What The House Forgot

The Lifespan of a Locked Door

John POV: It was with a strange urgency that he followed the back of Sherlock's head, eyes focused upon the dangling curls which fell just into the neck of his jacket, hidden away and being pushed against the back of his thin white neck. This was where John's eyes fell most naturally, and it seemed intuitive to stare at that exact spot as he followed Sherlock through the labyrinth. The boy moved with a purpose, as if he knew exactly where he was supposed to be going, though as they continued on John got the continued sense that they were merely walking in circles. Somehow Sherlock knew the routes to take so as to keep walking eternally, he knew the staircases up and down, he knew the routes which would loop around the entirety of the house without ever having to pause and retrace your steps. John was able to see all of the rooms of importance, the dining room with its towering windows and painted ceilings, the living room with its empty fire and padded couches, the hallway which turned off into multiple open doors, some closer with such a purpose that they may never be opened again. Each room held certain significance, though the pull to certain spots seemed particularly aged. As if the sentiment was beginning to fade away.
John knew the truth. It was a hard idea to grasp, a hard reality to understand, though the journal had been the final proof he needed. There had been ink documenting ages worth of history, writing under dates that were too specific to be falsified. The writing from the ancient times was perhaps more speculative, something that John could had taken as a coincidence and left it at that. Though the more recent history, the entries made by Rosie's father, were too heavy to mistake. In there, the truth was laid out so plainly he would be a fool not to realize it. The man listed names, romances, and deaths as if they were trivial matters, the same as a New Year's Day or a lunar eclipse. Things that were meant to happen in routine, things that were important and predictable.
It was haunting to know their destined path, even more so to know what they had already done together. John had to sit in a car with two of his murder victims, three, if he counted what he did to himself in that bathroom. The scars down his arms made sense now, Rosie's father's tragedy seemed to fit right, Victor and Sherlock's preliminary romance seemed fated, not strange. Though with such a trajectory, John knew that his fate was still to come. The later John Watson, the man one step removed from himself, seemed to write with great passion about his version of Sherlock Holmes. In fact it seemed to be a great miracle that Rosie Watson was even alive today, owing to her father's seemingly obsessiveness over the same sex. Was it just the allure of Sherlock Holmes that drove generations of John Watsons to their knees? Was falling in love with this boy some part of John's DNA structure, and if so, when would it hit?
Certainly he felt a certain sense of appreciation for Sherlock's beauty, to deny the boy was attractive would be to deny the loveliness of a flower blooming upon a tree in spring, or the sunset as it settled itself over the ocean. Though just as those things were ever present, they seemed perfectly unavailable to a boy like him. No more could he touch the sunset than he could Sherlock Holmes, and the beautiful aroma of a lilac now seemed to be Victor's privilege and his alone. The flowering tree was in someone else's yard, what else could John do but stare from behind the fence, forlorn? He felt no particular allure to break his best friend's heart, however hostile they had been towards each other as of late. It was not his place to steal Sherlock Holmes for himself, at least not without good reason. Besides, as far as John knew, he was the exception to the rule. He appeared to be straight, whereas his predecessors had all fallen for the same trap. Could he hold out for himself for this long? Could he resist?
"Where are you taking me?" John wondered as they completed their second lap around the house, this time wandering down the servant's staircase in the back of the kitchens and looping through the dining room once more.
"I'm not taking you anywhere. You're following," Sherlock debated, his deep voice threatening but all together docile. The accent was potent on his lips, a particular curl of the octaves, the sort of pronunciation that was hypnotic to an unexperienced ear.
"This is my first proper tour," John admitted. He clutched the book to his chest, wondering if he ought to admit that he had been here once before, alone and uninvited. It seemed to be something that would anger Victor more so than Sherlock, though who could guarantee that Victor would not find out?
"You've been here before. I think we both know that," Sherlock muttered, as if such a thing should be intuitive. John fell silent, for he had not yet gotten Sherlock's point of view on this strange web of lifetimes.
"You believe in such things?" he wondered quietly. Sherlock's walking pace hesitated for a moment, as if he was taken aback by the question, taken aback by the doubt.
"I understand traditions better than most. Though this one is more complicated to understand, I see the appeal of repetition. I understand why the house would wish us back," he admitted without turning aside. John nodded quietly, looping his hands behind his back as he followed with some difficulty. Sherlock's walking pace had increased, and for now the boy was practically running throughout the halls, moving and anticipating the turns as if he had been through this house hundreds of times before. The paths were repetition, the paths were routine. Was he so convinced of his purpose within this house, whether as guest or master? He walked as if he owned the house, though John had heard conflicting reports from the journals. From what the earliest entries stated, Sherlock had been a guest of high esteem. A guest of a most important role. A guest who paid for his stay through something more precious than money.
