Three Is Company

The Most Important Mouthpiece

John was invited into a warm, comfortable atmosphere, one decorated in such a modern fashion that he was surprised it belonged to such a conservative, mild mannered Doctor. The vivid art forms and the elaborate furniture spoke to a much more outgoing character than the humble man ever dared expose. Though despite the decorations it was the company that caught John's immediate attention, the familiar face, so thankfully found in safe hands.
"Sherlock." John whispered, stepping anxiously towards the couch, only to be caught by an extended arm. Musgrave held him back, a gesture which felt hostile before the appropriate dialogue could be paired with it. Sherlock was staring back, contorted in such a way that only his head and neck were visible above the back of the couch. His expression was tame, almost too calm to be reliable. It was not in character, and with Sherlock Holmes it was only too easy to diagnose such an oddity. If it didn't seem to be him, well then it probably wasn't.
"Irene, have you met Mr. Watson?" Musgrave wondered, switching his hand from a stiff arm across the chest to a careful pat along the shoulder, as if introducing John rather than forbidding him to come any closer. John's breath caught in his throat, though he might have guessed that it was Irene who sat poised on the couch, with those parted lips and a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.
"Yes, once before. I didn't know he would be our company for this evening?" Irene muttered, her voice raised artificially high. John had last heard that voice on a tape, spurring conversation with a mysterious gentleman caller. He had last heard that voice escalate into rage, and into something much worse. It was startling to say the least.
"John is here for a quick chat. He's worried about your roommate, Sherlock." Musgrave explained. Irene chuckled, dangling her arms across the back of the couch and allowing the sleeves of her shirt to pull up, revealing long and wondrously feminine arms to dangle carelessly, flawlessly, over the edge.
"Sherlock?Poor Sherlock. You never can tell what's going on with him." Irene chuckled. "I certainly wouldn't want to be his keeper. Is that your title, Mr. Watson? Sherlock's keeper?Or his protector? Or his lover?"
"I'm...I'm not so simple as that." John admitted, figuring there was no way to both agree and refuse each of the titles provided. The woman chuckled, swinging her arms again as if to show her carelessness.
"Well it's none of my business, anyhow. Though you come at an unappreciated moment. Doctor Musgrave was just in the middle of an experiment."
"It was nothing important. A mere trifle. Come, sit down." Musgrave insisted, giving John a slight push towards the couch and prompting the man to stumble forward. Faced with no other option John made his way slowly towards an armchair, feeling Irene's determined eyes following him with every step he took. As John sank into his chosen chair he was able to see more of the woman's curled body, her shirt unbuttoned down to the middle of her chest, her hair pulled across each side of her face as if attempting to part it down the middle. There was a distinct air of difference, not only in her mannerisms but also in her aura, as if Sherlock really was gone from that body and mind. The way she gazed, the rich seduction that was ever apparent in her eyes, only spoke to the true purpose of the characterization. The mere presence of Irene upon the Doctor's couch made John wonder as to the purpose of the experiment, furthermore the method upon which it was conducted. And yet he had more to worry about than Irene's pass times, he had business with the worst of the three who harbored within Sherlock's shared brain.
"Irene, I'm sorry to have to say this, but we have no more use for you tonight." Musgrave admitted.
"No more use? Certainly you men must get bored after a long while. Is there no use for a pretty lady once diplomacy gets stale?" Irene purred, rising up onto her knees in order to meet the Doctor half way. Musgrave lingered nearer to the door, smiling a bit reluctantly as Irene's extended fingers touched upon the curve of his jawline. John's stomach twisted, despising the most convincing way Sherlock's body contorted to adore another man. John of course had no claims to the heart of his neighbor, though it did spark a sort of jealousy.
"Unfortunately we must talk to Victor." Musgrave admitted, his voice heavy with regret.
