What The House Forgot

A Bloodstained Bedframe

The second and much more preferable scenario, when realizing plunging from the window may not be the best idea,  was praying for a fleeting and exhaustible anger supply within John's heart. Hopefully he was seeing red for only a moment longer, and with that his personality would return and his blood stained hands would be used only to wipe the tears of regret from his eyes. In this instance, Victor would still have to run. And yet, perhaps then he would be able to walk through the door rather than take his chances out the old window. The show of rage John had put on spoke loudly for itself, indeed it seemed to demonstrate exactly how he felt towards any man who tried to put himself between John and Sherlock Holmes. He displayed rather obviously the punishment he would pursue, as if he wholeheartedly believed it fit the crime.
It took another couple of minutes before the pounding on the floor began to fall short, and then stop abruptly. Victor had half wished John would be entertained for much longer, at least long enough to allow his heart rate to calm inside of his chest. For a long while Victor felt as if he might explode along with his counterpart, as if the wounds inflicted upon the man who was, essentially, himself, would begin to appear along his own skin. When such an occurrence never came to pass, Victor instead wondered if he would feel a sudden burst of energy, a refreshing of personality, absorbing whatever was still locked within his older and forgotten duplicate. Instead, he felt a continually growing fear. Instead he imagined his own face suffering the same fate underneath the fingers of John Watson, and he began to realize that he may be next. When the pounding stopped, a new rag doll may very well be sought after.
"Victor?" came a weak, strangled voice from beneath the bedframe, only moment after the beating had stopped. It was the voice of John Watson, as if woken from a trance. There was no response, not from the old man (surprisingly) nor from his younger counter part. The latter was much too afraid to answer; unsure if this was a cry for help or rather a summoning for the next in line.
"Victor?" John whispered again, this time framed as a legitimate question, as if he was honestly expecting an answer in return. Victor shuffled uncomfortably upon the bed, holding Sherlock's trembling body close as he attempted to at least sit up a bit straighter, attempting to meet the eyes that were cowering a little too close to the ground. He was looking for the telltale sparkle, that predatory gleam that would undoubtedly appear within the eyes of an aggressor. Instead, Victor saw tears. He saw the brown eyes of his best friend welling up on the other side of the bedframe, large hazel irises clouded through the darkness by what could only be regret. Victor pursed his lips, though he silently began to huddle Sherlock farther off of his chest.
"Victor, did I kill you?" John whispered from beneath the bed. There was a slight tinge in his voice, a slight sharpness that was asking with an answer in mind. He wanted to hear something, he wanted something very specific.
"No," Victor muttered from above, not sure if such a one word answer would suffice. Obviously John had killed a Victor, though the blood on his hands didn't belong to the one he cared about the most.
"Was I supposed to?" John wondered, leaning up onto his knees so that he could at least meet Victor's eyes without either of them having to strain. The question traveled down Victor's spine like a shiver, a direct and legitimate offer for murder. What a strange thing to ask, and how ever stranger it was that Victor did not immediately know the answer. Technically yes, Victor was due to die at John's hand. But tonight...was that merely setting the score straight with a left over from generations past? Or would that Victor's death suffice for the necessary blood on John's hands?
"I would prefer it if you didn't," Victor admitted quietly. John nodded his head slightly, wiping his bloodied hands across his face and messaging the muscles which had remained ever tense. Such an act covered him in what appeared to be war paint, glistening in the weak candle light and depicting him as some sort of Devil.
"Good," John breathed. "Good."
"John, you sound relieved," Victor pointed out. "You just killed a man and yet you sound..."
"Satisfied?" John suggested. The boy's hand hooked upon the bedpost, nearly dragging the entire thing across the floor as he heaved his weight upon it, struggling to a standing position. There was only one word to describe the scene he presented, only one way to conceptualize exactly what a blood soaked, naked John Watson appeared to be. Barbaric. Worse still, the boy seemed devoid of remorse. Those preliminary trembles, those frightened eyes that had at first emerged...could they have been an act? Or was John becoming possessed at unpredictable and inconsistent times? Was his brain switching on and off, jumping from one agenda to the other?