"Sherlock, how much do you know? How much could you prove?" John wondered at last, catching the book in one hand so that he could grab hold to the back of Sherlock's shoulder with the other, feeling it necessary to stare the boy in the eyes as he revealed what he believed to be true. Nothing but an obvious yank would draw Sherlock's proper attention, though he still seemed upset to be handled in such a way. Sherlock's bone structure was firm and sharp underneath his clothes, with skin so thin that it felt as if his clothes were hiding bare, exposed bone.
"Mr. Watson, be gentle," Sherlock insisted, pivoting upon his feet and leaning heavily into the side wall. This was supposedly a way to orient himself, as he used the wall to find his way around towards John's eyes, though at the same time he looked remarkably exhausted, as if he was using the structure as a crutch as well. John hesitated, though hid the book behind his back as he finally caught Sherlock's eye.
"How much do you know?" John repeated. "You've been here longer than any of us."
"Know about the world, or this house? Certainly we could be here for a year if I had to list off every factoid I've ever known. Seventeen years is a lot of time to fill a brain," Sherlock mocked, trailing one of his delicate fingers across the molding of the wall, the sort of decoration that ran midway through the wall so as to provide perfect distractions during a most intense conversation. John bit on his lip, infuriated with the lack of cooperation.
"About this house. About the three of us," John clarified.
"The four, you mean?"
"The three," John corrected. "I get the sense Rosie is...well she's not supposed to be here."
"You mean to say our dear friend is a mistake?" Sherlock clarified, easing himself higher upon the wall so as to demonstrate his full height. Perhaps he felt he would be more intimidating if he stood as tall as possible, forcing John's squat little head to crane and meet his eyes.
"An accident, I suppose. But not on his part, on the house's part,"
"We really have dived in headfirst, haven't we?" Sherlock chuckled. "Really swallowed the Kool-Aid?"
"Do you believe it?"
"You'll have to be more specific," Sherlock breathed, finally stepping off the wall so that his legs could support his weight entirely. His voice had dropped down into a purr, a lulling voice which would be calming if John did not yet know the art of seduction. John was respectful, of course. He was true to his best friend, even if that meant stepping in the wrong direction. As Sherlock approached, John countered with a retreat. It was what he had to do, surely, to keep Sherlock at his proper distance.
"Reincarnation," John clarified at last. "Do you believe it could happen?"
"Yes," Sherlock said finally. "Though I base my belief purely off of my lack of faith in coincidence."
"There have been men here before, men..."
"With our names, yes. And our faces, yes. And our histories."
"To be repeated," John finished in a breath. Sherlock smirked, his beautiful lips upturned into a rather pointed grin, as if he knew exactly what John was thinking in this moment. As if he knew now exactly which door they had stopped in front of, and the significance it held behind its locked knob.
"We are in a moment of our timeline, Mr. Watson. A moment which begins to force you into a certain obsession," Sherlock reminded him.
"How do you know of our timeline?" John questioned.
"Because I've lived it, silly," Sherlock snarled.
"How do you know if it in this life?" John corrected, trying to keep his voice equally aggressive so that the boy would not begin to underestimate him.
"Because I've seen the records. As soon as we first entered this house I began to wonder what the true tragedy was. I saw our names, each one of them. Dated, yellowing. Hundreds of them, John. Stretching back year after year, in some thirty year intervals. Death certificates, if you haven't already guessed. The remnants of each and every murder," Sherlock breathed. John blinked, doubtful as to the obliviousness of some city hall officials. Certainly someone was alive within those stretches of time, some dedicated employee who saw multiples of the same men meet their end within the walls. Was it so much of a secret these days? To the community, even to the men themselves?
"How could such a secret be so obvious?" John whispered.
"The house intends it to be so," Sherlock muttered, as if that was going to clear the matter up entirely. "Though I think I was lucky. I think it wanted me to know the truth."
"So you know that we die," John muttered.
"We do much more than that, John," Sherlock chuckled. "There have been more than death certificates as of late. Marriage certificates, for one. As soon as those were legal it seemed as though our past lives took as many as they could grab. I've been married to Victor about ten times before."