"Victor?" John clarified, his blood running cold at the name. Irene's smile faded, though Musgrave never offered her a response. Instead he pulled away, drummed up momentum, and hit the woman square in the side of the face. Irene gave a wail, falling across the edge of the couch in agony, clutching her face while John rose anxiously to his feet.
"You whore, you stay away from me." Musgrave snarled, his words leaving with an aggressive spray of saliva. "To think I would love you, to think anyone would love you, when they can get no satisfaction from the atrocity you carry underneath your dress?"
"Reginald!" John exclaimed, receiving a shush and a hand of command from the Doctor. Irene was crying again, though by the way she flailed, by the way she moved, John couldn't help but see Sherlock instead. Sherlock in agony. He wouldn't have it. He couldn't have it.
"You're no more attractive than the doormat, and even then I would allow nothing but the soles of my shoes to touch you." Musgrave growled, his voice potent now, filled with as much hatred as he could dilute into the air. He knew how to hurt her; he knew the right things to say.
"Musgrave, say another word against her and I'll send your brain..."
"John, silence!" Musgrave demanded, again holding a single finger in his direction. Surprisingly this was enough to silence her only protector, and John held his mouth closed, trying to keep from jumping on the Doctor and knocking his teeth out. Irene was wailing still, having fallen back upon the couch while clutching her face, her legs kicking against the armrest as she moaned her defiance against the claims.
"The very fact that you can lure men to your household only means that they've slept with every other creature in this town, having resorted to the last, most undesirable avenue. And even then they get nothing for their efforts." Musgrave snarled. John clenched his fists, still on his feet and ready for the attack, though the single finger acted as a block of ice. So long as Musgrave commanded it, John would stay still. There was a silence, silence that only served to demonstrate Irene's agony had passed. Instead the woman was stilled on the couch, her limbs falling heavily upon the cushions and dangling where they lay. Her face was exposed, Sherlock's face, having fallen from her usual stillness into a more recognizable expression. Musgrave cleared his throat, dropped his finger, and pushed his hair back in regret. Irene was silent, though her actions were proving familiar. John had seen this sort of stillness once before, in the deadpan eyes of Sherlock Holmes the moment he took on another role. She began to twitch, her mouth beginning to form words that were unheard, her eyes blinking, fingers prodding. She was waking up. Or rather, someone was. As predicted, the woman pulled herself into a sitting position with a more taunting expression. Her face, once so soft and gentle, had become rather pointed. Her eyes slanted into uncomfortable angles, her lips pursed into a thinner, more aggressive line. All the warmth had dissolved from her gaze, and when the body began to move it was rigid, jerky, and harsh. As if the limbs were working separately from the whole, and the conductor of the shell was only just getting used to the controls.
"I apologize for my rudeness, John, but surely there is no other way to progress this conversation." Musgrave explained. "To speak so definitively about the situation requires all members to be present. And the most important mouthpiece can only be summoned through such means."
"Victor." John agreed, managing the name in as casual a tone as he could. In all reality the man scared him; in fact he scared him quite to death. Though John had no choice but to look the man into the eye, the eye that seemed to be plotting from the moment it woke behind the lids. The man smiled, straightening himself out onto the couch and tapping his long, familiar fingers against the cushions.
"Mr. Watson. We've never been properly introduced." Victor muttered. He took a moment to push his hair to his preferred angle, a gesture that must have been his fist and most immediate habit. For all his attempts, John had never seen one that was successful. Sherlock's curls refused to be pushed aside by Victor's bloodied hands. His voice was stern, much different from the quiet whisper or the lulling purr of his other two roommates. Instead he spoke as if with a forked tongue, with each word dripping in foul intentions. No matter how tame he attempted to appear, Victor still seemed to move with an animalistic disposition, and to speak in a series of hisses instead of a proper human language.
"So you...you know Sherlock?" John managed, trying to pretend that it was normal to talk about a man to his unresponsive shell. Victor gave an eerie chuckle, the sound of a gust of wind through the barren trees, the sound of a train whistle in the dead of night.
