What The House Forgot

A Mutual Love Interest

"What do we do now, Sherlock?" John wondered at last, tapping his joint against the rim of the bathtub and blinking away his steadily approaching high.
"I think in either short term or long term. John, you'll have to clarify," Sherlock chuckled.
"I mean, what do we do about the house? What, do we just wait around for me to kill you both? Do we wait for you and Victor to marry? Or do we forget about the whole thing, and decide we're sick of falling into this same cycle?"
"I'm not sure we have the power to choose," Sherlock decided. "Especially if we were opting for the latter!"
"I'm too young to kill anyone."
"And I'm too young to marry," Sherlock agreed with a groan.
"Do you get the sense that we shouldn't be here yet? That...that the house made some mistake, and summoned us too quickly? All of the others were older, late twenties, early thirties. Why now? Why teenagers?" John demanded.
"Perhaps it just wanted to see what would happen. Throw some more hormones into the mix, ooh, perhaps the tables would turn," Sherlock suggested. John shook his head quickly, but held his tongue. "Or perhaps it was worried that things would happen again, that you'd come around married. Some grow up faster than others, after all."
"Or maybe it knows something that we don't. Something that could make up for this acceleration. As if it knows we have higher breaking points, but it has countered that with the wickedest attempt in its history," John suggested. Sherlock sighed, pulling his legs around the bathtub rim and wrapping them haphazardly. Certainly his point of balance was off, though for the sake of moving he seemed content with staying strained upon the rim, using the whole of his torso in an attempt to fight gravity. He managed to sigh, managed to make it dramatic.
"Or perhaps the end result is not its goal all along," Sherlock suggested quietly. "Perhaps it doesn't wish for this cycle to repeat itself, it would rather have something else."
"That seems unlikely," John decided, "Why would it allow so many generations to make the same mistakes, so many generations to die the same way?"
"Failsafe," Sherlock suggested, shrugging his shoulders before wobbling dangerously upon the edge, finally shooting out a hand upon the tile before rearranging his legs for a more stable base.
"As if there's a trigger in each of our minds, ready to be activated if we're heading the wrong way?" John clarified, beginning to follow despite his reluctance to swallow any ideas wholly.
"Perhaps the players in the game were beginning to approach the wrong side of the field. And so, to avoid certain defeat, the house would rather..." Sherlock ended his statement by snapping his fingers, a gesture that might be presumed innocent had it not been coupled with such a display of words.
"So you're suggesting we just...find out what the house wants?" John suggested.
"Or figure out how to avoid it entirely. I'm exhausted of being at people's mercy, and it seems worse if I've been controlled by a pile of brick and mortar for the past two hundred odd years."
"Thwart the plan?" John clarified. Sherlock chuckled, tapping his fingers against his joint before pulling the thing from his lips. He puffed a large cloud of smoke, staring deeply into the formation of the cloud as if his answer would be lying somewhere within the density.
"No idea," he admitted. "Because I admit...not all of history should be rewritten."
"You can't pick and choose which parts of your destiny you want to play out," John debated, tapping his joint against the rim of the bathtub as aggressively as he could, not only to display the urgency of his point, but also to attempt to sever the thing so he could abandon it without looking rude.
"Says you!" Sherlock chuckled. "As of now you seem to be the most boring reincarnation of John Watson."
"Because I won't sleep with you?" John presumed.
"You said it...not me," Sherlock sighed. John frowned, wondering what on earth there was to do in this situation. Was it possible to be polite; was it necessary to even consider manners? Was Victor's sake even worth it at this point?
"I'm not trying to insult you, if that's how you consider this," John offered quickly. Sherlock's eyes flashed, though he seemed intrigued. He seemed willing to admit that his feelings were hurt, if only for the gratification of discussing what had been lingering on his mind.
"John, I know you're a good man. Likewise I hope you understand that I am not. You've been on my mind lately, seemingly by default. What's better to spice up your love life than the foil of the boy you've been entertaining for four abysmally boring weeks?"
"You're too bold," John demanded, shunning his glance away and trying not to consider what he had been thinking of these past few days as well. The dreams he had been having, the descriptions he was able to see. Sherlock Holmes at his most vulnerable, Sherlock Holmes at his most beautiful. But those dreams were the property of other John Watsons; those were the experiences that were manufactured for some other reincarnation, a man of worse moral upbringing. Even if they shared the same name, the same DNA, and the same history, well certainly nurture would be the only thing to divide them! With nature so surely alike, it was all John could do but rely on what his parents had taught him about being good, about being responsible. It seemed as if lesson one should have been taught from the moment of birth: don't sleep with your friend's boyfriend. This lesson might have been missed in the most basic principles, though it was implied by the ones which were most important. Could John avoid the same vices as his predecessors?
"And you, I suppose, are simply too stubborn." Sherlock rose to his feet, as if he had finally realized that his conversation was not enough to bring down John's stern defenses. The boy seemed admittedly disheartened, though he moved to the sink and ran the end of his joint under the steady stream of cold water, extinguishing the flame enough to be hidden in the depths of the trashcan where Mrs. Trevor would not find it. Perhaps he considered this battle lost, which indeed it was. For now. For today. For this very hour, until John could sort out what his brain was considering.
"Are you leaving?" John presumed.
"I think I should."
"Not a long visit."
"Not the best hospitality," Sherlock snapped back. Such hostility in his voice made John snap into attention, his chin rising as if pulled by marionette strings, his eyes narrowing in instinct. He rose to his feet, suddenly overwhelmed not just with the need to defend himself, but also to shoot back the same attitude that his guest seemed to insist upon.
"If this is how you treat everyone who tells you 'no' then you're worse than me, the supposed monster," John snarled. He stood as tall as he could, though the top of his head failed to compare to the stature of his opponent. The boy was seemingly offended, though John was only able to stare into his eyes through the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sherlock had settled his hands upon the edge of the sink, his fingers curling to allow the nails to cut into the false marble.
"How can you blame me, with the temperament of a common whore?" Sherlock snarled.
"You're not a whore."
"Any more than you're not a killer."
"Perhaps I was, in the past. And perhaps you were just the same. But the difference between us is the acceptance of roles. I decided I didn't want to kill, and look! I haven't killed anyone yet! Though it seems you allowed the past to infect you, and you're waltzing around looking for sex as if that's the only thing that's ever mattered to you, when I know it's not," John snapped.
"How do you know it's not?"
"Because we've known each other a long time, Sherlock." John pursed his lips, though he mustered courage enough to settle his hand very carefully upon the shoulder of his counterpart. The boy trembled, seemingly madly, as if he had forgotten what an innocent touch felt like.
"I wish that were true," Sherlock grumbled, finally pushing himself off of the sink and shaking John's hand off of his shoulder. He turned towards the door, deliberately keeping his face shielded. Perhaps he was humiliated, in his own way. Embarrassed of what he'd tried to do, or perhaps of what he's become in the end. Either way, his dissatisfaction was enough to force him out, and so Sherlock gripped the handle, twisted the lock, and flung the door open in his dramatic, disappointed demeanor. How was he to know that his dramatic exit would have an audience? Worse still, how could he know it would have a consequence? Perhaps John really should have kissed the boy, if not to distract him for the next couple of minutes, any interruption of the timeline that would prevent John's eyes from meeting Victor's eyes, straight through the disheveled and hidden form of their mutual love interest.