Rational theories began to play in my mind, ones that involved an accidental drop, or a spring cleaning done by our faithful housekeeper. Though the more I considered what may have happened to this notebook, and the more I remembered that Mrs. Turner lived in a house of poets, the more I began to realize that this notebook had to have been offered to the flames intentionally...most likely with an ill purpose. This little scrap of leather, this proof of foul play, it was the only evidence I needed to put the pieces together. It was the only survivor in a war of politeness and hospitality, a war of underlying hate, jealousy, and control. Why would a notebook be tossed into the flames, if its true purpose had not been recognized by the villain? Why would anyone dispose of something that would keep John Watson in my life, if not with the decided intention to rid him from Europe forever? I looked towards my host, where he still slept curled within his chair. I decided to wake him; I decided that would be the best course of action. My heart had gone silent; well I couldn't ultimately fathom what my mind had just decided upon. The consequences of such actions were too much to handle, and what felt like the crushing weight of transparency would be my burden now for the remainder of my sorry life. The man who I knew in that chair, he was long gone. The man who I wanted to be in that chair was absent. Another took his place, a foul creature. Something wretched, a demon molded into the shape of a man. I woke him with heat, heat that was just warm enough to alert his primitive senses, those that had not yet evolved out of his system. His nerve endings awoke and roused his brain, and before long Victor's eyes opened and his body stilled. The first thing he saw was not my face, rather the red hot end of the iron poker, held up towards his cheek in such proximity that a single twitch of either his head or my arm would send the two colliding, scaring his beautiful complexion for life. The worst part was that he did not look surprised. He was afraid, certainly, but only for himself. He must have realized what was happening the moment it began to happen, for he could not have possibly noticed what I held clenched within my fist. I wanted to burn him alive, I wanted to scald that red metal into his skin, and watch it bubble and boil. I felt the only way to properly compensate his actions would be to hurt him, to make him scream. His eyes were bright, alert, and slowly he brought up his hand to move the poker aside. I did not argue, I let his hand touch upon the colder part of the metal, shifting it so that he could at least sit up so that his eyes could meet mine. As soon as I recognized those blues I felt tears surfacing, for what lay behind them was not the same emotions I had once seen. Something that had been so beautiful now turned foul, and I could not maintain eye contact with him for long. Trembling, I held up what was within my hand, the blue remains of the notebook that Victor must have done away with. For selfish reasons, undoubtedly. His jaw clenched, but aside from that he made no sound. It didn't seem as though he was willing to admit what he had done. If he had spoken, I would have demanded an apology. Though some part of me suspected that he would not allow me such a luxury, for even standing here face to face, with no wall of misunderstanding between, he still did not regret what he had done. Perhaps he thought it necessary. I would not say anything either, words could not express just what was bubbling within my heart and soul. There were many things I wished to say, many profanities that deserved to be uttered. Though I was quiet, silent, and allowed Victor to imagine each one of the statements that were flowing through my head. I repositioned the poker, stepping in closer to him, trying to brave a second glance into his eyes. They were fading of their color the longer I focused, the cheerful blues melting away to reveal an inky blackness that was just beyond. I extended my arm, bringing the flat side of the poker now level to where his heart ought to be, hovering just above the lapel of his most disheveled dinner jacket. There was a tear now sliding from my eye, my teeth ground together and my heart ached. I hesitated one moment too long, for his mouth began to open, as if with the intention of speaking some sort of statement, a single word that had the potential to turn my heart back towards him. I couldn't let him speak, less his tongue place a sort of curse onto me. I acted as I felt I should, I had to silence him. I pressed the poker in, up against his chest and searing through his clothing. I pressed it just as hard as I could manage, and I did get him to speak then. He allowed a howl, smacking me away with all of his might so that I would fall away, the weapon slipping from my hands and onto the carpet. He hastened to pick it up, so as not to damage the furniture, though I made my flight up the stairs before the repercussions could come about. I heard his voice, calling my name after me, though I imagined that was all he could utter out. He must have fallen over onto the couch, for a whimper and a yelp were evident as he began to tend to the wound that I had given him, only a mere scratch compared to what he had dealt to me. 