"I know him well. I live inside of him, if you couldn't already tell." Victor pointed out.
"Victor is the only self-aware personality." Musgrave explained, thankfully cutting John off before he began a series of embarrassing remarks.
"I come to the rescue of Sherlock or Irene, whoever needs my assistance the most. Though I assure you, Mr. Watson, I do not act so blindly. I am not an animal." Victor insisted, speaking in such a persuasive tone that John was inclined to believe him. Inclined only by the need to shove this situation underneath the couch, to ignore it for the night, even for the rest of his life. And yet he looked upon that face, that determined face, and he recognized it from the film. He recognized its smile, still so obvious without the stains of blood. That face was the last thing to be seen before the tape cut out, smiling so calmly overtop of a murder victim. As gentlemanly as Victor claimed to be, his hands were still stained the deepest shade of red.
"I saw your tape." John explained at last, feeling it better to make his point clear. Musgrave hesitated against the back of the couch, kneading his fingers against the fabric as if to work out some of his pent up tensions. Perhaps this was a meeting he had been trying to avoid for a long time. Perhaps he wished this day would never come.
"What do you mean by that?" the Doctor wondered. Victor sat back with a smirk, as if he already knew what he had left on those soon to be developed rolls of film.
"That evening, it was recorded. Sherlock made his entry and then made his confession on the same roll of film. And in that tape I saw the complete transition. I saw Irene and I saw you, Victor. I saw what you did to that man. You're a murderer." John declared, trembling as he posed such harsh allegations. He would hope that Musgrave knew not only the commands but the restraints on the wild beast, for while John felt comfortable enough to voice his concerns he did not yet know where Victor's breaking point will be. How many harsh words could he stomach before he lashed out again, this time at the very many who was attempting diplomacy? Musgrave dropped his head, as if he had hoped the evidence would not be so damning. Perhaps he wished John was acting on theories alone, without anything tangible to show the courts.
"The tapes are with a safe source. I've...I've made sure that they get to the right hands in the event I don't return home." John added quickly, a well fashioned lie created as soon as he recognized his own vulnerability. It wasn't as if he was here to charge Victor with murder, nor to arrest them both on multiple counts. He wanted to talk, more than anything he wanted to help Sherlock. Though the pair might not see it that way. Suddenly their gazes appeared all the more hostile, as they recognized their only vulnerability was in the Doctor and his unprecedented knowledge. Musgrave set his jaw, though Victor seemed to find great amusement in that statement. He leaned forward onto his knees, collecting a glass of wine that was sitting half drunk on the opposite end of the coffee table. He was chuckling all the way, tapping his fingers against the glass as he downed a couple generous mouthfuls.
"Do you think I intend to kill you?" Victor asked at last, his lips stained a familiar shade of red. John swallowed heavily, frightfully.
"I hope you don't. I hope you recognize, if you truly value Sherlock's wellbeing, that we have the same goals." John admitted quietly. He dropped his gaze at this, for he didn't appreciate staring into Sherlock's eyes and seeing that nihilistic, threatening light inside of them. Such precious colors, such docile shades...why must they be corrupted?
"You love him, yes?" Victor clarified.
"My exact emotions are not the issue here." John demanded.
"In fact they are an issue. For if you claim Sherlock Holmes to be your priority, why will you not commit to him? Not fully, at least? Even the idea of your lovely wife is enough to keep you back." Victor snarled. "I know how you feel, John. I was there when it happened."
"What do you mean by that?" John snarled.
"I mean I'm ever present. Unlike Ms. Adler, who only comes out at night, I am behind his eyes. I am listening with his ears. We may have just met, but I know exactly how your lips taste, Mr. Watson." Victor chuckled.
"Let's stay to the point, Victor." Musgrave suggested, patting his patient on the shoulder while making his way around to the other side of the couch. John was silent, Victor's words having effectively turned him to stone. At the moment he felt no more able to make a contribution than was the chair he was sitting in, though Victor seemed to relish in the embarrassment that was flaring up. John was his victim, perhaps not physically, but psychologically. Certainly Musgrave realized this. Certainly he did nothing to stop it.
