Sigma Eta

The Foundations of Sigma Eta

John's eyes were blinded, though he could feel the steps he was taking. He felt the hardwood switch to tile, and from tile he felt the rickety stairs as he settled his feet upon the first of many. His hands were gripping the shoulders of the boy in front of him, and behind him he could feel the fingers of Greg Lestrade digging nervously into his collarbone. They knew not where they were going, or why, though they had to follow. They had to go where they were summoned. Each stair came as a jolt, for John wasn't sure when the solid ground would arrive. He could feel the dampness of the basement; he could hear the echoing of each individual breath as it bounced off the untreated concrete. There was a shuffling at the beginning of the line, each one of Sherlock's feet as they dragged against the dust. He was struggling, though he wouldn't show it. The tightness of John's blindfold was beginning to irritate him, though he dare not reposition his hands to take it off. He was given an order, a direct order, and was going to obey. Suddenly his feet hit solid ground, shocking him back into reality as he slowly followed along with the line, now beginning to bend. He was instructed somewhere, placed with careful hands in a particular spot in the basement. Something about it felt confining, as if he was pressed up close to one of the plaster walls that had been installed in an almost maze like fashion. The hands which directed him fell slowly away, as if they were cherishing the time spent upon his shoulders. Despite this, he could still hear heavy breathing immediately in front of him. Someone was close, close enough that if John reached out he would be able to touch him. There was no speaking, though the sniffs and huffs of each of the boys were perfectly audible from their specified corners of the basement. No one knew why they were here, only that they were handed a blindfold and given their directions. Sherlock's orders were no longer suggestions, not anymore. All humanity had been drained from his limbs, wasted on cyanide, and before long he saw no beauty in the world, nor any friendship in each of his companions. While the punishment never came, John had been ready for it all the while. Perhaps this was it, a punishment shared among the whole fraternity? More shuffling was heard, more breathing. Someone was crying, though John couldn't guess who would be so weak hearted. That was an embarrassment, above all things. To cry in front of the man who made you. Sherlock had been dead three days, and since then there had been a dark shadow upon the fraternity. No one laughed, no one smiled, no one talked. And above all, no one left. Perhaps it was a suggestion planted directly in their minds, for even though their President spent his time brooding in the master bedroom, no one felt brave enough to leave him. It felt as though it would be direct defiance to step out into the real world, to abandon your brothers at this time of need. The house was a funeral parlor, set to become a slaughterhouse.
"My brothers." came Sherlock's raspy voice, ruined from the acid which had singed his throat. "Do not look at your President. Do not look at your brothers. Stare at the darkness I have made for you, and think on this for a moment." The room was silent, each brother waiting for a reasonable explanation for this almost ritualistic proceeding. Sooner or later the basement had to be revealed to them, right? They had to take off their blindfolds one way or another.
"Imagine how it is to die." Sherlock began again, his voice struggling just to hit the octaves he needed to be heard throughout the large, echoing basement. "Imagine how it is to suffer, and to pass along into the void, by the hands of someone you thought you could love. You boys are all but humans, doomed to suffer death only once, but to feel its full force all the same. Each one of you will find themselves at the same fate, at the same time, in the same moment in reoccurring history."
There came the short shuffles of the boys, now growing increasingly uncomfortable with their hands clenched at their backs, unable to see their speaker, unable to tell what was going on. This was their punishment; they simply needed to adhere to it. They needed to accept their folly, and move on.
"My brothers, I would have done anything for you. Each one of you was welcome to my aid, welcome to my hand! I would have cherished you, loved you. And for what? What gain did your lowly President have, when improving the lives he adored? Why would I stretch out my assistance to you all, a bunch of sad fraternity brothers on a forgotten campus? Why, out of all the dominions in the world, would I choose to rule over you all?" Sherlock's voice faded away, though returned in full force. "For loyalty! For love! For charity, above all! I loved each and every one of you; I would have made you kings! And you would have made me dirt. Food for worms, a short column in an obituary! You would have killed me, without making a show of it! By God, death should be a celebration, not some silly toast at dinner! Death should be...should be fireworks."
There was a soft creaking, metal on metal, as if a gear was being turned, or a handle forced. The room began to smell, faintly at first but then more strongly, that pungent, pale odor of gas. John sniffed the room, at first thinking it was candle smoke, though his fate was beginning to dawn on him the more his mind wandered. Suddenly he found the strength to defy, he found the mental power to tear his hands away from his side and rip off his blindfold. The room was dark, hardly lit but for a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. It was not the only thing hanging, for a body could be seen in the corner of the basement, illuminated just faintly by the light coming through from the outside world. A corpse, dancing with its own rigidity, its neck bent back on a rope and supporting the whole of its dangling weight. John could hardly restrain his gasp, though he forced his attention away. Sherlock could be seen quite visibly, standing in the middle of a circle he had created. Lined almost shoulder to shoulder were the boys of Sigma Eta, each blindfolded, standing like toy soldiers waiting for instruction. They were motionless, undoubtedly afraid...painstakingly loyal. And there was Sherlock, hunched over with the struggle of his own body weight, limbs barely supporting his clothing which seemed to have doubled in its size. His fingers were skeletal, his skin stretched so tight upon his face that his eyes were protruding widely from their sockets. His hair was disheveled, missing in clumps, his jaw hanging open as if broken. He truly had been through Hell and back, taking some of it with him along the way. John had sent that boy to his fate, John had secured his disintegration. Noticing his observer, Sherlock turned with a smile. John felt immobilized, though with a very different emotion. Sherlock's eyes no longer sparked excitement, nor mystery. They looked empty inside, perfectly expressionless. They caused fear, uncontrollable fear, and for a moment John felt as though he should put that blindfold back on, just to shield his eyes away from the monster he had created.
"I might've loved you, John." the boy croaked, his fingers still trembling upon the blue release valve of the furnace.
"I might've loved you, too." John managed in painful response.
"I might've managed." John said again. Sherlock just chuckled, a wheezing sound issuing from the back of his throat and sending him into a fit of coughs. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling over as his bent weight struggled to set, his lips stretched into a cracking, pitiful smile.
"Death should be a parade." He whispered at last. "How I wish I could go along."
"What do you mean?" John managed, looking at each one of the tame boys around him, each taking their position, each standing their ground. Sherlock said nothing; he merely retrieved a package of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling one of the sticks with one of his long, thin fingers. Almost spiderlike in his movements, he held the cigarette to his lips, sticking it between the gaps in his smile. He laughed again, shaking his head in regret.  Finally he pulled for his box of matches, twirling them within his fingers for a moment and shaking his head in regret. It wasn't long before John realized what was about to happen, it wasn't long before the smell of gas began to choke him, began to send his head buzzing. Though the effects of carbon monoxide were long term, and they didn't have time to die like that. It was much more abrupt, a chuckle, a spark...
"Sherlock!" was John's last struggling word, begging for mercy, begging for the lives of his friends. It was consumed, unheard, by a blinding white light.