"Can't you feel this, Victor? Can't you feel the house?" John held his hands out to encourage stillness, the sort of motion one would make to silence a crowd, or to call attention to the lingering sounds of the crickets in the evenings. Despite the rather inappropriate usage, Victor still found it easy to obey. The boy silenced himself; he even attempted to still his heart. He wanted to feel it, he wanted to hear it, was the house satisfied with what John had done? Was the house clapping or mourning? From what Victor could feel, the house was maintaining its consistent state. Victor felt nothing.
"It's almost purring, Victor. It's congratulating me...I can feel it in the soles of my feet. I can feel it climbing my legs, humming like tendrils. It's embracing me, it's celebrating me," John gave a chuckle of delight, rubbing his hands, now sticky with the drying blood, across his stained chest and hips. His smile looked ghostly when contrasted with the darkness of the rest of his painted skin, those white teeth barring in self applause.
"I don't feel anything," Victor protested.
"Maybe because you haven't done anything to deserve it," John suggested with a breath. He did a small circle, stumbling upon wobbling knees as he stepped and swished his bare feet within the mess he had made. "It feels good, Victor. It feels good to embrace who you're supposed to be."
"I'm afraid my chapter of this story has been exhausted. All I'm waiting to do...is die," Victor admitted carefully. "And I'm not ready for that to happen."
"Perhaps not." John's voice was short; it would appear that he had lost all patience for his friend who sat terrified within the mess of blankets they had once shared. As of now, the conversation had not spurred Sherlock's attention. In fact, Victor was able to steal a glance in his lover's direction, noticing now that the boy had plugged up his ears with his fingers, blocking out any external summoning. Perhaps he felt that he was safer when confined within his head, or perhaps he still didn't know if the killing was over yet. Maybe he was still attempting to block out that thudding, understanding with the same fear that John's killing streak was statistically just beginning.
"John...you're not going to kill me, are you?" Victor wondered, pressing a reassuring hand to Sherlock's arm in the attempt to wake him from whatever dream he had plunged himself into. All his palm was met with was a quick tenseness, the short and determined squeezing of his bicep in the way one would attempt to expel a mosquito in a hands free method. It was unsuccessful, as Victor began to pat along the arm, insisting in whatever fashion that he be joined in the world of the waking.
John's answer was very deterring, considering that he did not give one. The boy, who had taken to pacing small circles around the corpse of his victim, only offered Victor a mere glance after the question, one with eyes that were covered within blood that had once been flowing through the healthy veins of Victor's one and only counterpart. The glance was not definitive, it was not a yes, but it was not a no. Victor would have to reevaluate what made friends stick together and what ultimately broke them apart. He had to think that neglecting to promise the other's safety was enough to erase that title completely.
"Is it over?" Sherlock whispered, his fingers still jammed within his ears but his voice working softly, nervously, as if he still wasn't sure if he should bring attention to himself or not.
"Sherlock, I've saved you," John announced proudly, standing proud and notching his fingers upon his spindly hip bones. Sherlock thankfully wasn't forced to listen to such nonsense, and in fact he neglected to stir. Instead he continued to squeeze his eyes and ears shut, trying to hide from the world and all of its murderous inhabitants. Victor gave two more pats upon his arm, this in attempt to agree to Sherlock's prior question, and was happy to see the boy relax. His shoulders fell into a more human position, shrugging naturally as his fingers fell away from his ears. Silence seemed to be the most reassuring thing, for the boy began to turn upon his back, opening a single eye and staring up at Victor. The most immediate expression was relief, as if he had imagined he was being awoken by the murderer himself. Perhaps he imagined Victor was already dead by now.
"Sherlock, we're going to go home now," Victor muttered.
"Is the old man dead? Is the one with the beard is he..."
"He's dead!" John announced delightfully. Sherlock's eyes widened in panic, and once again his usually confident body withered into the mattress, falling into the indentations as if for protection against the outside world. The boy curled ever more into himself, seemingly with all the fear of a small child, having apparently forgotten how it was to be confident. How it was to carry himself, to boast about himself, to relax himself. Victor had never seen a man descend so far from his usual state, to fall so far from the pedestal he had set himself atop of.
"I should like to go home, yes," Sherlock whispered. A single hand stuck out from the ball he had curled into, reaching towards Victor's forearm and clutching carefully around his wrist.
"No, no...there's no going home! This is home, Sherlock. This is where we are supposed to be." John appeared near the bedside, his words alarming both occupants as he seemed to leap from one conclusion to the next. What had happened to that poor boy...what was he possessed with?
