Sigma Eta

A Deal Is A Deal, After All

John paused, feeling his worries wash away like sand on an eroding beach. Suddenly the weight had been lifted, the promise of help...he found himself floating, instead of sinking. He saw the world anew.
"You can help?" John clarified, turning on his heel and looking towards Sherlock in disbelief.
"I can, of course I can. A couple of words to your Professor, and suddenly it will all make sense. Suddenly your grade will double." Sherlock promised. John looked at him suspiciously, though he realized that it could be done. From Sherlock's past accomplishments he figured there was no end to his miracles.
"You can save my grade?" John clarified.
"And your life, as it would be." Sherlock agreed. "You know the bargaining pieces of course. For you I presume it will be a win-win."
"The same deal you made with Greg?" John presumed. Sherlock sighed, letting his head fall a bit shamefully onto one shoulder.
"I told him not to snitch." He muttered.
"I sort of forced it out of him." John admitted at last, to which Sherlock chuckled with a rather bothered smile.
"I would expect no less." he admitted. "But no, no your deal will not be completely on par with Mr. Lestrade's. From him I only asked that one favor, for you I think I will have to request two."
"Two...nights?" John whispered, dropping his voice lower so as to save what little of his reputation was left. Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head as if that really was an absurd thing to request.
"No, no. Only one, as it is. The other favor is one that is not determined yet, an everlasting favor. Mr. Lestrade's was settled right then and there, his trust in me. His friendship. For you, well who knows what you can offer me in the future?" Sherlock chuckled. "In the fine print, I must warn you that anything applies."
"Anything for the favor? So things like...like anything? Illegal things?" John clarified.
"Yes, John. Anything that may be of immediate use. But of course it could be something lesser, like getting me a cup of tea when I am too tired to get up. Or cleaning out my new personal bathroom." Sherlock chuckled. John nodded, not even questioning the little comment about the bathroom. He might've expected Sherlock to snatch up the President's room while it was available. Now he had a solid spot in the house, a bedroom all to himself.
"I suppose that doesn't sound too bad." John agreed.
"I figured it would not be too hard to convince you to utilize your resources." Sherlock chuckled. John nodded, trying to allow himself some time to think. Sherlock was right, of course, he was on his last leg in this algebra class. Should he fail, well his entire college career might be on the line! He could pass, of course, with some extra hard work and dedication. But the effort that would take, would it really be worth the struggle? How easy it would be to just give Sherlock the okay, to have this boy swoop in and clean up all the little messes John had made along the way? How easy it would be, to call upon a miracle.
"Okay." John agreed, nodding his head and shooting out his hand anxiously.
"Okay to all of the terms?" Sherlock presumed.
"Yes, just let me pass. Let me pass with flying colors." John insisted. Sherlock smiled, kicking himself off the wall with a spurt of momentum and landing not even a foot away from John, standing so close that their hands hardly needed to extend to meet in the middle. Sherlock's hand curled around John's, pulling it up and down in a rather weak handshake. John was too distracted with Sherlock's gaze; he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else while those multicolored irises were fixated so intensely within his own.
"You have yourself a deal, Mr. Watson." Sherlock promised. John nodded nervously, though he didn't regret it when at last Sherlock stepped away. His problems would be solved, with something as simple as a handshake.
"Now be on your way." Sherlock insisted. "Let me handle this myself."
"You'll talk sense into him?" John asked excitedly, almost wishing to see the battle between the ever stubborn Professor and the all-powerful Sherlock.
"Who, Professor Trevor?" Sherlock laughed, easing his way towards the office door with that confident smile he liked to wear. "We have a long history, John. Don't you worry about him." 

