What The House Forgot

A Large Heart Can Fit Many Inside

Victor #2 never distinctly admitted to hanging around the house, and Victor #1 never bothered to make an appointment with him. He just assumed that, since the old man seemed to be a wandering nomad with nothing better to do than frighten children in the greenhouse, he ought to be hanging around somewhere. At least in proximity enough to hear a car rumbling down this loud, ridiculous driveway. If ever the house was to be occupied, by himself or another generation of Victors, well certainly they were going to have to get this gravel paved over! 
    Victor parked his car facing the porch, letting the engine idle for a moment as he stared at the gaunt windows of the house, those which gave it a lifelike, sentient impression. The house looked tired, as if it was sick of waiting for its prey to continually return to it. Perhaps it was irritated that they could stand to be so far gone, as if the other occupants usually moved in immediately after discovering the property. Well, it wasn't their fault that they were so young! Certainly a bunch of high schoolers did not have the ability to leave their families, especially when they didn't know the first thing about cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry. Didn't the house factor in all of these issues when it decided to summon them? Was it just too impatient, and started the process prematurely? 
    Victor pushed open the car door, standing rather awkwardly next to the car as he searched the woods and the windows for any sign of his older version. He wanted to avoid yelling out the name, just in case someone was observing. Certainly if a boy was caught screaming his own name in the middle of an abandoned property he would be labeled as mad. Then again, it would be a relief to simply be mad. This was one of those rare occasions where insanity might just be preferable to the truth. 
    "Victor, are you here?" he called out quietly, giving up on his searches as he realized it was futile. A man who was living around the woods for so long may very well know how to hide in them, and if he was anywhere past Victor's immediate line of sight he would be lost. The underbrush was thick this time of year, with green leaves and pedals obstructing Victor's better view. 
    "Victor! It's...Victor!" he called lamely. This felt ridiculous! So much so that Victor was beginning to wonder if it was all a dream, if he had simply imagined running into a doppelgänger of himself in the greenhouse all those days ago. Perhaps he had been inhaling too much of Sherlock's breath, that exhaled oxygen laced with the remnants of his last smoke. Recycled weed may just have hallucinogenic effects, ones strong enough to convince Victor that he was not the only one with his face and name in the world. 
    Oh, but just when he was beginning to hope for silence, only then did the creature appear. 
    "Here I thought you'd rather me dead," came a rather hissing voice from behind. Following quickly was the crunch of gravel, a familiar enough sound to force Victor to swerve around on his heel, throwing his arms up in premature defense. From behind his shielded arms, the boy could make out the familiar figure of that grizzled old man, the shell of a wandering soul who should have been dead decades earlier. So familiar was his posture (and stench, admittedly) that Victor dropped his hands immediately, not wishing to offend his other half so immediately. The boy slumped back into his original stance, trying not to look afraid as he reared his head and pursed his lips. Certainly there was something to be afraid of; this old man's eyes had 'crazy' outlined in pencil around his cornea, a sort of branding that was given only to those who had the shortest tempers and most disconnected brains. Nevertheless, he was family. More than family, in fact. And that bond, if only that, was enough to force the younger Victor to try to trust him. 
    "Quite the opposite, unfortunately," Victor sighed. "I've come to make sure you don't die." 
    "How sweet!" the old man laughed, once again croaking out a howl that sounded more like a clawed hand scratching down a chalk board. Perhaps he had his own smoking habit when he was younger, back when lung cancer was fashionable. Victor turned his back, rummaging through his car and pulling the large tote bag by the handle, dragging the heavy collection of food onto the driveway to display. 
    "All for you," Victor admitted with a huff, feeling like a single mother trying to provide for her children. The old man seemed a little less appreciative than a child might, especially when seeing chocolates. Instead he veered closer to the bag, standing arm's length away and peering in with a long, dramatic lean. It was as if he didn't trust the younger Victor to bring him something edible, and instead assumed he was being tricked into accepting poison. After a moment of contemplation the older man straightened, his back audibly shifting back into proper form, and brought his squinting eyes to meet his companion's gaze. 
    "Have you told them about me?" he wondered. Victor opened his mouth to respond, though he immediately shut it as he began to realize just how rude his older version was being. Here he was sacrificing his mother's groceries, and perhaps even his kitchen privileges, and this man had the audacity to change the subject? 
