What The House Forgot

Victor Doesn't Need To Know

John POV: John sat in Victor's bedroom alone, as that was where the video games were set up. He knew the boy wouldn't mind, as he had always been allowed free range throughout the house, though it was rather strange to be seated within Victor's domain. Before Sherlock, before England even, John had been perfectly comfortable in Victor's room, with or without its designated occupant. He knew every object intimately; he knew the corners of the room, the bends of the ceiling, the squeaking floorboards which hid underneath the soft carpet. In America that room had been a second home, and in quite the same fashion it accepted John as a second owner. Though that room was long gone, never to be arranged according to memory again. It was occupied by another family, another child, and John was forced to acquaint himself with unfamiliar territory.
This English room held secrets, the first four walls to host things that were not spoken of between the two boys. Sherlock had been in here, behind a locked door. Who knows what has happened inside, on this bed that John now leaned his back upon? Who knows what state of dress the two were in, what state of passion? As John stared at the multiplayer lobby he could almost convince himself he felt something, someone moving, the mattress shaking. Was his best friend unfamiliar these days? Was his best friend covered in foreign fingerprints? John closed his eyes tight, tucking his chin upon his chest and feeling a wave of regrettable envy. He knew it was an inserted feeling, something which would not be hosted within his heart if it was not for the influence of the house. Oh, but even artificial feelings could burn so brightly, so hotly, within his body.
John wished that he could forget his dream; he wished he could forget what it felt like to be trapped within the body of his older self, and loved by the same ancient form of the boy he now knew. Though it seemed that something was disallowing those feelings from fading, whether it was his body or that house, some third party was insisting that he remember what every kiss felt like, how every touch indented. It was a feeling that should not be his to cherish, and certainly not one to recreate, though the longer it festered within his body the more frustrated he became. He wasn't supposed to want Sherlock, his romantic history said as much, not to mention the obedience he had for his best friend. Every sense of morality insisted that John should let it go, that he should forget what feelings he might have so as to ensure that their timeline did not end as tragically as the last. Falling in love with Sherlock was written into his destiny, though killing Sherlock was also highlighted as a priority. It seemed that these emotions were the first step towards the very desperation that would drive him to murder; it was a slippery slope to even consider taking the first step towards his unfortunate and frankly criminal destiny.
Would it be worth it? Would entertaining these feelings, as ridiculous as they were, truly pay off? Would the passion he generated with Sherlock Holmes be enough to justify murder?
"Victor, honey!" a knock came upon the door, though it was Mrs. Trevor's voice which demanded his attention from the other side. John sighed, realizing that the Trevor parents must not have noticed that their son had left a while ago.
"It's John, actually!" he called out. "Victor's gone off somewhere; I'm just playing video games."
"Victor's gone?"
"Yeah."
"Well...his friend is here to see him. Should I send him away?" Mrs. Trevor continued. Him? What sort of friend did Victor have that wasn't Sherlock? Were they not together right now?
"Who is it?"
"Sherlock," the woman described, her tongue tripping over the name as if she was afraid to mispronounce it. John's heart skipped a beat.
"Send him up!" John declared, blurting out his demands before he could even stop to consider the decision. Well of course he'd love to see Sherlock; though meeting him alone seemed to be a risky move, especially without Victor's knowledge or consent. Then again, if Victor was sneaking off somewhere, well why couldn't John do the same?
Mrs. Trevor's foot falls faded away towards the stairs, and for a moment John was left to tremble before the screen of the television, wondering how on earth he was going to entertain Sherlock Holmes. They had hardly been alone together before, though this would be their first time truly alone, without Victor or Harry within earshot. This would be their first time uncensored, and more worryingly, uninterrupted. He had mere seconds until Sherlock would slouch his way up the stairs, mere moments until he would have to come up with a conversation starter! John panicked; he turned off the television without even exiting the game, undoubtedly setting his character and team up for defeat. Oh what to say, what to say? Would they talk of school, or America, or the house...or Victor?
John jumped to his feet when a second knock came, a more aggressive knock, the rapping upon wood by a more impatient fist. It was not Mrs. Trevor's polite little tap; it belonged to someone much more foreboding. John swallowed hard, quickly checking his hair in the mirror (and patting it down a bit) before lunging for the door and opening it wide. He tried not to look surprised when Sherlock was at the door. He tried not to look excited.
"What are you doing in Victor's room?" Sherlock wondered, his hands dropping into his pockets as he leaned casually upon the door frame. Oh lord, was he beautiful. John blinked once, then twice, before answering.