 I never slept that night, nor did I give myself a chance to consider what had happened, or what was about to. I didn't hesitate to begin packing, as soon as I shut and locked my door I knew that this safe haven had instead become the very hell I was trying to avoid. The master of the house would have my heart in chains, he would cast away each one of our visitors, and before long he would make it so that we had none but each other, just the way he wanted it to be. That selfish, miserable man! I flung all of my possessions onto the floor, all that I had collected during my time with him, all of the things that his money and his mentorship had bought me. Though for all of my possessions I never seemed to have bought a case to put them in, never once had I considered the idea that I would have to tote them from this house without the help of the servants. I knew that I would have no place to go to, unlike my first flight I was not running into the arms of someone, rather away from them. I had to take all that I could carry, all that would help keep me alive. For lack of a better option I ripped the bedsheet off of my bed, throwing it down upon the floor and stacking up what possessions I deemed necessary. Clothes, shoes, books, pens, in my pockets I shoved my money, a sizable amount that would do me well throughout my travels. I would buy food and shelter along the way, though I already knew that my flight would bring me away from England, away from all of the safe havens I had built up in my wake. I wasn't going to be seeing familiar faces any longer; in fact I would be in the midst of strangers, searching for but one friend. John's voyage would be reconciled; when I found him again we would bring our combined wrath down upon our shared villain. Victor would be no more, faced with the ghosts of the boys he had attempted to kill. My panicked state brought me all the way until sunrise, when I deemed it necessary to make my flight. I would not stay for a farewell; I would not linger to bid good tidings to my host. I tied the bedsheet into a knot, lifting it and finding it quite manageable. What possessions I deemed unnecessary lay in a discarded pile near the foot of my bed, and I stopped not to bid the room a farewell. Each piece of wood within this house was a monstrosity, each furnishing set by the taste of Victor Trevor was impossible to appreciate, for his foul touch seemed to be everywhere. That creature, the center of this domain, the master of the accursed house. I flung my bedroom door open and made for the stairwell, running as fast as my feet would carry me. I knew that he would be waiting; I knew that he had been awake all throughout the night. Just as predicted I heard his shouting in the back of my ears, I heard his cries echoing through my consciousness as I made for the door. There I wrenched my jacket off of its hook, pausing only for a moment to drop my things and pull my arms through the sleeves. There was where he caught me, oh curse my hesitation! The door was blocked now, by the shirtless and bandaged form of my disheveled host. His hair had lost its place; it was falling all about his head in greasy strands. His eyes were wild and desperate, and his strength seemed all reserved for keeping me in one place, exactly where he wanted me to be. 

"You're not leaving?" was all that he could manage, not even an apology, not even a good morning.
"Of course I'm leaving!" I snarled in response, shaking my coat over my shoulders and hoisting my makeshift luggage once more onto my shoulder, though I kept it loose. I knew that if I would have to start smacking him with it, I would.
"Sherlock, don't be childish. You have nowhere to go!" Victor insisted. "You can't just run out, not until..."
"Not until what, Victor? Until I hear your side of the story?"
"Until you realize what a mistake you are making!" Victor defended. "Until you cool down, and realize that this is the only home you'll ever know."
"That sounds more like a threat to me." I insisted, trying to push through him but finding his thin body to be quite solid. He had wedged himself between both walls, his limbs spread out wide so as to make passing through virtually impossible.
"I won't let you leave." he said flatly, his eyes wide and determined.
"You're a murderer." I responded in a sour tongue, discarding every word that came out of his mouth to be but the ramblings of a mad man.
"I'm nothing of the sort. I didn't intend on the ship to sink, I didn't want him dead!" Victor defended. "Stay, stay, Sherlock!"