John was tempted to ask Greg what to expect, though as he made his way back home he figured this might be a secret best kept to himself. Of course he wouldn't lie to hide the truth, for if Greg found out one way or another it wouldn't be the end of the world, however it was becoming a little bit personal. John was afraid, not because he didn't want to be with Sherlock, but because he did. It was becoming much too real, a complex question that was developing inside of his head! What was he, exactly, if not the ladies' man he always considered himself to be? Was there space in his life for Sherlock Holmes, or even the male gender in its entirety? What was this excitement saying about who he really was, and the true function of his heart? Because he felt it, that familiar tugging in his stomach, that familiar skip in his step, the same nervousness he felt back when he used to play football. It was that aggressive anxiousness the he used to feel on the line, the sort that just wanted to start going and never stop. It was the mounting excitement that kept building and building until it was too much weight to carry around any longer, and you felt as though your back was breaking against the very air that hovered above. When would it happen, how would it go, what was he supposed to do and what was he supposed to expect? More than anything he wanted to know Sherlock's side of things, what was he expecting out of tonight? John would be a fool if he thought his feelings (whatever those were) were being reciprocated. He knew that he wasn't deserving of Sherlock's love, and he would be hard pressed to find a single soul who was. Sherlock was more of a God than a man, and Gods were known to take on lovers, nothing more. John would fall into that category of course, a plaything to be discarded when its fun had dried up. But he hoped there was some respect on the opposing side, some sort of admiration that took John and his emotions seriously. He hoped that Sherlock could understand that he wasn't expecting a marriage proposal, though a little bit of enthusiasm would be nice. There was love on his side, well yes; it was foolish to deny it. He loved Sherlock like a man might love a mountain, or a powerful river. He loved Sherlock like any other work of nature, like any other unstoppable force, the sort with power that was deep seated and effortless. He loved Sherlock with the love that any man would harbor for something more powerful than he, something that could crush you underfoot, a death that that, if it asked nicely, you would allow. Sherlock was like any other thing that scared him, and like every other thing that he admired. Somehow there was love, though it might only be directed in one direction. The chance that John was being offered up the same respect in return was, if anything, very slim. And so he trudged on, pulling open the door to Sigma Eta and knowing for the first time in his whole experience that Sherlock was not inside. And in some ways that was a very freeing feeling, knowing that there would not be those studying eyes lurking out from any corner of the house.
"Hey John." James called from where he was standing in the kitchen, stirring up a pan of some strange vegetable that John had never seen before. He decided not to ask, just in case James would chose to ridicule him about his unhealthy eating habits. John wandered into the kitchen, not seeing anything else that could capture his interest in this long and rather agonizing wait.
"What have you been up to today?" John grumbled, leaning up against the counter and watching as James added a can of stewed tomatoes to his green, strangely seeded dinner.
"Oh just classes, football, nothing new. Nothing exciting." James admitted.
"Is football going alright? I mean, even after the last time with Greg?" John wondered, feeling almost ashamed for having to bring up Greg's performance again. Though it was interesting to hear it from the other perspective, one of a football player who was there every step of the way.
"Let's just say we were relieved to see him go. Not that he's a bad kid, or anything. Just that Coach never seemed to know when to stop giving him 'another chance'." James sighed, staring down at the bubbling tomatoes with a lamenting look in his eyes.
"Do you know what exactly happened? How'd Greg get on the team in the first place?" John asked.
"I've heard rumors of all sorts of things, but I have suspicions of my own." James admitted.
"Rumors like what?" John asked eagerly, wishing to know if anyone could even guess of the truth.
"Well, that's something you'll have to ask around for. I am no gossip." James insisted, holding up his hands in stark defense.
"What's your version then?" John wondered, to which James gave a little look of disapproval. Evidently he thought John was forcing his hand with that invasive question.
"I think it had to have been a bribe. But I know Greg's character, and all of my instincts tell me that's not true." James admitted. John nodded, wondering now if James even knew about the uncanny barter system that was happening inside of their house. Was he aware of Sherlock's influence, created or otherwise?
"No, it's not a bribe." John mumbled, almost wishing that there was money involved. That would make his life a lot easier, and perhaps illuminate the power that went directly into a certain boy's hands.
"Then what is it? You're saying that he told you?" James asked excitedly, his attention peaked. John hesitated, not entirely sure if he was at liberty to unearth this underground network of favors. Perhaps it was a closed system, not supposed to be talked about? Though it was James, certainly he could trust James?
