Sigma Eta

An Audience With Knowing Eyes

As soon as he emerged into the kitchen he was trapped within an embrace, as Musgrave had broken down into frightful tears and seemed relieved just to see another human being in this mess of the unnatural.
"They died down there, Victor. I thought we were going to follow." He admitted mournfully, wrapping his arms tightly around Victor's chest and latching his hands upon his shoulders. Musgrave trembled, cowardly and afraid, falling into the body heat of his stronger counterpart. Victor sighed heavily, allowing the man's head to fall upon his shoulder and running his fingers through his stiff greying hair.
"He doesn't want us dead." Victor assured, speaking softly since Musgrave's ear was so close.
"How can you know?" Musgrave whimpered in protest, obviously much too frightened to be thinking straight.
"Because if wanted to kill us, he would've done it. That's where it happened, of course. That's where the blood is intended to be spilled." Victor assured in a calm voice, stoic and almost hypnotized. Musgrave continued to tremble, though at last his tears began to subside. He may not have regained any confidence, though at last he found his feet able to support him, his empty hands now trembling.
"I left my bat downstairs, and my light." he admitted quietly, readjusting himself and wiping the tears from his cheeks.
"It's alright." Victor assured, managing a smile and running his hand down the length of Musgrave's arm. He caught onto the man's hand, feeling as if he was allowed to hold it for a little while longer. Musgrave sniffled, though his eyes were shining curiously, watching Victor's fingers as they wove their way through his own and at last caught onto his wrist. Silently Victor began to walk, leading Musgrave out of the kitchen and away from the opened basement door, allowing the cold draft to begin wafting into the other levels of the house. Though he was unconcerned with what lay below, what mattered to him now was what remained in his hand, the warm and trembling fingers of Reginald Musgrave.
"What better time, Reginald? What better place?" Victor whispered, leading his companion through the hall and back into the living room where their adventure had first began. The window was still shattered, allowing for their easy escape. All else remained untouched, as it was expected to be.
"For what?" Musgrave managed in a very small voice. As Victor turned to him the man seemed to shrink, his stature giving way to cowardice and shriveling him down to a position where Victor could look shamefully on. Though there was something wonderful about the way the man cowered, there was something opportunistic. Victor tightened his grasp on the man's wrist, pulling him closer with a rather anxious tug until at last their chests were forced together, their faces merely inches apart with the bold opportunity given to either who wanted to extend their lips outward. Musgrave's eyes were still wide, though it would seem as if fear was giving way to another emotion, one much more powerful, one much more urgent. Victor took hold of Musgrave's waist, and with the first kiss he made sure not another word was said. And really, what better time could there be? Now with the last of the sun's rays shining through the shuttered windows, the stained glass gleaming with different colors of red and blue. What better place could the two have fallen than the couch of Sigma Eta, once supporting the weight of school boys, now hosting the shared weight of their Professors? It seemed as though time and place became irrelevant as passion overtook, and before long this couch may very well have been any other stable surface in the world. Their perceptions narrowed, their priorities were pinpointed, and before long Victor could see nothing but the grey of his companion's eyes, and Musgrave could not tell the difference between Victor's bare skin and the strange hue of the ceiling above. And like that they proceeded, bringing love back into the house that was haunted, bringing life back into the walls that had died. And in their twisting and turning, in their eagerness and excitement, surely neither smelled the smoke that was beginning to issue from the small flame of a cigarette. Neither man cared to notice that they suddenly had an audience, a single party of one, leaning up against the doorframe of the living room. And there Sherlock smiled, and watched, remembering a time when he had held that same body within his arms, the ever familiar body of Victor Trevor.