"John, I'm not sure if you've seen yourself, or heard yourself...or even taken a moment to reflect," Victor chose his words carefully, worried that one misstep would send John's hands clawing after his eyes, "But I don't think you're going to be able to call anymore shots. In fact...I'm not sure I can ever look at you the same way again."
"Victor, how do you not see this as a victory?" John pleaded. Victor shuffled ever farther away from the boy, pulling Sherlock through the sheets as minimally and discretely as possible. They needed to leave, and quickly, though at the moment it appeared that John was phasing in and out of existence itself. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch if he were to materialize in their path on their way out the door. They had to calm him; they had to comfort him with the idea of departure.
"A man is dead. A man who I cared about. Me...essentially. Half of me has died."
"You know him?" John clarified with a blink, taking this to be trivial instead of highlight specific.
"I knew him," Victor agreed. "I didn't mention him, but I knew him."
"How many secrets do we have between the three of us?"
"None anymore, it would seem," Victor breathed. "Now please, John...let us leave."
"I'm not sure where you intend to go! Why do you need to be anywhere but here? Have you forgotten this is our home?"
"I prefer my own house," Victor whispered.
"You haven't got another," John protested, his eyes narrowing in stark confusion. Was this the aftermath of the violence? Did memory loss usually associate with acts of brutality, of gore?
"I'll find one, then. Find a place to recollect myself." Victor finally edged a single leg off of the bed, watching John's reaction very closely as he allowed the floorboards to regain some of his weight. When there was no apparent reaction Victor settled his second foot upon the floor, and with some patience gently eased himself to his feet. Carefully he huddled Sherlock closer, gently pulling upon the boy's wrist and allowing him to shuffle his way slowly across the bedsheets. This, it would seem, was the last straw. John's arm shot out, moving at a speed that was incompressible for the common man, and caught upon Sherlock's shoulder.
"Leave him," the boy demanded, his eyes wide now as he spoke words that he didn't quite understand. He sounded like an automated voice message, as if someone else had inhabited his mouth and was speaking while the rest of his body was content on staying silent.
"I won't," Victor swore, pulling ever harder upon Sherlock's wrist to hurry the boy up. Thankfully Sherlock got the message, and in an instant he began to scramble quickly to Victor's side of the bed, pulling himself out of John's reach and scrambling safely to his feet. Victor was thankfully standing upon the side of the bed where his clothes had fallen, and in an instant he began to gather them with his feet, sliding each article towards him so that he would only have to turn his attention away for a single moment. All the while, Sherlock was standing horrified and clammy, his entire body trembling as he attempted to gather up one of the bedsheets to wrap himself in. His clothes, unfortunately, had been spread at the end of the bed, now soaked in the pool of blood which was spreading from the mutilated corpse. Victor knew better than to look. By now he was rather certain that he would not notice any resemblance to himself, though he was concerned enough to keep his eyes away. What if he recognized some birth mark, some bone structure, that was lying upon the floor? What if his cheekbone, the one so unique and curved within his face, was lying dissembled at his feet?
"Victor, don't take him. He's mine."
"Sherlock, come on," Victor insisted, pulling slightly upon Sherlock's wrist as the two began to walk swiftly towards the door. "Keep your eyes up, don't look away."
"Victor, I told you..."
"Please, please, let us go," Victor insisted, pulling harder now, nearly yanking Sherlock across the floor as the two scurried towards the door. As of now they had a clear distance, John wasn't moving yet, perhaps too stunned at their blatant disobedience that he forgot how to move his muscles. And yet this paralysis would not last for long. Victor had to move quickly, before the boy remembered that he had just torn a man apart with his own hands. Surely he could do the same to another disobedient friend.
In an instant Victor and Sherlock escaped to the other side of the bedroom door, frantically pulling it shut to avoid staring any longer at the confused shape of the strange, familiar creature. John Watson had stood patiently, as if expecting the two to return to him after a simple beckoning. Perhaps it would have been smarter to let him believe their obedience. Perhaps they should have kept the door open, at least insinuating that they would return in a moment. Shutting the door sent a signal. Shutting it made it clear that they were leaving for the long term. Shutting the door, and then running, only opened the space for John to retaliate. And as Victor's feet picked up speed, as he hustled his lover down the first set of stairs, he heard the telltale sign of a door slamming open. He heard old knobs quake, old hinges shutter. And he heard pounding footsteps, those of a predator in pursuit.
