To Be Like That Of A God

Be Rid Of Your Demons

Victor tossed the newspaper aside in disgust, writing in anger as he thought of the man, that horrible snitch, who had fed it all to the press. Now he was caught up in this, now this was becoming his problem as well? How could John have known, Victor had never confessed to him, he hadn't even talked to him! Was this Sherlock's doing, was he carelessly spewing facts to a man he had trusted on a whim of good nature? Had he really thought that a love affair with a poor man would end in anything but tragedy? Did John even love him, or had he just been playing the game, trying to fill his pockets with the gold of the press or the gold of the Holmes household. A marriage would end in his being set for life, and a breakup would end with his spilling the contents to the media, oh it couldn't go badly for him, how had they been so blind as to not see such a connection? And now he had pulled Victor into all of this, throwing out accusations on a whim, trying to drag as many people below him as he could? Suddenly Victor couldn't take this pent up anger, he felt as though his muscles were contracting, his heart beating rapidly, angrily, his fingers clutching around the wooden bedrail as though he imagined it was John's unworthy neck. The worst part was John would never pay for his actions; he was never going to be punished for such a betrayal because there was no higher power that might avenge the unfortunate accused. John wasn't a prostitute, a quick glance at his living conditions would prove that to be so, and all he had to do was claim that he was forced to the house, forced to do Sherlock's bidding, forced under his body and forced into his heart by mere words and threats that were left unquoted in the article. John would walk free, despite the love he received from the man whose heart was made of stone and skin was made of tangible beauty, he would receive no punishment. Unless, of course, that punishment was dealt without the aid of the law, unless Sherlock's life was avenged in a different way... Victor sat up so abruptly that he hit his head on the wooden ceiling above, attracting the attention of all of the men who recoiled in disgust. No doubt they now saw Victor as some sort of uncommon criminal, one whose only crime was falling in love with the 'wrong' sort of human. He ignored them, as usual; it was rather nice to walk in the silence and the fear of his counterparts, his equals. Somehow, walking as a newly condemned criminal, he felt a sort of power that was definitely not evident before. They cowered before him because of this pathetic article; they finally saw him as a threat, as a superior. They would bow to him, if he so desired, for he would threaten them with a mere touch of his finger, or a breath in their direction, spreading the homosexual 'disease'. Victor dug out the envelope in which John's letter from all those weeks ago was stored, he had kept it in his coat pocket for exactly today, somehow he had known that there would come a day when he had to make the trek to that little shack by himself. John was surely sitting there, waiting alone for the police to catch up to him, that or he was sitting and counting his newly acquired gold, laughing with Irene Adler as the newspapers poured out by the hundreds, being read by eyes all over the country, being read with mouths agape and eyes wide... By the end of the day the whole of continent would know the name Sherlock Holmes. And so Victor set off, donning his large coat and a hat that covered his face, John's letter hidden in his pocket as he snuck through the empty house, sneaking out the back door for he was sure there would be reporters or mobs outside of the front door. Their once elaborate and beautiful manor had become a beacon of abnormality, housing the two most infamous homosexuals of the era, housing them, hiding them, and beckoning all of the disbelievers to come and gawk at the darkened windows. And yet they wouldn't find Victor there, not at the moment at least, for he snuck out into the cold air, racing along the rocky cliffs until he reached a road that would lead him to the estate of Greg Lestrade, a road that would lead him to the dirt path that carried his worn boots to the door of the undeserving John Watson. The chimney was smoking and yet there was no light on inside of the house, well, if you can even call it that. The home of John Watson was nothing more than a few pieces of plywood haphazardly pieced together by people who have never seen a proper cube, for there were gaps and dents, some filled with wood of different shades and others seemingly ignored. It was everything Victor had expected this hermit would own, and to think he once respected this traitor! Victor walked around front and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself to the best of his abilities. There were no reporters around, which proved to be a stroke of good luck, and their absence just went to prove that no one really knew where John Watson lived. Victor pounded on the shabby wooden door, the rusted hinges straining and the salty wind picking up, chilling Victor to the bone. There was some hesitation at the other side of the door, for he heard footsteps and yet no action had been taken, no voice could be heard.
"John I know you're in there!" Victor growled, pounding once more. He had every right to be admitted, the only reason John would refuse to open the door would be to protect himself, which only proved his guilt in the end.
"I don't want to talk with you." John spat, his voice sounding so close to the door, as though his eye was pressed against one of the numerous holes or cracks in the wood. Victor groaned, pounding again, more furiously this time, in an attempt to bang the undeserving man's forehead against the splintered door.
"Nor do you deserve to talk with me, and yet I think we must have a conversation." Victor growled, dropping his voice for there was obviously no need to shout. John was silent from the other end; however Victor heard the metallic slide of a lock and very slowly the door opened. Victor forced his way inside, pushing past the man and standing in the middle of the small, one roomed shack. John shut the door quickly, turning on his guest very quickly as though he expected some sort of attack. Victor fumed in anger, just looking upon that man made his teeth clench and his fingers curl, that man...so this was the traitor that Sherlock gave his heart to? A man who had collected Sherlock's love only to discard it for a simple pay check? What did he know of love, or commitment? What did he know of responsibility?
"You saw the news then?" John growled, staying where he was next to the door, his hands concealed in his pockets however he looked stiff and ready to strike, like a snake coiled up in defense.
"How could I not? The house is silent, no one dares stir. Sherlock is in agony, his wife in despair, all because of such a simple article." Victor growled. John sighed, raising his eyebrows and finally bringing his hands out of his pocket just to cross his arms, standing tall despite his barely reaching the top of the doorframe. Victor was two inches taller, easily, and it was only too easy for the servant to stare down at one of the rare few members of society that was indeed below him in every aspect. And now John had somehow sunken even lower, breaking the heart of Sherlock Holmes and destroying his morality, Victor was all the more his superior.