"Video games," he explained weakly. "Only room in the house with them set up."
"So I see," Sherlock sighed. "You boys and your violence."
"It's not so bad," John defended quickly. "I mean, cartoon blood doesn't bring out my urge to kill or anything."
"Oh no? Well I guess that's a relief. Perhaps I'll survive this round unscathed."
"Oh, don't bring that up," John complained, averting his eyes from Sherlock's overly excited grin.
"It's our history, John. Am I not allowed to speak of what has already occurred?"
"It's our legacy, not our history."
"It's our destiny," Sherlock reminded him.
"Not if I can help it," John sighed.
"Can I come in?" Sherlock wondered, cocking his head to the side and letting his stray curls fall sideways over his eyes, shielding his eyes in a most beautiful curtain.
"We should probably switch rooms," John muttered.
"How come? Perhaps I'd like to play games as well?" Sherlock insisted, his eyes widening and his fingers tapping violently in his pockets, extending so far for their impact that each individual finger pulled at the fabric and was visible from the outside. John said nothing, figuring Sherlock was not the sort of boy to argue with for long. If he wanted something, well then certainly it was his right to receive it. What were boys like John supposed to do against boys like him? Submit, that was all. Nod in agreement and go with the flow. And so John merely stepped aside, pushing the door open wider with the hope that Sherlock would not close it behind him. As John turned towards his spot on the floor he heard a small snap, certainly a disappointing sound for anyone who did not want to create a secret.
"Where is Victor?" Sherlock wondered, his voice appearing startlingly close to where John was settling down upon the rug.
"With you," John sighed.
"Ah." Sherlock nodded, collapsing upon the carpet as well. He straightened himself up against the bed, keeping his back bent at a startlingly professional angle.
"I suppose we're all keeping secrets now. If he thinks I don't deserve to know where he is then...well I guess I just won't ask," John decided.
"A wise decision," Sherlock agreed. The boy folded his hands upon his lap, leaning his head gracefully against the mattress so that his sharp, pointed chin could stick into the air in a proud and stunning angle.
"Are you not concerned?" John clarified.
"About Victor? I'm sure he's fine," Sherlock assured, shaking his head minimally as if the idea was not even worth the strength it took to move his neck.
"What if he's off with some other boy?" John suggested. Sherlock merely chuckled, his face stretching into a mocking smile without breaking eye contact with a particular spot on the ceiling.
"You think Victor would ever cheat on me? Doubtfully," Sherlock chuckled. "Besides, it was he who assigned such permanent roles."
"You mean you're not actually his boyfriend?" John clarified quietly, wondering if a mere title role was enough to disregard the guilt that was bubbling within his chest. It was something to hope for.
"No, of course not. He's someone to love, and I'm something to admire. Who says that's so official?"
"He says," John pointed out. "Not a day goes by when he's not talking about his boyfriend."
"Oh come on now, I'll have to have a talk with him. Oh certainly he is not taking this too seriously," Sherlock sighed. "Do I look like a life partner?"
"Yes," John spat out immediately. "I mean...well I sort of thought he considered you as such."
"I'm too young for commitment," Sherlock pointed out.
"Don't you love him?" John demanded, jumping to his best friend's aid with this rather attacking question. He trusted Sherlock to speak the truth, though John also knew that he would be disappointed with either answer. A simple yes or no would not be good enough for him. Unfortunately, the question left little room for another response.
"Yes I do," Sherlock admitted. "In my own way."
"As Victor's best friend I should scold you for playing with his heart," John snapped.
"But as John Watson, what would you do to me instead?" Sherlock taunted. John narrowed his eyes, finally catching Sherlock's gaze as the boy lowered his head for better observation. Certainly those beautiful eyes picked up on the tinge of color in John's cheeks. Certainly he recognized how uncomfortable John felt after such a simple string of conversation.
"Would you like to play Mario Kart?" John offered, figuring it was better to ignore the question than pretend to answer.
"No," Sherlock said simply.
"What would you rather do? What did you come here for, anyway?"
"To see Victor," Sherlock explained.
"And do what, exactly?"
"What else do lovers do?" Sherlock chuckled. His smile stretched deviously, a beautiful wrinkle sprouting within his cheeks as his skin was forced to adjust to his joy. John swallowed hard, shuffling uncomfortably upon the carpet as he wondered where the line would be drawn. Where it was deemed too inappropriate to continue questioning.
"So you've...you've done that then?"
"Not yet," Sherlock admitted, his voice drawn out in a heavy sigh, as if he was growing increasingly impatient. "He's so timid. So shy."
