4. Victor

"Why are we at the airport, again?" asked John blearily as Sherlock nearly vibrated right out of her skin, having woken him at three in the morning to make a mad dash for the airport, clicking away on her phone all the while. It had been two months since a rather disastrous Christmas for the both of them, and even though she had insisted she hadn't gotten any flack from her father about not yet being in a relationship (Mycroft brought Anthea to Christmas every year), Sherlock had been a bit down lately.

A men stepped out from the gate - tall, dark, handsome, and just as exhausted as John - and Sherlock was suddenly gone, flinging herself into the arms of the pleasantly surprised man with a cry of "Victor!"

"Sherlock!" cried back the man Victor, hugging her tightly and even swinging her around once. John felt the smallest twinge of envy that he wasn't tall enough to do that with, well, anyone.

Then Sherlock grabbed Victor's face and kissed him, and everything became a bit of a red blur.

"Alright, you have questions," stated Sherlock when they were in the cab home, still smiling from the lengthy snog with Victor in the airport.

John was unable to bite back a snort. "Yeah, a bit! Who the hell was that bloke?"

Absurdly enough, the detective raised an eyebrow at him, looking thoughtful. "Interesting."

"What?"

"Nothing. I told you at baggage claim that his name is Victor Trevor. He's an old...friend, from university. His dog bit me, and he felt so guilty that he took me to the Symphony. I stayed at his father's estate for a month that year, met his mother, all that. Everyone thought we were going to get married, even Victor. Mummy was planning everything, until I rather rudely announced in the middle of Christmas dinner that I did not, in fact, plan on getting married, or going with him to India. India's ghastly; Mycroft loves it there."

"But you kissed him in the airport," said John, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "And it didn't seem awkward between you at all, seeing as you broke things off with him."

She grinned in that devilish way that he always associated with bodies and murder. It was enough to make his heart beat faster. "We've kept in touch," she said simply. "He understood why I felt pressured by the prospect of marriage - I was only 16 when I entered university, after all - and we have retained an... amicable relationship over the years."

"So, phone sex?"

Laughter resonated through the cab.

"Once or twice, a few years ago when I didn't want to let on that I was on cocaine, yes, I often divulged in relaying sexual fantasies to Victor over the phone. To distract him, you know."

"And you kissed him in the airport."

Sherlock nodded, still smiling faintly. "And I kissed him in the airport."

Four months went by, cases carried on, and Victor Trevor became more and more integral to life in 221B Baker Street. He was there almost every night for dinner, bearing a bottle of wine if they'd just finished a case and a book to read if they were in the middle of one. He never intruded on Sherlock's work, or assumed the worst of her friendship with John (like half of London tended to), or did anything but support Sherlock's independence. He was mild, friendly, he and John got on great, and yet somehow John couldn't help but feel a swelling urge to...do something whenever he looked at the couple together.

Sherlock seemed softer, somehow, with Victor. She smiled more easily than even with John, seemed more capable of understanding the emotions of other people with him whispering how they felt in her ear, and even settled for watching the "horrible" comedy films John and Victor were so fond of.

Victor, on the other hand, was gaining just as much from the relationship as Sherlock. He was showing the same signs of the learning curve John went through when he first moved into Baker Street. A look of wonderment crossed his face every time Sherlock smiled, laughed, kissed him, learned to understand just a bit more about humanity. She even spoke cordially to Mycroft when he dropped in to visit or plead she take a case. Victor, who had known her at her worst, was suddenly beginning to learn what she was like at her best, and was falling in love with her fast.

As more time went by, John found himself less and less willing to be in the same room as the couple when they were in the flat, and retreated to his room more often than not, claiming fatigue. Some childish part of him insisted that it was his job to look after Sherlock, to keep her grounded and safe and secure in a world that constantly rejected her. The rational part of him, however, knew that everything had to end sometime. Things would go on as they were, Victor and Sherlock would shack up, get married, and solve crimes off into the sunset, leaving John in the dust.

After the first week of Month Five, Sherlock noticed John's reticence and left Victor in the sitting room to follow him up to his bedroom. "This is the fourth time this week you've claimed to be too tired to spend time with me and Victor," she stated accusingly. "You haven't taken on more hours at the surgery than normal - in fact, your hours are reduced compared to last week - and you're not ill, I would be able to tell. So why are you lying to my face, and to Victor's?"

Her arms were crossed, her back rigid; she was prepared for a fight. John could do nothing but stare back, lost for a way to vocalize exactly how he felt about the whole situation.

"I didn't want to intrude," he finally settled on, lamely. Sherlock scoffed at him, and he bubbled with irritation. "Well, it's not that odd, is it? I mean, you're a couple. You've been dating for a few months now. When couples are together that long, they usually don't like when one of their flatmates won't leave them alone."

"Victor has already said he doesn't mind your company, and your presence is invaluable to me, you know that, John," she snapped back. "I like having you around. It makes me feel less...obligated."

John frowned. "Obligated."

She twisted her mouth and sighed loudly from her nose. "I have a very low sex drive. I'm capable of arousal, and I'm not asexual - but when Victor and I are alone, it sometimes feels like I owe him intercourse."

"Have you and Victor talked about this?" asked John, softening instantly and desperately regretting his negative attitude toward Victor's presence. Victor was good for Sherlock, and she didn't have many good things in her life.

She shrugged. "He lets me initiate sexual contact, so as not to make me uncomfortable when I'm not in the mood. We've talked. But...I don't want to disappoint him, or deny him, or make him feel -"

John stood up from the edge of his bed and hugged her tightly. She sputtered for several seconds before gingerly returning the embrace. "A lot of people feel panicked at this point of a relationship," he said, still holding her. "It's normal, Sherlock. But you don't need me around to confuse you any further, so I'll just keep myself up here and let you to have at it. Tell Victor how you're feeling; I'm sure he'll understand."

He felt Sherlock sigh thoughtfully, still squeezed against him. Warmth exploded in his lower abdomen, and he quickly let go before he embarrassed himself, turning back to the bed and sitting down. He really needed a girlfriend.

Staring at the floor, John was unprepared for the gentle flick to his ear, and the smile Sherlock had reserved for him. "Thank you, John. I meant it when I said your presence - and friendship - is invaluable to me." She ruffled his hair - knowing it would annoy him - before disappearing back downstairs, gently closing the door behind her. Lying awake, John listened to the mingled sounds of Sherlock and Victor's voices confiding in one another late into the night. He warred against the feeling of something fighting to claw its way out of his chest. He and Sherlock would never come back from this, would they? Not when he felt so angry every time Sherlock gave Victor one of those sweet, adoring looks.

The happy couple was back in Paradise the next day, until Sherlock received a lilac-scented manila envelope filled with photos of herself and Victor together.

Sherlock fought, tooth and nail, to get Victor into hiding, but he refused to go without her. She called in favours, ripped into the Moriarty case with more passion and zeal than even in the weeks after John was strapped in Semtex. She even got Mycroft involved, though it didn't take much begging to get big brother running to the rescue. John watched in awe as Sherlock Holmes tore apart half of Moriarty's network in one afternoon, rose higher and shone brighter than she ever had before in John's memory, dove right into the Thames to apprehend an escaping criminal, and still...it wasn't enough.

Victor Trevor's mutilated body hung by the neck from the ceiling of their sitting room when they got home.