"Right," John whispered, nodding so that he could avert his eyes, trying to hide the disappointment. Was that disappointing? He wasn't so sure. However, his heart plummeted undeniably within his chest, perhaps with the realization that Sherlock had gotten his fate mixed up completely. Perhaps Sherlock didn't know the whole story after all. He knew the beginning, the end, and the repetition, but what did he know of the middle? Was his destiny so straight forward from his perspective? John's disappointment must have been obvious, for as soon as his lips exhaled a soft but obvious sigh Sherlock stepped forward again, this time too quickly to be stopped. His hand shot out to catch John's wrist, as if he thought a spark of human contact would be enough to shock him back into reality. It worked. John, however flustered, took a sharp breath of excitement. For the first time, as he stared hesitantly into those eyes and realized he was at their mercy, did he feel a ripple of attraction for the boy in front of him. How strange it was, to be touched by him. How wonderful it was, to be alone with him.
"Don't look so defeated. Some years, John, you succeed as well," Sherlock whispered. "Some years we have both a Victor Holmes and a Sherlock Watson. All things run their course, I suppose."
"I'm not...defeated," John lied quickly. Despite his insistence, he still felt no need to pull away. He enjoyed the tight grip of Sherlock's hand across his wrist. He enjoyed the proximity they shared together. "I know what happens. I've...I've read it." Hesitantly, John swiveled the book into the view of his companion, allowing the leather stamped cover to be revealed in the low lighting. Sherlock's eyes glanced it just once, though he evidently saw that it was trivial.
"The diary of John Watson? Plural?" Sherlock chuckled.
"Years of history. Hundreds of years. All with your name in them," John whispered. Sherlock's smile flicked on and off again, as if he knew exactly what John was implying.
"Obsession is a dangerous thing," Sherlock reminded him.
"I'm not obsessed," John debated.
"You'll have your moment," Sherlock promised. "That much I know for sure." With that, the boy loosened his grip only to latch onto the door handle next to them, the solid oak door dared not budge even under its former occupant's grip. John's jaw clenched, for he seemed to recognize the particular color of silver that made up the handle. He recognized the age and color, as he had seen it before.
"It's locked," John muttered. He plunged his free hand into the collar of his shirt, prodding his fingers across his bare skin before his forefinger finally looped around the expected metal chain. Carefully, he produced the necklace from its hiding spot. Along with this came its pendant.
"How have you got that?" Sherlock wondered, his voice peaking with mysticism as he snatched the key from John's fingers, pulling it taught along the chain and nearly ripping the back of the necklace against his poor companion's neck. John winced, though he allowed the necklace to cut into his skin, he allowed the pressure to be applied. He stepped closer, being pulled forward whether intentionally or not.
"It appeared to me, all the way back in America. I had...I had a dream about this room. This one I presume had been yours," John admitted. Sherlock chuckled, rubbing his thumb against the key while John strained his eyes to watch, feeling entitled to watch the intimate interaction between his friend and his necklace. Sherlock looked entranced, as if he had bene waiting for this moment since he first stepped into the house.
"This unlocks the most important room of the house," Sherlock chuckled, finally letting the key fall back upon John's chest.
"Then let's..."
"Not yet," Sherlock debated. He sighed, stepping away from the door and letting his hand fall from the handle. "I think there will be a proper moment to unlock my room. Something tells me it's not ready to be opened."
"Oh." John tucked the key back into his shirt, as if to hide what obviously wasn't required.
"Evidentially the house wanted to trust you with such honors. When my bedroom is of use to you, then we can unlock it together," Sherlock teased, pushing his bangs back across his face and giving a wide, playful grin. John only had the time to turn scarlet before the boy backed away, perhaps bored by this conversation after all. When Sherlock walked away John did not follow. He felt as though such a statement was better left as a way to end the conversation. Instead, John lingered pathetically next to the door. He was tempted to try the handle, though he knew that Sherlock was right. The house gifted him this key, allowing him to decide when density should kick in. Perhaps that bed needed to be christened with the right couple, the one favored to last. Was this the house's way of picking sides?
John knew that he shouldn't jump and snatch his best friend's boyfriend, though by the way Sherlock was acting it appeared that he was only too willing to follow along with what destiny had planned for him. Was he really in love with Victor, then? Or was he merely playing at his heart strings in an attempt to further his timeline? Already the three of them seemed terribly rushed, teenagers when the entire process began. Was this an omen for an even worse downfall, or perhaps a sign that they could end the loop entirely? Either way, John was lost. Perhaps there was something worse than not knowing your destiny. Perhaps playing to it was a much more painful game.  