"That's fine. You've been with him a month, there's no reason you should be so eager."
"Oh you know me, John. Or rather, you know who I used to be."
"Couldn't go a day without," John agreed.
"And it's been so much longer than a day," Sherlock sighed, groaning lowly as if to demonstrate the agony he felt. John blushed, though he averted his eyes. Certainly he would not allow himself to fall for this trap. He knew now that there was nothing to be gained from a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, nothing of material value at least. Was this man so bold as to discredit his lover's opinion, a young boy's need for commitment? Would he be so bold as to seduce another man, simply because his current partner was not providing him the fulfillment he needed?
"Well, perhaps you should go find Victor then," John suggested. Sherlock chuckled, his hands falling out of his pockets if only to catch around the collar of his shirt, pulling upon the fabric and revealing a rather teasing patch of bare skin. Pale skin, almost reflective when caught in the sun.
"Perhaps I should," he agreed quietly. John pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping himself in a tight ball as if to decidedly protect himself from such influences. He was not ready for this, even if it was destined to happen at one point or another. He was not ready to let Sherlock turn a curious eye upon him, not when the boy had spelled out exactly how unfaithful he was willing to be.
After a moment of silence Sherlock seemed to understand John's hesitation, perhaps he realized that he was not so seductive as he imagined. As if in defeat the boy tucked his hand into his breast pocket, pulling out his trademark choice of smokes.
"Don't smoke in here," John scolded.
"Don't worry dear, I brought one for you too," Sherlock explained, feeling even more aggressively within his coat to produce two joints within the palm of his hand.
"Those things are disgusting. They'll stink up this whole room," John scolded.
"Then let us move," Sherlock suggested, rising to his feet as he tucked one of the joints in his teeth. John stayed seated, looking up at Sherlock and deciding if it would be polite or even proper to deny the boy two separate times in five minutes. Perhaps he ought to take the lesser of two evils, submit to one form of criminality instead of another.
"Oh, fine. But if Victor finds out I've been smoking with you...well I'm sure he won't appreciate it," John warned, rising to meet his companion and holding out a hand of acceptance.
"Victor doesn't need to know anything," Sherlock insisted, smiling as he placed the joint carefully within the palm of John's hand. Of course he did not dare be delicate; the boy ensured that he touched as much skin to John's open hand as was physically possible. Their fingers collided, their palms smashed together, and for a moment their eyes met, a gaze which only seemed to heighten the way their nerves seemed to jump together, tangling through their skin and attaching at their most sensitive cores. John struggled to avert his eyes; he struggled to pull his hand away. For that moment he wondered if it would not be so bad to take Sherlock Holmes right now. He wondered if it would not be shameful to take him within his best friend's bed.
"Careful, John," Sherlock taunted, finally drawing his hand away and chuckling lowly. "I know that look."
"No you don't," John scowled, curling his fingers upon the joint before following moodily in his companion's wake.
The two boys settled upon the rim of the bathtub, each sneaking quietly inside to make sure the Trevor parents didn't notice the timelines, nor of course the locked door. It was all very suggestive, the two being inside the bathroom at once, though it was no more conspicuous than being behind a locked bedroom door. Either way, the Trevor parents lived with a shield in front of their eyes, perhaps voluntarily, perhaps intentionally. Parents like them, who had been experienced in raising only the most prim and proper child, could not handle to realize what their darling little Victor had descended to. Here he was with bad influences like Sherlock Holmes, with rebels like Rosie Watson; well certainly no one's morality would stay cleared for long! No, it was too much trouble to try to stay untainted for long. Before long there's a tipping point, a moment of frustration, and suddenly all you tried to maintain in yourself goes tumbling, tumbling down.
At least that's what John felt as he settled a lit joint within his mouth, breathing in the foul smoke and nearly choking on the odor that infected and lingered within his lungs. It was a common enough smell, a sort of cologne that stayed upon the lapel of his companion, and so he imagined he would have been prepared to swallow it himself. It was quite the opposite effect. Instead of building a tolerance over these weeks, instead John had seemed to acquaint himself with the nullified, second hand scent. When he was hit with the full blast, when he inhaled it down his throat and into his nose, it felt like a thick and disgusting fog, something which would not leave his lungs even after the deepest of exhales. John coughed, snatching the joint from his mouth as he nearly stuck his hand into his mouth, attempting to pry open his jaw and reach for the smoke which had gotten stuck inside.