"I do not take orders like a dog!" with that I took up my pack, giving it a couple of swings for momentum before bringing it hard into the middle of Victor's exposed chest, trying to aim the more heavy books into the side of him that was covered in white bandages. Certainly under that mess of sterilized cloth was the wound I had offered him, probably red and sore, sensitive but to a change in the air currents, much less the swinging back of a lonely traveler. Yes, just as predicted this gave me a moment of time. Victor broke his stance in order to cradle his chest, wincing and falling over into himself in a moment of weakened agony. It was then that I pushed past him, throwing him into the opposite wall and escaping out the front door into the sunlight street, only just beginning to move with the early birds of London.
"Sherlock, wait!" Victor managed in a strained voice, falling out of the door in my wake. I bid him at least a moment of time, now that I was standing on the sidewalk, free to escape in any direction; I felt it at least tolerable to hear his final words. In that moment I presumed I would never have to look upon his face again, I assumed that he would be gone out of my life from the moment I took another step down the sidewalk.
"At least let me give you money, or food! If you're going to be living homeless I would at least like to be sure that you are safe." Victor insisted, his voice trembling as he gripped along the iron railing of the staircase, lingering on the bottom step but not daring to allow himself onto the street. Perhaps he suspected that if he got down to my level I would take off, and he presumed correctly of course.
"I have my own money." I said flatly. "And I won't be homeless. I'm going off, Victor. I'm going to look for him, I'm going to bring back what you tried so hard to rid yourself of."
"You'll come back?" Victor clarified, a stark sense of hope regaining in his otherwise desolate expression. I could only chuckle, laughing at the fact that he would consider that even a possibility.
"For revenge, perhaps. Or maybe we'll just stay away." I admitted, dropping my sack so that I could cross my arms in a rather taunting way. "I considered all night how best to hurt you, in the way you hurt me. I considered going in your room and shooting you, or perhaps making you swallow the poker."
"That is perfectly barbaric." Victor whispered.
"But I couldn't, no it wouldn't hurt as much as this. I'm just going to leave you, Victor. A broken heart is the worst pain of all; it's the pain that you arranged for me." I pointed out, to which the man shuttered where he stood. There was a panic arising in his eyes, and for a moment he batted away the stray hairs that were falling over his brow, as if to make sure that he was comprehending things properly out of all five of his senses.
"I won't let this be our last word." Victor promised. "The two of us are linked by more than passion, we are fated."
"Fate only lasts so long." I reminded him.
"When I imagine my death, I see you with me. You have dreams, Sherlock...so do I." Victor mumbled against the wind.
"I'll arrange your death, if you should like." I offered. He shook his head, somehow managing to choke away the tears that I had expected. Though he seemed deprived of emotions this morning, so much so that it did not offer me the satisfaction I had expected. He seemed hallowed out, as if he already knew that I had won. As if he was already grieving my loss, even before I had gone.
"That's not what I meant." Victor muttered. "I'll see you again, Sherlock."
"I hope that you never do." I decided with a nod of my head, allowing my hands to fall away from where they were crossed when I felt a familiar object, shoved up in my inner coat pocket. I almost had to laugh, opening up my jacket and pulling what was once my most prized possession out from where it sat in the folds of fabric, long forgotten now that its sentimentality had nearly been exhausted.
"Within the Realms of Possibility." I announced with a little bit of a chuckle. "Ironic. I met you within these pages, Victor. I learned more about you through these words than I ever did in these past months. I first heard your voice, speaking through the pages. I first saw your face in the ink. Now, Victor. I'll never hear you again. And I never want to see you. Again." With that I took up the book in my hand, light as a feather and folded at strange angles after having been in my pocket for so long. It was worn and old, soaked through and dried many times, the ink almost fading. What was once the property of Victor Trevor, passed down into the hands of Tobias Gregson, adored then by me. Held in my hand, the history of the men who I had once loved. I nodded at the book, nodded at my host, and proceeded to throw it as hard as I could towards his sorry figure. I never did see if he caught it, for as soon as the book left my hands I turned, and I never did turn back. And I never did get to hear his goodbye."