    "Aren't you forgetting something?" Victor challenged, crossing his arms over his chest in a standard metric of disappointment. The older man didn't look phased; in fact his eyes squinted with confusion, as if this was somehow the fault of the younger. 
    "I don't think so," he snapped. 
    "What about a thank you?" Victor suggested, waving his arms around as if to try to push some common courtesy into the brain of his predecessor. The older man sighed heavily, obviously unimpressed. 
    "Is that your generation's little trick, then? Accusing people of being forgetful when you want recognition? So petty," the old man huffed, running his hand through his straggly beard as if to mimic intelligence. Instead he looked perfectly foul, as when his fingers moved throughout the tangles Victor could've sworn he saw a couple of speckles of debris fall out, leaves, twigs, perhaps even a bug or two. The man was a wreck, no wonder he didn't have any hint of manners! 
    "Not just my generation. How long has it been since you've actually talked to someone?" Victor challenged. 
    "What year is it?" 
    "That's a bad sign," Victor sighed, shaking his head and looping his hand around the tote bag once more. "Why don't we go inside? Our conversations might make more sense if we're both crazy." 
    "So sure you're not crazy outside, too? You are talking to yourself," the old Victor reminded him, his eyes sparkling with the most liveliness ever demonstrated. Victor forced himself to grin, pulling up the corners of his lips almost manually so as to avoid appearing too afraid. He did not like the idea of being crazy. 
    "Well, whose fault is that?" Victor sighed, figuring it was better to deflect the very existence of a man onto himself, rather than blame those who dared converse with him. It was a weak argument, though thankfully that was not taken advantage of. The old man merely chuckled, as if he knew all too well the steep descent into madness. 
    The two moved slowly into the house, with the younger Victor tasked with hauling the whole bag of groceries due to the seeming unwillingness of his companion. The older Victor sauntered casually in front, dragging his feet across the floors and carpets as if to take back some vengeance on the house, as if scuffing might hurt it. He seemed upset, though in a proud, mocking way. It was as if he hated to be alive longer than he was supposed to, though he would not let it show when faced with the sole entity that failed to kill him. 
    "Make yourself comfortable," the old man offered, waving towards the living room as he settled himself heavily upon the sofa. The fireplace was cold, though Victor knew it had the potential to warm when it wanted to. Perhaps if they lounged long enough and entertained the house with their conversation it would encourage them to stay longer. It would make all possible modifications to mimic a real home, rather than a rotting shell. 
    "Not that one!" the older Victor insisted, reaching out a hand instinctively as Victor attempted to settle himself into an armchair closer to the cold grate. The boy caught himself in a rather painful squat, wincing with the effort of holding himself upright with his quads alone. 
    "Why not this one?" Victor snapped, starting to feel as if he was being taunted instead of respected. It was as if the older man took some pride in making him feel stupid, as if he didn't know this house, or rather wasn't worthy to know it. 
    "We died in that one," the old man muttered. "Take the other." 
    "Oh. Right," Victor muttered, blinking away his initial anger as he straightened up. Looking back, he shivered to blink away the impression of a dead man, a partial figure, somehow matching the exact height of the back of the chair. He crossed the room swiftly, settling into the opposite armchair and feeling admittedly more correct. 
    "What do you know, Victor?" the man wondered. 
    "Know about what?" 
    "About yourself. About us," he clarified. The boy squinted, tapping his fingers against the armchair to mimic thought. In fact, he knew nothing. He knew nothing that this man had not told him, and certainly recycled information did not make for a good conversation. 
    "That we've been here for the past two hundred years. That we'll keep coming, and that the house is playing with us constantly," Victor offered. 
    "So nothing, really?" the older man sighed, pushing his elbow against the arm of the couch and striking something of an exaggerated pose. There was some humor in watching him interact with his surroundings, watching him take on the same habits, same postures of his younger self. Were they really the same? The same brain, the same DNA, like twins but...but more? Was their consciousness shared, their memories?  
    "Nothing you haven't told me," Victor admitted quietly. He felt ashamed, admittedly, as if he had done something wrong by neglecting his own past. Though the boy began to wonder if he was supposed to have such a steep learning curve, if the house would even allow him to know everything at once. Was this not supposed to be a scavenger hunt, not to find a prize, but to find yourself? 
    "You're with Sherlock, are you not?" 