"Well, it's..."
"John!" called a new and interrupting voice. John turned on his heel, feeling the color rush to his face as he realized that their conversation might have been overheard. Well, John wasn't sure if it was a relief to see Sherlock standing there, arrived just in time to keep his secrets protected.
"Sherlock, I thought you were at Wilson?" John wondered, remembering having left Sherlock behind not five minutes before. He blinked, trying to process how on earth Sherlock could've made it back so quickly.
"I'm back." Sherlock said simply.
"You must've run here." John commented, figuring that the amount of time it would've taken Professor Trevor to give in would have been at least the time it took for John to trudge back to Sigma Eta. And here Sherlock was, not even broken out in a sweat!
"Oh no, business was very short." Sherlock assured with a little smile.
"It must have been. He...well he was understanding?" John wondered, trying to make sure his language remained vague enough so that James wouldn't have an idea what was going on.
"I will elaborate, if you'll follow me upstairs." Sherlock suggested. John's heart lurched, though at the same time he felt his feet cement to their place on the kitchen floor. He hadn't expected it to be so soon, he thought he had more time to prepare!
"Now?" John whispered.
"Unless there's another time which would suit you better?" Sherlock wondered, his voice calm but his eyes curiously threatening. There was something alight inside of them, something that John didn't want to provoke any farther. He gave a hesitant smile, but nodded his head quickly.
"Yes of course. Now is fine." John agreed. Sherlock's face broke out into a smile, one that looked fairly legitimate, as if he was beginning to look forward to this moment as well.
"Before you guys go, want any okra?" James offered, turning of the heat of the stove and gesturing to his frying pan filled with vegetables.
"No, no I'm good." Sherlock mumbled, looking at the pan as if even his all-knowing eye was not entirely sure how to handle James' dinner. And so he turned, leading John up the stairs all the way to the master bedroom. John did not often climb the staircase all the way to the top, and needless to say he was a little bit wary with each step he took. Once the second landing had passed away the third seemed especially tall, as if he was climbing up something more akin to a mountain than a single story in a small house. The back of Sherlock's head remained a constant sight, and even though it seemed as though his legs were moving it may just be that Sherlock had stuck them both in a loop, in which the stairs repeated forever before at last they grew tired and fell down the remaining flights.
"What were you going to say to James?" Sherlock wondered, at last pausing in the middle of what had to be a hundred stairs. He looked over his shoulder towards John, who was standing meekly upon a single stair, feeling like a child who was being scolded for spreading gossip.
"He was asking how Greg got on the football team." John said quietly.
"I know, I heard." Sherlock agreed.
"How could you have heard? That was the first time I talked about when I came in!" John exclaimed, feeling almost ashamed for not having noticed Sherlock walking in before him. Had the boy passed him on the sidewalk, while John was lost in his thoughts?
"It doesn't matter how I heard, it's that I did. John, don't spread information that is not yours to share." Sherlock insisted, his face losing all humor. John hesitated, staring up and feeling his legs begin to tremble, afraid of what Sherlock might do if he deemed him disobedient. He dropped his eyes, afraid to speak his defense.
"I'm sorry; I didn't know that it was a secret." John mumbled at last.
"Nor did I expect you to." Sherlock assured. "Though you must know I am not a tool to be utilized by all. I grant favors for those I like, for those I deem worthy of my help."
"You're selective?" John wondered, looking up with a sudden boost of confidence.
"Of course." Sherlock chuckled, reaching out his hand only to tap John very quickly on the chin, as if to mock him for his ignorance. "You are special, John. Special to me."
"I wasn't aware." John mumbled.
"Well then, let me reassure you." Sherlock suggested, holding out his hand and letting it hover for a moment, as if waiting for John to get the hint. At last he realized it was an offering, and so he took it gladly. He allowed Sherlock's long fingers to fold over his hand, leading him up the remainder of the stairs until at last they reached the master bedroom.
"And you have it worked out with Professor Trevor, right?" John asked quickly, wanting to make sure that this was all going to work out in the end. Sherlock shushed him, giving his hand a small squeeze of encouragement.
