he might need a familiar face."
"No I don't think he'd appreciate my familiar face. Anyone but me, so he says." Victor admitted with a sigh. Musgrave nodded, getting to his feet and lingering a bit hesitantly near the edge of the bed. He stared upon this man, well basically a stranger, a stranger with terrible secrets and a questionable past.
"What do you do when I'm gone?" Musgrave wondered.
"Wait for you to get back." Victor admitted. "While smoking, drinking, and all together ruining my good health."
"You've not had good health for years, that much I know for sure." Musgrave debated, crossing his arms doubtfully and remembering the laudanum incident from the night before. Victor smiled, as if that certainly was a guilty pleasure.
"Well then, Doctor, I suppose it is in your good nature to cure me." Victor presumed.
"Good nature...when faced with someone so utterly careless about themselves? No, I have real work to be getting on with. Besides, if any of the money goes missing I'll know who to look for." Musgrave decided at last.
"You'd never find me." Victor debated.
"You'd never leave." Musgrave pointed out with a wagging finger, getting a last look of that smirking figure as he loomed into the hall to get his coat.
"Have a good day at work. Don't let him spill out all the secrets too early!" Victor called out in some mocking tone, a statement Musgrave took as a goodbye. And with that, and of course a quick call of farewell from his own end, he was off towards his car once more. Life usually went into some sort of pattern, save for having a companion around the house. The transitions remained stable but the work, the story telling, and the love come the nights was all quite different, all quite mysterious. Maybe these romantics were beginning to rub off on him, for surely Musgrave would have never considered some passionate affair with someone he just met, even more outrageous with a man! He had never dreamed of it, never even thought...Oh well, war brings out much different sides of people, much different sympathies. You all need someone to cling to, all need something to love. When at last he veered into the hospital parking lot he was met again with a number of mourning family members, a crowd which he was forced to push through in an attempt to regain safety on the other side of the wall. When at last he was met with his usual staff, Musgrave walked swiftly to the bedside of most concern, ignoring outright all of the other patients who tried to get his attention in his flight.
"Doctor Musgrave, you are quite early today." Sherlock commented. He was sitting up in his bed with a tray table on his lap, though he seemed all together uninterested in the eggs and sausages that had been prepared. He seemed to notice the Doctor's disheveled look, and after a moment of perception he undoubtedly came to his final (and hauntingly correct) conclusion. Though what the man observed was certainly kept to himself, as he did not mention it and Musgrave did not dare question him on the subject.
"Care for your patients, Doctor. Then come to me." Sherlock suggested quietly, casting his breakfast aside at last and rolling his along his shoulders so as to look the doctor very lazily in the eye.
"They'll be fine, there's plenty of nurses on hand." the Doctor insisted.
"Musgrave, you have responsibilities." Sherlock reminded him, his tongue now sharp and his words concise. There was no arguing with such a demand, especially when he was correct. Musgrave had been slacking on almost all counts, and as he wasted away his time in that little chair by the poet's bedside there were other men waiting for treatment, waiting for care.
"I'll be back." The Doctor promised at last, though he was not all together thrilled about the situation. Sherlock hummed his quiet agreement, casting a rather pitiful glance to all of the suffering men in the beds around him. Surely he had to understand that he was being given special treatment, though with some examination of every man's life he may not be any more special than the lot of them. Everyone might have a story to share, though Sherlock's was the one which interested the Doctor the most. When at last the day's burdens were carried out, including a great many new patients shipped in from the latest scuffle abroad, it was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Musgrave finally disposed of his bloodied smock towards Molly Hooper, who was arranging the new patient on a stretcher ready to be taken out into the hallway, where he would be assigned a new bed and a shot of morphine to ease the pain of his healing surgery. The Doctor settled himself on the chair he was most anxious to sit in, and watched now as Sherlock sipped at a glass of water, preparing to go on with his tale. Musgrave knew that eventually the story would bring about the most pitiful angle onto his new friend (well, there might be a better word for Victor), however he wasn't sure if he would accept such a new opinion or disregard it entirely. It was admittedly quite frightening; knowing that someone you cared for was teetering on the edge of some great abyss, and with one push would be shadowed and falling forever. But did Musgrave care for Victor, or was he just stringing along each character in this story in an attempt to become a part of it himself?