    "Yes," Victor admitted, dropping his voice to a low and modest octave. He remembered the man's original questions, his rude behavior and sharp language in the greenhouse. Why was he so interested in Sherlock, especially in Victor's relationship to him? 
    "And he's...loyal?" the old man wondered, his eyes heavying with a particular sadness, the sort of shame that resonated only within a man who understood the very struggles described. Victor felt his heart shutter, he opened his mouth to respond with as much confidence as he could muster, though his voice faltered, and in an instant he fell quiet. Was he loyal? Was he supposed to be loyal? Or was this a leading question, a particular trap that Victor was supposed to fall into. The old man was trying to gauge their timeline, was he not? Why would a question of Sherlock's obligations fall into this conversation, as if he was destined to turn his eyes some other way? 
    "Sherlock spoke of the past once before," Victor muttered, turning the conversation into more familiar waters, into something he might hope to understand. "He said that this house was originally built to house a prostitute." 
    "Yes," the old man muttered, his lips curling to reveal a most unhealthy smile. 
    "And if I built the house, then that man must have been..." Victor's stomach turned, his fingers clenched around the arms of the chair which held him. He stared blankly at the throne of his death, staring at the fabric which must have once been stained a deep, aggressive red. 
    "Unfortunately Sherlock's heart has always been large. Large enough to fit many inside. Sometimes many people at once," the old Victor muttered. "When I knew him he was quite the same." 
    "My Sherlock wouldn't do that. He wouldn't betray me like that," Victor insisted, finally drawing his voice to the level of confidence he aspired for. Yet his voice wavered, for he spoke words that he did not believe were completely true. Well of course he was inclined to trust his partner; of course he wanted to see the best in the boy he had chosen to love. And yet he had only known Sherlock for a fraction of a year, and dated him for just under a month. How could Victor be so sure that Sherlock's heart was as committed as his own? How could he vouch for a character that he was still beginning to understand? 
    "History betrays your confidence," the older Victor sighed. "Though I do hope, for your sake, that your Sherlock behaves himself." 
    "What..." Victor caught himself, biting down on his tongue to avoid asking a question he never wanted to answer. How to ask, how to wonder, about the infidelities of the boy he had come to love? 
    "What had he done? With you, who...who was it?" the boy asked at last, his voice trembling to even consider the idea. It was of course a more obvious answer than he wanted to admit; in fact Victor was quite sure he knew the answer before the old man opened his mouth. For this was a house of repetition, of drama, and it was entertained only with the most potent of scandals. Why would there be three men repeatedly spawned, if not for their history? If not for their dramatics? 
    "John Watson," Victor admitted, the old man's fingers clenching as he managed to pronounce the name through his lips. He looked angry, impossibly so, as if the pain of such a betrayal was as fresh as the day he discovered it. "That scoundrel, that b*stard..." 
    "Well that's a stroke of luck, then," Victor announced. "Because my John is not gay." 
    "Yes he is," the old man sighed. 
    "He's not. I've known him for seventeen years, and never once..." 
    "Yes he is," old Victor insisted, sharper this time, turning his eyes to meet his younger self to bore the truth through an intense glare. "Bisexual, at the very least." 
    "He's never shown interest," Victor debated, speaking now with the affirmation that only comes from experience. Perhaps he couldn't speak directly to Sherlock Holmes's loyalties, but John Watson he knew for sure. John Watson he's known forever. 
    "He's been thinking about it, then. Perhaps yours is more polite...or even more secretive. But there will come a day when he makes his move upon Sherlock, and there will be nothing you can do to stop it." 
    "I don't believe you," Victor insisted, his entire body stirring with emotions, boiling with a rage that he could not define. It was a strange combination of disbelief and outrage, an anger that was manifesting from confusion, and from the surprise at the old man's daring. Perhaps he was speaking from his own experiences, unwilling to admit that all timelines were not the same. 
    "Shall I describe to you the last manifestation? The last round of fools who fell into the same traps as before?" 
    "Rosie's father, you mean?" 
    "He was unusually dormant. So unmotivated, so cowardly. The moment he met Sherlock he fell in love, though he waited months, almost until the end of his timeline, to admit to it. To do anything about it. Sherlock was already wearing our ring on his finger, pledged to his Victor in something more formal than words. And that Victor got too comfortable, too confident. He was a fool for believing that he didn't have to maintain the relationship, a fool for letting Sherlock so constantly out of his sight. And just when it might have been cemented between them, Sherlock was seduced. Or rather, he grew bored of what he already had. John Watson, a married man with a child, couldn't even make it past his office door. A professor, with a student on his office floor." 