Sherlock chuckled, leaning against the side of the tub with his legs dangling into the dry basin below. His back was pressed to the tiles, his limbs dangling precariously, and of course he smoked like an expert. There was nothing more attractive than seeing someone do something flawlessly, and here he was, perfecting the art of smoking. He knew how his fingers ought to curl, he knew how his lips needed to purse, he knew exactly when to inhale, when to exhale, and when to dash the thing from his lips. For a moment John was lost in Sherlock's patterns, lost with the intention of replicating them, or perhaps distracted with the intention of appreciating them.
"You're an amateur, I see," Sherlock presumed, knocking his knee playfully against the rim of the tub as if to call the needed attention to himself.
"Of course I'm an amateur, no one smokes anymore, it's disgusting," John scolded.
"It's relaxing," Sherlock reminded him.
"You always stink. You're saying that's intentional?" John questioned. Sherlock merely chuckled, shrugging his shoulders the best he could given his current balancing act. John shuffled his feet uncomfortably upon the tiles, sitting bent over upon his knees and staring at Sherlock with large, hesitant eyes. He knew very well that the door was locked. He knew because he heard Sherlock click the lock on his way in, trying to disguise the sound by a loud exclamation. Sherlock had an agenda. All John had to do was survive through it.
"I think I am one of the lucky ones," Sherlock decided. "I would hate to have to go through all this with a clear mind."
"The house, you mean?" John wondered.
"No, the weather patterns!" Sherlock snarled.
"I'm just...God, I'm just clarifying," John muttered defensively.
"Yes, of course the house. And not just the house, but the people, and the death, and the reincarnation...it must be so awful to process. I can't imagine how you sober children of God manage."
"I suppose it just...well I'm not sure. At first I thought it was crazy, of course I did. But it made sense. As it went along I started to understand that it would be crazier if this was all a coincidence," John admitted glumly. Sherlock nodded his head carefully, though his eyes were far away, focused on a corner of the shower without comprehending the majority of John's statement.
"As if you were born with the knowledge, but repressed it for as long as you could manage," he suggested at last, with a surprising ability to respond. John blinked, taken aback by such a meaningful comment.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean...like you had dreams?" Sherlock suggested.
"I've had dreams," John agreed. "Of the house, before I got here. When I walked inside I already knew the floor plan. I already knew where...where you died."
"Where you killed me?" Sherlock corrected with a chuckle. John dropped his gaze, though he didn't bother trying to deny it. Out of the both of them, Sherlock was the least informed. He had only death certificates to show for himself, whereas John knew the entire story. He knew the story from himself, and from himself before that. He knew there was a reason, there was always a reason. And it was always preceded by a love affair.
"What did you dream of?" John wondered.
"Sex," Sherlock admitted quite clearly. "Even as a child I would have these...descriptive dreams. My parents couldn't figure out how I knew so much, knew more than them..."
"So we were all getting flashbacks?" John presumed. "To what we were doing back then?"
"What, you killing people, me sleeping with people? What did Victor dream of then, pouting?"
"We'd have to ask him," John suggested. Sherlock shrugged, taking another long puff upon his joint as if that would help clear his mind enough to continue the conversation.
"I was only ever able to latch on to one detail of my dreams. I never saw the house, never saw the bedrooms...usually only saw a torso, a pair of arms, a pair of lips. But as I grew older I was able to recognize one face, one man who was particularly constant. As if the house had decided to highlight his performances, and his alone," Sherlock explained quietly. His eyes turned to John, his voice slowing as if to particularly annunciate the connotations of his words. He introduced a mystery, a small hint of speculation that could sprout within John's mind, and he intended to solve it immediately. Sherlock was probing, he was planting ideas directly into his prey's head with the intention of watching him react to both question and answer. All John had to do was wonder; all he had to do was ask. However, the trap was recognized and thus was sprung. Before Sherlock's eyes could sparkle even a second time John chose to interrupt his plan.
"I don't really...care to know," John whispered, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the amount of detail Sherlock was willing to share. He knew what to expect if Sherlock continued this story, and he didn't feel obligated to have such definitive proof.
The boy smiled around his joint, his teeth squishing and his lips curling, the obscene trail of smoke wafting through the gaps like a mythical and underwhelming dragon. Sherlock had that look in his eyes, well, perhaps the same look he always wore. Though it was quite dangerous to make direct eye contact, quite dangerous to linger within his gaze for too long. He huffed a breath of disappointment, yet he still seemed amused. Perhaps chasing down his prey was more fun for him than the initial bite, the beginning of the kill.