Don't Stray From The Light

It's All Rather Criminal

They interviewed three other women, most of which were able to pick out one or two of the men that were spread out on the table. The funny thing was there was almost no overlap, and the men that one woman could identify were completely separate from another. That undoubtedly meant that they weren't the most perceptive batch of women, that if they could even be trusted at all. Most of them said the same thing, however, saying that they frequented the establishment for a couple of days at a time before leaving all together, one of them was even able to swear that they stopped arriving after they had been missing, claiming that they had been here all three days before their absence. However all the women agreed that the men in question had never paid for anything except alcohol, saying that they hadn't even given the women walking around a passing glance; they had only scanned through the fellow men and ordered drink upon drink. That made it seem like they weren't cheating, they were just contemplating things, the strange thing was if they had wanted drinks why didn't they go to a bar? Why would they resort to a brothel instead? It was just odd, all of it. The investigation was ended abruptly when John noticed someone watching them, someone from the other end of the place that seemed incredibly keen to know what they were up to. Someone who had a pen in hand, ready to take some notes for the future.
"Greg we're being watched." John said abruptly, tucking away the pictures of the men before their stalker could get a glance at what they were up to.
"Ooh, is she pretty?" Greg asked excitedly, looking about as if to try to find one of the heavily painted women with their eyes in his direction.
"Hate to break it to you, but it's not a woman. It's Victor Trevor." John muttered, tucking the folder into his bag once more while Greg cursed.
"Oh that little weasel, he must've followed us here!" Greg groaned, finding Victor's eyes before turning away and downing the last of whatever was in his glass.
"Well I think we've got enough, don't you think?" john wondered in exasperation, knowing that if they interview yet more women the reporter might suspect what they were up to and publish it in the next Sunday edition.
"Yes I think we do." Greg agreed with some hesitation. Reporters were especially annoying when you were trying to keep things a secret, and however obvious it would be to a serial kidnapper that they were being hunted by the police; John would still rather their path to catching her go unnoticed. If the woman in question realized the brothel was being investigated then maybe she wouldn't try to go there, if she was even here in the first place. That or maybe the men who came here would stop going once they realized that the police frequented the place, and then it would be even harder to trace adultery through the lines of those who went missing! All in all a newspaper article was not the thing they wanted, and so John and Greg got to their feet abruptly, making their way to the door and leaving Victor Trevor and his wandering eyes behind. As they walked outside to get to the carriage, however, John noticed a tall, elegantly dressed man as he made his way through the traffic outside on the sidewalk, someone who was very hard to ignore through the crowds. It was curious, however it did make sense that Sherlock Holmes would be here. The man had himself admitted to not being married, and so a brothel must be his idea of fun. He seemed to be rich, after all, so what was another ten pounds for a night well spent with a woman he would never see again? 

 Sherlock POV: When Mycroft finally pulled up Sherlock bid him goodnight, telling him to go back home and leave Sherlock (and his guest, if he did have one) to take a hansom home. Mycroft thanked him, leaving Sherlock out on the sidewalk while he sped up the horses so as to go and turn around, headed back to the manor that say atop the hill, shrouded in trees and hidden from the public's eye. It was too dark for Sherlock to wear his sunglasses, however his top hat sat proudly on his head as he strolled into the barely illuminated brothel. It was a horrible place, made even more horrible by the clientele that lingered about with those hungry looks on their faces, watching as the scantily dressed women wandered about and tried to tempt them into a private session in the back. Sherlock knew that if he was a woman he would probably have ended up with this very job, not that he needed to work for money, but because luring men had become not just a pastime, but a hobby as well. He would show all of these desperate women who really was boss, and he would make hundreds of dollars every night! However he wasn't a woman and maybe that was for the best, for he was just allowed to sink into one of the small, personal tables in the back and order a whiskey while he watched all the simple minded men lose their minds. The place was small, with a small stage that was used by the women when they first made their entrances, and filled with tables all scattered about on the floor. It was dimly lit for a more romantic mood, illuminated by candles and smelling heavily like cigarette smoke, always loud and yet quiet at the same time. The men talked and they played cards, mostly because they came here with their friends for meetings or just to play games, for they all liked to relax in the presence of such beautiful company. Some were here for the women and yet most were here for them to just blend in with the background, occasionally giving them their attention and slipping five pounds into their hands when they were finished. It was a terrible and distasteful way to spend a night, and yet Sherlock had become one of the common customers, not for the women of course, but for the men. The women knew by this point that he was not to be bothered, he wasn't here for them and they knew that. He was always left in the back with his whiskey, sitting alone and watching as the men followed the women with their lustful eyes, getting out their pocketbooks as if already prepared to make a bad decision. Sherlock saw Victor sitting half way across the room, and he knew that victor had seen him as soon as he had come in. It didn't take the reporter long to get obsessed with the idea of going over to talk to him, for of course they had almost arranged a meeting here this morning. But Victor knew he was not to approach Sherlock without first being summoned, it was almost common knowledge at this point, and he was patient enough to gulp down whatever alcohol he could so as to suppress whatever anxiousness was building up in his chest. Sherlock drank his whiskey slowly, for he was in no hurry to get Victor Trevor at his table. He knew that the longer he made that man wait the more desperate he would become, and at the rate Victor was surviving Sherlock was almost sure he would end up on the floor before he was finally called to Sherlock's side. There was soft music playing in the background, however Sherlock could almost hear the man's breathing from this side of the room, he could see the sweat beginning to accumulate on his brow, he could hear his fingers clenching around his glass and he could almost feel the unrest that was bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. Oh poor Mr. Trevor, it was almost inhumane to keep him in such a state for much longer. And so finally Sherlock downed the rest of his whiskey and looked over at him, his eyes immediately meeting those of Victor as he nodded his head over, summoning him. Victor jumped to his feet, leaving his glass of whatever behind on the table as he rushed across the packed brothel, moving his way carelessly past women and men as he hastened to Sherlock's side. He dropped into something of a bow before taking the chair opposite Sherlock, almost as if he knew that Sherlock was above him and supposed to be treated that way. Sherlock was no sort of royalty of course; he was merely a man with an inheritance and no need to work for the luxury he had come to enjoy. However he was above Victor, he was above everyone at this point, for his beauty was so unbelievable that it stopped most everyone in this brothel at one point or another. Even the men with their lips stuck to a woman's neck would take a moment, blink to make sure they weren't hallucinating, and admire Sherlock from afar. It was just the aura he radiated, he was irresistible.