    "You're saying that I can't let them interact? My best friend and my boyfriend, you're suggesting I keep them separate until the end of time?" Victor snarled. 
    "I'm saying that it will happen either way. I'm warning you not to feel so secure, not to feel so confident. When you don't watch closely enough, when you're not careful..." 
    "That's when it will happen," Victor finished in a breath. The old man nodded, happy to see that his younger self was finally catching on. Victor squirmed in his chair, hesitating to look upon the couch where he shared his first kiss, the couch which hosted the dawn of his heart's awakening. Was it really for nothing? Was it really destined, written in the rules, that John would betray him? But no, something could not be right. It would seem as though the older Victor would never realize this, he could never imagine a redeemable version of the man who broke his heart. Perhaps that was why John and Victor were provided with this lifelong friendship, perhaps the first of its time. They had sixteen years to build trust between themselves, sixteen years to make sure they would not turn against the other. How could Victor explain to this old man, the one who had been basting in his resentments for the whole of his lifetime? How could Victor explain that John Watson was a redeemable man after all? 
    "What happened to your Sherlock, and your John?" Victor wondered at last, leaning forward upon his knees and staring over the flickering light of the newly ignited fireplace. The house was entertaining them, then. The house was being a good host. The old man sighed heavily, his breath whistling unhealthily through his lungs as he sat back to try to explain what was still foreign, even to him. 
    "The house was tricked, in a sense. The house did not understand what it was up against...its enemy was entirely new." 
    "What year?" 
    "Eighty four," Victor sighed heavily. "In a time period when men were at considerable risk from each other." 
    "AIDS," Victor guessed. The old man pursed his lips, as if the topic was still a sore spot for him. 
    "It was Sherlock, unfortunately. Long after he had grown tired of me. In the end, the house could feel them dying. It could feel them fading, and became incredibly confused. It couldn't stop it from happening, in fact they lasted the course of the disease's progression. The house forgot to instruct, forgot the proper order of things. It let them wither instead of follow what ought to have happened. It let them die their way, instead of its own. When they died...I was there to see it. They each died in this house, as they ought to have. I made sure of it." 
    "But the house thought you died, as well?" Victor clarified. 
    "I don't know what the house thought. All I knew was that I was a survivor, one way or another. I was a survivor, and there was no one left to kill me. The timeline restarted. I felt it as soon as their last breaths left their body, there was a tremor in the house. A shock wave, as if in anger. As if in despair. It knocked me off my feet, and for a moment I felt as if I was dead, too. There was a force pulling upon my soul, draining it, taking it. Disregarding me, as if I had become irrelevant." 
    "Why did it not kill you?" Victor challenged. 
    "I wish it would have," the old man sighed. "Though I have determined, in these years, that either the house didn't know I was alive...or perhaps it didn't care that I was. What's the fun in having one withered old creature, left to die alone? It wanted its lovers back from the grave. And it would forget itself in the process. It would disregard the confusion that would arise from there being multiple Victor Trevors." 
    "Are you suggesting that the house would prefer Sherlock and John together? That it's on their side?" 
    "I'm merely insinuating that Victor Trevor is useless on his own. Victor Trevor is an accessory to what the house finds truly entertaining. Alive or dead...Victor Trevor is nothing more than a costume piece." The old man shuttered, as if he was holding back the tears that had long since disallowed to flow. He was silent for a moment, running his fingers through his scraggly beard and pulling rather chaotically at the knots. Victor stared off into the distance, his eyes open but unseeing, watching his thoughts as they progressed slowly through his mind. He couldn't entirely process the story he had been told, there were parts of it which seemed wrong, impossible even. Victor thought he knew John Watson enough to disregard these outlandish suggestions. Was it really John's destiny to be with Sherlock, regardless of the original arrangement? Would he disregard his best friend's relationship, merely for his own benefit? 
    Worse still, was there really no use for Victor Trevor? Had this man, this concept, been trapped into the love story of the only two men that mattered? Had the generations that preceded him merely got lucky, trapped into a cycle that didn't need them at all? For hundreds of years, was it Victor Trevor's purpose merely to be heartbroken?