"Mr. Watson, I never break my word." He assured politely.
"Nor I mine." John agreed anxiously. Sherlock smiled, easing the bedroom door open so as to invite John inside.
"Prove it." he whispered, in such a coaxing voice that a shiver went down John's spine, electrifying him with the taste of romance. He smiled, his face glowing red, though it was all he could do not but follow orders. A deal was a deal, after all. 

Victor felt the fibers of carpet between his bare toes, stretching out in front of him in a long, narrow hallway. It seemed to stretch for miles, and ended in a single door that was shrunken down by forced perspective. He could see it now, about the size of his fingernail, though he knew that when he approached it would be gigantic, a door big enough to hold the immense secrets hidden inside. He didn't need to be told where he was, or where he was going. He began to walk. The way was long, and with each step he took there erupted crevices in the walls around him, the wooden paneling splintering as if forced apart by pressure. Victor didn't stop to study it, though as he walked by he could feel a cold draft, as if the walls dropped off into the frozen dark world outside. The longer he walked the more he began to hear, voices, yells...calling out from behind the ever evading door. Victor tried to walk faster, though it would seem as though he was only permitted to walk so fast. His legs were being held back not by his own will, but by the forces of the hallway, as if there were hands pressing down upon his extending limbs. The way was growing darker, he wished to look behind him but he knew better. There was something following him, an eerie presence, like the feeling of breath upon the back of his neck. Something told him that there was no turning around now. The door was his final destination, that, or be consumed by the crumbling infrastructure and the ever-present shadow. The screams became much clearer, two voices now, combined into one. They were of different octaves, each expressing different emotions, one of passion, one of fear. Victor was drawing close. He wasn't given the opportunity to open the door; instead it swung open to admit him, as if a ghostly hand had known when to perfectly time his arrival. Victor wasn't given the opportunity to hesitate, and despite the strange lighting in the room, he was forced to continue onwards. It was a bedroom, shaded entirely in dark except for a single red bulb, illuminating the bed inside with a ghostly, bloody appearance. It was a master bedroom, much larger than any other bedroom available in Sigma Eta. And it was not empty. Victor was permitted to stop; he had to stop, as he could go no further. His journey brought him right to the end of the bed, his knees pressed against the high mattress, his chest against the copper bedframe, his forehead caught in the golden drapes. The bed was shaking, shaking with force, shaking with the violent motions of a naked figure, a recognizable figure, an undeniable figure. His curly hair was evident even from behind, his pale skin stretched so forcibly across his protruding bones, paper thin and nearly invisible. Victor could make out each rib, the entire length of his spine as he bent and twisted. And he was screaming, the voice that had always spoken so softly, now exaggerated into calls of violent passion, of anger manifested in lust. Victor wanted to raise his voice; he wanted to demand that the boy stop, that he was out of control, that he was monstrous from every angle. Though his voice would not work, and his mouth would not open. Though the boy did stop, as if on his mental command. Sherlock was frozen; suddenly each one of his limbs had been stuck as if time itself had taken back control. He was wretched backwards, his neck bent and flexed, his clawed fingers grabbing onto the torso of a boy who now struggled out from underneath him. A blonde haired boy struggled from the blankets, falling around Sherlock's frozen body and crawling along the end of the bed, towards where Victor was standing to watch. From the other side of the copper bedframe the boy moaned, lacing his fingers about the twisted metal and leaving blood where his skin had touched.
"Professor, you must save me." he pleaded, whispering so as to keep Sherlock from overhearing. "He'll kill me if he goes on like this, he'll kill us all." Victor stared into his eyes, recognizing them, though from where he couldn't tell. It was a familiar face, one he had seen in a photograph, one he had seen in his life. The boy began to cry, pushing his face against the gaps in the metal and forcing his tears to splash onto the floor around Victor's shoes.
"Please, Professor. Save me from him." he begged. Victor found at last that his mouth could work, though it forced out syllables he did not authorize.
"I will, of course." Victor assured. "John, I'll save you."