Victor POV: Victor was content with traveling the house alone, despite the flaring of jealousy that was beginning to take shape in his stomach. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock to be alone with another boy, it was just that he knew this house's potential. He knew how it reveled in disruptions, in seductions, and in miscommunications. One moment alone could send one spiraling out of a friendship they had held strongly to for seventeen years; one mistake could cost them their innocence or even their lives. Nevertheless, Victor seemed unable to find his friends. He made one loop around the house, searching in each room and even calling out their names in an attempt to draw them towards him, not away. It was an effort wasted, and so Victor took to wandering in the abandoned greenhouses instead.
They were marvelous things, or perhaps they had been marvelous before the test of time overtook them. Surprisingly the glass sheets were mostly intact, those which made the roof and the walls, though some had fallen from their metal frames and shattered upon the concrete floor despite the house's tenacious effort to keep itself intact. There were low wooden tables, shockingly standing despite the age and elements, which were overrun with all sorts of plants. Some might have been planted intentionally, like the delightful daisies which were flowering in the spring sun, though there were other invasive vines which seemed to be putting all the other flowers at risk. There were thick strands of vines, some as thick as Victor's wrist with a woody exterior to protect from insects or human influence. Such vines stretched from table to table, wrapping around the exposed metal framing and extending towards the sky in a tangled, convoluted mess. The room was green, undeniably, though all its beauty had been lost to the feral tendencies of Mother Nature.
Victor walked slowly throughout the ruins, allowing his steps to fall lightly where he noticed the floor was shining with shards of glass. The floor was a simple concrete, and each time he stepped the sole of his shoe crunched the more delicate, hidden shards that inevitably fell underneath. Some of the pieces were bigger than others, large distorting pieces which gave him the opportunity to stare at his reflection upon the ground. Victor watched himself step over top, he watched as his rather unflattering angle was silhouetted by the background sun. In such a way he looked angelic, with the afternoon radiance enveloping his towering figure. To the pieces of glass, he was giant. Though all he could consider now was just how unflattering the bottom of his chin was from below. Was this what children saw him as? Victor shuttered to consider the thought. No wonder all kids recoiled from him. As he walked, Victor found himself more and more entranced by his own image, eventually losing interest in any of the flowers which were planted with the intent to charm. Finally he stopped, giving himself a proper examination through the backwards, distorted shards of the mirror. Pale and gaunt, he must have lost a considerable amount of weight since the summer had begun. His brown hair was strewn messily over his forehead, and at this angle he appeared to be much older than he was when he stepped inside. For a moment Victor fussed with his reflection, attempting to redeem himself in his own eyes, when suddenly he realized the mirror was doing more than just projecting his own image back. Perhaps the thing had shattered while Victor was distracted, for as he leaned in closer he began to notice another image, a second version of himself, looming in from behind. While the younger Victor was looking considerably more decent, the appearing Victor was disheveled and miserable. What sort of mirror was this, cursing him to see such a decrepit image of his future? It was undeniably Victor, his bone structure and his eyes, though all was lost to age and dishevelment. He had a beard, grey and stubbed, though his hair was mostly balding on the top. His clothes were worn and dirty, as if he spent most of his time in the woods. Was this really what Victor's future would look like? Was this really what he would amount to, if he stayed in this house forever?
"I thought you'd be more surprised," a crackling voice muttered behind him. Victor's heart stopped, in fact he could feel the blood stalling in his veins, pausing and clogging each individual artery for that moment of realization. Victor heard the words, though he couldn't see the speaker. Instead, he watched the reflection speak. He watched the mouth move, forming audible, intelligible words. And so this was another trick, wasn't it?
"What...what?" Victor whispered, happy there was no witness to him speaking to a mirror.
"Surprised!" the reflection repeated, louder this time. Surprisingly, the voice echoed. Victor loomed even closer to the mirror, finding that the image faded as he tried to face it with proper eye contact.
"I'm used to anything in here," Victor assured with a small grin, struggling to keep his humor as his body began to recover from the terror. The reflection wasn't able to look him in the eyes; it was merely staring into space, staring into the greenhouse as if fascinated by its walls of glass.
"That's good," a hand reached out. "Most wouldn't take it so lightly." A hand settled on his back. Victor, in all of his health, collapsed in an instant.