"And that point is?" Victor wondered, sloshing around the Doctor's wine as if tempting him to ask for it back. Instead Musgrave settled himself on the couch next to the tamed animal, trying to assert that he was not afraid.
"The point is that we have some explaining to do. That or we will both be in jail." Musgrave insisted.
"Murder is no small charge." Victor sighed, as if his actions were mere inconveniences rather than atrocities. John quivered, wondering if that cold complexion was steady throughout the acts themselves. Did he maintain that careless attitude throughout the duration of his crimes, or only as he recited them to a larger audience?
"I'm not here to arrest either of you." John insisted. "I'm here to understand why all of this is necessary. Doctor I...I do believe you have his best interests in mind."
"Always, Mr. Watson." Musgrave assured. "Victor and I have very different strategies for keeping Sherlock safe. Though I admit I usually have to do the cleaning up."
"I have a time limit, you see. There's not enough hate in his little body to keep me going for long." Victor explained. John nodded, not bold enough to express his thanks for that little safeguard in the mechanics of Sherlock's mind.
"John, when Victor appears it is with good reason. I do not approve of his methods, though he has done more to protect Sherlock than anyone could have managed. The men he killed had done unspeakable things; some are guilty of more than just verbal abuse. And while killing them seems to be in excess, my hand is forced to take action on the remediation."
"Killing them is cleaner. No witnesses that way." Victor sighed, as if it was truly a burden to be so trigger happy. Musgrave pursed his lips; all the while John was silent. He couldn't think of a word to say, not in a conversation where murder was treated so lightly.
"You see, when things go wrong, as they are sure to do, the situation escalates. It gets out of hand, which we usually try to avoid. As much as we appreciate you, Victor, we'd rather not meet you again. Nevertheless, when the situation demands it, the cleanup must be efficient. It must be spotless. For if the police ever catch onto our trial, any one of our trails, it leads back to Sherlock. And he's now the most innocent of us all. He'll rot in a jail cell, away from my therapy or from your affection, and never know the true nature of his crimes." Musgrave explained. John twisted in his chair, nodding along with the Doctor's most plausible theory.
"And he doesn't...well I expect he doesn't know." John guessed.
"No of course not. Sherlock knows that he does things in his blackouts, though it is my job to turn that into a tame adventure. All signs of damage, all signs of carnage, must be removed before he comes to."
"That would explain your dragging a body out of his house before dawn." John guessed. He looked towards Victor again, who had finished his drink and was now poking a pen through his fingers, the ballpoint somehow looking like a wicked weapon when coupled with his mischievous grin.
"Reginald is a very efficient cleanup crew. Untraceable." Victor chuckled.
"So it's been the two of you, then? All of these murders, these horrible crimes?"
"We need to work on self-control." Musgrave offered, glaring towards his companion who was growing ever more proud of himself.
"We need to teach Irene how to pick more gentle dates." Victor defended. "It's not my fault that I come out."
"In short, Mr. Watson, what we need from you is just your silence. Whatever else you can contribute to the cause, the better." Musgrave ended. "The police cannot know. Not unless you want to commit Sherlock to a fate that was not designed for him."
"Of course." John muttered, dropping his chin into his hands and staring in disbelief at the shoes of his two confessors. It was strange to hear such potent secrets, spoken as if he had always been intended to hear them. Had the pair really known this moment was coming? Had they realized it was only a matter of time before they had to accept another party into their confidence?
"Will you help us, then? Come to his aid when he needs it?" Victor wondered, trying to get the words directly from John's mouth as if he did not yet trust his absent minded nods. Even after experiencing every interaction between Sherlock and John, somehow Victor did not seem to trust John's commitment to his neighbor. As if he saw faults in his dedication, cracks in the wall he attempted to build around the two of them.