"Funny how someone's words can just break a life, one would think we'd be more careful with them." John sneered, staring at Victor with a mirrored hatred. There was poison in both of their eyes, and for a moment Victor begun to suspect that neither would leave before blood was shed.
"Yes, you would think. However there was profit in the story, was there not? Well I'm sure you know all about that, anyhow, I'm sure your pockets are sagging for the first time in your dull existence." Victor snapped harshly, his stomach writing in hatred for the man who stood before him. For a moment John's anger contorted into confusion, however as he processed Victor's words he became even more enraged, taking a step forward only to stumble backwards all the same. Obviously he noticed he was in some sort of danger, and Victor's overpowering presence was daunting enough to keep him at bay.
"You think I did this? You're accusing me?" John asked, his eyes wide in accusation as he gaped at the man who might call him a traitor.
"Don't play dumb Mr. Watson, don't try to cover for your own sins!" Victor roared, taking a step forward to which John returned, stepping forward hatefully, his eyes ablaze as he struggled to defend his air of confusion.
"It was never I who spoke to the press; you think that by turning this on me you might protect yourself?" John growled, his fingers now curled into fists, his eyes ablaze with a threatening glare.
"Myself? Oh you think it was I who did this, correct? I was the one who sold my secrets to the press; I was the one who set myself for a trial, for jail time!" Victor growled.
"I never told her anything." John growled.
"Her? Oh so you know the gender of our reporter then? Convenient, I do not remember mentioning..."
"Of course it was Irene Adler, she's been prying into Sherlock's social life ever since she met him, he warned me to stay away from her..."
"And you simply couldn't keep your mouth shut, you knew that she would pay you handsomely for your spilling of Sherlock Holmes's secrets!" Victor roared.
"This wasn't me! I never breathed a word to anyone, I would never betray him like that, I love him!" John exclaimed.
"Well so do I! So does everything else who meets him, that's no excuse for your treachery!" Victor roared. "And now you've ruined his life, you've broken his heart, John Watson you have destroyed the man we both love, tainted his pristine beauty and dragged his name through the mud!"
"It was you of course, trying to break us apart, trying to get the press to be on your side! You didn't anticipate her publishing your own secrets, seeing right through your plot!" John shouted back, seemingly getting angrier by the minute, realizing now that he must turn this argument at his attacker if he shall ever have the luxury of walking free. He knew that Victor knew the truth; it was just a matter of denying it until suddenly his own fabrications became reality.
"I am innocent!" Victor growled.
"You are as guilty as you claim me to be!" John exclaimed back. "You have betrayed him, no matter how much you thought you loved him, hoping that maybe if you publish your fantasies in the newspaper they might really come true, that maybe he had kissed you, or loved you, as he did me!"
"You do NOT DESERVE HIM!" Victor cried, his patience finally snapping, his anger spilling out into his very body, making him stronger, more powerful, more lethal. He jumped to the attack, deciding that no shouting match between two men would ever settle things appropriately. John deserved to die; surely he must realize that to hide behind fabrications created in the midst of guilt was not the appropriate method of concealing your secrets. And so he deserved pain, he deserved every pain the world could offer him and suddenly the world's power was in Victor's hands, the hands that very quickly reached out for that man's sinful throat... Yet John was quick, he was prepared, and as soon as Victor made a move of attack John was quick to the defensive, grabbing at Victor's arms and throwing him with unforeseen strength to the ground, Victor's head smacking against the stone fireplace and leaving him in a daze.
"I deserve everything he ever gave me Victor; don't pretend like you can't see our compatibility through your fog of jealousy! He never loved you, he never could love you, and now he will see you as the monster you have become!" John yelled, standing above Victor powerfully, looking down on the boy sprawled out on the rock like a bird looking on a dead carcass.
"I curse the day you ever laid your sinful eyes on him, my master, my love..." Victor murmured, his hands reaching out for the weapon he knew must lie in reach, it must not be far. John wasn't paying attention, he was now pacing around the room, pacing with his fingers to his chin as though he had won a fateful duel and was now wondering what to do with his fallen opponent.
"It was he who found me, Victor, not the other way around. I might have never glanced at him had he not first approached me, oh the love that was evident in those eyes, the admiration! I doubt you had ever seen such an expression in his eyes Victor, I'm sure you've only ever seen indifference..." John sighed, talking as if Sherlock's short lived love wasn't reward enough for him. He was willing to sell him out, he was willing to spoil the love he had once deserved, the love shared by no other man, the love witnessed by no other fortunate soul. Victor growled in anger, seething in rage just as he felt the cold presence of lingering metal, set aside next to the fireplace where he knew it should be, sitting as though waiting for Victor's fingers to wrap around it, to clench it in his cold fist... With a war cry echoed with all the passion and hatred building up in his chest Victor jumped to his feet, seeing that look of surprise on John's pitiful face before he swung the iron poker with the force of a thousand men, bringing it cracking down on the man's head and splitting his skull in two, watering the cement with his blackened blood and speckling the walls with the fragments of his tainted skull. And like that the world was ridded of the evilness that crawled its earth, those all-knowing lips were shut for good, that brain that housed the memories, the emotions, the sight of Sherlock Holmes at his most vulnerable state...gone. Disappeared, demolished and strewn about the dirty shack, sprinkling upon Victor the blood of his victim, his weapon dropping feebly from his outstretched hand. And so it was done, the sinner dead and the innocent avenged, Sherlock's heart returned to his chest, out of the cold hands that lay mangled on the stones, escaping from the clutches of the man that would abuse such a luxury. Victor heaved a breath of success, looking upon his disfigured victim with a sense of pride, with a sense of responsibility. So the Devil talked no more.