"Sherlock, run! Faster, faster!" Victor demanded, pulling along the boy's wrist as he frantically tried to waddle down the steps in his toga of bedsheets, protecting his modesty now more determinedly than his life. At first Victor did not understand the need, though upon reflecting back it seemed to fall into place. Sherlock's beauty had gotten them into this mess, the temptation of his body and soul had driven the trio to ruin every lifetime since. Why should it be displayed now? It was best to cover up, lest the situation escalate farther.
John wasn't far behind, the boy seemed possessed by a force much stronger than him, and much more determined. He leapt like a cat, bounding down multiple stairs at a time as he hung to the railing for dear life, seemingly flying in pursuit of his prey. By now the statues in the foyer bore witness, by now Sherlock and Victor were racing through the marble hall towards the front doors, those which protected them from the night which had fallen deeply over the house. It was only until Victor's fingers clenched upon the knob that he worried they might not open, in that millisecond of force he wondered just whose side the house would be on in this situation. Surprisingly it was staying neutral, or perhaps it was even leaning in the escapee's favor. When Victor pulled the hinges yielded, instantly the boy pushed Sherlock first onto the porch, willing to sacrifice those precious seconds of reordering in an attempt to save Sherlock from the predator which approached now with such ferocity. Besides, it was Victor that was wanted first. It was Victor who seemed to have disobeyed, Victor who was destined to fall under John's rage one way or another. Perhaps the timeline would shift, perhaps it would skew. Much like the old Victor's death waiting decades to come at the hand of a John Watson, perhaps this generation's Sherlock would be saved until the very end. This John, after all, still loved him dearly. This John seemed to have no reason to murder the boy he was still courting.
It was not the same luck for Victor Trevor. And it was this reality that spurred him to action; it was that look in John's hazel eyes, those familiar eyes, that caused him to run. He had never seen such a possession; he had never seen such determination. It was perhaps the view of a soccer ball when John was on the field, if only John was holding a knife in his hand, determined to pop the thing where it lay. There was murder in his eyes, the sort of terrifying devotion that made it ever more tempting to throw a solid oak door between the two of them. As such, Victor ducked behind the frame. He pulled upon the brass handle, heaving with all his strength to close the thing before John could get his grip upon the other side. Thankfully he heard a snap, though immediately afterwards he felt the knob attempting to twist underneath his grip. John was on the other side, having cleared the staircase in half the time it took Sherlock and Victor to scurry down. For a moment Victor struggled with the door, anchoring his bare feet into the splintered wood underneath, heaving and pulling the door closed with as much weight as his body would permit. Nevertheless, he was not an athlete. Perhaps he had some height advantage on his friend, though when the two pitted their sheer strength against each other it would be John on top in all scenarios. The door was budging, and Victor's strength was fading.
Thankfully the car blinked its flashers, the sign that its doors were safely unlocked. Sherlock was already scrambling into the passenger side, a thankful and telling sign to his refusal to leave Victor behind. The boy had fallen into the seat and was now rearranging his bedsheet accordingly, yelling to Victor in a broken, raspy plea. From here Victor could not understand his words, though the desperation spoke loudly enough. Sherlock was terrified, not only for himself but for Victor as well. The strong, careless boy had somehow lost himself within the maze of doors in the upper stories. Sherlock Holmes as Victor had always known him had been abandoned somewhere in the red stains of the past generation's Victor Trevor.
Victor was beginning to pass through the doorway as his feet were dragged farther and farther forward. Already one of John's legs had hooked around the other side of the door, and with another minute at this pace he would surely be able to sneak all the way around. The struggle was pointless, and the energy might be better used in escaping, rather than defending. Victor could do no more against John's endless strength, and so in a leap of faith he let his fingers fall. Pivoting as fast as he could, and using the element of surprise to his advantage, Victor sprang off the porch as John steadied himself on the other side. He wobbled a moment too long, for by the time John was able to pass through the door Victor was already scrambling at the driver's door, and by the time John's feet had hit the gravel it was too late. Victor slammed the door shut, hit the locks, and took a long, well deserved breath of relief. John was on the other side of the metal, of the glass, and it would appear that even his ravenous spirit could understand when it was beaten.