"I'd be happy to protect him. So long as the cause is just. Victor...could you not keep under control? Could you not stay your hand, and let your victim run free?"
"And get what, an assault charge? One which leads those police dogs sniffing?" Victor wondered.
"Perhaps don't even hit them at all?" John suggested. Victor fell back against the couch with a most dramatic flop, as if he couldn't fathom the idea. His limbs sprawled unceremoniously around him, and he cast his attention towards the Doctor in a sort of exasperation.
"Not even a hit? Mr. Watson, truly you cripple me." he taunted.
"It's a reasonable request. Just because we have to clean up your messes doesn't mean we want to." Musgrave defended, to which Victor attempted a pouty face, but was silent. John matched that silence, hesitating upon his next point of curiosity. Without something to fiddle he instead rubbed his fingers against his palm, staring at his own shoes and trying to ignore the rather whistling breaths that were coming from Victor's ever enthusiastic smile. No matter how friendly the man attempted to be he brought a certain danger, his very presence serving as a bad omen, his very personality representing a loaded gun.
"I think I am fading away." Victor admitted. "Musgrave, you'll have to do better next time. One can only survive on insults for so long."
"Hopefully I do not have to summon you so soon." The Doctor muttered.
"You're leaving? Who...who will take your place?" John wondered anxiously.
"Your favorite, Mr. Watson." Victor chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes is back on the menu."
"Wait, wait. Before you go...can you tell me something?" John asked anxiously, leaning forward onto his knees in a rather misguided attempt to get closer. As soon as their proximity shrunk John could feel a particular stuffiness in the air, the potent fog of intimidation. He wanted to lean back, he wanted to run away, and yet in his anxiety it only seemed fitting to draw closer. Victor's smile widened, curling in an almost unnatural way.
"You said you can see everything he does. Can you feel everything he does, too? Like emotions?" John wondered.
"I'm nothing more than his thoughts, John. Most of the time he thinks in my voice." Victor chuckled.
"Then tell me now...does he love me?" John insisted, nearly swallowing the words before they forced their way out of his throat. Musgrave made a small noise of disbelief, as if he hadn't expected John to be so blunt in the questioning. Victor, however, didn't seem surprised. He was more used to John's audacity, having been a silent spectator to it all.
"While you keep him intentionally ranked as second in your life, Sherlock Holmes involuntarily worships you as a God. All that is good in the world comes with the name John Watson." Victor promised. John took a shaking breath, his reaction quite small when compared to the Doctor's, who nearly toppled off the couch. Certainly he must have known of affection, though if Victor's words were true, if there was such a reverence, a deification, then Sherlock's words had not come close to describing the rest of his feelings. Perhaps he was unable to articulate them, or perhaps he was unable to try. Startlingly enough those were the last words spoken by Victor that night. Despite his most evil predispositions his words hung with a pleasant air about them. It was in that moment, in that stagnation that leads up to a character shift, that Musgrave got immediately to his feet.
"Out with you, John, and quick!" Musgrave declared, lunging at his suddenly unwanted guest. John got the message; he understood that while the other personalities might be able to understand, Sherlock would not be able to appreciate his being here tonight. John's presence, while it had been declared as a blessing in disguise, would have confused the poor man far more than would be necessary. John allowed Musgrave to shuffle him out the door, nodding along to certain promises made, and was pushed into the cold before he could comprehend what he had just lived through. Each word spoken was enough to convict them all on some counts of criminal affairs, each confession more horrific than the next. Though it was the last words that rung so clearly in his mind. Those last words, however unimportant they might seem in the whole of the conversation, were his main take away. As John stumbled into his car and made his way back towards his recently emptier neighborhood he thought not of the murders, not of the cover-ups, but of the love. The love, which had been confessed in some way or another. The love that Sherlock was trying to hide, all the while the malicious voice in the back of his head was so quick to acknowledge it. All that was good in the world. It was a high title to maintain, though John would happily wear it as a crown.